The party has started

Day 4-6 part 2

Oh! oh! oh! I forgot to mention that we stopped at Orange, a huge wireless provider, and purchased new SIM cards for our phone! Just as Europe celebrates liberation from the Germans, we are now liberated from the stratospheric Canadian data costs. Ya stick it Telus!!

Our new European plan includes some phone time, but wait for it, 15GB of data for 20€!!! Hahahaha, double-stick it Telus!! That’s 150x more data than what we pay the same for back home. I’m going to go to bed tonight downloading Barney songs, just because I can.

I asked the little millennium know-it-all who was schooling us on our new plans (both phones, I was tempted to buy a third) “What about texting?”. I detected a snicker as she turned her head. “No señor. We don’t text, we WhatsApp. I nodded knowingly. She wasn’t fooled and grabbed the phones, one in each hand, thumbs working furiously, and Presto, we were now WhatsAppers… I wonder what the old people are doing back home?. I did a mental high five with my tech guy Jay back in Trail. NOW who’s the schmutz. Stick it Telus!

Anyways, now we are much closer with our friend Mr. Google. ‘Hey buddy, where’s the nearest reptile store? How old is Joe Cocker? What, he’s dead? Okay, how do you spell pernicious? Oh ya I just did’. Anyways, you get the idea. The interweb is now my oyster. Stick it Telus!

This would also allow Carol and I to be separated should I choose, I mean should WE choose (apparently we choose to not). I would blurt out random facts on the metro. ‘Hey, did you know the Arkansas Razorbacks mascot is named Bodie? ‘Wow, what a head-turner, hehe’.

It’s now Friday and we are going to take the bus to Toledo for a day trip and then take advantage of the free entry to the Museo de Prado from 6-8 every evening when we get back. I wonder if anyone else knows about it being free?

Every guide book mentions the beauty and history of this 12th century hilltop town. It should be great.

We are the masters of efficiency now that we have Fred and Wilma (I named our data plans, mine is Fred). Although it’s taking a bit of getting used to as our old normal was to get lost as soon as our feet hit the floor in the morning, so we are arriving everywhere an hour and half early.

So we catch the early, early bus to Toledo. 45 minutes later we are de-bussing at the station 300 feet (vertically) from our destination. We (I) make a wrong choice and walk the 43 stairs to the top level of the station. Nope, nobody around. Head back down stairs, calves starting to burn a little, and now all of the drivers and passengers are long gone. Hmph, which way to go? Forgetting I have Fred peaking out of my pocket, immediately we are faced with a decision. Left path winds beside the highway and quickly goes out of sight, the right path heads towards civilization and quickly goes out of sight. It would be a costly mistake knee/hip-wise to make the wrong choice.

Carol is content to let me take the lead as in the past couple of years she has succumbed to my direction-deficiency syndrome also. Besides, I’m so happy these past few days she’s willing to cut me some slack, although she did catch me giving Fred a big hug the other night before bed. ‘Hey buddy, you wanna sleep under my pillow? No vibrating though’ I tell him sternly. He’s like the smart kid I never had… er, figuratively speaking that is.

So, 20 minutes later were walking back to the station to take the left hand path. 10 minutes after that we are dismounting the escalator that everyone who’s ever read a guide book has already left which leaves us directly behind our Asian tour group friends. Only now a 747 must have dropped off a few hundred of their friends because they are swarming anything that smells tourist. Their heads on a swivel taking pictures of everything and anybody who stands between them and a possible selfie.

I imagined that if Carol and I ever go to Beijing we would be like rock stars because we would show up in so many of their pics and videos. ‘Ah-so, you are Dennis-san. I have seen you many times’. Sorry my printed Asian accent is brutal. I AM NOT A RACIST!

After a wrong turn (my bad) we make it to the info center where a perky young girl is so enthused to weigh us down with brochures and guide books. She opens up a map with tiny, tiny font and shows us her favourite route for the old town. With pen she draws a circuitous route up and down and across the page.

