Waking up with the roosters, ambling along the Seine en route to see Mona Lisa

Posted by Nora K ,
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Today was finally the day when the Kid would get to see Mona Lisa up close and personal. Had it not been for my niece pestering me to take her to see DaVinci’s mysterious smiling muse, I wonder whether or not I would have actually paid the entrance fee to the Louvre, not because I didn’t want to see for myself the timeless masterpieces housed in this massive edifice of knowledge, but because I didn’t want to tear myself away from the seductive sights, sounds and smells of the streets of Paris and confine myself in a gallery for an entire day.  Short visits to museums and exhibitions, spending two or three hours appreciating the culture and history of the creativity and artistic talent of long-gone generations were entirely do-able, leaving the remainder of the day for ambling along the Seine, parking myself in a café, and indulging in my favourite pastime of sipping vino and foraging for small and large, preferably designer (Chanel, Louis Vuitton and Carolina Herrera) leather goods.
My dream handbag

The dream store I can't afford to shop in



Strolling along the Seine

The Louvre, being the showcase and repository of the greatest art collections of the world (cliché, but undeniably true) dating from antiquity to the modern age, is a full day event, if not an entire week or month long marathon, hence my initial hesitation to step inside this famous museum, as I worried that having glimpsed these marvellous masterpieces, I would not want to leave and would have to set up camp in one of the vast wings of the Louvre, my sleeping bag discretely tucked away behind an enormous marble lion statue. My two week vacation would then clearly not suffice and I’d have to call my employer and beg for an extra month or two off work as well as plead with my financial adviser to loan me a couple of extra bucks.



Having travelled to Paris more times that I remember, I can honestly say that I’ve never gotten around to actually placing my pink-sneakered foot in the Louvre, having devoted the majority of my leisure time to languishing in cafés and searching for heavily discounted designer handbags in the multitude of vintage shops tucked away in the sea of rues and avenues. 


Paris is a city meant to be traversed by foot, as it is only by leisurely meandering along the laneways, that one discovers hidden gems, be it an aromatic patisserie sequestered amongst a maze of twisting and winding streets or inadvertently stumbling across an 18th century ornate fountain, birds splish-splashing and delightedly bathing in its refreshing trickling water.

And speaking of birds, their chirping and chattering awoke us bright and early, allowing us the luxury of starting the day way ahead of schedule.  Since we were up with the roosters and now with the tweeting birds, my niece and I were out and about by 7:00am.  Yikes!!  Unable to navigate the intricacies of the modern glass topped European stove, I promised the kid that we would instead have “melt in your mouth” buttery croissants in one of the multitude of cafés that lined rue de Rivoli.


 There is something so incredibly magical about wandering about a beloved foreign city in the wee hours of the morning, “watching” the city wake up and come to life.  Street cleaners sweeping and spritzing the pavements squeaky clean; shopkeepers folding napkins and hurriedly setting up their outdoor café chaises and tables; impeccably attired office workers scurrying along the pavement pausing to savour a quick café au lait; uniformed school kids all lined up in a row up, waiting for the bell to ring…those are some of the memories and impressions that remain dear and near to my pink-sneakered Parisian enamoured heart. `

Strolling leisurely along the Seine, savouring our delicious buttery croissants, my niece and I babbled excitedly about the magnificent artwork that we’d soon have the privilege to admire and contemplate.



Words cannot describe the magnitude of the sheer size of the Louvre, each of its three separate wings home to priceless works of art.  Map in hand, determined to find Mona Lisa, the kid and I almost missed seeing Aphrodite (also known as the Venus de Milo) as well as the Egyptian and Greek sculptures and artifacts that were on display on the ground floor of the Sully Wing.


Racing past the Richelieu Wing, we barely had time to pause and marvel over the wonders of the Rubens and Rembrandts showcased alongside paintings from the Middle Ages up to the 19th Century.  Regretfully, we completely missed viewing the sumptuous and grandiosely decorated apartments of Napoleon 111.




