Report of voyage Madrid to Frankfurt

The mission: hitchike from Madrid to Frankfurt

The reason: attend a mini Zen retreat (five participants, three days, lots of breathing), meet Europeans, not spend squillions on buses and trains.

The timeframe: Wednesday 22nd August to Tuesday 28th August

The logistics: Because most people going long distances are on one of the many many motorways, the best hitching spots seem to be busy petrol stations or tollgates. Asking people directly for rides is quite a nice change from the old thumb too

Format of report: There is a little game called 'The Rose and the Thorn' I used to play with my flatmates in Dunedin. Everyone selects one 'rose' qnd one 'thorn' experience from their day.

Day One: Wednesday 22nd August
Thorn - Walking to the 'Madrid Lighthouse' in 30 degree heat for a rare ariel view of the city before I left only to find it closed until further notice.

Rose - Understanding the Spanish of Jesus the Spanish truck driver as he explained to me about the windfarm (200 turbines, popular with the public) we were passing as we neared Zaragosa en route to Barcelona.



Day Two: Thursday 23rd August

Rose: Crossing the border between Spain and France at the South-East end of the Pyrenees. I'm sad to leave Spain but I love the fact we just drive straight through as if the border was as intangible as a line of dust. I love the EU!

Thorn: The intense heat and rattling din of Tomas the German's Mercedes truck. He is a great guy, a horse breeder who started his own company to publish his thesis, but that cab was torture. I had to get out at Nimes. I'm making good time anyway.

Day Three: Friday 24th August

Thorn: Again it is a goodbye, this time to Migal the Czech, another truck driver by trade, on a mammoth road trip from his home in Marseilles to a town beginning with 'B', past Prague to visit his family. We share very little spoken language but he is great company. He let me navigate.

Roses: The massive broadleaf forests around Southeast France and the Rhone valley are a very pleasant surprise. And round about 11pm, my ride drops me at Frankfurt airport for a train to the city. I made it... early!

Thanks to the wonderful http://www.hitchwiki.org for giving me both general tips and advice for getting out of Madrid.

Is there a culture en la casa?

I'm not sure if cultures can be mapped on to nation states very accurately at all. There seems to be much more variation within a nation than between nations. Regional differences, subcultures, countercultures, migration, all that stuff. And I was only there for three and a half weeks. But in the interests of er... general interest, permit me to make perhaps three generalisations about the way some of the people behave some of the time in some parts of Spain.

1) There is a definite melting of some of the barriers between strangers. People who had just met me patted me on the shoulder, offered their cheeks to be kissed, (including a burly Andalucian). Everywhere I have travelled I have found strangers to talk to, but it definitely seemed easier, or more relaxed in Spain than in the UK. A Portugese traveller I met in Germany thought this was an Iberian thing "people here (in Germany) want to help you, but they give you space, I like it."

2) People don't speak English, generally. This surprised me. For some reason I had assumed everyone in Europe had roughly the same level of English that one finds in the European travellers to New Zealand. Far from it. As my friend Mete put it "some kids in the Netherlands speak better English than Kiwi kids" while some towns in Spain I doubt I could find a English sentence if I tried.

I remember, in Asturias, I was out in a bar, and a young guy heard me speak a few words of my mother tongue. He bounded over to our table.... "Hello!" he gushed, "I heard you speaking English... I want to practice but I can't... this is f###ing Spain!" Mis amigos did not warm to him, and the conversation did not go much further.

3) Time is different. Nine or ten in the morning is a good time to go to work, and two is a good time to have lunch, maybe sleep a little (not too long or one wakes up groggy) 4 or 5 is a good time to start work and 8 is knock-off time. Dinner can happen between 10 and 12, after which you might go out to a bar, and then do it all again.

I like my seven or so hours sleep, so took advantadge of everything shutting around three and often had a siesta... many don't and just seem to function on less sleep. Maybe that explains the kind of shuffling laziness that seems to pervade Spain. Not that I'm complaining - it does seem to be a nice way to live. Bear in mind, however that I did visit during vacaciones. The Spanish seem to take holidays a little more er... seriously... than we do. Lots of shops, restaurants and other businesses were closed for vacaciones. My favourite 'closed for vacaciones' sign was on what seemed to be the only hotel in Balaguer.

Lived, travelled in Spain? Have a view on 'Spanish culture' Your comments, as always, are very welcome.

The Rain in Spain Falls only in the North.

The rural areas in Spain have proved to be much more fun than the cities for me. Lacking the stamina and inclination for drinking every night of the week, heading out to Cuidillero beach for a couple of nights was fantastic. It is almost as far from the touristic south coast as you can get. Still, it wasn´t a natural paradise. Loudspeakers in public places create facist associations for me, and tell us that it´s too dangerous to swim today. Like most places in Europe I have visited, autopistas (motorways) run through the country. Because Asturias is a hilly province, the autopistas often run along massive four lane concrete land bridges, looming dozens of metres above the valleys below. They are probably the largest man-made structures I have come across. I find their powerful curves equally elegant and frightening.

