As you might suspect from my blog name, solo trips are necessary food for my soul. I’d been feeling particularly run down after the first six weeks of my global adventure, so I was eager to run to the lakes and have quiet time with my Kindle and some pasta.
This was my first time in Lugano, and if you’re unfamiliar (as I was), it’s a little town that’s just barely in Switzerland, a breath away from the Italian border. Only the currency is Swiss, really–they speak Italian, the food is Italian…though that famed Swiss efficiency does appear as well. It’s beautiful, especially when viewed from the water:
I flew into Milan and took a very easy and cheap (20 euro) hourlong minibus ride with Jetbus, straight from Malpensa Airport to the Lugano train station.
I arrived on a Sunday afternoon, so most of the shops were closed, but I dropped my bags at the Hotel International au Lac, strolled through town, and settled into a lounge chair at Mojito Tropical Lounge, a lakeside outdoor bar that’s crowded at 6 pm and spilling over at 10 (or 18 and 22, if you will).
To be honest, though, I only know it’s spilling over at 10 from walking by on my way home–if you’re reading this post expecting scandalous tales and late-night adventures, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. This was a recovery trip for me, so it was straight to bed after dinner and no alarm clock.
Dinner was delicious, though–I encountered a dish I haven’t seen before, which always excites me, a matcha tea pasta with a bell pepper and yellow tomato coulis at La Cucina di Alice. I followed it (unnecessarily, but when on vacation) with a tasty veal stew and creamy blancmange, then rolled myself back to the hotel.
On Monday, with a rental stand just across the street tempting me, I decided to hire a boat. Everyone I’ve told this to has been shocked: you just RENTED a BOAT…BY YOURSELF? I was a little nervous truthfully. I haven’t driven a boat since I was a teenager, and I barely drive a car anymore since I moved to New York. But I needn’t have worried. Without a boat license, I got the Barbie Jeep of speedboats; I pushed the throttle up, expecting it to roar, and instead I putt-putted across the lake.
But it was delightful to be out on the water. I cruised (inched) past the Swiss-Italian border, saw a few more little towns from the water, took a dip in the lake–the deepest lake in Switzerland, if you’re into fun facts–and enjoyed the lunch I picked up from the grocery store. The views were even more stunning on the water than the shore.
After a brief rest, I headed to dinner at Grotto della Salute. I decided to eat outside the center of town, and while Lugano has a very easy-to-use bus system, I didn’t check the times, and as it turns out, the bus I needed ran only every half hour in the evening. Then I didn’t realize that I had to request the stop (buses in Prague automatically make every stop), so I had a bit more of a hike than I’d anticipated.
The restaurant was none too pleased when I showed up 25 minutes late for my reservation, but I eventually got a table outside under the massive tree that shades their terrace and had a wonderful meal of lemon and pecorino cappellaci (similar to ravioli) and iberico pork tagliata. The restaurant had a very local vibe–patrons tooled up on their scooters, the people at the table next to me had their large dog sitting under the table, and the menu was in Italian and German. I honestly love when there’s no English option.
On Tuesday, I considered my options: I could take the funicular to the top of Monte Bre. But it was a hot day for a hike, and after just two months of travel, I’m already growing weary of climbing to the top of things to look at the view. I could go to the museum next door, LAC. When I previewed the exhibitions, though, there wasn’t anything I was longing to see. In the end, I decided to indulge myself and do what I actually wanted: lounge by the lovely garden pool. Again…vacation!
I left early for dinner so I could stroll slowly through the park on the way. And I’m glad I did; it was the perfect final view of Lugano.
I’d saved the best for last with dinner: Arte al Lago, a one-star Michelin restaurant that sits right on the lake. I had the four-course menu, which was very well-executed–my favorite course was a cucumber and watermelon gazpacho with a spicy mint sherbet. But the setting really made the meal for me. When I got there, the shades were closed, and I watched the light play across the sculpture on the wall. Then, when the sun had dimmed enough, they raised the shades, and I watched the day fade as birds and boats skimmed across the water.
My days in Lugano were perfectly pleasant. The town won’t knock you over with charm; it tends towards luxury brand stores instead of boutiques, and the streets have only a little of that winsome wind. But there were very few Americans in June, which I consider a huge plus; I only heard two or three people speaking English. Add to that a shimmering lake and appetizing cuisine, and Lugano is well worth a visit.
When I was young, I assumed I would get married–it was a question of when, not if. And I assumed the marriage would look pretty similar to all the ones I saw around me: kids, suburbs, a sort of genial affection with my husband, if I were lucky. I think these are pretty common assumptions for a young child to make, particularly growing up in Oklahoma in the 80s.