We realized that we were inching closer to viewing the Mona Lisa as we approached the Denon Wing, the throng of camera toting tourists growing thicker, scrambling to get a bird’s eye view of the famous smiling woman.  Edging, squeezing and gently pushing our way through the crowd, my niece and I somehow managed to find ourselves face to face with her.  Hanging alone on a beige wall, her image protected by heavy shatter-proof glass, my first impression of Mona Lisa was a mixed one.  Measuring only 30 x 21 inches, she is miniscule in comparison to what I had been expecting to view.  Perhaps her grandiose fame led me to believe that her likeness would have been painted on a much larger canvas. Not only was the painting separated from the viewing public by thick glass, there was also a circular barrier encircling the wall she was hung upon, keeping spectators quite a distance away.  Nonetheless, the kid and I were enthralled, my niece much more so than I, having finally come face to face with Mona Lisa.
















 
 Come skedaddle through the Louvre with us and appreciate the magnificence and creativity of past and current generations…come travel with us…

Next week – Losing the kid in Versailles

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Rue de Rivoli, le Carrousel du Louvre and waiting for Mona Lisa

Posted by Nora K ,
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Traipsing along pedestrian-friendly rue de Rivoli, en route to the Louvre, the shopaholic in me was compelled to place my pink sneakered foot into each and every tacky and touristy souvenir shop that littered the promenade near the Carrousel du Louvre.  No matter that this was my 5th or 8th sojourn to the City of Lights, the glint of the shiny mass-produced trinkets never failed to mesmerize my inner scavenger, leaving me several Euros poorer, my satchel brimming with Eiffel Tower key chains, “I Love Paris” T-shirts, Paris-logoed caps, bags, pens and postcards.  So what if I wouldn’t be caught dead sporting a T-shirt or baseball cap and if all of my friends, family and colleagues had already received an abundance of these exact same souvenirs from my previous Parisian excursions?

Rue de Rivoli runs parallel to the Louvre, roughly an hour’s walk from Notre Dame Cathedral, depending upon how quickly or slowly one meanders along the promenade and stops to linger in the cafes, ice-cream parlours and designer shops along the way.  Pawning everything from high-end fashion to low-end reproductions of the Mona Lisa, this lively and bustling passageway is a must-see tourist attraction all on its own.


My 12 year old niece was growing increasingly impatient with my acquisitive shopping habits, annoyed (as only a pre-teenager can be) that I might end up squandering the remainder of the day sequestered in the shops, leaving minimal time in which to amble along the corridors of the Louvre.  It was already approaching mid afternoon and the kid was anxious to finally come face to face with the Mona Lisa.

My niece was a voracious reader, eagerly devouring biographies of long-dead royals, Marie-Antoinette being her current favourite.  A couple of months shy of her 13th birthday, her reading material of choice was the same as mine, historical non-fiction.  Disneyland Paris would have to wait.



I’m embarrassed to admit, but neither of my pink sneakers had traversed the hallways of this magnificent former 12th century medieval fortress.  I had been too busy scurrying outside the grounds of the Louvre, snapping digital memories, having devoted the majority of my leisure time to languishing in cafes, sipping vino, fully immersing myself in Parisian cafe society.  Oh… and rummaging for knickknacks and one of a kind treasures.

Avoiding the long line-ups to gain access to the Louvre, we instead chose to use the lesser known “Carrousel du Louvre” entrance, where a multitude of shops lay hidden below in the ground level of one of the winged sections of this world-famous museum.  In addition to harbouring somewhat pricey shops, a food court, water closets and payphones, the bottom portion of the inverted glass pyramid is also located in this mammoth edifice.  It also boasts an impressive exhibition hall, which is home to the annual “Paris Photo” exhibit.  One could easily be content to wander around the “Carrousel du Louvre”, pose in front of the inverted pyramid, take in the exhibition of the day and shop till you drop. And, we hadn’t even reached any of the four main wings, all of which house well over 35,000 priceless masterpieces!

 The entrance cost to both the permanent and temporary museum collections was 15 Euros for adults, and since I had squandered away most of the day scrounging for trinkets, leaving barely any time in which to absorb and appreciate the history and architecture of this colossal gallery, I succeeded in convincing the kid that we would return the following day.


 Admission is free to those under 18 years of age and also on the first Sunday of each month.   Since we were here mid-month, we would not be able to take advantage of that awesome deal, unless of course, we extended our sojourn an extra couple of weeks!   Hmmm.  That might not go over so well at my place of employment or my dwindling bank account!  And the chances of trying to pass myself off as a pink-sneakered 18 year old are pretty much slim to none.  

