living abroad: when good apartments go bad (Part 1)

With Jenny, one of my very sweet original roommates


A year abroad wasn't supposed to end like that. It wasn't supposed to end with me hiding in my bedroom and calling my pastor in a panic; three roommates ganging up against the other two of us in a move that was questionable at best; an adrenaline-filled late-night escape to my friend's apartment, where I spent my final week in Bilbao.

Wait, back up. Kit, didn't you love your apartment? Weren't your roommates super nice girls who took you to special events at Mango and to see their beautiful hometowns?

Yes, yes they were. But first Maite and Jenny (who is not American, I promise) moved in with their boyfriends, then Ismene got a sweet internship in California, then Maria got a sweet job in Vitoria. So over a 4-month period I got all new roommates.

And as it turned out, the living situation was fairly sketchy to start with, made OK only in the beginning by the awesome original roommates who lived there. There was no contract, for one thing. None at all. None of us had ever met the landlady, for another - it was just done by a long, questionable chain of subleasing (which - and this would have been interesting to know circa September - is illegal in Spain).

And so it came to pass that I awoke one morning - a week before my flight home, in fact - to what I have to admit was a pretty gutsy letter that one of my new roommates had written. I'll call her Ione, because her name is Ione. The letter, written in pseudo-legalese, was to me and the other girl who was also moving out at the end of the month. Boiled down, it declared that we were legally bound by "tacit agreement" to pay the rent every month that we didn't live there that they didn't find someone to replace us.

It was signed - and I think this is a spectacularly catty touch - "Un abrazo." A hug.



I was, and this should come as no surprise, completely clueless in regards to Spanish housing law. On the one hand, I was terrified; what if this was true? What if I really owed them for every month I couldn't find a replacement to their liking? On the other hand, something seemed wrong. I took a picture of the letter and emailed it to my pastor, who is native to Spain and an ex-attorney.

What do I do? I asked him. Is this right?
He replied that it wasn't, that I shouldn't worry, and invited me over for lunch with him, the family and a Spanish housing expert. Perfect.


Continued with what happened, plus a guide to shopping smart for a rental abroad (hint: never-present owner = no bueno).

that last daytrip: vitoria-gasteiz

favorites

People always think Bilbao is the capital of Basque Country. Frankly, this is because it is the most badass and awesome of the three major cities, but unfortunately it is also incorrect.

The actual capital of Euskadi is Vitoria-Gasteiz, located in Alava. It was my destination for my final daytrip in Basque Country. Three friends and I packed onto a bus last Sunday morning to see what it was all about.

Los Indignados - and my friend Cat has already done a great summary of what that is all about, if you don't know, which you can read here - occupied the main square, the Plaza de la Virgen Blanca with their tent village.


"Indignados"



"Yes We Camp"



my friend Thomas was good enough to sit for about 689789 portraits


We spent the remainder of the day wandering around the city and noticing that it feels more, well, European than Bilbao (or even Donosti in some ways). One friend kept getting reminded of northern Italy. To me, the big, glassy windows on many of the buildings in the center of town were reminiscent of A Coruña.



For lunch we stopped in a couple of the bars that line the small streets of the old city, sharing pintxos around.



Bull's tail stew and carrillera (veal cheek) - from the first place we stopped

All in all a solid little adventure to say "farewell" to Euskadi. For now...

la spezia market

I'm not going to say a lot here, only that the market in La Spezia (very close to Riomaggiore and the other Cinque Terre towns) is outstanding. Great FLP and a lot of really special elaborated foods (breads, cheeses and olives stand out, although we missed the olive boat).


artichokes



grana padano cheese


Side note about that Grana Padano: I was saving half of it to take home with me to Bilbao. Then, on my last night in Milan, I broke down and ate it ALL, by myself, in the hotel room, watching QVC in Italian.

It was so good I didn't even mind that I was watching QVC in Italian.

How NOT to hike San Juan de Gaztelugatxe

safely arrived, after the Mountain Descent Fiasco


It all fell together perfectly. Or so I thought.