It didn’t take long for me to start pushing back, though. By middle school, I could hop on a feminist soapbox about women automatically staying home with the kids. By high school, I was rolling my eyes HARD at my Catholic school’s “Christian Living” class assignment to plan our weddings. By college, I wasn’t sure I wanted kids; by my mid-twenties, I was sure I didn’t. By 30, I was meh on the idea of marriage–a long-term partnership would work just fine.
The one thing that hasn’t changed is my desire for a monogamous relationship. To be fair, I didn’t even think of non-monogamy as an option until I moved to New York four years ago. At that point, it popped up in the occasional dating profile. Now I see “ethically non-monogamous” or “polyamorous” or some variation thereof in probably 10-15% of the profiles I come across. It’s officially a Thing, another riptide in the already tempestuous contemporary urban dating scene.
But for the past four years, I’ve been swiping left on all of them. It hasn’t mattered what they look like, how compatible they might be, how much they might also dream of going to dinner together but reading different books at the table–if they don’t want monogamy, it’s a hard left swipe.
Since I’m traveling for the year now, though, I’ve relaxed my restrictions. It doesn’t really matter what they want long-term; I’m only in town for the month. The checklist has basically been distilled to: A) cute and B) somewhat interesting. Which is how I ended up on a date with a non-monogamous French Canadian staying in Prague for two nights after he went to a goth festival in Leipzig.
Yeah, you can read that sentence again. I couldn’t make it up if I tried.
Jean-Pierre* and I spent two evenings together…maybe 12 hours in total. So while I still don’t know what it would be like to be in a non-monogamous relationship, they were 12 damn good hours, and they’ve got me thinking.
The first crack in my monogamy wall came a couple years ago when I met an American guy in Montreal: Kyle. He was hot and brilliant, I was into it, we had a nice text thing going, and then he told me he’s polyamorous. (I’m going to leave the vocabulary lesson for someone else–at this point in history, different people tend to define these words differently, and they all seem to have unique practices. Ask for specifics before proceeding is my general advice.) Kyle and I were never meant to be for many reasons, perhaps most importantly that he wasn’t really into me like that (we’re friends now; hi, Kyle, hope you like your fake name), but he was the first person who made me question whether monogamy is really a deal breaker for me.
The second crack came when I had coffee with an acquaintance about a year ago, and when the talk turned to romance, as it usually does, she told me she’d been single for a long time, but she’d recently started dating someone with whom she was really happy. She said something along the lines of, “He’s not monogamous–he has a girlfriend who’s his primary partner. And I never thought I’d date someone like that; I wasn’t looking for that. But I’ve never felt so cared for in any other relationship.”
A number of tiny hairline cracks followed. Each profile I read in which a guy seemed great EXCEPT…another minuscule crack emerged. I read Sex at Dawn and found their argument fascinating, even if I thought they overreached with their conclusion. Essentially, they counter the traditional evolutionary psychology/anthropological argument that we’re hardwired for monogamy, and the evidence is compelling. I think our current social context presents a different issue, but I recommend the read.
In contemplating Kyle, I reasoned that I don’t think you get everything you want out of life. Particularly in my case, it’s possible that I want contradictory things. A lot of men who don’t want kids also don’t want to be monogamous–they view children as the only reason to consider monogamy. And there’s a reason why 10-15% of the profiles I see feature non-monogamous men, while you may never have encountered one–I’m looking for someone highly educated, very liberal, and urban, which increases the odds. So maybe in order to get everything else I’m looking for in a man, I might have to compromise on the monogamy front.
But Jean-Pierre made me question where the qualitative difference really lies. Sure, the sex was as amazing as you’d think it would be (though anyone who’s banged your average finance bro knows that quantity does not necessarily translate into skill). But the truly amazing part of the encounter is that he exhibited more genuine interest in my life in two nights than most guys do in two months. He memorized my friends’ names and personalities, he learned a bit about my family, he was respectful and considerate. He sent thoughtful and appreciative follow up messages.
I’ve dated lots of men who society would say were the better choice because they were ostensibly looking for monogamous partnerships. Most of them were dicks.
And I know what my mom, if she ignored my advice and is reading this post anyway, is thinking: “Non-monogamy is just a way for men to have their cake and eat it, too.” Well…to be fair, I also like cake.
But tongue-in-cheek pithiness aside, I think I still ultimately want monogamy. I’m a Scorpio; I’m possessive and jealous as hell. But you never know–there seem to be as many flavors of non-monogamy as there are Ben and Jerry’s; maybe I’ll find one I like. Regardless of whether it works out in the long run, though, I think I’m ready to stop automatically ruling out these men. If I see a guy who looks intriguing, regardless of his relationship proclivities, I’m swiping right.
