Smaller text Larger text

Destination: Uncategorized

Posted on

The Camino in Spain: Trod, Trek, or Trudge

I’m out on a dusty trail in Spain where pilgrims have trod for a thousand years.

We’re filming, and we debate words like that. Do pilgrims “trod,” “trek,” or “trudge”? They don’t trudge — that rhymes with “grudge.” Trod sounds a bit dreary; trek sounds a bit light. We end up saying “walk.” The trail — the Camino de Santiago a.k.a. the Way of St. James — is really full because this is a Holy Year, and the feast day of St. James is approaching. Pilgrims are timing their journey to arrive on that day in Santiago, where the remains of the saint are supposedly buried.

Witnessing this timeless quest and its elevated thinking is inspirational…and in striking contrast to where I was just one day earlier — Pamplona — for the crazy running of the bulls. (In Pamplona, a drunk guy in a bar explained to me that each of the six bulls that run in the morning meets its matador that evening in the bullring. Then, as if sharing a priceless tip with me, he said, “But a bull can escape that fate by simply breaking his horn on one of the barriers during the stampede.”)

Meanwhile, on the Camino, pilgrims come in all types. Prepackaged groups, which I think of as “pilgrim teabags,” have clean, matching T-shirts. Each hiker is issued a mass-produced walking stick with a decorative gourd tied to the top; each stick also has a dangling scallop shell with a brightly painted cross of St. James.

Other pilgrims are humble church groups from distant Catholic lands. We encounter an otherworldly group from Lithuania with its raspy, amplified chant-leader shuffling along. The group members are carrying an old boom box, a nearly life-size cross, and various statuettes. Eager to film them, we drive ahead and wait — as if preparing an ambush. Our cameraman scampers to get just the right vantage point while I sit in the car. Then, a few minutes later, with their intentionally monotonous chant, they walk by my open window — just inches from my eyes. I wish my eyes were a camera. While we get a great wide shot, that close-up pilgrim-pass-by is one of the most vivid images we’ve ever missed while shooting.

We stake out a position in a medieval village. This is the standard, ghostly quiet village pilgrims pass all along the route. Its only shop is a vending machine cut into a stone wall. An ancient woman scrubs her laundry at a creek-side place where women have done this for centuries. A shepherd scoots his gangly flock over a tiny bridge.

In this peaceful corner, our mission is to interview pilgrims about their experiences. We meet a New Yorker who has just hiked for days across the vast Spanish plain and learned nothing about life or himself. He is, in his words, “a little pissed off with it all.” And we come upon a bouncy flower child from Berlin — a 20-year-old girl hiking alone, singing to herself, and radiant with the value of this personal journey. She speaks to us as if she were a real saint come to earth. Talking with her, I feel like I have just entered a Botticelli painting.

An Englishman we meet is doing the trail in three successive years because he can’t get enough time away from his 9-to-5 job to do it in one 30-day stretch. While he walks, he has been reflecting on simplicity. Everyone we meet (except for the one pissed-off guy) is having a richly rewarding time. I keep thinking how a standard RV vacation — with its Swiss-Army-knife of comforts — couldn’t be more different than this chance to be away from the modern world with all that it entails.

Of course, I’m in the fast lane of normal, workaday life and just observing. (And my mind is in a completely different space compared to the pilgrims. Last night, as I was crowded by my hotel’s shower curtain, it occurred to me that no hotel in Europe has invested in the wonderful bent curtain rods that arc out — giving big Americans in need of elbow room a more spacious place to shower.) Each time I talk to someone on the Camino de Santiago, I’m inspired to find a way to set aside the month it takes to walk from France to Santiago. Someday I will.

In Santiago, we greet pilgrims as they enter the last stretch. A bagpiper stands tall under an arch, reminding us this is a Celtic corner of Spain. Playing the theme to Star Wars adds an incongruity to the ambience — reminding me of the challenges a pilgrim encounters as he or she struggles, often in vain, to leave the modern mindset.

But then, on the square in front of the cathedral of Santiago, I witness joy and jubilation sweep over those who finish this journey — as I do each time I’m here. Whether religious or personal, the commitment required to do this trip is great…and the rewards are even greater.

Posted on

Visit Blackpool and Las Vegas to Put the P in "Pristine"

Enlarge photo

To commemorate the Smithsonian Presents Travels with Rick Steves magazine — now on sale online, and at newsstands nationwide — Rick is blogging about the 20 top destinations featured in that issue. One of those destinations is Blackpool, England.

I was in Las Vegas recently. While immersed in the fun with people from all walks of life, I couldn’t stop thinking about England’s Blackpool. Both resorts provide their country a place where a strata of society can get down to the basic mission of life — mating — and then offer an affordable escape for that same gang to enjoy an invigorating break from a life of meaningless work.

Kitsch, gaudy hotels, leggy temptations, and lots of lights. Blackpool extends its season into the winter with its Illuminations festival. Vegas is bright as day all night. Strolling each resort, you mingle with people in love, families awestruck at dancing water shows, and gangs of friends letting loose. You also see lost souls, the consequences of a lifetime of bad diet, people who can’t afford limos in limos, and lots of booze. Gambling offers even perennial losers a chance to win. Blackpool, like Vegas, tried to become a family destination. But apparently adult distractions are more profitable. So, Vegas sidewalks are littered with playing-card-sized call-girl ads.

