City mouse goes to the mountains

So here I am in Orgiva, a small town in the Alpujarra region of Andalucia in southern Spain. The town itself is in a bit of a valley, and I can see the white cluster of its buildings from the mountain side I´m currently living and working on. Yes, that´s right, I´m now some sort of farmhand. For the past three days I´ve been scrabbling about on dry terraced plots of land below old olive trees, picking manzanilla olives from wherever they´ve been hiding.

Although this is probably one of the more insane things I´ve done in my day, it´s working out quite well, although at first I had a pretty insistent interior refrain of ¨what the hell have I gotten myself into???¨ The farmer who I´m working for picked me up at the bus stop in Orgiva on Monday night at about 7, by which time it was fairly dark. There was an older British couple also headed up to his farm for a weird sort of holiday thing, and he came and picked the three of us up in a battered old citroen. He was fairly gruff, and headed up this winding dirt track up the mountain, barrelling along as though the road was paved and lit, stopping every once in a while to fix the fan so the engine wouldn´t overheat. Slightly terrifying, but we managed to make it to the top of the mountain alive and intact.

In truth, we´re not at the top of the mountain, only about 2000 m up, but the view is spectacular. It´s funny, because when picking olives I focus on my immediate surroundings: the olive tree, the crumbling terrace wall, the dry dry red earth. But every time I look up and out across the valley, I´m blown away by this landscape that consistently takes my breath away, and leaves me thinking of nothing but really cliched adjectives and adjectival phrases. Seriously though, the outdoor wc has the best view of all.

The farming life is simple, and there´s a calm to life on La Jimena (the name of the farm) that is ever so refreshing after the stress of Barcelona. I wake up at eight, about the same time that the sun begins to rise over the mountains, eat a light breakfast and head out to the terraces for three hours of work with the others. At around noon we break for a light snack, then head back out for another three or so hours of work. The main meal of the day is eaten at around 3ish, and I´m in bed by 8 usually (the sun sets sometime between 7 and 8), and asleep not long after my head hits the pillow. I´ve never slept so soundly or so long before. It´s funny how, without electricity, a body will just adjust to the more natural rhythms of the sun. If it´s dark, I´m sleeping, and if it´s light, I´m awake.

Olive harvesting itself is rather varied work, although I think today (my day off) is the last day of the season. So tomorrow on to other farm tasks, maybe work in the garden or clearing out another set of ruins on the property. My favourite bit of harvesting the olives is climbing the trees, short stick in hand, and beating the fruit down from the branches onto nets below. Scrabbling in the dirt for the fruits (or are they vegetables?) is also rewarding work, and I feel something like a gold digger up in the Yukon back in the day.

The other wwoofers on the farm are really cool, laid back people, all around my age, from England, Holland, and Belgium. The family whose farm it is are pretty great, so generous with their home and food. It´s funny, all my romantic city girl notions of the bucolic country life, though not faded exactly, have been imbued with a good healthy dose of reality. Yes, there´s a romance to living halfway up a mountain, making a living with your hands and working with the land and whatnot, but it´s a tough life. There´s not a lot of money in organic farming, and living without the modern comforts of electricity and such makes life a little more rustic and grubby.

I myself am already developing the hardened, weathered hands of a labourer, and live in a state of perpetual grit. My work pants are dusty and grass-stained, with the occasional olive oil stain no less, and my hair is taking some rather unusual twists. However, I rarely look in a mirror, so I suppose it doesn´t really matter all that much.

The weather is wild. Chilly in the mornings and at night, but by midday, the sun is so hot that I´m overheating in a t-shirt. This area of Spain is always sunny and dry - 314 days of sun a year, the farmer tells me. And the sky at sunset and sunrise is always pink and bright and lovely, the sun leaves a halo over the mountain tops as it sets. Oh, of course, stars too. Lots of stars, very bright and all.

I absolve you of your sins, Barcelona

Okay, after my metro pickpocketing incident, I was determined to hate Barcelona.