Cesky Krumlov doesn’t sound like the name of a picturesque old town, but excepting the title, it’s adorable. A preserved UNESCO World Heritage Site, it’s similar to Bruges in its bite-sized quaintness.
All the guides say that it’s less crowded in the evening, after the day trippers leave (very true), so I made a night of it last weekend, taking a RegioJet bus down from Prague on Sunday afternoon and returning Monday evening. The ride is a bit long for a day, at three hours, but the bus was surprisingly comfortable for 7 euros each way, with leather seats, drinks for purchase, and an on-board restroom.
The bus stop is set just outside of the city center, and to walk into town, you climb up a short, forested hill. At the top is the first view of Cesky Krumlov, and from that initial moment, the city did not disappoint.
The town is similar to Prague, with its red-tiled roofs, a castle at the focus of every vista, and the Vltava River winding through. But I find it sweeter in miniature, and I love the vibrant colors of the castle and church spires.
I got to town around 6 pm, with just enough time to check into the hotel and walk around a bit before dinner at Papa’s Living Restaurant, where I had a table by the river and finally got the sizzling beef tagliata I’ve been trying and failing to order for the last six weeks. (Groups! One of the joys of solo travel for me is getting exactly what I want–there’s no one with whom you have to negotiate or compromise.) It was as good as I’d imagined.
I spent the evening at the theatre–the revolving theatre, to be precise. It’s a bit hard to describe, but let me try. The theatre is open air, in the gardens of the castle. It’s a large disc, essentially (see photo below), so the audience is seated all on one side. The entire contraption, the theatre in which the audience sits, can rotate 360 degrees. There’s no stage per se, though there are a few sets built in various spots on the ground surrounding the seats, as well as one permanent structure that serves for some of the interior scenes. So we’d face one way, watch a scene, and then the theatre would rotate to a different point of view for the next scene. And occasionally the seats would rotate to track action; they drove a real-life horse and carriage in at one point, and the theatre moved along with the horses.
It was fascinating enough to keep me occupied through The Hound of the Baskervilles in Czech! The only words I understood were hello, thank you, and Sherlock Holmes. But while I wish they would have been staging opera or ballet, something more universal, I’d go see just about anything there to experience the lovely outdoor setting and unique staging.
By the time I trekked back down the hill–the walk up to the theater is not for the infirm–it was past 11 pm, and it seemed the only people walking through town were the ones who had also gone to the theater–all in pairs, mind you. (It seems only fair in counterbalance to the above raving about solo travel that I do get a slight twinge when everyone else in arm-in-arm, and I’m the only one trudging forward alone.)
I stayed at the Hotel Ruze, originally a 16th-century monastery. Its origins still show; the hallway sitting area was decorated with a rather intense religious theme, the room featured dark wood and heavy drapery, and the toilet was a literal throne. Pictured at right so you believe me.
The next morning threatened rain, so I had breakfast crepes at MLS and then strolled through the Egon Schiele Art Centrum. The art won’t astound you, but they had a couple interesting exhibits by lesser-known artists, and the space itself was a beautiful mix of old and new architecture. The skies had cleared by the time I was done, and I crossed the river to the less populated side of town (the tour groups are out in full force during the day) and spent a quiet hour in a park.
I was planning to sit in this pretty gazebo I could see from my hotel window, but when I got there, I discovered it was a little grungy, with graffiti, cigarettes, booze bottles, and unidentified puddles…I opted for a bench under a tree instead. It amused me, though, as a lesson in the ideal versus the real while traveling. Even charming villages have their dingy corners.
If I’d had a little more time and/or slightly better weather, I would have gone for the full castle tour–there’s a baroque theater and real live bears!–or rented a kayak to go down the river, as I saw many doing. But it was a welcome break from Prague and a delightful 24 hours.
People always say you can’t run away from your problems, but I’ve done a pretty damn good job of it over the years. When life gets messy, travel. When life turns catastrophic, move. I took Cher’s mantra in Mermaids (a classic) to heart: “Death is dwelling on the past or staying in one place too long.”
But now I’m traveling for a year and moving every month, and I’m starting to realize that there might be some truth in that old saying. While I’m not even a little bit sorry I came on this trip, it is highlighting–and even exacerbating–some of the issues I had before I left. Here are five pieces of baggage I’m hauling around the globe with me:
1. I’m still perpetually, painfully single.
I’ve been single for thirteen years now. There have been lowercase-r relationships, varying in seriousness, some of which have lasted years. But the last time I had an official boyfriend, I was 20. And I’m not going to sugarcoat it, that’s fucking miserable.
