Pintxos de España
Travel journals are good when written consistently and, therefore, this one kinda sucks in that regard. But as my friend Pete once said (while quoting an obscure Bon Jovi song) "No apologies!" The truth is Carmen and I are having a fantastic time in Spain, and while I'd like to capture some of it in words for both you and I, meticulously recounting our adventure itinerary in my most descriptive language feels inadequate at best, and like a chore at worst. So I'm going to try something new.
In the small towns of La Rioja, Spain's vineyard laden wine country, and up into the northern Basque lands, there are numerous narrow, table free restaurants that serve pintxos from behind a counter for a standing room only crowd. These small plates only cost a few Euro, but are rich with flavor, often piled high upon a crisp slice of bread.
And so, while I feel incapable of effectively capturing this country in vivid, lengthy descriptions, here are a few linguistic pinxtos of our trip thus far.
La Rioja. Lugging backpacks through the winding streets of Briones, the only obvious tourists in the city, we came upon a metal, spiral staircase at the crest of a hill. We climbed it with fervor to gaze upon the obscenely quaint village below and its lands stretching to the horizon. The warmth of red stucco roofs and a beige central iglesia. The refreshing leafy greens and dirt browns of the surrounding countryside. Mountains in the distance, a homogenous patch of ripening grape vines planted in rows, the deep blue of an afternoon sky.
Pamplona. Imagine a city completely overtaken by a party. Every single person that you see is wearing pure white clothes and an essential bright red scarf. The ubiquity of this uniform is so profound that, upon arriving to the village, you plan to, without question, determine a way to conform immediately. Music is bouncing through the streets of the city like the pedestrians that scatter its avenues, plazas, cafés and bars, none of which close for the entirety of the week. Fireworks ignite in the sky, beckoning the evening bacchanal, a swarming marching band carries you into the winding labyrinth, the heart of Pamplona, you strike up a conversation with a stranger over a kalimotxo (red wine and Coca-cola), you smile, you talk excitedly about the bulls and the fools who will sprint over cobblestones in the morning. You are at the festival of San Fermin.
Barcelona. They walked down La Rambla with the trees bowing overhead, watching on, curiously observing the couple and other throngs of pedestrians scuttling along the historic boulevard below, past tapas restaurants, heladerias, trinket salesmen and tourist information booths. Later, the ancient brick of El Barri Gotic would look on as the young man and woman confusedly meandered its narrow paths, only to be happily startled by its high rising churches and expansive squares. Of course, Gaudi's fantastical architecture would catch their attention on a Saturday, sculptures of the Savior gazing upon them from his perch, as they squinted up, zooming cameras to capture the perfect picture, futile of course. Prior to departure, the salt of the sea bid them farewell; she floated effortlessly in the crystal water, he had a Heineken and tried to guess just how many beach goers fit on the shores of La Barceloneta.
Finally, on an overnight bus to Granada, right around 2:00 AM, the glow of an iPhone illuminated his smile as he crafted verbal pintxos of memories for family and friends.
She slept quietly beside him, her left arm holding her head against the glass, using a t-shirt for a blanket.
In the small towns of La Rioja, Spain's vineyard laden wine country, and up into the northern Basque lands, there are numerous narrow, table free restaurants that serve pintxos from behind a counter for a standing room only crowd. These small plates only cost a few Euro, but are rich with flavor, often piled high upon a crisp slice of bread.
And so, while I feel incapable of effectively capturing this country in vivid, lengthy descriptions, here are a few linguistic pinxtos of our trip thus far.
La Rioja. Lugging backpacks through the winding streets of Briones, the only obvious tourists in the city, we came upon a metal, spiral staircase at the crest of a hill. We climbed it with fervor to gaze upon the obscenely quaint village below and its lands stretching to the horizon. The warmth of red stucco roofs and a beige central iglesia. The refreshing leafy greens and dirt browns of the surrounding countryside. Mountains in the distance, a homogenous patch of ripening grape vines planted in rows, the deep blue of an afternoon sky.
Pamplona. Imagine a city completely overtaken by a party. Every single person that you see is wearing pure white clothes and an essential bright red scarf. The ubiquity of this uniform is so profound that, upon arriving to the village, you plan to, without question, determine a way to conform immediately. Music is bouncing through the streets of the city like the pedestrians that scatter its avenues, plazas, cafés and bars, none of which close for the entirety of the week. Fireworks ignite in the sky, beckoning the evening bacchanal, a swarming marching band carries you into the winding labyrinth, the heart of Pamplona, you strike up a conversation with a stranger over a kalimotxo (red wine and Coca-cola), you smile, you talk excitedly about the bulls and the fools who will sprint over cobblestones in the morning. You are at the festival of San Fermin.
Barcelona. They walked down La Rambla with the trees bowing overhead, watching on, curiously observing the couple and other throngs of pedestrians scuttling along the historic boulevard below, past tapas restaurants, heladerias, trinket salesmen and tourist information booths. Later, the ancient brick of El Barri Gotic would look on as the young man and woman confusedly meandered its narrow paths, only to be happily startled by its high rising churches and expansive squares. Of course, Gaudi's fantastical architecture would catch their attention on a Saturday, sculptures of the Savior gazing upon them from his perch, as they squinted up, zooming cameras to capture the perfect picture, futile of course. Prior to departure, the salt of the sea bid them farewell; she floated effortlessly in the crystal water, he had a Heineken and tried to guess just how many beach goers fit on the shores of La Barceloneta.
Finally, on an overnight bus to Granada, right around 2:00 AM, the glow of an iPhone illuminated his smile as he crafted verbal pintxos of memories for family and friends.
She slept quietly beside him, her left arm holding her head against the glass, using a t-shirt for a blanket.
Comments