Las Vegas and Blackpool each have their own Eiffel Tower (where you can “see Paris” without really leaving home) and a busy schedule of dazzling shows that keep big stars big long after their general sales potential has ebbed. Blackpool employs the British equivalents of Cher, Barry Manilow, and Donnie and Marie — who are all still in their prime on The Strip. (I was marveling at giant billboards of Marie Osmond — several stories tall. Her big smile was everywhere. Then I noticed rice or something clogging the little triangles between her whitened teeth.)

In Vegas, people seriously compare the buffets. (For $24.95, you can eat as much as you want for 24 hours. The shrimp is great at the Mirage.) And in Blackpool, people talk about fish-and-chips as if it’s high cuisine. “Hen parties” roam, the bride wearing her veil and slowly sucking her way through a crude lollipop. Both Blackpool and Vegas make your next stop either more dreary…or more pristine.

Posted on

Mama’s Boys in Venice

Enlarge photo

To commemorate the Smithsonian Presents Travels with Rick Steves magazine — now on sale online, and at newsstands nationwide — Rick is blogging about the 20 top destinations featured in that issue. One of those destinations is Venice.

The challenge when visiting Venice is to see a community beyond the “adult Disneyland” quality of the experience for most tourists. If you know where to look, it’s not hard. Whether in the practical issues of actually living here, or in the unique characteristics of the people who make up the Venetian community, the city is more than postcard views and old buildings.

The cheapest place to moor your boat in Venice is a place without easy access. Boat owners climb along walls above canals like Italian cat-men to get to their private boats — the vessels that give them a parallel world apart from the tourist bustle.

If you’re excited about witnessing a high tide in Venice, be warned — the high waters bring out the elevated walkways and some fun memories…but they also force the city’s huge rats out of their secluded dens and into the open.

Handy signs on building corners let anyone who simply looks up know where they’re going, anywhere in town. But keep in mind that locals aren’t above using these signs to direct traffic to the seemingly logical route, while those in the know can get around quicker by unsigned, less congested alternate routes.

While Italian men in general can be mammoni (mamma’s boys), reluctant to leave the nest — to cut the cordone ombelicale (umbilical cord of a mama to cook and wash for them) — Venetians take this trait to unrivaled heights. Many men stay at home until their thirties. They leave only when they marry and are able to have another woman steer them through life.

I was talking with my Venetian friends, Antonella and Piero, over a glass of wine. The topic of conversation: macho and mammoni in Venice. I was impressed by the strong feelings Antonella had about the matter.

“What is macho?” she says. “There are no macho men in Venice. They are mama’s boys. We call this mammoni.”

Piero, as if he’s heard the complaint a thousand times, cries, “Ahhh, mammoni.” Pulling an imaginary cord from his belly and petting it rather than cutting it, he says, “It is true. I cannot cut the cordone ombelicale. I love my mama. And she loves me even more.”

Antonella says, “The Italian boys, 95 percent stay at home until they find a wife to be their new mother. Thirty, thirty-five years old, they are still with their mothers. Even if they move out, they come home for the cooking and laundry. This is not macho…this is ridiculous. ”

“Aaan-duh,” she continues, lighting a cigarette, “they want a wife exactly like their mother. If they find a woman like me, independent, with some money, perhaps beautiful, this is a problem.”

Piero nods like a scolded puppy. “Yes, this is true.”

Antonella says, “If I make my hair special and wear strong makeup, they will take me to dinner and take me to bed. But they will not look at me to make a family. They want to be sure their wife won’t leave them. A woman like me…it is too risky.”

Posted on

Wasting Away on the Algarve

Enlarge photo

To commemorate the Smithsonian Presents Travels with Rick Steves magazine — now on sale online, and at newsstands nationwide — Rick is blogging about the 20 top destinations featured in that issue. One of those destinations is Salema, on Portugal’s Algarve Coast.

I can close my eyes and feel the salty ambience of Salema: The tall, fresh-squeezed orange juice of the loss-leader breakfasts where I put my feet up on the rusty railing, gaze out at the sea, and wonder what I’ll do today.

Actually, since I’m usually in Salema updating my guidebook, my options are all work-related: find a desolate beach farther north, on the windy side of Cape Sagres; venture up into the modern part of town to see how soft prices are for the modern hotel scene; drop by expat Brits in the next town, where those on humble retirement accounts live like kings with everything you could want in Portugal except a sea view.

I do fantasize about just being here on vacation. Nursing a drink in a still-wet bathing suit. Going out with Sebastian to haul in the octopus pots. Hiking to the beach where you expose skin that’s never seen the sun. Getting to the point where you can competently discuss the quality of the fish soup in each beachfront restaurant.