Meandering along the pricey shops of the Carrousel, I spotted a watch with the likeness of Mona Lisa imprinted on the background.  All for what seemed to be the fairly reasonable price of 17 Euros. Reaching into my limited edition bronze Carolina Herrera satchel, I came close to plunking down my Euros but my “wise beyond her years” responsible niece informed me that “Auntie Nora doesn’t need it”. Smart kid, as I happened to stumble across the exact same watch for the bargain basement price of 7 Euros, while later browsing in the tacky souvenir shops that lined rue de Rivoli.

Having now saved 10 Euros, I thought it only fitting to treat the kid to some well-deserved crème glace, promising her that “demain” (tomorrow) we would devote a full 12 hours to discovering the “magnifique” wonders that are housed in this colossal warehouse of knowledge.

Yikes!!  My pink-sneakered feet had better get a good night’s rest, as tomorrow they will be sprinting around the corridors of the Louvre, awed by the talent and creativity of the artistic visionaries whose masterpieces continue to inspire generation after generation.

Come rummage for “one of a kind” mass produced shiny trinkets on rue Rivoli…come appreciate artistic genius and the Louvre with us…

Note - I'm having technical difficulties uploading the remainder of my photos to this blog post and was only successful in uploading one picture. Since I always post new blogs on Wednesdays, I wanted to be consistent with my weekly posting. I'm going to have to contact the Kid for technical advice on how to solve my photo uploading issue. In the meantime, stay tuned, I hope to have the Louvre pictures added to this post soon.

 Update - I've successfully uploaded my pictures to this blog. After a bit of research on the web, I found out that Blogger has been having some photo uploading issues and one of the recommendations was to download Goggle Chrome, which is what I just did and voila!, it worked like a charm! And all along, I thought that it was me and my lack of computer technical ability. Yikes!! I really did think that my laptop was on the fritz and needed major repairs but it turned out that it was just a glitch. This blogging thing really is teaching me a lot. In the meantime, enjoy the post and the pictures. 
Next post – The Kid and Mona Lisa

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Lost (Again!) in Le Marais

Posted by Nora K ,
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Weaving and winding its way along the narrow medieval passageways, scanning the street signs for “Rue  Michel LeComte” in the Le Marais district of Paris, our taxi cab had now been frantically driving around the block for what seemed to be several long hours. Still feeling somewhat groggy, fatigued and suffering from a little bit of a “headache”, having indulged in way too much vino on our 8 hour long claustrophobic overnight flight from Canada, I was anxious to set up camp in our rental apartment and introduce my niece to the culture, cuisine and couture of this intoxicating city.

Speaking a melange of Francais with “un peu de l’anglais” thrown in, we were eventually deposited at our Parisian digs.  Pleased that I, being the responsible adult that I was, had even been brilliant enough to arrange that the same cab collect us 10 days later for our return journey home.   Unfortunately, the irresponsible adult in me had neglected to take note of the cab driver’s name or phone number of the taxi company.  Yikes!!  Oh well....can’t worry about it now....just have to hope that the taxi shows up on the designated morning.  And that’s a whole new blog post entirely on its own!
 


Schlepping our luggage up 3 flights of 18th century wooden stairs, my sleep-deprived brain was barely able to concentrate as our rental agent toured us through the apartment, explaining the intricacies of how the stove, television and internet work.  This would have been quite useful information to have carefully absorbed when needing to prepare meals or hooking up the laptop. No wonder then that we became frequent customers at our newly favourite eatery, Pizzeria Eno, located just steps away.

With Paris being the ultimate fashion capital of the world, I first needed to freshen up, coif my disheveled locks and attire my pink-sneakered self in an ultra-chic, glamorous and sophisticated frock and attempt to pass myself off as an uber-cool French fashionista. Plugging my electric hot rollers into the two-pronged European socket, I immediately heard a popping sound and stared in disbelief as plumes of smoke emanated from the bottom of the tray.

Yikes!! This can’t be good. Yanking the electrical cord from the socket, grabbing the smoking curlers and hurling them into the kitchen sink, gratefully thanking my lucky stars that this time I did not accidentally plunge our entire apartment complex into complete darkness, as I did when our coffee maker blew up in Barcelona. (Sept 22nd post – When the Lights Went out in Barcelona). Do I sense a pattern here?

Ambling along the laneways and corridors of our bustling French quarter, darting in and out of the multitude of unique whimsical shops, my niece and I spent a delightful rest of the afternoon blissfully content under the seductive spell of Paris.



