coolmcjourneys

Well… apparently Nick and Sydni's wish for me, which concluded my last post, didn’t quite stick. I should probably draw a big line here to indicate that my real trip ended with the absinthe night, and the travel difficulties which ensued and extended my trip an extra DAY AND A HALF (thanks Delta!) felt like an anomaly. Loooong story short (OK, somewhat short), we sat on the runway for an hour and a half before being pulled off and told that there was a mechanical issue with the engine. We wait another two hours in the airport before they cancel the flight and send us to a hotel downtown. It’s a huge hassle all around, with hundreds of annoyed and under-informed passengers placed on busses, and I’m already exhausted when I get back and have a meal at the hotel. I end up sitting with two cool gents, and we share our travel experiences; Patrick is a recent college grad/offensive lineman (no kidding!) from San Diego (and new Facebook/Twitter friend!) and Sebastien is a suave former model and fashion designer living in Miami. Without having had my daily coffee yet, I make the crucial mistake of having a beer with lunch, which ignites a small headache which over the next few hours would slowly develop into a migraine like I haven’t had in years. I walk up toward Montjuïc and the Palua Nacional (one attraction I hadn’t been able to see) and walk around, though I don’t pay the admission fee into the Museu d’Art Catalan. It looks impressive, but I’m no longer in full-on art-appreciating mode. (The gift shop indicates plenty of highlights, and as I had gotten rid of every last Euro in the duty free shop earlier, I’m doing what I can to not spend more!) Outside, I take lots of photos, but am fading fast and walk back to the hotel, where I take a few scenic shots out of my window before collapsing into a heap and falling asleep around 8pm.

The next morning I’m awoken by a surprise phone call at 7am saying the shuttle is leaving for the airport. I leap up, rejuvenated, pack in two minutes and we’re herded to the gates; I stop to repack my already bulging backpack with the wine and beer I purchased at the duty-free shop the day before. (Annoyingly, thinking I was finally in the clear I bought more at the shop, then had to do this again upon reaching my transfer at JFK the next day!) Though we arrived at the airport at 7:30, our flight doesn’t actually take off until 3pm. (So, over eight hours of waiting at the gate, while the part doesn’t even arrive until 9am, and takes six hours to install – why did they bring us there so early, you ask? To save from having to pay for another hotel day, I would imagine! Boo, Delta!) During the time waiting in the airport, I witnessed more angry, impatient older travelers than I ever care to again – the people who were actually scheduled for the flight that morning were really put out by the fact that the people from our flight doubled their waiting times in line, of course completely oblivious to the fact that we had waited over 24 hours longer than they had. Some of the shouted comments of the angry mob in line behind me made toward the ticket workers were so nasty I wrote them down in my phone: “Get that girl out of there! She must be the dumbest person in the world!” Yikes! Note to future self: don't ever get angry, old, and entitled.

Once on the plane, we fly over the mountains of Spain; uninhabitable jagged mounds of brown dust topped by a thin sifting of white snow covering only a selection of the peaks. We fly from the edge of Europe to the edge of North America, and I watch the wobbly wings cut through the cottony clouds as we descend to JFK airport, where I wait another two hours for my transfer, finally, to DC.

With the possible exception of the final 36 hours, this was another terrific travel experience, such a unique mix of creative energy, new and fascinating friends, and places I’d always wanted to see. I don’t know when my next major trip will be; I certainly never would’ve guessed last summer that only six months would pass before making it back to Europe, so who knows. Suffice to say I’ve made enough of a habit of this travel writing thing that I expect to continue doing it. I think it’s pretty amazing that over the life of this blog I’ve received close to 22,000 hits (14,643 on my July trip plus 7,207 on this one, not including this entry!), so I thank all of you who have checked in with me. If you write it, they will read it, I suppose? I wish you all the best in your own life adventures, and stay in touch!

Tell ya one thing I’ve learned about being a budding travel writer. I always loathe the last entry, the one where you have to pack up the hours you spent living that constant state of newness into some neat summary, all the while not knowing when your next travel adventure will arrive. I’ve been home for eleven days now, and just like the last entry for last summer’s trip, I’ve taken my sweet time composing it, perhaps in an attempt to savor the flavors and colors of experience. Truth be told, I think by the final few days of this trip I was ready to get home and resume normalcy; there are wonderful advantages to seeing the world, but living out of a overstuffed backpack on recycled clothing is not one of them.

Happy I got to sleep relatively early the previous night, I got up about as early as I had on any day of my solo week (10am?), and set out to conquer the town. The previous night I put out a call on Twitter for Barcelona “must-sees”; my oh-so cultured social media friends had plenty of suggestions, though the most consistent were Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, Park Güell, and Las Ramblas, where I had explored the previous evening. So not much mystery to the day’s itinerary – which was fine with me after close-to-2-weeks of exploring!