But I just couldn´t. How could anyone hate such a city, with kooky modernist buildings by Antoni Gaudi (and why don´t we hear more about him back in Canada? Or perhaps my previous ignorance is not a common one...), the ocean, the mountains, the delicious coffee and pastries, the uber-cheap produce at corner stores, and I mean, the paella! So even though I set out yesterday ready to be grouchy and maudlin about the lack of wallet and id (other than passport, which I luckily still have) I had a pretty fantastic day.

One thing I´m not sure whether I loved or hated though was the metropolis of consumerism at the port. A big mall with all kinds of bright lights and shops that was buzzing with all kinds of people even at 9 on a Sunday night...

In any case, seeing La Sagrada Familia (imagine! A church that´s been in construction for over 100 years! And there are still cranes and plaster workshops up all over the place) and the Parc Guell sort of make up for my shitty first day there. So Barcelona, you´re alright with me. Your pickpockets, however, are on notice.

And now I´m in Malaga, at the bus station waiting for a bus to the mountains. If theré´s one thing you can count on about bus stations the world over, it´s that they´re sketchy as all hell. For example, that main bus terminal in Toronto? Yikes. I try to avoid arriving there late at night. And in Prague, on the way to catch my bus to Barcelona, I saw what I thought were market stalls in the square of the station. Given my penchant for markets, I got a little excited, and made my excitement known to my guide and amazing Prague hostess, who was quick to inform me that it wasn´t exactly a market, but dudes selling tacky oversized towels with nude or otherwise scantily clad women on them... And now the bus station at Malaga, where in the washroom, a woman with fried blonde hair was leaning into the mirror, grunting and picking at a rather unappealing sore on her face. Geez. Really glad I´m here in the daytime hours. I went across the street to have a coffee and a sandwich at a little cafe, where the man behind the counter worked with surprising alacrity. So quick on his feet, that one. Coffee here, orange juice there, sandwich here, fried pastry thingamabob there, then line the counter with more saucers, each with its own spoon and sugar packet. And still, I am astounded by prices. 2 euros for a caffe con leche and a churizo sausage sandwich, which was not at all skimpy on the meat. It´s no Prague, of course, where beer at a bar cost the equivalent of $1 and change Canadian, and was markedly cheaper at the supermarket (and we´re talking about 500 ml bottles here), but it´ll do.

Oh, and to sum up, I feel that Prague has received rather skimpy treatment in these parts. I really enjoyed my time there, and although I was playing tourist some of the time, I was also living the life of a Praguer (I really think this is what they´re called, as hideous as it sounds) -- taking in my boots to be repaired, interviewing people and visiting a boarding school for a freelance piece for the local English weekly, buying groceries, etc. But just walking around on those cobblestone streets was pretty great, and Zizkov, an area of the city that one guidebook cited for its ¨grungy panache¨ was a pretty cool neck of the woods, with more of that gorgeous Prague architecture and pastel coloured streets that always reminded me of misty mints. Oh, and all remnants of communism I find fascinating. The tv tower in Zizkov, which Czech artist David Cerny has covered with bronze crawling babies, and all sorts of utilitarian looking clocks that stand on street corners the city over, imposing the time upon all comrades who pass. One other thing that was kind of neat, which I wouldn´t have noticed if it hadn´t been for the knowledge of my hosts, is the way that certain stores with very specific functions still exist. There are papirnictvis, or paper shops, all over the place, and there´s even a store in Mala Strana that exclusively sells rope. Imagine that. Of course, the art nouveau fonts proclaiming the presence of tabak and fancy establishment alike as well as all the old buildings that make up the rather large part of Prague that is a Unesco heritage site go without me having to point out.

Oh, before I forget: one final note about Spain thus far. Kevin Spacey´s face is on billboards that line highways and city streets, both in Barcelona and Malaga and elsewhere I´m sure. He´s the poster boy for Dewar´s white label whisky (I´m pretty sure I mean to exclude the ´e´in that spelling, but if not, please forgive my error). I had no idea his career was doing so poorly. From his pose in the photo I can´t help but be reminded of Bill Murray´s character in Lost in Translation. A washed up has been making cringeworthy booze ads abroad.