Last Saturday promised gorgeous weather, and I had a backpack full of gear for my upcoming Camino de Santiago hike I needed to begin training with. Everyone had been telling me how gorgeous the hermitage of San Juan de Gaztelugatxe on the Biscayan coast was practically since the moment I arrived in Bilbao, so a couple of friends and I decided we'd make the hike from nearby Bakio (no buses go straight to San Juan) to the church/ex-monastery. I wore my fully-packed Camino backpack and everything just to test it out.

We were doing fine until we found the path.


beginning the hike down the mountain, thanks to my friend Thomas for the photo

It was clearly a footpath branching off to the left of the regular paved trail that led toward the road (and, eventually, the monastery). Bryan whipped out his iPhone and confirmed it: this was a shortcut.

Then the path got less well-defined. We were about to give up and turn around until Thomas found a post-marker. Obviously this was a trail, we reasoned - why else would there be a post-marker there?

Then the trail thinned some more and the mountain became steeper. THEN the trail disappeared altogether and "steeper" took on a whole new meaning. But we cleared the woods (by this point we were basically sliding down almost-cliffs on our butts), and we could see the hermitage. It was beautiful. And it was possibly accessible - we couldn't tell from our angle.

We'd only gone a little further when one of my legs did something hilarious. It said, No. Thank you for the offer, but I will not go any further.

Actually, it said, Insane Muscle Squeeze! Just you TRY and make me go down any further, lady!

Apparently, a steep 30-minute descent with 20 pounds your legs are not used to supporting does not go over so well in the leg muscles. Who knew? I was less than interested in the very real possibility of being airlifted out by rescue helicopter, so we retraced our steps (and you never think to thank God for making your legs use different muscles to go up a hill than to go down one until moments like these, do you?) and took the regular path to the hermitage. Which was even more gorgeous up close.



And where we discovered that, had we kept going just a little bit further, there was indeed an access point to the hermitage. Whoops.

Some tips if you care to hike San Juan de Gaztelugatxe (Liz, who also went on Saturday, minus the jolly side-trip, has more):

1. Post markers don't always mean there's a trail. Sometimes they're there for the heck of it.

2. 20 pounds is a lot on your legs. Keep it in mind if you're going bushwacking on the side of a mountain, because mine are still sore and it's Tuesday.

3. Spain does have an equivalent of poison ivy or something, and I have no idea what it looks like. All I know is it throws a great big itch party all over your legs, and then your face somehow gets invited to the fiesta and then that itches too.

Just some things to keep in mind.

Doubleheader!

Four years ago, I took this photo in Granada.

It was featured on WhyGo.com today. Awesome, and thank you to the WhyGo folks!

Focaccia: Greatest Hits

And so there I went, blabbering on about different travel styles and the Cinque Terre. Too much self-awareness, especially when I know what you people really want.

Food.

And so here are what I´m going to call my Top Three Focaccia Moments, even though really the pesto-mozzarella one I had in Genoa should be in here. But it´s not, because 1) I couldn´t delay the gratification to take photos and 2) my hands were too freezing to take photos. So my Almost Top Three, as follows:

3. Vegetarian Focaccia.

Ingredients, besides focaccia bread: Black olives, artichoke hearts, mushrooms
Where I ate it: Monterosso
Other notes: Greasy, greasy, greasy, in the best way.

2. Potato-cheese focaccia.

Ingredients, besides focaccia bread: Potato, amazing cheese (asiago?)
Where I ate it: also Monterosso
Other notes: Perfect amount of crunch (from crispy cheese) and squish (from perfectly cooked potato). Mmm.


And the #1 focaccia of my trip, my life, ever:

Ingredients, besides focaccia bread: mozzarella, green beans, focaccia
Where I ate it: Princi bakery, Via Speronari #6, Milan.
Other notes: This is the best baked goods place I´ve ever been to. I know them´s fightin´ words, but I´m sticking with it. There was just enough pesto on here to give you that tangy, salty kick but still left you wanting more rather than overwhelmed. And green beans! Amazing. I wasn´t gonna, but I went back for a cream-filled carnavale pastry afterward. Couldn´t help it. I´m ´bout to start drooling, Homer Simpson-style, just thinking about this place.

