French Press

How can you not love Paris? After the heat of the southern Spanish sun, the cool autumn days of Paris were particularly refreshing. It never gets old for me to wander the streets, taking in the people, the culture, the "je na se qua" of the Parisian people. They have an air about them, somewhat aloof, always walking with purpose yet never hurrying. And its as if they know this about one another, and like to people-watch just as much as I do. In Spain the cafe seats face into the table, implying social interaction, in France they face out to the street, because they like to watch the Parisian life flow by while they sip a coffee or glass of wine.

There is something stunning about Paris in the fall. The sweltering heat dissipates, and with it the droves of tourists. You can actually walk up to the facade of Notre Dame and stare the gargoyles down without worrying about being in someone's photo. There is just so much flavor in the day to day life of Paris, visiting the boulangerie and the market for delectable picnic meals, exploring the quiet alleys of the Marais, an afternoon "boisson fraiche" while people watching. 

A very Parisian gentleman stops in a cafe for a quick nip on his way home from work. Tucked in the corner of the bar I couldn't help but watch him as he watched the street traffic passing by on the busy sidewalk. The cafe culture of Paris is seductive. Watching the myriad of life as it passes by.

The women of Paris are always dressed to nines, no matter the occasion. And they all walk like supermodels, strutting purposefully across ancient and uneven cobblestones (I would have a broken ankle in under half an hour).

Near the Georges Pompidou Center there were a number of street performers, including a chalk artist, sketching a 20ft. Mona Lisa onto the sidewalk. His hands seemed to have absorbed the chalk into his very pores, as he blended the colors with his bare hands.  

Santiago de Compostela

It was very interesting to spend a few days in the Galician city of Santiago de Compostela, after having spent the majority of my time in the culture of southern Spain. From the architecture to the food, and even the very language, there are marked differences. The other immediate change was the weather, after the 100 plus degree days of the south, Galicia was misty and cool. The morning fog was always still wrapped around the spires of the cathedral well after noon.

Legend has it that the remains of the apostle James were brought to Galicia and in the early 9th century on a boat made of stone, and were later discovered at Santiago de Compostela. The traditional way of getting to Santiago de Compostela is by walking about 780 km from St. Jean Pied-de-Port in France, on the Way of St. James. Some pilgrims have walked a mere six days, others nearly a month to arrive dusty and tired at the steps of the facade. There was a such a mix of people among the visitors, it was fascinating, young and old, backpackers and pious. 

Perhaps the most impressive bit of architecture in Santiago de Compostela is undoubtedly the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, housed above the purported burial place of the saint. The construction of this church began in the 11th century. At the front of the Baroque cathedral, a golden mollusk shell adorns the altar, a symbol repeated across the city. A steady stream of pilgrims queue there to kiss the shell, as another sign of homage. I imagine that millions of pilgrims have repeated this act not just today and yesterday, but back through time for the past 1000 years.  The cathedral preserves its original barrel-vaulted cruciform Romanesque interior. Unlike many of the other churches I have photographed, this one was adorned and sculpted on all four sides, as opposed to just the facade. The interior of the Cathedral was overwhelmed by the sheer number of pilgrims, a line extended across the rear courtyard just to be admitted. Mass was being held, but people milled around taking photographs as well. It was hard to take in either the peacefulness of mass or the sweeping grandeur of the place. I did find several solitary naves and alcoves, dedicated to the prayer and stillness. 

One of my favorite places in the entire city was the parks, particularly the Alameda. Due to the quantity of precipitation to landscapes are lush and green. A drastic change from the arid and hot southern regions I was accustomed to.  Enormous oaks loom above quiet pathways winding through the parks. Solitary raindrops roll heavily off the leaves, as a light drizzle hangs in the air. Beyond the tendrils of mist coiling across the city, church bells peal, dampened by the fog. I found my pace slowed down, unhurriedly exploring the narrow stone corridors of the city. Lingering in the markets, I take my time photographing and carefully selecting my purchases.  I pick out fresh bread, the soft local queso de Tetilla and some dried meats, and I head toward the park. I can't resist sitting on a bench wrapped around a massive oak, facing back toward the Cathedral. I nibble my cuisine, and thumb through the pages of that days novel, letting the hours pass marked only by the resounding chime of the church bells. 

Perhaps it is blasphemous to say, but Santiago seemed almost un-Spanish to me. The wine as a crisp white instead of heavy red, the pulpo fresh and salted rather than fried, the people quite and mild, rather than well the rest of Spain that I had discovered. After months of sampling tapas in Granada, it was a pleasant change to try the local Galician fare, mostly seafood dishes that made me think of the peasant life on the coast that the flavors had evolved from. Perhaps it was the food, or the atmosphere evoked by the architecture, or maybe the fog, which reminded me of Home, but for whatever reason, Santiago de Compostela stands out to me as one of my favorite places on this journey. 

A taste for Port

Behind the brightly painted walls of Porto are the dark, musty Port caves. There are some 35 companies with their stores underground along the Duoro River in Vila Nova de Gaia. It as much a wine industry as a tourist industry. The hillside is dotted by giant logos looming above their respective factories.

For the production of Port, a fortified wine, crushed grapes are fermented for about two days. Then the fermentation is halted by the addition of a neutral distilled spirit or brandy. This raises the alcohol level and retains some of the grapes’ natural sugar. The Porto connection to port wine came about during the 1700s because Porto was the port where the fortified wine was shipped from. In fact the wine is made up in the Duoro valley, further inland, and then was floated down the river in barges, where it is processed and stored in barrels in the "caves" until ready to be exported.