I make my way through the Sants Estacio train station, a ten minute walk from my lodgings, and descend into the subway; I find that as systems go, the Barcelona subway is clear, clean and easily managed. While in the station, I’m noticing something about this town which seems consistent and distinctive. Perhaps it’s because I’m extra-aware of my surroundings, but everyone seems to be making eye contact as they pass by, as if all residents are continually on guard?

I get off at Vallcarca on the green line, which from one of my many maps appears to be the closest stop to Park Güell. Surprisingly there doesn’t appear to be an obvious way to get from the subway station to the park, which is surprising considering it’s surely one of the major tourist destinations in Barcelona.

A nice woman eventually directs me en español (I understand about 75% of what she says) through some construction to the long escalator which will take me up to the park. Starving, I find a cute café and order a coffee and piece of apple cake, while Brad Mehldau plays in the background.

After climbing up multiple plateaus on probably the longest escalator journey I’ve taken in my life, I arrive at the top by the entrance to Park Güell. Apparently this park was designed in the early 20th century for use as a wealthy residential area, but was later converted into a municipal garden.

Walking along the ascending circular path are enormous, lime-green cactus plants which have been re-birthed as canvasses for carved initials and graffiti.

The view from the curved walkway of beautiful Barcelona, stretching outward toward the Mediterranean, is majestic, and absolutely one of the highlight scenic vistas of this, or any trip I’ve been on.

At the top of the pathway there’s a large precipice with a stone cross, and a number of tourists surround it with cameras. Though there’s an edge of chill, the air is almost spring-like, and everyone is in good spirits to be in such a place.

Approaching the top, I hear a man’s grainy voice singing over… the 12 bar blues form? Though it’s incongruous to hear music which sounds like it belongs in a Tennessee juke-joint at the peak of a Barcelona municipal garden, the guitarist is really good, and I hold off on ascending to the top and shoot some video.

When he finishes, I strike up a conversation and find out that Robert Pugliese is an ex-pat from Tennessee, living as a street musician in Barcelona. We have one of those conversations which seems only possible between deep music lovers; he speaks in detail about his blues guitar influences, including Robert Johnson and the lesser-known (to me, at least) Bukka White and Mississippi Fred McDonald, and passes on a wealth of information about the history of the metal dobro which he’s been playing, which I had mistaken for a guitar. (It's from Slovakian origins?!) I wish I could transport this guy to my class to lecture on early blues. I buy a copy of his CD and climb up to the top of the peak.

On the top, I do some camera swapping (“Can you take my picture?” “Yeah, can you take ours?”) with three friendly Americans who like me are taking in all the gorgeous scenery. I sense a connection to them, though as a solo traveler it’s a bit daunting to say “Hey, I don’t know a soul here. What are you guys doing the rest of the day?” We part ways and I take a minute to breathe in the air, again wondering if I will ever make it back to this spot.

I descend and walk past Robert The Bluesman down the curved trail, and at a small opening I turn and descend in the direction of where some music and dancing is taking place below.

I order an overpriced (though delicious!) Sangria and cheese sandwich on crusty bread, and walk toward the plaza where a brass band is playing Spanish music. Lo and behold, my photo friends from above are seated close by, and as this is a good twenty minutes later in an enormous park, the serendipity seems too much to resist. We sit and chat about the town and our backgrounds; Nick and Sydni are married American church-workers-who-don’t-want-to-be-called-missionaries living in England, while Jazmin is a Univision journalist visiting from Chicago. Jazmin shows off her impressively organization skills by pulling out a list of “things to try in Barcelona” and offers me a piece of local cheese (queso de Cabrales) which she has checked off the list; it’s really pungent, and taking a bite pushes my eyebrows toward the sky. I imagine this cheese would be better appreciated after building up to it, and maybe accompanied by a nice Albariño!

At some point I mention my ill-fated trip to the closed Bar Marsella the previous evening, and Jazmin points to it on her list! So, evening plans, done and done. We agree to meet there at 7:30, and it’s nice to enjoy the rest of my day knowing I have a plan in place for the evening. On the way out of the public square I pass by a woman dancing flamenco, and I stop to buy some bracelets and silk scarves from merchants sitting on the sand. (I have a few left, friends – who wants em?!)

At the base of the Park, tourists mill about with cameras, soaking in the distinctive Gaudi flavor; I pop into the colorful gift shop, which warns patrons to beware of pickpockets, and pick up a few trinkets.

As the afternoon is waning and my time is growing short, I decide to pay for my only solo cab ride of the trip to get to Sagrada Familia, which ends up being only around 7 Euro. I have a broken-Spanish conversation with the cabbie on the way, and he reminds me to be careful at night around Bar Marsella!