I can´t stress this enough: Milan is worth it just for Princi bakery. The place will possibly be packed when you go, so it may take you a while to get your order in. Take it as the good sign it is and use the time to build the anticipation.

the cinque terre

the picturesque Manarola by night


Ah, the Cinque Terre. Five pristine, gorgeous towns along the Northern Italian coast. If you read any Rick Steves, at some point you're going to come across several gushing passages about how very wonderful and picturesque this place is. The towns are so small, he'll tell you. It's relaxing. It's so picturesque (get ready, I'm going to be using that word a lot)!



cat lounging picturesquely


Rick Steves is telling you the truth. It is small. It is gorgeous. It is relaxing.

And it is so heavily touristed that it's hard to tell where the Disneyland tourist stuff ends and the actual "local culture" begins.

This isn't a slam of the Cinque Terre. I really did enjoy my time there, I really did appreciate how beautiful it was. What I'm saying is, if you have a high value for your travels to include something picturesque (yes!) and to be able to get by on English because most people speak at least a little, the Cinque Terre is your spot. I want you to listen carefully: I think that's totally valid. It's just that I discovered that...

...If you place a higher value on, for example, "authentic local food," such as it is, the CInque Terre should perhaps be a day or two stop only on your itinerary. With the exception of one very good focaccia (don't worry, a focaccia greatest hits post is coming), every meal we had out was - there's not really a nicer way to say this - mediocre tourist food. I'm talking the same quality frozen pizza you get in the US. And while I couldn't blame the residents of the five picturesque (that's the 4th use, if you're counting) towns for adapting in this way to accommodate tourism, I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when I arrived in the less beautiful but much less tourism-impacted La Spezia.


exploring in a picturesque cove of wildflowers, photo courtesy my friend Bryan


Let's be clear: I'm not saying here that I wasn't a tourist. By golly, I was all sorts of tourist. I gawked at sites and snapped photos and, let's face it, even the fact that I was interested in such a thing as "authentic local cuisine" is a dead giveaway. But there are different styles of tourism, and as it turns out, mine consists more of pushing myself culturally (I barely know a word of Italian, see previous post) in order to access a part of a country less impacted by hordes of people descending upon it to take pictures and eat pizza, but not pizza that's too unfamiliar, pizza like they had in America, only here in Italy.

Whew, what a long sentence. Congratulations if you made it through that one. Conclusion: the Cinque Terre really are beautiful. Jaw-droppingly, mind-numbingly gorgeous. And, no surprises here, you're not the first person to realize that. Weigh what's more important to you, a perfect-looking spot or a more authentic eating experience, and plan accordingly.


picturesque boat

genova!

Shortly before we left on this adventure, the friend I was traveling with suggested we make a pit stop in Genoa on the way to our destination in the Cinque Terre.


We should have booked at least two nights there.

The city has really everything you could want: a university vibe in some areas, gorgeous buildings, free blood oranges on the ground (ok, just the one).

And pesto. My golly, that pesto. All I can say to explain how much I loved my piece of focaccia with cheese and pesto slathered all over it is I'm seriously considering naming my first dog "pesto." "Here, pesto! Roll over! That's a good boy!"

Sorry, no pictures. I was too busy stuffing it into my gaping maw. You'll just have to imagine it.

There was also an incredibly greasy but incredibly good rabbit lunch. And a pizza that involved raw tomato, which I managed to be pretty cool about, considering.


It certainly is.

i found this blood orange lying on the ground

and then I ate it.

tales of Italy, Carnaval and everything else I ate (not true, only highlights) coming soon.

will i eat 600 pieces of focaccia? i think so.

This Sunday afternoon I am going to get on an airplane. This airplane will take me to a fantastical place where there is none of this:


and lots of this:



Seven days. Italy. I'll be in Genoa, the Cinque Terre and Milan. If I don't come out of this slightly greener from all the pesto, I will consider this a job half done.

you'd best believe we played in those vineyards

vineyards in november. la rioja alavesa.



some fabulously moldy bottles on a bodega tour. laguardia, la rioja alavesa.

the catalan snack that changed my life

Check out this raw tomato, just chillin' on my plate like it ain't no thang.


It's finally happened, folks. I think I've found my gateway drug to raw tomato enjoyment.

