Engine, Engine No. 9...

I am currently riding the Acela, the fastest train in the U.S., from NYC to DC. The trip will take approximately 2hrs 45mins to cover a little over two-hundred miles. Last November, during my visit to Spain, I rode several trains, one being the high-speed rail between Madrid and Barcelona. That trip interestingly enough takes roughly the same amount of time as the NYC-D.C. Amtrak trip. However, the distance between Madrid and Barcelona is a bit over three-hundred miles. What gives?

Well of course there are myriad reasons why the U.S. lags behind not just Europe but Asia also. Our love of car culture and collective aversion to robust public funding for things that promote the general welfare (education, transportation, health care...) being chief among them.

Still, it's incredibly embarrassing to note how different train travel is in other industrialized nations. Slate recently had an article detailing how difficult it can be to navigate one's way through Penn Station. Although I've been through Penn countless times, it's rarely to use the railway. I was annoyed at how vague and insufficient the directions were throughout the station. And when you finally get where you're going there's no indication of it. Nothing that loudly broadcasts, "You're at Amtrak!"

How is it that I was able to find my way (easily) through every train station in Spain and Portugal despite speaking absolutely none of either native language? Why is it that for Amtrak the arrival and departure tracks aren't posted until 10-15 minutes before they happen? Why does Penn Station make you feel as if you're wandering around the rebel base on Hoth from Empire? It's all dingy corridors with pipes running every which way. It's not as if we don't have elegant transportation hubs (Grand Central, natch). Why do we just accept such a half-assed barely utilitarian structure? I guess for the same reason we accept higher MTA fares for ever-deteriorating service. Mein gott!

Well at least the Acela comes with free internet (that doesn't allow video or audio streaming; hey look I'm in 1994! The AOL Experience is back! 'You've got mail!'). Ugh...

Day Three: Hill Street Blues

I arrived in Portugal early Saturday morning. I'm not even sure why I wanted to come here. I know absolutely nothing about the place save for that its inhabitants were supposedly decent sailors (Vasco Da Gama was Clyde Drexler to Columbus's Jordan). The station, Santa Apolonia, was nowhere near as nice as the one in Madrid or even Sevilla. It was pretty bare bones, but still architecturally nice if simple. I was hoping to find a locker where I could put my duffel before leaving out to explore the city. Alas, there were none and I was left to schlep around with the 50lb beast digging into my shoulder. Did I mention there were hills? Lots and lots of hills. All roads that didn’t lead around the coast led up. Up, up and further up. Take the above picture and imagine navigating that for a few hours. That was my introduction to Lisboa.

I mentioned before that there was a bit of a hitch in my flawless planning. Thanks to some quick hustling and my pal, Visa, I managed to circumvent the problem or at least postpone dealing with it. It all started with a...

Train snafu! Note to self: In the future, make sure to check the dates on your tickets before you leave. I specifically told the agent that I needed a ticket for 11/13 leaving Madrid Friday evening at 10:25. I didn’t notice but the ticket was for 11/11! I should have been more thorough, but that is the hazard of doing things last minute. I got to the train station with ten minutes to spare and ended up having to buy an entirely new ticket. The ticketing agent stamped my ticket unused and said customer service would deal with it. Considering that I bought the exact same ticket for the next day, I’m hoping when I get back to the states that I can get a refund or at the very least a voucher for future rail travel. We’ll see.

If I’d have just stuck with my original plan to buy the tickets when I got there, I’d have been just fine a.) and I would have save myself a $20 “handling” fee b.). I mean I’m not traveling in the thick of tourist season. And even if the tickets had been sold out, I would have just taken the (cheaper) flight option. Live and learn.

I’m glad I went ahead and bought the new ticket. The overnight rail experience feels decidedly old school. These days most people wouldn’t bother with a 9-10 hour trip that could be done in a quarter of the time. Not too mention the fact that it's ironically more expensive than flying. Yet there are people who still do it. I can't imagine they're all aerophobic or medically restricted. I'd like to think they're just romantics too.