I was going to say there are just a few places in Europe where I could savor a true vacation. But then, when I think about it, there are many. But for a beach break — simply wasting away in a European Margaritaville — it’s fair to call Salema, on Portugal’s Algarve, my favorite.

Posted on

Feeling the Breath of the Bull on Your Pants

Like a cowboy at a rodeo, I sit atop my spot on the fence. A loudspeaker says — first in Spanish, then in English — “Do not touch the wounded. That’s the responsibility of health personnel.” A line of green-florescent-vested police sweep down the street, clearing away drunks and anyone not fit to run. Then the cleaning crew and their street-scrubbing truck make one last pass, gathering any garbage and clearing broken glass. The street — just an hour ago filled with throngs of all-night revelers — is now pristine, sanitized for a televised spectacle.

Sitting on the top timber of the inner of two fences (in the prime area reserved for press), I wait for the 8:00 rocket. I’m thinking this is early… but for the mob scene craning their necks for the view behind me, it’s late. They’ve been up all night.

Cameras are everywhere — on robotic arms with remote controls vice-gripped to windowsills, hovering overhead on cranes, and in the hands of nearly every spectator that make up the wall of bodies pressed against the thick timber fence behind me.

The street fills with runners. While you can wear anything, nearly everyone is wearing the standard white pants, white shirt, and red bandana. The scene evokes some kind of cultish clan and a ritual sacrifice. This is the Festival of San Fermí­n. Fermí­n was beheaded by the Romans 2,000 years ago, martyred for his faith. The red bandanas evoke his bloody end.

The energy surges as eight o’clock approaches. The street is so full, if everyone suddenly ran, you’d think they’d simply trip over each other and all stack up, waiting to be minced by angry bulls. The energy continues to build. There are frat-boy runners — courage stoked by booze and by the girls they’re determined to impress. And there are serious mozos — famous locally for their runs, who’ve made this scene annually for as long as people can remember. They’ve surveyed the photos and stats (printed in yesterday’s paper) of the six bulls about to be turned loose. They know the quirks of the bulls and have chosen their favorite stretch of the half-mile run. While others are hung over at best, these mozos got a good, solid night’s sleep, and are now stretching and focusing.

For serious runners, this is like surfing… you hope to catch a good wave and ride it. A good run lasts only 15 or 20 seconds. You know you’re really running with the bull when you feel the breath of the bull on your pants. Mozos, like Spanish bullfighting aficionados, respect the bull. It represents power, life, the great wild. Hemingway, who first came to the festival in 1923, understood. He wrote that he enjoyed watching two wild animals run together — one on two legs, the other on four.

Then it’s eight, and the sound of the rocket indicates that the bulls are running. The entire scramble takes about two and a half minutes. The adrenaline surges in the crowded street. Everyone wants to run — but not too early. As if standing before hundreds of red-and-white human pogo sticks, the sea of people spontaneously begins jumping up and down — trying to see the rampaging bulls to time their flight.

We’re filming the event, and have chosen to be near the end of the run — 200 meters from the arena, where, later today, these bulls will meet their matador. One advantage of a spot near the end is that the bulls should be more spread out, so we can see six go by individually rather than as a herd. But today, they stay together and make the fastest run of the nine-day festival: 2 minutes and 11 seconds.

Like a freak wave pummeling a marina, the bulls rush through. Panicky boys press against my fence. It’s a red-and-white cauldron of desperation. Big eyes, scrambling bodies, the ground quaking, someone oozing under the bottom rail. Then, suddenly, the bulls are gone, people pick themselves up, and it’s over. Boarded-up shops open up. The timber fences are taken down and stacked. The nine-day cycle of the festival, built around the 8:00 am Running of the Bulls, is both smooth and relentless.

As is the ritual, I drop into a bar immediately after, have breakfast, and join the gang watching the entire run on TV…all 131 seconds of it. Many mozos felt the breath of the bulls on their pants. Then, with the routine mundane demeanor of a TV weatherman, a nurse with a clipboard reviews that day’s wounded before famous mozos are interviewed about this particular run. Hours later, at about noon, I drop back into my hotel and notice the hallway is lined with “Do Not Disturb” signs hanging from door knobs. It’s Pamplona, the incredible Festival of San Fermín, and the Running of the Bulls. Here’s a photo essay of this unique event:

The Fiesta de San Fermín — better known to locals as El Encierro (“The Enclosing”), and even better known worldwide as “The Running of the Bulls” — ceremonially begins in front of Pamplona’s City Hall

Mozos — the serious bull-runners — traditionally wear white with strips of red tied around their necks and waists. While these outfits honor the martyrdom of San Fermín, they also evoke the dress of the butchers, who supposedly began this tradition. (The bulls, who are color blind, couldn’t care less.)

The mozos line up, nervously awaiting the 8 o’clock rocket shot announcing that the bulls have been released. Then…

…they scramble to stay out in front of the thundering herd.

The bulls charge down the street, while the mozos try to run in front of them for as long as possible before diving out of the way.

The Running of the Bulls is party time in Pamplona. While only 15 runners have been killed by bulls over the last century, far more people have died from overconsumption of alcohol. (Most participants just wake up with a massive headache.)