I leave the cab and walk around the imposing cathedral of Sagrada Familia, which stretches to the clouds, flanked by scaffolding – apparently this church has been in a state of continual construction for some time. I walk around and take lots of shots, then walk in and join the phalanx of tourists all craning their necks to take in the enormous vertical expanse.

Clearly, Antonio Gaudi wasn’t a fellow who believed in restraint; geometrical shapes define faces of ornate religious statues, a heavy metal door is carved with Biblical words, while greens, blues, and red-oranges glow through simple circle and oval stained windows in the high archways. The church is structured in a Latin cross, where “branching columns of different heights rise to give the feeling of a forest.” The detail of Gaudi’s vision is extraordinary and almost childlike; I’m pretty sure I’ve never been in a place like this in my life.

I should say that when I looked at pictures of Antonio Gaudi’s work online, the word which came to mind was in fact… “gaudy.” My tastes in architecture and art are primed by travels to grand and classical 16th century cathedrals with my father in Italy, and even when I visited Paris I found the gothic style of Notre-Dame very much to my liking. That said, seeing Gaudi’s work up close, and especially walking through the exhibit describing his process, containing hands-on demonstrations, places his work in a context which encourages deeper appreciation. Gaudi was fanatical about studying the processes of nature and mathematics, and it’s inspiring to see how he applied these concepts to his cathedral.

Though its cold, I take another walk around the cathedral, and call home for a few minutes – it’s amazing how well the cell phone signal to the US is from all this distance! My father, who visited here in the mid-1960s, asks me if the church façade still looks like it’s melting away. Sure does!

I walk back underneath the cathedral through the museum, where even more detail regarding Gaudi and his methods are found; the admission fee to get into the church was fairly high but I see why given the terrific presentation of all of this stuff. Sagrada Familia was well worth seeing and it absolutely does the city of Barcelona proud.

Outside the cathedral, I ask for directions to Casa Calvet, where a Facebook friend has told me to try the Guanaja chocolate cake, and I make my way past meticulously crafted store windows, swanky tapas joints and more architecture museums which I don’t have the energy to investigate. Sadly, the restaurant is closed, but I consult my map and walk toward the Arc de Triomf, stopping in a beautifully designed South Asian goods store where I purchase a scarf for myself and a hat for a friend.

After a quick view of the Arc, where kids are playing soccer, I descend into the subway, where there’s a creepy looking guy wearing dark sunglasses standing directly in front of the entry gates, watching people enter the station. (Yikes.) I make my way back to Binita’s place, grab a refreshing shower (always a fine substitute for an actual nap), and head back out to meet my new friends, and this time, having a better idea of what to expect, I bring my nice camera, having finagled a way to stuff it under my coat.

I arrive at Bar Marsella at 7:31 and am alarmed when I hear someone in the sea of prostitutes call out “Jason!” (I joke with the three, “How did they know my name?”) Bar Marsella doesn’t open until 10:30, so we make our way past the shady-looking people back out onto Las Ramblas and decide to explore part of the Gothic Quarter. It feels safer already to be in a group!

Ever the journalist, after just one day here, Jazmin already has an impressively clear idea of where we are and where we should go, and as we wind our way past twists and turns in an old part of town, the others and myself feel like we’re being given a tour by a true local! We stop briefly into a beer bar, which Nick is impressed by; apparently they don’t get many craft beers living in the English countryside! We decide that food is a priority, however, so we resolve to find some tapas and come back.

We arrive at Sagardi, where the three had been to the previous night, and it’s my only genuine tapas (pronounced “tapath” here!) experience in Spain. Dozens of delectables on bits of bread line the glass cases, and after we find a spot standing at a table, waiters stop by with other savory samples which are tough to resist. It’s a sort of never-ending smorgasbord, and even eating vegetarian I’m exposed to lots of new flavors. (Even the mushroom tapa was great, though my favorite was the fried goat cheese!) We also share a bottle of a sparkling white from the Basque region called Talai Berri. I see why this business model is so strong; you fill your plate when you first walk in hungry, then they bring out other stuff which looks too good to pass up, and they charge you by the number of toothpicks you leave on your plate. The others make a special request for a jam & cream cheese (but better!) dessert tapa which they had had the previous night, and the chef makes a new plate of them just for us! Also, at some point a child walks by with his dog in a bag?!

We move on and walk our way back to the beer bar La Cerveteca, and luckily find another standing table in the crowd, where we talk about beer and jobs and travel and it’s great fun getting to know these folks. This feels much like what I experienced meeting Americans on my trip last summer, and I love the ways strangers can easily come together over beers and conversation.

Walking back in the direction of Bar Marsella, which we are by now resolved to see, we stop into a French chocolate shop, where I peruse for chocolate for my roommate who is kindly watching my dog over my 2 week trip; I hold up a green box and blue box and ask “Quien es mas macho?” (Everyone votes for the blue.) I also buy a mantecado (solamente uno? Dios mío!), made with lemon juice and cinnamon and Jazmin and I agree it’s one of the finest pastries we’ve ever sampled.