There is something soothing about listening to a locomotive. I love the hypnotic rumble of the churning wheels. It's not like the dull roar of a jet engine which you just want to drown out. I didn't even bother with my headphones. The accommodations were modest even though it was first-class. Two fold-out bunk beds with a ladder that folded into the wall. Felt like being in a mobile flop house, albeit a well-kempt one. The bed had a thin beige wool blanket like something they might give you in the army...or jail. The mattress was slightly smaller than twin-sized. It barely fit my 6-ft frame. My feet kept coming to rest on the end of the metal frame. Still it was relatively comfortable. Much more so than trying to get a good night’s rest in an actual seat. I was happy that the conductor spoke pretty good English. He kept me posted on everything.


I was excited to experience my first meal in a dining car. It wasn't exactly the Orient Express, but that's alright. Breakfast was a serving of bacon and eggs with assorted breads. I even had a cup of coffee. I never drink coffee. I guess I was feeling European that morning.

So I guess what I'm saying is that if you get a chance, take the train. It's just better. Except when it's Amtrak. Can we get high-speed rail already? Sheesh...

Back to Lisboa...


The first thing I noticed walking the streets was that the sidewalks aren't paved, but tiled. It gives all the streets a unique look and feel. It's as if doing whatever was most efficient wasn't even a consideration. I suppose it's also about heritage and cultural identity. Still, they must be a pain to maintain, but it would be heresy for any urban planner to think about modernizing. As it stands the streets are far more beautiful than any I've ever encountered back home.

Once I stumbled my way into the main square, things got much better. I found Rossio by happenstance after wandering aimlessly through the narrow streets of what I came to learn was the Alfama district. I kept stopping at various cafes to see if they had an internet connection since I had yet to book accommodations for my stay. Finally, I just went to an actual hotel, one that was mentioned in my guidebook as a reasonably-priced option. It's the Heritage Av Liberdade. They were booked for the night, but had an opening for the next which I promptly took. I ended up finding a cheaper if less charming place almost directly across the street from it. So that worked out.


I didn't realize the population of Lisbon was so small; there's only 550,000 people who call the place home. I keep seeing a lot of old ladies in stockings and black walking shoes with scarves around their heads. There are a lot of older men too who look as if they've spent their whole lives working the docks. This should not be surprising as it is the consummate port town.


After settling into my hotel, I took to the streets again in search of an authentic Portuguese meal. I ran into two English girls who allowed me to tag along with them to the Bairro Alto district which had some good restaurants. I ended up at a quaint little seafood place that had a multi-language menu which was nice. I ordered one of the local favorites: salted codfish and potatoes. I also had an octopus salad with tentacle-pieces as wide around as a dill pickle. I think before that I'd only had baby octopus. Not a bad seafood option I have to say. The cod was a bit oilier than what I was used to. Gave it a heartier taste. I'm sure the Portuguese have no problem getting their Omega-3s.

There was a big soccer match going on as well. Portugal was facing Bosnia Herzegovina in a World Cup Qualifier. (This explained all the dudes I saw walking around earlier wearing "Bosnia Forever" t-shirts.) Apparently there was some drama because Cristiano Ronaldo was not playing due to a minor injury. I guess it would be the equivalent of Lebron or Kobe sitting out of a regular season game deciding if your team goes to the playoffs. I watched it up to the point where Portugal scored and it cut away to an apathetic Ronaldo fiddling with his cellphone. I imagine he was busy ensuring that the correct number of supermodels would be waiting aboard his private jet for his trip back to Madrid.


Portugal ended up winning the match, but the after party was a wash, literally, as the rain started coming down much heavier. I had wanted to check out the nightlife, but it would have been dicey to try and negotiate my way around a bunch of slippery tiled inclined streets. I ended up at a cafe near my hotel where a local band was doing a few covers. I caught a nice version of Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely." And then I called it a night.

Day Two: I heard I could find a pretty good barber around here?