Regular readers will recall my long-standing distaste for raw tomatoes. I had almost resigned myself to a life of missing out on that sharp, acid bite of a raw tomato that people with more fortunate tastebuds are always raving about.

Then, last saturday, came pa amb tomàquet. That's right, you clever linguists: bread and tomato. It's crazy simple: toasted bread, rubbed with garlic, smeared with a raw tomato cut in half, and drizzled with olive oil. Oh no, you don't get to cook it once the tomato's on there: you just rub that tomato snot all over the place, then go to town.

I tried it; I liked it.

Then I had it again on Sunday; I loved it.

Then, curious to see if perhaps it was just something in that magical Catalan air, the same something that had possibly influenced the fantastical thought lives of Salvador Dali and Antoni Gaudi, I bought my own crusty bread and a tomato back in Bilbao.

I made it myself; I liked that, too (though not as much as the Sunday one; see picture. Seriously, that stuff was killer).


Sunday's p amb t


I'm still not up to full tomatoes yet, but that distinctive flavor and tomato snot are right there, on the bread, and I'm pretty into it.

There's hope for me yet.

so worth the pickpocket risk factor

It's routine for every visitor to Barcelona, really: take bus to Parc Güell; dismount bus; wander around; be amazed; take photo with the lizard-dragon thing. Also, possibly have pockets picked in the crowds. Petty theft is big in Barcelona.

So yes, basically, it's a tourist trap. But here's the thing: sometimes tourist traps are for a reason. The reasons here:

Columns of rocks rising up to create half-formed caves.



A wildly elaborate tile bench, winding its way across the top of the park.



A covered palace of white columns where you look up and are greeted by fantastical starfish in a sea of white tile.



And that lizard. He's beautiful, really.

la boquería market, barcelona

My loot from the market: raspberries, strawberries and lychees. none of these were grown in Catalunya.


So about Food People: there are certain "buzz words" that have a tendency to make us go weak in the knees. "Playfully combined texture/flavor" is one; another is "fresh local produce." By golly, do Food People love Fresh Local Produce. That sounded ironic, but it wasn't. I truly do love me some FLP.

La Boquería, Barcelona's famous indoor food market, is not primarily about Fresh Local Produce. La Boqueria is about So Much Variety It Makes Your Head Spin.

Did you want some cherries? Got those from Chile. Mexican Habañero peppers? Got 'em. Strawberries come from Huelva, lychees from Madagascar, durian fruit from Thailand. Dragon fruit, papaya, kiwi, coconut, sweet potatoes, every dried chili you could want.

My Iberian friends and I have had this discussion a few times - which is better, the "Spanish" way (cheap and good quality, but mostly only what's good locally at the time) or the "American" way (the more variety the better, cost and quality - to a certain extent - be darned). After last night in La Boquería, my senses entirely flooded with so many colors, smells and flavors from so many places, I'm not sure I can bring myself to decide which I prefer. Maybe I won't choose at all. Maybe I'll enjoy my FLP here in Bilbao but revel in the memories of the dizziness-inducing multitudes of treats on display this past weekend.

love is in the air. so is onion breath.

Ever noticed something adorable about the souvenir shops in Barcelona, Bilbao or San Sebastian? All those T-shirts and keychains featuring a Basque flag and a Catalan flag squeezed in next to each other, as if to say, "hey, baby, mind if I move in closer?"

This is because Euskal Herria and Catalunya have big regional crushes on each other. Both have languages distinct from Spanish, after all, and both have sizable independence movements. And both have a seriously righteous - sometimes downright intimidatingly so - food tradition. Today being both Valentine's Day and the day I got back from a mini-vacation to Catalunya, I've decided to indulge the puppy love for a few extra days with Catalan Week on Life in la Capital del Mundo.

First up: calçots.

All you really need to know to be successful at the event known as a calçotada is this: get ready to get messy, and you pronounce the "ç" like an "s."



These poor little guys have no idea what's coming...

Phase one: calçot growing. Sometime in the late summer or early fall, plant some nice white onions. Spend the next several months gently packing dirt up around them so they grow long and green, like leeks. These guys have some great instructions if you care to create your own little slice of Catalunya somewhere. Then, in late winter, pull them up! On to phase two: calçot cooking.