I have enjoyed taking some of the pressure off dating. Before I left New York, I was working with a matchmaker–a longer story for another day, but spoiler alert, it didn’t work–and dating was starting to feel like a job that I hated. Since now I’m here today and gone tomorrow, I can look at dating as more of a fun activity than a search for my life partner.
But, as it turns out, bad dates are bad everywhere. It sucks to get dressed up and excited and then have a guy show you pictures of another girl or walk away when you say rape jokes aren’t funny. And, while some pressure is off, I still had a lot of giggling girlfriends convinced I’d fall in love on this trip. So yes, it’s stinging a bit to watch two of my fellow travelers fall for each other while romance continues to elude me.
2. I’m still terrible with large groups.
My kindergarten carpool. Fifth grade student council. My high school debate team. The sorority I joined in college. Junior League, most recently. I have a lifelong history of not playing well in group settings. One-on-one, I’m good. Small groups of five or six, I can handle, if the right people are involved. But once you get into double digits, my introverted, Type A, fun-fest of a personality makes things tough.
Unfortunately, I’m not quite introverted enough to eschew the group all together and stay in my room or travel alone for the year–I’m about a 55/45 introverted/extroverted split. So I want people around, but not all the time, and if there are too many of them I feel awkward. Super easy, right?
And I have Very Firm opinions about what I like and dislike and how I want to spend my time–especially with just a few weeks in each location, life’s too short to do things I have no interest in or to eat bad food. But I’m not always great at asserting these opinions with people who aren’t my close friends, and I wind up feeling either steamrolled and frustrated or bitchy and persnickety.
So while there are many awesome people in this group, and everything has been very well run so far, just dealing with the day-to-day group issues of where are we going to go, okay see you there, no wait he wants to go here, oh she’s coming too, never mind we’re doing that instead…it’s exhausting. I suspect that this is good for me, but I’m struggling.
3. I still feel time passing too quickly.
Listen, I know mid-thirties isn’t that old, but it’s not that young either. I’m writing this blog post as I lie in bed with what I’ve self-diagnosed as a knee injury common to overweight, middle-aged women. SIGH.
And while the average age on this trip is about 30, praise be, that still puts me in the older half of the group, which I feel particularly keenly since a few of the people with whom I’ve been spending the most time are the youngest in the group. Those 7-8 years aren’t stopping us from being friends, but they do make a difference at this stage in life.
I hate when people say, “I’m too old for that!,” but yeah…my recovery time isn’t what it used to be. And while I certainly can still go to the club, the amount that I want to has greatly decreased in the last decade. Wine bars are nice.
4. I still question what I want out of life.
With this rapidly accelerating passage of time comes the oh-shit-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life feeling. Right now, I’m traveling the world. Yay me! People have subtly (and not so subtly) reminded me though that I can’t do this forever.
Or can I?
I have no idea, really. I love New York, but I find it overpriced and draining. I love my job, but publishing is increasingly improbable, and I don’t know whether I’ll be one of the lucky few who survives. When my mom was my age, she was married with three kids. That’s not what I want from life, but I haven’t entirely sorted out what I want instead. Travel increases my introspection, which means I’m asking myself this question more, even if perhaps I should be asking it less, since I have such a great answer for now.
5. I still struggle with anxiety and depression.
This one colors everything else, and vice versa. I don’t take medication (personal choice! zero judgment!), but I’ve been in therapy for basically my entire life, and I was seeing two different therapists simultaneously for a while in New York. Now I’m out in the world with new stressors and without my usual coping mechanisms. I’ve started having trouble sleeping again–my usual mental health indicator–and I’ve had a couple of near-panic attacks in the last week.
I’m not saying this to scare anyone (Mom, I’m fine), but it’s something I didn’t think about much before I set out on this adventure, and I think it’s important to be candid about mental health. I’m taking steps in the right direction–setting up a Skype session with my therapist, meditating, reading for pleasure–and there are things I need to do better–exercise consistently, set clearer boundaries with the group. I want to make this work, but it’s a huge adjustment.
—
Let’s be clear: this trip is awesome. I fell in love with Barcelona–the food, the schedule, the fake-old architecture. And while Prague doesn’t thrill me in the same way, I just had the coolest theater experience in the little town of Cesky Krumlov. I love discovering new things, and traveling in this way keeps the novelty coming at a rapid pace.
But awesome isn’t perfect, and I’m still me, which means I’m cranky and reactive and particular in addition to curious and smart and loyal. So don’t freak out if my social media isn’t a nonstop feed of EVERYTHING IS ALWAYS AMAZING–because that would be bullshit. I hope that this year will change me in ways I can’t yet foresee and help me grow as a person. But there are always some growing pains.