After a minor (almost big) ordeal, I am in Lisbon. It has taken me three hours to find a place with internet access. This is an old city. As far as I can tell (and this isn't a bad thing), there isn't a Starbucks in the whole town. Plus, I've only seen one, ONE McDonalds! For some reason, I find this extraordinary. Trying to find an internet-capable cafe here has been like trying to find
a virgin in a brothel water in the Sahara. Anyways, I'll get back to Portugal later. For now, Sevilla...

The robustness of public transportation in Europe has not been exaggerated. I was able to take a train from Madrid to Sevilla (distance approximately 330mi) round-trip for less than it would cost to take the Acela from NYC to D.C.(225mi) and in less time. That's a damned shame, America.

You can even take a train to Missouri. Your move, Amtrak.

The ticket agent looked at me as if I was crazy when I told her I wanted to come back the same day. She was like, "You know this cost $120 euros, right?" I nodded and said it was just a day-trip. She didn't recognize the word. I futzed around with my phrasebook for a moment before I decided to drop it. We both smiled politely and went about our business.

The train ride was quite pleasant. There was even a movie, Flash of Genius with Greg Kinnear. I didn’t listen but how many scenes can one take of Greg Kinnear looking forlornly at cars passing by using his "intermittent windshield wipers"-idea the Big Three purloined from him? The answer: one. The plot makes for a great wikipedia entry, but a feature length film? Not so much. But I digress.

I arrived in Sevilla after a smooth two-and-a half hour train ride. I spent an hour wandering around what I assumed to be the city's residential area. I hadn’t bothered doing much recon. That would have been antithetical to the spirit of "winging it". Plus if I found myself pressed for time, I could always ask somebody.

Random apartment complex in residential Sevilla

Sevilla has a calm, rustic air about it. It wears its city clothes very loosely. It's passably modern with mostly mid- to low-rise buildings. It reminds me of suburban Michigan: farmland gussied up with strip malls and hotels. I get the occasional protracted stare which is somewhat odd considering they do have an African population (of what size I’m not sure). Much like their New York brethren they seem to be mainly street merchants, hustling the latest in designer knock-off watches, garments and DVDs.

Hustling is universal

Walking around I saw a lot of backpacks and teenagers; school had just let out. The kids are as fashionable as their New York counterparts. But so are the women and men. You don’t see too many sloppily dressed people in general. Also the people look mostly healthy. Not a lot of obesity but not entirely absent either.

The dedication to public transportation including the accommodation of cyclists, is admirable. I can see NYC adopting some of these measures. We’ve already increased the amount of bike lanes back home. Now if Bloomberg can resurrect congestion pricing and the MTA can pull itself from the brink of insolvency, we might continue to see progress. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of cars on the streets here. Mostly compacts, with a few mid-size sedans peppered throughout. What I don’t see are SUVs. Not a one. Not even so much as a Range Rover.

Self-service bike rental stations are all over the place.

After wandering a bit I came across a bridge/overpass at the apex of which I could see what looked like a minaret. I kept walking and eventually came to the tourist section of Sevilla. A mix of cobblestone streets and narrow alleyways spread out before me. Negotiating the windy passageways was fascinating, because people actually lived there. There were all kinds tell-tale signs like laundry hanging from clotheslines, open windows and what I assumed were "For Rent"-signs. The neighborhood was chocked full of restaurants and souvenir shops literally around every corner. It was a perfectly balmy day; high sixties, low seventies maybe. Turns out I came at the best time of year.

I eventually stumbled upon Catedral de Santa María de la Sede. The level of detail is impressive to say the least. Unfortunately, I couldn't go inside due to renovations being done. On a side note, I allowed myself to get hustled out of a few euros by some gypsies selling palm readings. I didn't feel too bad, because I had spent so little on my trip so far. Plus, she had really poor dental health, so maybe my handful of euros will help correct that.