Since it’s a six hour time difference between our neck of the woods and the City of Lights, being the responsible Auntie that I am, I needed to get the kid home and get some shut-eye. Having stayed in the 3rd arrondissement on my previous Parisian excursions, I considered myself somewhat of an unofficial expert on the neighbourhood. Perhaps it was because Rue Michel LeComte is one of the narrowest medieval passageways I’ve ever placed my pink-sneakered foot in, the cobblestoned corridor tucked away and sequestered from the larger bustling avenues, our leisurely ten minute walk home turned into a three hour frantic quest. Yikes!!  We were hopelessly lost amongst a labyrinth of twisting and winding laneways.

Rue du Temple, Rambuteau, Beaubourg and Blvd Sebastopol were no longer the familiar arteries that I had once confidently strode on, but a maze and jumble of routes leading everywhere but home.  In hindsight, perhaps I should have taken that map with me after all.

 Re-assuring my niece that “we’ll be there in just 5 minutes”, scrutinizing my memory for any recognizable landmarks, I zealously re-traced each and every step and cringed at the thought that I might have to fess up and tell the kid that we might not make it home in time for dinner.

By now our pink-sneakered feet (yup, pink-sneakered kid) had pretty much canvassed most of the Rues and avenues of the 3rd and 4th arrondissement and had left no stone unturned in our quest for the holy grail, that of course being, Rue Michel LeComte.  A bit dramatic, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.

Turning the corner of Rue Beaubourg we unexpectedly found ourselves on familiar territory once again, my niece excitedly squealing: “Look, Auntie Nora, there’s our building, across the street!”

Note to self when globe-trotting with the kid:  take a map with you!

Thought I’d add this note about an odd, curious and coincidental find in our Parisian dwelling:

How curious, how wonderful, how coincidental, how odd? “Les chiens de Riga” was one of the few books prominently stacked on the bookcase. My niece pointed it out, as the title of the book had the word “Riga” in it. The reason that I mention this book is that we are of Latvian descent and found it coincidental that we happened to stumble across this volume in our randomly chosen rental apartment.  Riga is the capital city of the country of Latvia.  What a delightful and unexpected synchronicity!
 
 
 
 

Come promenade along the cobblestone laneways and get lost in Le Marais with us....

Next week – En route to the Louvre....waiting for Mona Lisa

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Memories of Paris - The Kid's travel adventures with Auntie Nora

Posted by Nora K ,
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A few seasons ago, I was fortunate enough to have my then 12 year old niece accompany me on one of my yearly excursions to the City of Lights.  I thought it would be a cool idea to give her the opportunity to write a “guest blog” about her memories of travelling to Paris with her slightly wacky pink-sneaker attired "Auntie Nora".   Below is an excerpt from her travel journal:


As anyone who has read this blog will already know, my Auntie Nora has somewhat of an addiction to shopping, wine and small leather goods. As a kid, this makes any travelling excursion with her quite the experience, not only because of the crazy circumstances we often find ourselves under, but also because of the many similarities we share that make our adventures so memorable. For instance, we are both slightly fascinated by anything Parisian - which would account for my auntie's many trips to Paris - and oftentimes find ourselves in whimsical little boutiques and shops on narrow and hidden streets in the most peculiar districts. We are also both captivated - I perhaps more so than her - by stories of the long-dead royals and members of the aristocracy and delight in ambling around the ancient rooms and corridors of their residences, a favourite being Versailles (where I almost got lost forever). And, as anyone who has read this blog surely already knows as well, my auntie has a slight obsession with shopping for handbags, meaning that I, as her travel buddy, have had the chance to step foot in some pretty posh designer stores (Louis Vuitton!  Coach!) and have also come accustomed to spotting great deals and good prices.

 

My auntie and I have had some pretty crazy experiences travelling together.  When I was twelve, we went to Paris. We spent the first couple days of our trip looking for hot rollers since my auntie's curlers blew up and we were out of contact with our families due to the lack of a phone card (note to self: plan these things in advance!). We travelled around the city via the bateau bus (my auntie is not a fan of the metro) and ate pizza a few too many times at our favourite Italian restaurant. I became accustomed to drinking tap water since the price of soft drinks in Europe is extremely expensive and taking pictures in front of designer stores since we couldn't afford anything inside! Throughout the trip, I kept a journal of what we had done each day - visit the Eiffel Tower, see the Mona Lisa, walk along the Champs-Elysees. I also have some pretty crazy memories like calling home from a payphone in the Louvre, actually purchasing a small little something at the Louis Vuitton store and getting lost in Versailles, but those are all stories for another day...