She’s so excited for us to be able to enjoy the history of the 800 year old town and points out 5 places that we can’t miss. The gigantic cathedral, the Roman baths from the first century that were just unearthed 30 years ago, 2 synagogues in the Jewish Quarter, and a mosque from 999 A.D..

Apparently these guys couldn’t make up their mind between Jesus, Moses, or Mohammed. Okay you guys, it’s 999 and it’s time for a change. Who’s got the dice?

To clear the path ahead of us I yell “Free cigarettes at the top of the hill”! You could hear the clatter of selfie sticks being dropped and almost every Asian and EVERY Parisian, shuffle to an unknown point on the horizon. That should give us 20 minutes I felt.

The tiny-font map was all but useless because in her zeal with the pen the girl had obscured all the relevant street names. An 8th century road grid resembled a Picasso painting from his Impressionist years, nothing made sense (yes, I’ve seen Guernica, it’s lovely. Take a breath people). So I pulled out our secret weapon… FRED!

Fred must have been sleeping on the wrong side of his battery because he was struggling to find the first stop which was the cathedral. I think I heard that it’s the 3rd tallest in Europe, which would make it the 3rd tallest in the solar system. Apparently it can be seen from the space station, but not from the pavement where 5 story stone buildings separated by a street the width of a cart path obscured everything.

I started typing in ‘Saint’ on the map directions and 441 items came up before I got any farther. Back in the Middle Ages if you lived to age 22 without being tagged with a mace, perforated by a javelin, run over by a Roman chariot, or been cleaved in half by your mother-in-law with a broad-axe than you were prime saint material. Oh those Catholics, always trying to make a name for themselves.

Anyways Fred must have had a headache because his blue Pacman blotch was eating all those dots and we were ending up in blind alleys or tacky gift shops. Maybe the latest map update was from 998.

Finally we happened upon the cathedral, very, very high with little chance for perspective because of the proximity to the neighboring buildings unless you squirmed into an alleyway and craned your neck than you got a lovely view. The alleyway was choked with cigarette smoke as our Asian friends had moved ahead of us while Fred was getting over his hissy fit on the street names. So I chose the perspective from the bottom of the immense cathedral wall and was going to shoot a pic looking straight up.

Hmmm, lots of rough limestone pointing to infinity and the belly of a pigeon and a great big dot of white, that was getting bigger by the second.

Ewww, nobody likes pigeons. Well, except for Italians and Portuguese who insist on building elaborate coups on top of their garage roofs so the neighbors can enjoy them too. I heard from one such neighbor that pigeons are quite tasty done on the bbq with a little Italian mustard to obscure the crap taste.

So it looks like Fred will have to have a bath tonight. Nothing a good cotton swab soaked in alcohol can’t fix. Settle down Fred, you know the rule, no vibrating.

The ticket to enter the cathedral was 5€ so of course we made our way to the alleyway and craned our necks.

Off to site number 2, the Roman baths. There actually were a few miniscule signs pointing to numero dos except they were obscured with graffiti. TUCK FRUMP, hmmm the local miscreant must be dyslexic but the gist of it was plain to see.

Okay, open the door, walk past the sleeping info desk girl, patter around looking into several open pits about 4 feet deep with limestone debris scattered around, and we were done here. Apparently I had already seen a first century Roman bath in a back lane in Salmo. Who knew? Checkmark beside bath.

Next we need to find the 2 synagogues. Up, down, up, up, our legs were really complaining by this point and Fred had gone to sleep. Wilma was sleeping too, on a bedside table in Madrid. She really seemed to understand the whole vibrating thing and every time Carol opened her lock screen the pictures of the kids looked happier and happier. Weird eh?

We were now at a restaurant supposedly near the synagogues. Legs and feet begging for mercy. ‘Call a freaking cab… call a freaking cab you miserly SOB’ I could hear them shout. But cabs, like tour tour buses and garbage trucks weren’t meant for 13th century streets. So the next best thing was to stop for a beer at a local tourist rip-off place.