The other buildings were as impressive as I head been lead to believe. A seamless mix of Islamic, Christian and Spanish architecture. However, and this seems to happen often with me, I wasn’t blown away. I blame this squarely on the continued improvements in photography and the ubiquity of great photography on the internet.

Even if I haven’t sought them out, I have seen these pictures or images quite similar literally thousands of times.

Imagine traveling in the late 1700’s or early nineteenth century. All you had was word of mouth. Descriptions were all orally communicated. Obviously I wouldn’t want to be traveling in the nineteenth century (my people did quite a bit of it back then; all one-way), but I envy the sense of discovery travelers must have felt. All that’s gone now.

It seems as if almost everything on Earth, even at the depths of the ocean, has been photographed a million times and those images disseminated and viewed exponentially. This has been a blessing for the millions of people who are unable or unwilling to seek out these places in person, but it has been a curse for those with any sense of adventure (perhaps this overstates the case--it’s been a curse for me, inveterate internet surfer that I am).

My emotional response to seeing the "exotic" borders on anhedonic. I feel like if I were able to travel in space and see like Jupiter up close, I'd say, "Yeah, that's Jupiter. Just like those Hubbell pics. Yup...can we go home now?" Oh don't be such a jaded bastard, you prick--I have to remind myself.

So I don’t fancy being a photo-documenting turista so much. If I had my druthers, I'd delve into a bit of urban anthropology. I would rather sit at a café and engage the locals about politics and world events, but my inability to speak the language pretty much seals off that avenue. I want to take Spanish when I return to the states. I want to at least be able to use more than the handful of Spanish words I learned in my formative years watching Sesame Street (Big Bird taught me how to ask for water in espanol: “Agua, por favor”). End digression...

Looking at some of the other places in Andalucia, I realize I could spend an entire season here and see something new each day. I’d love to visit Granada, Malaga, Cordoba and Cadiz, not to mention Bilbao or Pamplona up north. And everything's so easy to get to...

"Lo siento, no puedo levantaria...'

As I walk around Madrid, I find myself wanting to apologize to everyone for not speaking Espanol. Two years of Latin and two years of Japanese, but not even one semester of our sister language. Looking at signs and billboards reminds me how weird it must feel to be illiterate. It’s not like going to Chinatown where the utter foreignness of the alphabet just makes it sort of recede into the overall background. No, when I look at signs written in foreign Romance languages, I feel kind of…stupid. It’s like, “Man, I feel like I should know what that means.”

I’ve gone into a couple of stores and after making stilted one-word, caveman-like grunts in what I think approximates Spanish, the people quickly switch to English, no matter how broken or minimal. They really try to accommodate my inherent arrogant-American ignorance. Gracias mi amigos.

A few observations about the place: just like Toronto, I could eat off the subway tracks here if pressed (WTH is wrong with New Yorkers that our subways look like they’re connected to the garbage disposals of the apartments above ground?); going to the fx kiosk is demoralizing--I changed a few hundred bucks and I swear that netted me like twenty euros and a handful of peppermints (although this did prompt me to try public transportation from the airport which turned out to be a great idea--two euros and no hassling with a cabbie who might try to stretch a fare); this city seems like it was designed by a blind drunkard (these streets are not linear!); also what do the Spaniards have against street signs? You have to look up on the sides of the corner buildings for these tiny placards. Would it hurt to put a pole in the ground with a metal sign attached? Your streets ain’t that pretty, amigo.

Booked this for $100 US the day before. Not bad. Heart of the city, too.

After wandering the streets for a number of hours trying to find my hotel (which was fine since by the time I got there, I only had to wait fifteen minutes for my room), I rested for a few hours and now I’m off to do some more exploring. I think I’ll check out the Prado before it closes tonight. Later!

P.S. - The title of this post comes from my extremely handy and entertaining Spanish phrasebook. It really does its best to give you the appropriate words for any given situation you might find yourself. According to the book, the title translates as: "I'm sorry, I can't get it up." Pity the poor bastard who has to pull that one out. Hiyo!