We make it to Bar Marsella, which upon arrival is open but empty, find a table and the men order two absinthes. (Does anyone ever order anything else here?) The waiter brings back two of the neon green potions with a bottle of spring water which has a pinhole drilled into its top. (Something tells me this wasn’t what Hemingway used, but it works.) Balancing a sugar cube on a fork, we pour the water slowly over the sugar, which melts into the liquid. The taste is actually better than I had imagined, with strong herbal notes led by anise; in fact it’s smoother than the version which I had brewed at home last fall. (Imagine that.)

Sydni takes my camera and wanders around the place taking shots, so it’s nice that I have a few nice ones of me in this setting, which isn’t always the case. (Note to Nick: buy this girl a camera!) To say that the ambiance is astounding is an understatement; the place reeks of history and this is even more palpable actually sitting there and enjoying the storied liquor with friends.

As the place fills up to near capacity, I walk around and take more shots. Bar Marsella is a terrific way to close out my long trip, and we pack up and head back out to Las Ramblas, where my new friends (yay Facebook!) walk to their hotel and I take the train back to Sants Estacio. What cool people I’ve met on this trip. I love how traveling makes you cut through so many formalities; I think people present the best of themselves when they’re in unfamiliar lands, so you really get to know positive, relaxed sides of people, and it’s the best way I know to meet interesting people from all around the world.

The following morning, I miss my intended train to the airport, and get on one which will get me there with barely enough time to check my bags for my international flight. The train is packed, and I amble with my bags toward the one available seat. As I sit I look to my right, and who am I sitting next to? NICK AND SYDNI. No way! What are the chances of that? (And can we get another absinthe here?) We depart at the airport and wish each other well in our respective travels. I'm about to say goodbye to Europe again... or so I thought!

[Note: I tried to make the following day part of this, but I had exceeded the limit for words in one entry! Guess I'll have to make a separate post!]

Sometimes I forget what an ambitious undertaking it is for someone so scatterbrained as I to try to make daily posts in a blog. (Check my rate of posting here for a concrete example of this!) So it’s not surprising that now that I’m home in DC and the luster of wanting to share experiences as they happen has worn off, I’ve let two days pass without posting and I’m even further behind in chronicling my trip than I was before. However, there are lots of terrific experiences fit to print, so the posts must continue until I reach my misbegotten flight back to the US!

Thursday – actually, exactly a week ago from the present – was more of a “travel day” than anything else, so this post "should be" on the short side anyway. (Not likely.) After a long night out soaking in my last hours in Toulouse, made even longer by the fact that I stayed up until around 4am packing, I woke up around 7am in order to make my train to Barcelona. Taking leave of my awesome and gracious host Marie, I lug my made-heavier-with-the-newfound-presence-of-French-booze bags to the subway station a few blocks away, and manage to figure out how to get on the right subway car to the train station. In the Toulouse subway there’s a frequently placed ad featuring my musical hero Gustav Mahler, and a guy who looks rather eerily like him on the adjacent poster. I’m fairly sure this would never ever ever happen in America. ☹

The station the train leaves from is confusing, as there’s no ticket window and it seems the only way to purchase a ticket from the French-only machines is to have a French credit card. Standing at the machine, my train is leaving in eight minutes and I’m experiencing one of the few mild panic moments of my trip (reminiscent of getting lost on a bus in Prague, perhaps?). I decide to get on the train and see where the chips fall. The train conductor is standing by the door and I manage to ask if I can buy a ticket on the train; he says “yes, but it’s 10 Euro more.” I gesticulate to him that the machine wouldn’t take my credit card, and he kindly motions, “Oh, OK, no problem.” However, twenty minutes later when he comes to charge me for the ticket he shows me the handheld machine which says 24 Euro + 10 “on train” fee; I try to say “but you said…” but then give up. With better French I would’ve tried harder to explain the lunacy of charging me a penalty for something unpreventable, but... c'est la vie.

The ride to Barcelona is quite pretty, winding through the mighty Catalonian Pyrenees past gray-brown fields, barren winter trees and an occasional thinly populated mountain hamlet. I arrive at La Tour de Carol station around 11:50am and settle in for the two hour delay before I pick up my transfer to Barcelona. Like all good unfamiliar train stations, it feels really remote here, and the few people ambling around the tiny station speaking French or Spanish make me feel even further from comfort. To keep with the French theme, I watch Truffaut’s The 400 Blows on my laptop. (Along with Godard’s Breathless prior to my Paris trip last summer, I’m slowly conquering the French new wave, which is now... old?)