I ordered a cerveza , Carol a wine, and a couple of sandwiches. The alcohol was palatable but the sandwiches could have come from a truck stop in Brandon. The waiter was cruizin for tourist chicks, his dad, the bartender, was a dickhead. He didn’t say anything but he had obviosly spent 40 years in the hospitality industry without being hospitable.

When paying the bill I asked where the synagogues were and he nodded his head in a non-direction and said ‘that way about 2kms’. The town was only 1km long. Dickhead.

Our legs were having no part of this 13th century adventure tour and I put an X beside synagogues. That left only the mosque to complete our scavenger hunt.

Fred was up and running again and was confident in his directions. Turn left for 50m, straight for 100m, turn left for 75m, turn left for 60m. I was surprised to end up in front of that shitty restaurant again until I noticed that was what was still programmed into the map coordinates. I deleted that, erased it from the cache, and rebooted Fred so we would never under any circumstances walk past it again. I plugged in the name of the mosque (in case there were two in 999) and off we went.

Fred got us close and was counting down the meters as we navigated the narrow streets (narrow is a relative term. Normally narrow when combined with street conjures up a laneway in Kitsilano, or a main street in Kuala Lampur, but in the ancient Toledo context it meant a bike path that accommodated Sherman tanks.

The archways served as pedestrian walkways and rally race course at the same time. Apparently the local drivers were fed up with relinquishing their town to tourists and it was like we had a bullseye on our backpacks. If you waxed your vehicle enough the stupidos would simply be cast aside without leaving a blood stain.

Head down looking at your device would bring on a near collision or ear-splitting honking.

Fred counted down 150m, 90m, 40m, 10m, 25m, 50m… Hold it. We couldn’t have passed it because everything looked the same limestone brown except for that modern real estate building we just past.

Sure enough that modern building was the information center for the 10th century mosque. Back we trudged, paid our 3€, and crossed the 2008-era bridge to a dark 14 x 14 dome-ceilinged cave. You were met with an effigy of Christ hanging from the ceiling, doorways that had been cemented over, and a door that led downstairs that was locked.

I looked skyward expecting at least a zip line, circled a few times and said to a nearby Aussie tourist ‘Are you effing kidding me! Where’s the mosque? Does Mohammed look like Jesus?’ He chortled ‘This looks like it mate’. I walked out onto the manicured grounds and yes from the outside it resembled an ancient place of worship, but you could see that from the road as you walked past heading to the bus station without paying anything.

Apparently it was too risky to allow modern day travellers to come close to old rocks. They might kick one or take it home for their gnome garden.

As we walked out past the info center girl she asked us to fill out a questionnaire to describe how we felt about being in such a revered place. Face red with anger, mouth filled with expletives, I passed on the opportunity.

Another check on the paper beside mosque.

Our feet felt marginally better as they recognized that we were heading downhill towards the bus station. Yahoo! Screw you Toledo! I imagined them shouting.

We reached the station, I took a wrong turn on the way to the men’s room, my prostate reminded me again of my age, and we missed our bus by mere seconds. Carol was furious! I should just glue-gun Fred to my forehead and let him lead me on every step I take for the rest of my life. I suck.

The next bus was only 20 minutes later and we made it to the Prado at 5:20 for a 6:00 door opening. 1,000 people were ahead of us and it was 27 degrees with almost no shade.

Here’s the short version. We got in about 6:45, left at 7:20, saw a few great works of art, but was so tired and in so much pain that I don’t remember anything other than Velasquez was great, Rubens does a good job on nudes, and that place is freaking huge!

We stopped for mediocre tapas near the museum but had a good time, and couldn’t wait to get home.

Toledo TRS 3.6, Prado TRS ? We weren’t there long enough to make an opinion.

Tomorrow we move to Sevilla where the forecast shows it will be 34C on Tuesday, but the 3 days previous will be 36-38C. Still just first world problems. Stay tuned.