On Saturday, we took a half-day trip to the nearby town of Kutna Hora. Just about an hour and a half away, we left Prague at 10, hit three churches, drank some wine, ate lunch, and were back by 5. We Roam was nice enough to set us up with a bus and a guide, making it a very easy excursion. (If you’re DIYing it, we booked through Discover Prague.)
Our first stop was the Cathedral of the Assumption of Our Lady–nice enough, with a lovely ceiling, but not really worth the drive. Fortunately, our guide was setting the bar low, with much more to come.
The main tourist attraction is the Bone Church, or Sedlec Ossuary if you’d like to be precise, and it more than lived up to the creepy hype. The space was small, but overwhelming, with giant pyramids of bones in cages, bone garlands spanning the archways, and a bone chandelier centerpiece that reportedly contains every bone in the human body.
According to our guide, the bones are meant to remind you of your mortality and so direct you towards god. As an atheist, my experience was less mystical and more just a matter of benign fascination. But it’s a sight I’m glad I was able to see.
Our third stop was the gorgeously Gothic Church of St. Barbara. I loved the ornate buttresses and the interior frescoes…
But if we’re going to be totally honest, what I loved even more was the tiny wine bar outside, with wines from the vineyards by the church and others nearby. We had a glass or two and took in the views.
Then we moved into the town itself and had lunch in the lovely outdoor space at Dacicky. If you are traveling with a group, this restaurant is on it; we ordered in advance and had barely sat down when they started passing out soup–and beer, natch. We took a stroll through the Italian Court and saw St. Barbara’s again from a fresh angle.
Then back on the bus to nap all the way home to Prague, full of local booze and heavy Czech cuisine.
If I were doing this tour solo, I probably would have taken a couple more hours to wander the town itself, which looked adorable. But we certainly hit the highlights, and if you’re spending more than a few days in Prague, it’s a worthwhile day trip.
What better to do on your first full day in Prague than get a bird’s-eye view of the city? There are a few places where you can do that, but we made our first trek up Petrin Hill. You can walk, but I recommend the funicular, an easy transfer from the Ujezd stop and included in your transport pass.
The first funicular stop is at the Nebozizek Restaurant, a good place to grab a cocktail and see the city. If you go all the way to the top, you actually don’t have a view…unless you replicate our insanity and climb to the top of Petrin Tower, Prague’s miniature take on the Eiffel Tower.
It’s 299 steps to the top, though you can pay more for the lift if you aren’t with super athletically inclined friends like I was. The middle view is actually the best though, with open spaces above the railings, rather than the sliding windows at the very top. There are also lookout points and resting benches after every couple flights, bless them. Once you’re up, you get a beautiful view of the city:
And if you time it right, you can get a spectacular sunset vista:
Aside from the tower, there are lovely gardens scattered over the hill, a cathedral, a historic wall, and, if you’re inclined towards the cheesy/creepy, a mirror maze and a “magical grotto,” i.e. a house full of weird paintings. We opted just to stroll down the hill towards the lower funicular stop and watch the light on the castle change as the sun disappeared and the lights of Prague came on.
I’ve decided at least 75% of travel to foreign cities is just climbing to the top of things for the view.
I honestly can’t believe I’m in Prague now; I have a bit of whiplash.
We landed here two nights ago after a day of travel that I’d rather not memorialize in writing. (Teleportation, people; it’s 2017, why has travel only gotten worse post-airplane?) While I’m happy to be here and I’m really happy that my apartment is a bit more spacious, I wasn’t ready to leave Barcelona.
To start, there’s just so much to do. So many cultural sites, so many restaurants to try–part of working while traveling is that you can’t be a nonstop tourist. If I’d been in Barcelona with nothing to do but explore for a month, that may have been long enough, but working and doing We Roam activities as well…I could have easily spent the whole summer there.
And on top of that, saying goodbye to Barcelona also meant saying goodbye to a new friend. One of my fellow Roamers, Dawn, became one of my closest friends over the last month, but Barcelona was her final stop. For now, at least…Dawn, if you’re reading this, you better come back.
Then on a deeper level, I’ve spent the last couple weeks feeling very off-balance. I was too overwhelmed initially to react to anything; I just experienced it. But as time has gone on, I’ve become adjusted enough to actually feel overwhelmed, if that makes sense.
I truly like every member of the trip individually, but collectively, it’s a lot. People are always doing something or planning to do something. And then those plans change, constantly and rapidly, which is difficult for someone as Type A as I am. Last night for instance, I was in the middle of trying to write this blog post when my friends decided suddenly that it was time to leave to go do something that I was only mildly interested in doing. So I closed my computer, put my shoes back on, and ran out, only to wind up spending 20 minutes standing in a hallway because we ran into people we know. (There are always people we know.) Then there was the negotiation: where are we going, how will we get there, in what order will we do things.