The caves are dank, and smell of musty cork and oak. Chalk scribblings mark the barrels and the vats, indicating color, age and amounts. Some of the company tours where more extravagant, with a costumed guide dressed like the brands logo, while others where more simple, leaving me one on one with the barrels stacked to the ceiling. After wandering through the dim, twisting rows, you are greeted by a sampling, a ruby, a tawny, and a white port. The liquid is heady to smell, with a sweet yet complex taste, leaving a smooth, mellow aftertaste.

Though the grapes can be grown and fermented in other parts of the world, only the grapes produced in the Duoro region can be considered true port (like how true champagne can only come from the Champagne region of France). The region is demarcated by a distinct microclimate, sheltered from the winds of the Atlantic, with hot dry summers and cold winters, when the moisture follows the river inland. The other distinct feature is the steep schist hillsides, where, quintas, farms, cling on to almost vertical slopes dropping down to the river. There is archaeological evidence for wine making in the region dating from the end of the Western Roman Empire, during the 3rd and 4th centuries AD. Today the port industry stretches up and down the river, carving a place for the grapes, which are characterized by their small, dense fruit which produce concentrated and long-lasting flavors, suitable for long aging. 

I found this interesting quote from a 19th century Englishman, "Portugal in itself, poor, yet climatically highly endowed, is capable of producing a variety of the most beautiful grapes, and a variety of wines, which, if properly made, would not be surpassed by those of any other country. The people are good-natured, industrious, and hard-working," by J.L.W. Thudichum, 1983.

Porto

There has been quite the lapse in my posts. Unfortunately I had a touch of winter fever, spent everyday snowboard instead of working. But as the weather warms, and the skies clear, I am back to my thoughts of warmer places, in this case Porto.

The had hints of the Iberian culture I witnessed throughout Spain, as well as the more colorful flavors that later inspired the streets of Rio de Janeiro. I was fascinated by the intense colors as well as miles of red roof tops that stretched to the skyline.

The Lello Bookstore is nestled away off the main streets of Porto. Opened in 1906, it has a deceiving facade, though a beautiful art nouveau design, it doesn't convey the treasures within. The interior is lined with beautifully intricate wooden panels and columns, stained glass ceilings and books, shelves and shelves of books. With a curvaceous red stairway connecting the two levels, the bookstore is as much about the books as it is the architecture. 

Playas

With nearly 5000 miles of coastline, it was no wonder I continually discovered beautiful beaches in every region of Spain. With names like Costa de la Luz and Costa de Sol (coast of light and sun) there is a beach of ever size, shape and blueness of the water.  Between the intense light and the dazzling blues, every color and shape takes on a new intensity.

















In the summer, with temperatures exceeding 110 degrees, it is no wonder Spaniards flock to the shores whenever they can.  Near Granada, which is land locked by the Sierra Nevadas, there is  span of coast called "Playa Granada," even though it os over an hour from the city, it is where all of the Granadinos head when the mercury rises. 

On a side note...Its no wonder, as you dig your toes into the sand, to imagine that so many great explorers came from Spain. Looking across the infinite stretch of blue water you can't help but wonder whats out there. Granted Spain was looking to increase their empire, find gold and spices and expand Christianity. But all that had to start with a curiosity of what waited beyond the azure horizon.

A Feria to Remember

Probably the biggest party of the year in Spain, the Feria in Malaga is a fiesta that lasts nine days and nights. It is a street party that stretches the entire downtown core, buzzing with color and life. The annual festival in Malaga city is one of the biggest national events. Spaniards travel from all over the country to take part in the festivities.

As I wandered the streets, it almost seemed as if each bar was competing with every other bar to see how loud they could play Spanish dance music, with thousands of merry people dancing in the street, in traditional Spanish dress, seemingly fuelled by large quantities of sweet Malaga wine. 

As the avenidas swarmed with women in flouncy flamenco dresses Marques de Larios, at the heart of the city's historic  center, the buildings are decorated with paper lanterns  and flags. The fair commemorates the re-conquest of the city by Isabella and Ferdinand in 1487 and lasts for ten full festive days, full of flamenco and fino (sherry). The horse driven carriages, that normally travel the streets in Malaga, are draped in finery. And as the sun goes down, the revelry continues on the outskirts of the city, were a makeshift carnival has been erected, complete with rides, games, and of course, wine. 

Urban Art

As you wander through the tangled, time worn streets of Granada, it is hard no to go more than a few blocks without turning a corner to be confronted by a mural splashed across the building. It almost seems to bring a renewed sense of life to the ancient city.




There is a movement afoot in the city to remove and prevent the graffiti. Maybe its my background, that where I come from graffiti is mainly gang signs and swear words, but i found the art work on the crumbling walls of Granada to be stunning works of art. When you turn a corner in the maze that is Granada and find yourself face to face with a ten foot mural, it is a mesmerizing.

More than once I found myself frozen on the sidewalk, contemplating the image emblazoned on the wall before me. While I can see why some would object to painting on the ancient walls of the city, the murals are both creative and beautiful, hardly the work of some young punk (more like the signature of a seasoned Picasso).

Supposedly the majority of the murals are done one artist, El Nino de las Pinturas. Whether or not that is some one's actual name or not, there is a distinct style to the paintings that would indicate the same hand at work.