The train to Barcelona is supposed to depart at 1:43pm, and by 1:35 I’m getting nervous that I’m not sure where it might arrive and leave from, and the ticket office, oddly enough on a Thursday afternoon, is of course, closed. At 1:40 I get up and cross in front of the station by the tracks, seeing a sign that says “A España” with an arrow pointing left; obviously this is the direction the train will head in, but the only train there is positioned further down on the tracks and somehow doesn’t look like my train. Having learned however that solo travelers should always investigate every option in unfamiliar lands, I walk down and climb aboard the train; there’s a girl who I recognize from the station sitting there and I ask “is this the train to Barcelona?” She says yes, and thirty seconds later the doors close and we’re off. Phew! Train-station-disaster-which-would-have-entailed-waiting-another-three-hours narrowly averted!

Until this day, Spain had remained one of the major countries of Europe which I had to enter, and passing by small towns in the North it resembles very much the picture I had created in my mind. Densely configured, rickety dwelling places in vibrant oranges and yellows, laundry hanging on clotheslines outside what seems like every window.

When I arrive in Barcelona I’m immediately aware of being in a place with a reputation for pickpockets and thievery, so I keep my camera packed tightly away. Last summer I had used the Airbnb (still don’t know where the name comes from) website to find rooms to stay in Europe with great success, and as I don’t know a soul in Barcelona, it’s the only time on my trip when I’m going to have to roll the dice and stay with a stranger. Binita’s place, however, which I booked the previous day, is quite well reviewed and a close walk from the major train station of Sants Estacio. Upon arriving, I call her and she gives me directions, and after the 10-15 minute walk through a quiet, residential neighborhood I find the apartment, and am let in by Roser, Binita’s new housemate who just moved in. (Oddly enough, in my three day stay I never actually met Binita, as we kept different hours, but I had a lovely stay and her friend was very helpful!)

Though I’m tired, I figure it’s better to see a bit of the city, so I pull my ID, credit card, and some Euros out of my wallet, put them in an inner buttoned pocket in my coat, and venture out, deciding that it’s better to leave my swanky camera behind. However, thankfully I brought my old Sony point-and-click, which fits into an inner pocket, along for the trip as a backup. (It’s funny how when I purchased this camera for a wedding in the summer of 2007, I referred to it as my “nice” camera!) Thus, the few shots I took in Barcelona that night look different from my usual shots.

I take Roser’s advice about the best plan of action, and hop on the subway to La Diagonal station, north of the major tourist area known as La Rambla. I walk for around ten blocks along Passeig de Gràcia, a vibrant shopping avenue which feels like Madison Avenue in Manhattan; Wikipedia tells me its the most expensive place to buy property in all of Spain! The window displays are immaculate and creative and I stop into a clothing store, thankfully resisting the temptation to purchase any fine Spanish shirts.

Along the way, I come upon a large apartment building which looks like it’s been imported from a Disney cartoon, and I’ve arrived at Casa Batlló, my first view of the work of legendary Barcelona architect, Antonio Gaudi. It’s pretty impressive from close up, though I opt out of paying the 18 Euro (!!) entry fee and snap a few photos from the sidewalk instead.

I pass by a large open square which empties out into the northernmost section of the long street La Rambla, and even though it’s early in the evening, the area is already teeming with tourists and vendors.

I walk for a few minutes, and with the densely packed glut of tourists surrounding me now very glad that I don’t have my nice camera, and stop into an old-looking cathedral, wedged into a traffic pattern close to the Catalunya subway stop. A man shakes his cup at me, disgruntled, as I open the door for myself upon leaving the church.

The Teatre de Liceu, home of the Barcelona Opera, is featuring Donizetti’s Anne Boleyn, and dozens of students pack the outside waiting to enter.

Using Binita’s wifi signal, I had loaded up a few webpages on interesting bars in Barcelona, and I decide to seek out Rita Blue, which is close by just off of La Rambla. I’m quite hungry and want to indulge in a familiar snack, so I order the website-recommended, house special Margarita Blue (tasty!) and an appetizer of nachos with what ends up being processed cheese?! (Not a great introduction to Spanish cuisine, I’m afraid!) I leave after twenty minutes, as the place is large and mostly empty, and I want to experience something more lively in my limited time.

Headed toward another bar on the list, I enter a bustling side street with loads of young people milling about, and realize I’ve happened upon a photography opening at an art gallery. I walk through and take in the photos, most of which are Polaroids, and help myself to a glass of wine in the back. Muchas gracias!