"Welcome to Spain"

This is what the woman at Western Union on Las Ramblas says to me after I finish acquiring my second round of wired funds. And why, you might ask, would I need any funds at all? \because, after being in Barcelona for an hour, if that, my wallet went missing or was stolen. Luckily, I still had my passport, otherwise I can't even imagine what I would have done. I went to the police station and everything, and now have my very own copy of a police report in which I am a victim. I guess there's a first time for everything.

In any case, while I was waiting around for the money situation to work out, although I was largely tring to conserve energy, I did a little investigating. \in the courtyard of an old hospital for crazy people (this is my poor quality direct translation from spanish) there were a whole cluster of orange trees, with oranges on them! I tried eating one, but it was incredibly sour, although unbelievably juicy. I also spent some time down by the ocean, which is always a nice thing to do on sunny days.

Getting to Barcelona, on a 24 hour long haul bus from Prague, was surprisingly great. The ride from Prague to Nurnberg was gorgeous, and at the German stop I acquired a new seat mate who turned out to be an incredibly sweet Bulgarian woman. We got on very well, despite not being able to communicate in words, really. She even offered me a sausage at one point.

Empire and a seamy underbelly

In Vienna for one night and one day, I saw two very different sides of the city. First, the red light district, a place where the streets are lined with sex clubs, some of which have rather haggard looking women, scantily clad of course, curled up in their windows and making eye contact with passersby, while elsewhere, prostitutes stand roadside, wearing thigh high boots of shiny vinyl.

The following day, with a sun and temperature that were more appropriate for Toronto in May than Vienna in January, the city just glowed with a an elegant old world majesty. The buildings that line the ring street are awe-some and very imposing -- their very presence seems to sing, in operatic baritone, that this was once the seat of a very powerful empire. You can, however, sit on the steps and benches in front of these buildings, including parliament, where we enjoyed rather large and extremely messy cheese filled sausages.

Today is the last day in Prague, and Spain comes next.

Ich bin ein Berliner

I spent the last weekend in Berlin, and now I want to go back. Again and again. Really, it's a city with everything going for it -- kickass nightlife; excellent Sunday brunch buffets; different walk and don't walk characters, depending on whether you're in the east or west; and a bicycling community that waits for no pedestrian. Our hostel was in Prenzlauer Berg, this really hip part of east Berlin. Every street was lined with cute cafes and shops, and of course restaurants and bars for the evening hours.

The city in its entirety is massive, and we really didn't see very much of it at all. But the parts of it we did see were pretty damn cool. You can take an elevator to the top of the Reichstag (for free, no less!) and walk around a glass dome for a 360 degree view of the city. You can also look down into the Reichstag itself, and see the blue chairs in which the members of the German Bundestag sit and make laws.

St'astny novy rok!

It is now 2007, and I rang in the new year wandering the streets of Prague with some expat journalists from the Prague Post. We went to the outlook of Petrin hill (I think) to watch the gloriously anarchic display of fireworks. From midnight on, people all over the city were setting off fireworks, unorganized and unsanctioned by the city. They lit up the skyline at random, and it really was a very cool thing to see. The fireworks were followed by a long stroll through the city and a bit of an accidental dip in the Vltava river.

Earlier in the weekend, my friend and I went to the main train station, the functioning parts of which are partly underground and were built during communism. Upstairs, the original train station (much more of an architectural gem than its utilitarian replacement) sits in delapidated, poorly-lit grunge. A really vast second hand store caters to the homeless population -- all items sell for either 30 or 60 Kc (That's either $1.50 or $3 in Canadian terms.) Very cool, but kind of a sad use of what was once obviously a grand space. Also, the tall french doors that lead to the old station are no longer in use. The communists built a huge highway type thing across the city that blocked off street access of the old train station, necessitating the subterranean grey structure that replaced it.

But really, Prague is very very beautiful. And very well behaved dogs walk off leash and hang out in bars and restaurants.

Na shledanou (that means goodbye).