 
 

 I was reading through my journal that I wrote in every day in Paris and found some really funny things...Here is one thing I wrote:

"It took us multiple failed attempts, but we finally reached my house's message line.  I told my mom that we have phone problems, Auntie Nora's curlers blew up, our borrowed cellphone won't work and Auntie Nora's laptop can't be used because a) Auntie Nora doesn't know how to use it, b) we were thinking it will blow up like the curlers and c) we don't know how to get internet".

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Having to be responsible for my 12 year old niece on her first European trip was quite an eye-opening introductory lesson on “How to Act like a Mom in 12 Easy Steps”. Almost losing The Kid amongst the crowds in Versailles, desperately coaxing her to drink yummy tap water in restaurants because the price of Coca-Cola was an exorbitant 6 Euros a pop and searching for a pay phone in the Louvre, are some of the stories that I will be blogging about in the coming weeks.


Come follow Auntie Nora and The Kid on our escapades in Paris and come travel with us....

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Pink Sneaker Tips on Packing 101 – Shopping and schlepping suitcases

Posted by Nora K ,
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My overstuffed mid-size orange suitcase was clearly not going to make it home in one piece. And neither were my 6 pairs of new Spanish leather shoes, 3 pairs of the coolest European designer boots I’ve ever laid eyes upon, 2 gargantuan coffee-table books, 8 glass bottles of olive oil, 6 fragile porcelain china cups, 3 handbags and hundreds of numerous “one of a kind” unique treasures and souvenirs. Yikes!! I might need to purchase additional seating for all of my carry-on bags!

How did I manage to get myself into such a predicament? Being a seasoned traveller, you would think that I would be able to offer courses to newbie travellers on the art of packing!  At the outset of each sojourn, I deliberately pack all of my travel attire in 3 easily transportable bundles - 1 mid-size suitcase, one extra-large carry-on sac and an oversize handbag. C’est tout. I absolutely abhor having to cart luggage from one European destination to another and so I limit myself to a maximum of 3 items only.  Seems simple enough, non?  In theory, this is totally do-able. In practicality, it is nothing but a major “pink-sneaker” lapse of judgement.

Did I really think that the shopaholic in me would not succumb to the temptation of the allure of anything on sale, discounted, unique “one of a kind” coveted “piece de la resistance” limited-edition bargain?  Who are we kidding? Anything that is not available in my neck of the woods is classified as a “must-have purchase me now” hot commodity.  It’s really quite unfortunate that I often-times forget that I live on the other side of the pond and have to figure out how to neatly package up my newly acquired treasures and help them find their way across the ocean to their new digs in my crammed  superfluous armoire.

Yikes!!   And I only schlepped one mid-size suitcase with me!  Like, really? Will I ever learn?

Did I really need to purchase that authentic Spanish Paella pan? And what about that 3 foot high wrought iron replica of the Eiffel Tower?   And those illustrated coffee-table first-edition volumes depicting the entire life’s work of Antoni Gaudi and Salvatore Dali?  Did I actually purchase 3 pounds of dried basil? This might not go over that well at International customs border control.  

What if I just left my stuff on the street corner?   I seriously contemplated abandoning some of my long-sought for “treasures” in my rental apartment, as the thought of having to haul them down five flights of cramped medieval spiral stairs was just too much to bear.  Waiting for the taxi in the pouring rain, holding my umbrella over my bursting at the seams carrier bags so they wouldn’t get wet, I also considered kicking my luggage to the curb.

 Envisioning a leisurely cab ride to the airport, newly liberated from the burden of having to cart my newly acquired loot back to Canada, I foolishly realized that this scenario was neither a wise or realistic option. Perhaps I’ll have to look into the possibility of hiring a personal baggage handler to accompany me on future shopping excursions.  Now that is something worth considering and saving up for!

 Sweating, cursing, berating myself for having over-indulged once again on items I most definitely didn’t need, mercilessly kicking my baggage along the ramp, carrier bags of all shapes and sizes dangling from my arms, I somehow managed to make it onto the plane. Winded, exhausted and out of breath, deliberately ignoring the malicious glares of several passengers who were unfortunate enough to have been either hit, jabbed or poked by one of my pieces of luggage as I struggled to snake through the aisle, I was not looking forward to now being crammed like a sardine in my economy seat.