Further down the street I find Casa Almirall, which this website tells me is one of the oldest bars in the city, and try out some Spanish with the bartender. Though my French is practically non-existent, I did take about 6 years of Spanish up through high school, so I’m feeling on steadier ground, though it's still un poco de dificil después de mucho años! I ask for a local beer and he pours me a glass of Estrella Damn, a light and refreshing Spanish pilsner, and I sit at the ancient bar and use the wifi connection to plan my next move. Before I leave, the bartender, who sees I’m a tourist looking for cool places, hands me a postcard picturing people at the very same bar where I’m sitting, ca. 1860. Muy impresionante.

Wanting to hit up at least one more place, I decide on Bar Marsella, legendary Barcelona absinthe bar and former haunt of artists like Hemingway, Picasso, Miro, and Gaudi. The side streets off of La Rambla feel a lot sketchier than the main drag, with prostitutes and shady-looking men lolling about, as well as children/possible pickpocket candidates running down the dimly lit, unfamiliar streets. I get to the bar but sadly it’s closed (really? at 11:30 on a Thursday night?), though the front door is still open. I walk in and am floored by the ambiance; history seems to seep from the amber-colored, oak walls, set up like library shelves, on which dusty 19th century bottles take up space. I ask if it’s alright to take some photos and snap away, glad that I brought a backup camera!

I hustle back to La Rambla and walk toward the subway, stopping to take in an incredible flamenco dancer accompanied by a box drummer. This style of dance screams excitement and people quickly form a crowd to watch. The performers are stunningly in sync, and I shoot some video. Pretty amazing, right?

I stay for few minutes after and chat with the performers, Bernardo (dancer), and Cristobal (drummer) who are professionals who also rely on street performing to eek out a living. Bernardo gives me the website address for his flamenco company.

I catch the train back to Sants Estacio and walk back to my temporary home. First night in Barcelona, relaxed and enjoyable, and I have everything I came here with, so that seems a victory already!

My second morning in Toulouse begins by waking at 5am, meditating in a grassy field in the full lotus position in front of the cresting Toulouse sunrise. Actually, no, I slept in again, made a breakfast of toasted baguette and hopped on a bike outside Marie’s apartment. I ride the opposite way as yesterday, reaching the River Garonne, which I’m told flows into the Atlantic.

I drop off the bike – this bikeshare thing is getting addicting – and stop for a slice of pizza before walking around the neighborhood of L’Eglise Saint Pierre des Chartreuse, a Baroque church built in 1602, currently undergoing restoration. The side chapels are in somewhat rough shape, but the ceiling of this church is stunning and in good shape. (So not Baroque? Sorry.)

I walk past the sign saying "don't walk here" on the scaffolding around the altar and there’s a long ceremonial room with a large organ (here's some video of it on YouTube!), dark wooden seats on the sides and adorned with enormous, stately paintings hung high on the walls; this is a room which seems fit for a coronation, and I’m the only one in it. I shoot a bit of video which I'm certain in no way captures the ambiance of being there.

As I’m walking around, an organist is practicing in the center of the church where a smaller organ resides. Standing there amidst all that art and historical air, the melancholy, perfect counterpoint in the background makes for a poignant experience. When the organist finishes, I say “Bach?” and he says “Oui.” We manage a 75% English, 25% French conversation, and I guess correctly that he’s a local student. The music was beautiful so I take a picture to find a recording later, and I take a few seconds to play the first few bars of the melody on the organ myself, though he tells me I’ve played it too fast.

I leave the church and continue walking around, with no real plan in place, passing through some brick archways in the area of the University of Toulouse, where Marie chairs the English Department.

The face of Matt Damon and a Red Bull car seem, I don’t know, anachronistic, in this neighborhood, no?

I stop into a friendly-looking café and sit for un café, then decide to stay and indulge in some afternoon wine and cheese. (The wine is a local red, Fronton, which I would later purchase a bottle of for home, and the cheese was cow’s milk, though at first I hear the bartender say “coal’s milk.”) I’m able to get a wifi signal here, so I spend a bit of time updating my Facebook status, which admittedly is a fairly exciting thing to do when one is sipping wine in a French café.

I keep walking and pass by St. Sernin, knowing there was a bike rack (two, actually) behind it, and I pick up a new bike and come upon a square with a merry-go-round and a traffic circle packed with lots of people strolling about.

Riding down Rue D’Alsace Lorraine, I pass by hundreds of busy shoppers, and come out on a main avenue, where I find a bike stand and saddle down, with the mind of walking back toward a wine shop I had passed. On the corner, however, is the Musee des Augustins, one of the places Marie had circled on her map, and it’s still open, so I pay the meager 3 Euro entry fee and walk in. The museum is arranged around a square-shaped, outdoor monastery plot with a medieval garden in the middle, and I’m immediately struck by the uncanny resemblance to The Cloisters in upper Manhattan, always one of my favorite hidden gems in New York City.

Walking through the Gothic section there are hundreds of religious sculptures and paintings dating to the 14th century and prior; the collection seems quite impressive and I’m already glad I stopped in.