(just a baby one)

A more familiar sight is the forests of Eucalyptus, planted for firewood, and turning the soil acidic.

In Cuidillero I met some lovely Madrilenos and French travellers, wrote a little. Got rained on (rain? what´s that?) learnt a bit of Spanish Sign Language. (I was named! my name is ~strokes his beard~)


My second rural exursion was even better. Startled my Madrid´s sprawling noise, I took a bus 150km south to a tiny village which was hosting EcoPop... a festival of Eco... and ...Pop. Better still was the Sierra Gredos (pictured) behind, which loomed like friendly giants and enticed me to spend a night in the mountains, alone in a ´refugio´ surrounded by pines and granite outcrops. And more blackberries than I could ever eat. I definitely want to come back for more.

Balaguer

I tried to think of a clever title for this post, but I think the name of the town I am staying wins on points for exoticness.

Estoy en España. (I am in Spain). Sweat is usually pasted across my forehead, but I have managed to avoid the 50 degree heat in Seville by arriving in Barcelona, in the relatively temperate ´communidad´ of Cataluña

In Cataluña the native language is Catalan, and it was officially banned during the days (ahem, decades) of Franco´s rule. Since Franco died each ´communidad´or region has become more autonomous... as the graffito here says: ´Cataluña no es España´

This means Cataluña is now officially bilingual, which is great for the local culture, but not so good for me - when locals speak Catalan, I can understand maybe one word in twenty. And I can´t read the plaques! But people are happy to hablar Español, and I have many conversations... not just about about directions to the nearest camping/internet/amazing-park-with-buildings-and-sculptures designed by Antonio Gaudi (which are given cheerfully, but are usually very brief and vague). I can´t get very conceptual though, and if I´m tired or stressed I hope that the person I´m talking to speaks my mother tongue.

Barcelona was great, but I´m very pleased to be in the countryside. For one thing, I´m no longer surrounded by the tourists that flock to the coast from other parts of Europe. It´s also a blessing to get my hands in the earth. As well as being a permaculturist(?) my host Jordi here is a true international. He belongs to three hosting organisations, is fanatical about Esperanto (`the language of a world without borders`) and with the help of his visitors, has compiled a massive chart with a dozen sample phrases from 50 languages. (yup, maori´s there). Muy bueno.

Another list
Things I like about España

+ The storks that build their nests on buildings and perch on TV aerials in Balaguer.
+ The way the rocks rise up out of the dry earth everywhere like giant tombstones.
Everything closing at 2 in the afternoon for siesta. (even though that´s more of a southern thing)
+ Flamenco (played for tourists at our campsite... a nice change from the Busta Rhymes and Beegees I have been hearing elsewhere in Spain)
+ Paella. Mmmmmmmm... prawny.
+ The friendly old people that are always sitting outside in the sun.
+ Hand expressions. Waving of hands. It´s not just a carictature.

Paella y Postres

Some of you have sent birthday wishes... Thanks!
I thought I might tell you about my birthday, it being one of the strangest of my life.

On the 31st of July I am sleep-deprived and anxious. ¿What to do tomorrow? While walking the side streets of the Catalan capital, I decide to head north on the metro. Picking a name that sounds nice: ¨Villasar de Mar¨ from the subway map, I am whizzed 20km north of Barcelona along the coast. Being by the coast, I think, there must be a hostel where I can stay for two nights and meet travellers to celebrate my birthday with. (I´m all in for meeting local folk... but travellers usually are looking for something to celebrate anyway). No. In the end I walk about ten kilometres before settling on a moderate hotel. (the lap of luxury, for me)

So I wake refreshed, walk suburban alleys, try in vain to contact my cousin holidaying who might be in Barcelona, eat watermelon and a strange postre (cake) on the awesome swimming beach with lukewarm water and no tourists!

My hotel gives me a complimentary iced coffee. The busboys are friendly. There is one from Uruguay with a dirty mouth. ¨Your birthday? there will be a lot of f···ing, ¿no?¨ And one from Boliva, whose Español was much more polite.

It´s the metro back to Barcelona and then to the inland quarter where ´Parc Guell´ beckons. The view from the top is amazing: Barcelona a sworl of orange and brown. I meet Jonathon, another traveler on his own. He declines my celebratory Estrella ( local beer) because he is a lightweight. And tired and hungover. But we enjoy each other´s company, and stay on the hill in Guell until after sunset. That also means we see Gaudi sin turistas! We talk, in Spanish when we can, and eat a beautiful paella in La Plaza Catalunya (Catalonian square followed by another strange, gooey postre. It´s now midnight and Jonathon heads off to get lost on the bus system, after arranging to meet tommorrow, while I search for musica. I find it, not in the tacky clubs of Porto Olimpico (that comes later) but with two loco French travelers (Renault and... I forget) drinking and playing hack flamenco on the streets. We garble Spanish, play some blues together.

Its then I want to go to bed. But the train timetable has other ideas. So I go to Porto Olimpico, am dissapointed, get on a tram, then a train, and see the sun rise massive over the mediterranean with tired eyes and then collapse into bed for a few hours sleep before a midday checkout.

Ah... ¡bueno!