On that note, vino tinto pour moi, s’il vous plait! Make that two please!!

Come shop and schlep luggage with me...come travel with me...

Coming soon – my entertaining adventures travelling with "The Kid" (my 12 year old niece) in Paris!!

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Appreciating the Prado, Westin Palace and Zara in Madrid

Posted by Nora K ,
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The final destination of our 14 day excursion to warm and sunny Spain was Madrid, where we spent two days puddle-jumping, seeking refuge from the torrential rain and trying to shake off the damp and unpleasant cold. By now you must be so sick and tired of having to continuously read about the incessant rain in Spain, but how do you think we felt, having to endure day after day of unrelenting rainfall?   It was no wonder then, that my travel buddy (Oz) booked himself on a flight to Florida upon our return to Canada, as the lack of Mediterranean sun had sent him away shivering, desperate for the warmth of a hot and sunny locale.


Even though our journey was approaching an end and I would be back home more than 48 hours later and blissfully re-claim my woolly sweaters, shawls and parkas, I was unable to endure the cold any longer and I was forced spent the last of my Euros on a winter coat.

I’ve re-iterated this countless times, and have obviously failed miserably at following my own advice, but it is essential that you pack for all types of weather, as you never know what Mother Nature is going to throw at you.  It did seem as though She was being particularly hostile to us by holding the sun hostage and unleashing the curse of Neptune upon two sun-starved Canadian travellers.
 

So, I now had less than two days in which to tour the world-famous Prado Museum, visit the Royal Palace, hunt for treasures in the flea markets, shop along the Gran Via, all the while keeping my eyes open for the latest designer winter coat at a bargain basement price. Yikes!! My pink-sneakered feet are really going to be in for some heavy-duty pavement pounding.
 



 

 

Staying at the opulent Westin Palace hotel, located just steps away from the Prado Museum and Royal Palace, I was able to kill two birds with one stone and scurry around the outside of the museum, and hastily snap pictures of the magnificent architecture. I consoled myself with the thought that since a full day was needed in order to fully appreciate the priceless masterpieces inside, I would forgo setting foot in the museum and opt to purchase an illustrated glossary instead. An added bonus was that I now had some reading material for the plane ride home!


 Having freed up a couple of hours, I was now able to devote the remainder of the day to searching for a chic, designer European labelled winter coat. The allure of the shop vitrines with their promises of transformation, invitingly beckoned to my inner shopaholic. It’s cliché to say or admit, but my Chanel, Gucci and Carolina Herrera tastes were unattainable on a Zara budget. I had blown all of my spending money on a long for coveted limited edition Carolina Herrera satchel and had spent the remainder of my vacation frugally pinching pennies. I even contemplated earning some extra dough by impersonating the human statues that perform for a few coins on the streets of Barcelona (See October 31st post “Rambling along Las Ramblas).

Before heading out to the shops along the Gran Via, Oz and I needed to fill our tummies and have a bite to eat. Since we were staying at the Westin Palace for free, courtesy of my travel buddy’s frequent flier points, we decided to splurge on breakfast and dine in the spectacular stained glass domed dining room, La Rotonda. Hesitantly placing my pink sneakered foot into the main entrance of the resplendent dining hall, I was mesmerized by the opulence and magnificence of the brilliance of the light streaming through the intricate glass domed ceiling. Wow!! So this is where royalty feasts, entertains and idles away their leisure time! Never have I seen such an abundance of Chanel, Dior and Louis Vuitton handbags, perched aristocratically upon the sequin bedazzled arms of the impeccably clothed patrons.



Hoping against hope that management would not kick us to the curb for sporting canvas keds, jeans, and Canada logo sweatshirts and not being attired head to toe in European designer duds, we were instead graciously escorted to a table, handed a menu and asked whether or not everything was to our satisfaction. Whew!! Scanning the exorbitantly priced menu, we eventually settled upon the buffet of appetizers and desserts for the somewhat affordable price of 23 Euros each! Our waiter, Prince Charming himself, could not have been more hospitable and courteous.