There’s a heavy door at the entry to the chapel, and entering I walk into a large space which obviously once was a fairly large church which has been converted into museum space. There are a number of interesting paintings and sculptures here, mostly Spanish, Italian, and French Renaissance and pre-Renaissance, with a few 19th century works as well.

I take a particular fancy to a work by 17th century Spanish painter Bartolomeo Esteban Murillo, called San Diego de Alcala de Henares en extase devant la Croix, which shows an ordinary medieval garden containing a priest seemingly levitating off the ground in ecstasy while the churchmen bicker amongst themselves. (For some reason they had no postcard for this in the store?!) After looking this painter up online I recognize one of his other works, Two Women at a Window, as one of my favorites from the collection in the National Gallery in DC.

Marie calls and we agree to meet at the museum, after grabbing a quick bite to eat we will come back to the museum chapel for an organ recital at 8:00. I explore a few more wings until she arrives.

We walk with the goal of finding some food and exploring the town; she’s a terrific tour guide, pointing out 16th century apartments along the way.

When I mention I’m interested in buying some wine we head off to her favorite wine store, which is packed with local selections. I buy a nice 2006 Fronton, which I’ve already had twice in Toulouse, and I splurge on some 15 year Armagnac, which I hope will stand for a while as a nice memento of this region. (I find it strangely synchronicitous that a day after I bought this bottle, the Washington Post published this feature article on the intrigue of Armagnac!)

Stopping first at another of her favorite restaurants to make a reservation for after the concert, we pass by the river, and end up at a cute café where Marie treats me to local red wine (keep it coming!) and local spiced cheese with jam.

The concert at the museum, played by a young organist on the large pipe organ in the same chapel space described above, is so soothing that I admit to drifting off at times; it’s an almost mystical feeling being semi-conscious while listening to Bach fugues!

As we leave through the gift shop area I find out that the most famous work the museum owns (a Gothic Madonna and Child called Nostre Dame de Grasse) is actually on its way to Paris and Chicago! So I take a photo of the poster. ☺

Dinner at Le May is fulfilling, and again I’m basking in the ambiance of the way the French eat. For dessert I have some sort of upside-down apple tort which Marie describes as being named after two sisters.

The night is still young, so we head to La Tireuse, a beer bar with many Belgians on tap, which given my craft beer obsession, Marie is justifiably excited to show off. Over a few fine Belgian beers, some which I hadn’t tried before (e.g. the sweet Belgian stout Leroy), we discuss great books (I demand of her a list of her Top 5, Desert Island novels) and art and again it's great to feel an intellectual connection with an academic in a different discipline.

On the walk back to the apartment, I’m kicking myself when I realize that one thing I missed seeing was the church where the relics of St. Thomas Aquinas are kept, and as we walk by the outdoor of Les Jacobins I resolve to see this another time. I head to bed having spent a full, enriching day in Toulouse, and I’m so happy I came here. I look forward to coming again – who knows when? – not to mention meeting Roberto (who was in the US at the time) at some point. (Something tells me he'll be a better conversationalist than Oedi the cat.) Thanks to Marie for being the best local host anyone could ask for!

My first morning waking up in France (since July, at least) is spent catching up on sleep. I’ve found that’s sort of “how I roll” as a solo traveler – stay out at night and interact with people and places, then forego being an early morning tourist. There are disadvantages to traveling alone, but dictating one’s own schedule unapologetically is not one of them. After an unsuccessful joust with Marie’s stovetop coffee maker, I find a café in her neighborhood and manage to order un café (a strong French espresso, of course!) without much trouble, and I set out a map of Toulouse on the table to come up with a loose plan for the day.

I make my way through brick-lined, colorful French side streets to Basilique St. Sernin, the major church of Toulouse. A large number of French students line the plazas surrounding the church, most of them smoking and happily chatting, and I see at least two bike drops close by.

I stop into a crepe place Marie recommended (with a old piano at the entrance), and order a crepe dufort, with luscious, nutty emmental cheese and fromage de chevre, and a rich chocolate drink with vanilla cream. There's an old piano with a copy of the Beethoven Pathetique Sonata on it by the door. I must be in Europe!

Passing through the 14th century gate, I enter the Basilica, a famous pilgrimage spot built in the shape of a Latin cross, and begin to explore its dark and ancient exterior. Allow me to pause briefly and note that one runs out of adjectives to describe the interior of these medieval churches; they all feel and smell “old” and storied, with ceilings stretching to the sky which make you wonder how the heck anyone got up there in the first place 600 years ago, never mind create incredibly ornate art. I sense a distinct lack of anything that’s comparable to them in the US. I also wonder whether if my students (or Americans in general) could hear music or even just set foot in these places, maybe the vapidity of much of American pop culture might lose some of its allure? (Soapbox now demounted.)