Once we got the excursion underway, I had a great time. I almost always do, which is why I didn’t say, “Go ahead without me; I’ll just sit here with my computer.” But in addition to that healthy self-knowledge, there’s also an unhealthy layer of social anxiety that kicks in whenever I think my friends may be having fun without me.
I had a minor conflict with someone last week (almost entirely of my own making and resolved with friendship flowers, so all is truly well on that front), and it made me question whether or not this trip is a good fit for me. While I love the travel, the group is a tough environment for someone with my personality and particular brand of anxiety. I’m used to spending a lot of time on my own, even–perhaps especially–while traveling, and the day-to-day currents of the group can be very draining for me. But they can at times be exhilarating as well. Part of me is still wondering whether this is a great new challenge or an unnecessary irritant.
Maybe I’ll know better by the end of my month in Prague. This is the stop on our tour that I’m least enthused about from the outset. I’ve been here once, for a long weekend, and that felt like enough time to do the touristy things that I wanted to. And our first couple days haven’t overridden my initial feelings–we’ve gotten yelled at for making too much noise in every restaurant we’ve been in, my new phone is currently sitting in the labyrinth of Czech customs, things close earlier than I’d like, etc. I don’t hate it, Prague is a beautiful city, but it doesn’t fit me like Barcelona.
But maybe this will make me a little less frantic, a little bit better equipped to find the balance I so sorely missed last month. I hope so because Barcelona felt like a careening roller coaster–fun and exciting, to be sure, but thrill rides are designed to last two minutes, not twelve months.
Last Wednesday morning, I got up so early that I’m sure some people were still out for the night to catch a flight to San Sebastian, also known as Donostia in the Basque language. After a couple weeks of traveling in a crowd, I was ready for a little alone time, and I was really excited to see San Sebastian, a town I’ve been longing to visit for years. (I think it started with The Sun Also Rises…)
The main attraction is food–San Sebastian is second only to Kyoto in the number of Michelin-starred restaurants per square kilometer, and I had reservations at two of them, Arzak and Mugaritz, both of which also feature on the World’s 50 Best list. The early flight, in fact, was made in the service of lunch at Arzak–I couldn’t get a dinner reservation, but it’s the same menu. And beyond the super fancy, San Sebastian is also famous for its pinxto bars: tiny restaurants that serve delectable small plates, which you eat standing up.
Beyond food, there’s not a lot going on. It’s a small town with three great beaches–even a surf break at one of them. The photo below sums up San Sebastian’s beach life; the dogs run free in that town. Unfortunately, three out of four days I was there were cold and rainy, so I spent a lot of time catching up on Netflix. There’s a museum, an aquarium, and loads of cute shops, but since I’m living out of a suitcase for a year, I took the time to recharge.
On Saturday, the sun finally came out, and I attempted to cram a long weekend’s worth of tourism into a day. First up, a trip to the Frank Gehry-designed Guggenheim in Bilbao, which is an easy hour and fifteen minute bus ride from San Sebastian, a drive that winds through beautiful mountainous countryside.
The Guggenheim, like so many things, was smaller than I’d imagined, but lovely. The building itself is fascinating; every angle gives you a fresh perspective:
The main exhibition was Abstract Expressionism, and they had some interesting and significant works, though I have to admit that period leaves me a little cold. I was listening to the audio guide as I browsed, and while I’m fascinated by the artists’ processes, and I can intellectually understand the idea of creating a reaction through color or shape, rather than specific forms, it just doesn’t do much for me, much in the same way that I don’t like house music–my book-obsessed brain longs for narrative.
But I always look for at least one new painting to fall in love with, and at this museum, that was Anselm Kiefer’s The Renowned Orders of the Night. The photo doesn’t do it justice; it’s breathtaking in its scale.
Back in San Sebastian, I braved the hordes of children heading up to the rides at the tiny, rickety amusement park at the top of Monte Igueldo to get this breathtaking view of the city.
It was interesting–I don’t know if it’s because it was Saturday, or it was finally sunny, or the combo of the two, but I’d been thinking that San Sebastian was the sleepiest little town, just some surfers and a lot of old people, all of whom seemed to know each other, and hundreds of adorable pups. But then the sun comes out, and all of a sudden, the beach walkway is packed, and I’m fighting my way through the streets of Old Town like it’s Times Square.