Pinkie extended, delicately holding a porcelain china teacup, I was momentarily transported back in time to an era where life was simpler, proper etiquette was the norm and where horse-drawn carriages whisked velvet and gold embroidered jewel clad mademoiselles from one magnificent ball to another. Daydreaming, lost in my thoughts, my Cinderella moment came crashing to an end when the fragile Limoges teacup slipped out of my hands and shattered into a million pieces onto the floor. Yikes!!

Come enjoy tea and crumpets in the luxuriously elegant Westin Palace with me...come travel with me...

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The train is broken

Posted by Nora K ,
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“The train is broken” were the discouraging first words that greeted my travel buddy and I when we approached the ticket counter at the train station in Algeciras. We were scheduled to leave that afternoon on the Express train to Madrid and embark upon a five and a half hour rail journey.   Not comprehending what the ticket agent was saying to us in his broken English (obviously just as broken as the train) we couldn’t fathom that we were now stranded in Algeciras.  If we thought that our arrival by rail was arduous and challenging, nothing could prepare us for our impending departure from this Mediterranean port town.


Speaking minimal Spanish, the only two words that rolled effortlessly off my tongue were “vino tinto” (red wine) and “bolso” (handbag). Were there other words that I should have also added to my two word vocabulary?  Apparently so, as it would have been useful to at least have memorized the phrases “when is the train leaving?” and “why is the train broken?” A little bit of English, un peu de Français and some Espanol spoken by the other passengers helped us understand the complexity of the issue. There had been some type of industrial accident, resulting in the train tracks needing to be repaired, halting all incoming and outgoing trains. No one seemed to know exactly when the job would be completed, maybe sometime tomorrow or perhaps the next day or maybe even the following week?  Why hurry?  Are you in a rush to get somewhere?  Linger, stay a while, have a siesta, put your feet up, relax, don’t worry, take it easy, and if all else fails, have some more vino, in mass quantities, if need be.

Yikes!! I clearly should have clued in when it took us more than 12 hours to get to Algeciras on this old-fashioned now broken-down caboose that our departure journey would prove to be equally as gruelling and difficult.  Algeciras and train travel are two words that don’t bode well in my books.

The ticket counter had erupted into full-blown chaos, with disgruntled passengers screaming, crying and threatening the helpless ticket agents, who were clearly ill-prepared for a “catastrophe” of this magnitude.

On the bright side, the sun had dared to peek through the sky and opted to do battle with the rain gremlins and kicked the clouds to the curb. Was it mere coincidence that the sun had once again chosen to re-claim this Moroccan inspired enclave and give us a parting gift of a sunny send-off into a yet unknown abyss on the bus ride from hell? It would have been an even more fitting farewell to have been ushered out of town with gale force winds amidst a torrential downpour!!

Yup, you read that correctly, as we were to be herded onto a bus to the town of Ronda, where we would then catch the train to Madrid.  Little did we know that Ronda sits precariously on the precipice of the El Tajo gorge, nestled deep in the Serrania de Ronda mountain range. We were also unaware that the ravine was an impressive 730 metre drop  straight down into a bottomless pit.

The two hour journey to Ronda started out pleasantly enough. Feeling smug and content that I had snagged the window seat, I drank in the spectacular views of the magnificent lush tree-lined hills and ravines.  Weaving and winding our way up the mountains, our bus leaning perilously close to the edge of the curvaceous road, I tentatively dared to peek through the window to gage our whereabouts and was startled to see that the tree lined scenery had now been replaced by plunging cliffs and steep escarpments. Yikes!! 

Clutching my bronze limited edition Carolina Herrera handbag, I prayed that my pink-sneakered feet would not be the first to be hurled out of the window when the bus lurched over the ledge, having mistakenly navigated the depth of one of the numerous sharp hairpin curves.

 Had I not spent the remainder of the journey with my eyes squeezed tightly shut, bargaining for my life, I would have taken some digital snapshots of the incredible views but alas, I needed to keep sane and not see how perilously close to the edge of the world I was.

This explains why my blog does not have any pictures of the bus ride to Ronda.

 Perhaps you can look up Ronda in a picturesque travel book and check out the spectacular cliff-hanging scenery for yourself.  I’m certain that you would have done the same, huddling under a blanket, cradling your newly acquired designer handbag, praying that you survive the bus ride from hell, anxiously counting down the minutes until the bus screeches to a halt in Ronda.

Come experience a once in a lifetime roller-coaster ride on the bus with me and discover the peaks and valleys of Spanish bus travel with me...

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