In the rear of the church, I stop and touch the cement “feet” of St. Anthony, patron saint of travelers; this is one of the many stops along the legendary route of the Camino walk to Compostela de Santiago, and I think of my 70-something friend Dan, who has walked the 500 mile trip on numerous years, as well as Peter and Natasha of Greystones, who must have stopped here along their journeys as well? Incidentally, I'm very much looking forward to finding their book about the trip, which will be published in Ireland in March!

In the other side of the rear, there’s an open space with statuary recalling the church’s history, reliquaries holding the remains of a number of Catholic saints, and what appear to be 14th century frescoes painted on the walls.

I pay the 2 Euro entry fee to the crypt, and follow a curved path; from this angle, I can see the magnificent altarpiece of the church looming above. Steps leads down into a downstairs grotto containing more relic-holding shrines.

Outside the basilica there’s a teenager bouncing a rugby ball, then kicking it high in the air to a mate; the accuracy of the kicking is impressive.

Walking around the church, I find my way back to Rue de Taur, so named for the bull on which St. Sernin (aka Saturnin) was allegedly strapped to in the 3rd century; the bull ran the 1/3 of a mile along this street to the place where the basilica now stands. The street is busy with walking locals, and seems a center for shopping and eating, rife with bookstores (many displaying Camino maps), restaurants, bakeries, and even that grand French patisserie of yore, Subway. But thankfully, no holy men strapped to angry bulls.

I spot another old church to explore, this one Notre Dame du Taur, which was the burial spot of St. Sernin. This is a good example of the constant renovation these churches must undergo; workers are up on ladders repairing some part of the altar, and most of the paintings and walls are in dire need of restoring. A beautiful 19th-century mosaic telling the story of St. Sernin and the bull decorates the area above the altar, and along the wall there’s a recently discovered, 14th century fresco giving the genealogy of Jacob.

I stop into a bakery and order just one (just one?) pâté of chocolate and almonds, and come out into the large square surrounding the Capitolium, the large civic center of Toulouse.

I pass through the archway and walk into the building, walking up a winding stairway around which colorful tapestries and paintings seem to cover every square inch of space.

Inside the Capitoleum are what appear to be function rooms, all lined with paintings and ornate design. The workers setting up and breaking down ordinary plastic tables (probably for a wedding reception, as Marie says they have many here) seems a stark contrast to the opulent surroundings.

Walking outside, I’m in a high traffic shopping area, and I stop into a Virgin Records, purchasing a few tough-to-find classical and jazz CDs in the clearance rack.

At this point, I decide to try out Marie’s bike suggestion; she was kind enough to set up me up in the system with an account the night before. After some trouble with the all-French instructions (and some assistance from a stranger) I manage to get the bike out and I pedal back to her neighborhood, where I fix myself some soup and baguette and settle in for a nap.

I sleep way too long – I’m still in catchup mode after a physical rehearsal week – but luckily, France is a country that seems to open at 9pm!

Marie and I venture out into a rustic neighborhood to visit one of her favorite local haunts L’Esquinade, and it’s the absolute picture of a stereotypical French restaurant, people wedged into chairs at tables practically butting into each other, everyone speaking French (imagine!) in animated tones. The menu changes depending on what they have in stock; I order white fish with vegetables, which is delectable. It’s tres difficult eating exclusively vegetarian (never mind vegan, God forbid!) in this country, as almost everything is cooked with some of meat, and the only meatless options on any menu seem to be cheese-based! They offer two house selections for wine, and we drink a good amount of the locally-produced Gros Manseng white, left at the table in jug form. The desserts are amazing: chocolate tiramisu, and flan encased in a caramel waffle, and after I pay the check (leaving an American-sized tip to make up for any previous rude, non-French speaking Americans… tres falulach!), we’re left with two shot-sized jam jars containing the house cocktail, strong, fruity, and gingery, though they won’t tell Marie exactly what’s inside!

We walk a short distance over to Brueghel L’Ancien, another local bar with excellent Belgian beers on tap, where we befriend a cool local guy named David. We sit with him and his friend whose English is equivalent of my French (Marie translates), then retire to the outside area where most of the French people are now forced to do their smoking. I'm finding Marie's words true; everyone in Toulouse seems approachable and friendly, much more so than in Paris! A man with a dog stops by, then a few musicians getting out from a gig; one of them starts playing the Louis Armstrong classic St. James Infirmary on the guitar, but when a saxophonist joins in the bar manager comes out and asks them to stop. I’ve always heard how important jazz is to French culture, but it’s pretty amazing to see it in action; I can’t imagine jazz musicians picking up their horns for in impromptu session outside a bar in, say, Adams Morgan. Here's some video of this.

It’s been a nice, relaxing first full day in Toulouse, and I have another day to explore. C’est magnifique!