I went to a pinxto bar recommended by none other than Anthony Bourdain, La Cuchara de San Telmo. Really, you’re supposed to do a pinxto crawl, but I only had it in me to elbow my way through one insanely crowded bar. It really is a bit of a fight, and then you’re left standing up eating gourmet food as if it were a bad canape at a reception. But I had delicious veal cheeks and pig’s feet in romesco sauce and suckling pig with an apple sauce (all the food my mom would refuse to eat, basically) and called it a night.
It was a slightly disappointing weekend, if I’m being honest, just because I’d built the city up so much in my mind–the difference between travel expectations and reality is something I think about often. And it was definitely one of those times, where if I hadn’t been flying solo, I might have been pushed to do more and explore further. But sometimes travel can be about recovery as much as discovery.
The only truly sour note of the weekend came as I was trying to leave at 7 AM on a Sunday morning. There were no taxis at the stand (you can’t hail one), and the promised 7:15 bus didn’t arrive. The taxi companies weren’t answering their phones. One group of people, just going home from the bars, promised to call me a cab from another town, but then they took the first one, and their drunk friends surrounded me and shooed me down the street, mocking me from the windows of the taxi that was supposed to be mine as they drove by.
Back at the taxi stand, another group of men came by and started talking to the girl standing next to me. In Spanglish, they offered me first a ride, then the open containers of beer they were holding–for obvious reasons, I accepted neither. I finally got through to a company and mustered enough college Spanish to communicate, “Necesito un taxi. Voy a aeropuerto. Estoy a Idiakez.” Not the most elegant turns of phrase, but a taxi did appear–which the other girl tried to take, since she was next in line. We communicated, insofar as we were able, and agreed that the taxi would drop her home first and then take me. Luckily (who has ever thought this?), my flight was delayed an hour, or I probably would have missed it.
So I suppose all’s well that ends well, and I never felt like I was in real danger–but it was a slightly dicey moment for a solo female traveler with only a moderate grasp on the language.
Nevertheless, I’m happy I saw the town and ate (some of) the food. It’s changed a lot from the quiet fishing village Hemingway visited, but it still has a certain charm.
Last weekend, my new friend and travel mate, Abby, thought it would be fun to do a double date. I was supposed to see a flamenco show with a guy I’d been talking to on OkCupid who was visiting Barcelona from Belgrade (our September stop–hoping to line things up in advance; I’m very pragmatic). Abby had never seen flamenco, so she hopped on her phone to find a fourth. Over lunchtime beers, this all seemed like a great plan.
By the time we were in the cab on the way to pre-flamenco drinks, our plan looked like it might be devolving into a third-wheel situation. Abby’s date was skeptical of the entire concept of the double date–perhaps it’s not so common in Spain?–sending messages like:
“I don’t understand why we’re going out with your friend. Can’t we have a date just the two of us?”
“Is this a group sex thing?”
But he kept promising that he was on his way–as soon as he got off work, changed his shirt, ran a couple errands…the excuses evolved over the course of the evening. Nevertheless, we soldiered on and were soon sitting across from my date, whom, to protect the privacy of the asinine, we’ll call Mark.
Allow me to be blunt: Mark was not attractive. Revisiting his profile later, I realized how strategic his photos were. So, all dolled up in my Friday night red-lipsticked best, that was disappointing. But he gave good text, so I had my fingers crossed for some scintillating conversation.
Then, ten minutes after we sat down, Mark told us about Helen, another girl he met on OkCupid, with whom he’d spent the entire week, sharing a room by night and exploring Barcelona by day. “I hope she might come by later,” he said casually, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to tell someone when you’re supposed to be on a date.
So at this point, two girls. One guy. The promise of a potential third girl. No actual dates happening. But there were mojitos on special and some delicious pesto bread, so we continued.
Getting the bill in Spain is always a process, and I wanted to regroup with Abby about our plans for the evening, so I sent Mark ahead to get seats for the flamenco show. When we were halfway there, Mark messaged to say there were no seats left; we’d arrived too late. There went the entire premise of the evening.
At this point, I was ready to bail and tried to convince Abby we should find another bar with different, better boys. It was Friday night, we were dressed up, it was Barcelona. But she was committed–to the idea that Mark could hook us up in Belgrade, to the possibility that her date (still messaging! still promising!) might come through, maybe even to the narrative itself.
So we moved to a different table on the main square of El Raval and waited for Mark to rejoin us–he seemed mysteriously committed to the evening as well. The waiter approached and asked, “Drinks? Mojitos?”
It’s like he knew us.
Mark came back and proceeded to tell us the FULL story of his romance with Helen, complete with photos. It was like a fairy tale, right up to the point where Helen apparently broke his heart the night before. Guess that’s why he decided to meet up with me? (Pro tip: don’t tell the girl you’re on a date with that she’s a consolation prize.)
Figuring this obliterated the need for any vestige of politeness, Abby and I were blatantly on our phones at this point. She started a thread on our We Roam Slack so that everyone might delight in a little schadenfreude. She also surreptitiously took photos of Mark showing us photos of Helen (they’re hilarious, but I’m too nice to post them). And we were both swiping through Tinder, still trying to make an actual double date out of the evening.
After forty-five minutes or so, I hooked one. Let’s-call-him-Diego was on his way and promised to bring a friend for Abby.
Half an hour later, Diego showed up alone. Alone and fully twenty-five years older than his late 20s-looking Tinder pics. 50 at least. Balding.
I contemplated karma as I scurried across the street to meet him, vaguely explaining that Mark was someone we’d met recently, and he was a little weird, so Diego should just ignore him. Not the world’s best cover story, but I was five or six mojitos deep.
We shared an awkward cocktail, over which Diego explained the finer points of Spain’s governmental structure, and then Abby and I agreed via WhatsApp that it was time to go.
“We have to volunteer REALLY early,” I announced as I stood up. “This has been lots of fun, but our volunteer work is so important to us.” (I’m smarmy when I’m irritated.)
But the fun wasn’t over yet. Diego offered to drive us home, we accepted, and then Mark–still in it to win it–insisted that Diego should drive him to our place as well, and it would be easy for him to walk from there.
Up to my eyeballs in bullshit, I asked Mark where he was staying, pulled up Google maps on my phone, and showed him that his Airbnb was just a ten minute walk from the square, while our place was 30 minutes farther away, and for that reason, we would be parting ways immediately. (Abby has photos of this, too.) I couldn’t have been more clear if I’d had a projector and a pointer.
He drunkenly acquiesced, and we waved goodbye as we speed walked down the street. One awkward car ride and a quick double cheek kiss later, we were free. Free to head upstairs to have a bottle of wine nightcap and regale our friends with the already legendary tale.
Instead of a double date, two dates. At one table. Both of them terrible. With a chaperone. Not exactly the romantic foreign escapade I’ve been imagining.
Was this the kind of date you all thought I’d be having in Spain? Anyone care to top my bad date anecdote? Commiserate below!
Our Barcelona apartments (which bear more of a resemblance to dorms, but oh well) are sort of in a no-man’s land. Poblenou is the closest neighborhood, but we’re definitely not in it. But we are equidistant from a lot of wonderful things, and we’re an easy 20-minute walk to El Born, an adorable old neighborhood packed with shops and bars. The other day I took a photo stroll the long way round…
My first meandering point was the Parc de la Ciutadella. It’s massive (70 acres), and it has museums, the zoo, and a lake you can row on, amidst other delights. You can even have a training session if you want to…
Or, if you’re like me, you can just walk around, read on the grass for a while, and take some photos. My favorite shot is below–I hate those obnoxious bubble gun salesmen, but I love how the bubbles look against the fountain:
From the Parc, you cross the street and enter El Born, full of adorably winding side streets like this one…
…and loads of street art and charming details:
I paused to have lunch at an outdoor table. Sadly, the restaurants with terraces often don’t have the best food in the city, but basic tapas are universal, and I was perfectly content with croquettes, salad, and padron peppers in the sunshine.
Next, I crossed Via Laietana into Barri Gotic, or the Gothic Quarter. It has a very similar vibe as El Born; if you aren’t looking at a map, you wouldn’t know they were two neighborhoods. But there are some nice Gothic* touches. Asterisked because apparently some of the lovely details were created for the 1929 International Exposition. One of my travel mates is infuriated by Barcelona’s penchant for recreation; he told me yesterday that Italy is better because it’s actually old. But I say, what the hell, as long as it’s pretty.
The Gothic Quarter also contains my favorite square (so far, at least), the Placa Reial. It’s lined with delicious restaurants and fun bars (try Sidecar if you want to dance to 80s music), and don’t tell my friend, but it reminds me of Piazza Navona in Rome.
Hope you enjoyed taking this stroll with me! There are so many Barcelona neighborhoods still to explore, and only two weeks left to walk through them. Travel anxiety is real.
On Tuesday, I considered my options: I could take the funicular to the top of Monte Bre. But it was a hot day for a hike, and after just two months of travel, I’m already growing weary of climbing to the top of things to look at the view. I could go to the museum next door, LAC. When I previewed the exhibitions, though, there wasn’t anything I was longing to see. In the end, I decided to indulge myself and do what I actually wanted: lounge by the lovely garden pool. Again…vacation!
were back by 5. We Roam was nice enough to set us up with a bus and a guide, making it a very easy excursion. (If you’re DIYing it, we booked through 
The first funicular stop is at the 