To cook calçots: grill to the point of charring. Remove from grill/fire pit, then roll them up into bunches and let them steam in their own goodness until they're a little squishy. You may do this part yourself, or you may, as we did, go to a restaurant where everything up until here is handled for you. Don't worry, I have big plans to grow my own calçots next year.



Phase three: calçot eating. First, put on a bib. This is key if you don't want to wind up with romesco sauce all down your front.



Next, holding calçot by the green part in one hand, strip off the charred outer layer. Allow Anselmo to demonstrate:



Finally, dip calçot in romesco sauce, then, in the immortal words of Tony Bourdain, "coil gracefully into your grateful, gaping maw."






The only appropriate response to a calçotada invitation.

dreams really do come true.

Those of you who know me (and shoot, probably a few who don't) will doubtless recall my long standing obsession with going to a calçotada.

In brief summary, a calçotada is a Catalan tradition that involves going to a field where onions have been packed into the ground such that they mutate and become long stalks, then charring the living daylights out of them, then letting them steam in their own goodness. Then it's over the lips, over the gums, look out stomach, here it comes!

I'm happy to report that tomorrow morning I get to cross that particular life goal off my list. We leave at some crazy hour like 6 AM, fly into Barcelona, where my friend Anselmo will pick us up in his chariot and whisk us away to a fantastical place where onions grow in stalks and have been patiently waiting all winter for us to eat them. If we're lucky, we may even get a song-and-dance number out of the onions and Romescu sauce (a la "Be Our Guest").

bermeo and mundaka

Boat in town, Mundaka


Here is what I imagine happened over the past 5 days:

The angel usually in charge of handling Basque weather went on vacation. His inexperienced substitute didn't read the "Basque Country: Only Rain" instructions, and we wound up with a 5-day sunshine spree that ended only just last night. Some friends and I took advantage of the glorious weather and headed to Bermeo and Mundaka, two coastal towns in my province of Vizcaya.

First up, Bermeo. I liked Bermeo a lot, maybe just because I took more photos there.



The feel is a little... ok, the adjective isn't really coming to me, but I'll just say it's one of those places where Che Guevara revolutionary graffitti ("The same objective. The same struggle.") is not totally out of place and leave it at that.




We climbed around the area by the dock, and the views were lovely.



On to Mundaka, where I did not take as many photos because - get this - the sun was actually too bright.

Known mainly as a surf town (historically, the major surf tour had a stop here because they had the longest left-breaking wave in the world. Subsequent sand-dredging messed up their waves, although we did notice that they broke from left to right), Mundaka has a nice feel that I found almost more Mediterranean than coastal Basque.



It's raining again today, but the spectacular weather reminded me of something: winter doesn't last forever. The days are getting longer already. December, the rainiest month, is over. Spring really is coming. That seems like such a "duh" thing to say, but in the middle of weeks of the cold and damp, it can get easy to forget. The winter will end.

German food: or, how I saw the light

First of all, let me say that I am pleased to report that my German vocabulary has expanded considerably. I can now with some reliability say "good morning," "thank you," and "a hot chocolate with whipped cream, please."

And now, the food.

You would think someone with as much Anthony Bourdain viewing under their belt as I would not fall into the trap of heartlessly stereotyping a nation's cuisine before even going, but apparently, you would be wrong. I braced myself before I went, thinking, "I don't like bratwurst and sauerkraut very much. I certainly hope I can be cool about all that sauerkraut and bratwurst."

In retrospect, if the nation of Germany had wanted to bar me entry for even thinking such a thing, I would hardly blame them. Because - and I'm sure you saw this coming a mile away - food in Germany is varied, and it is really, really good.

I'm not saying you can't have a bad meal in Germany; I'm just saying I didn't have one.***

Highlights: creamy chestnut soup; wild boar with cherry and plum sauce; baked apple on top of crème anglaise with, get ready for it, homemade marzipan where its core used to be. OH YES.

Parmesan-truffle soup and pheasant ravioli with cognac-saffron sauce, at one of these places:



Currywurst, basically bratwurst (yep, turns out I like that sometimes too) cut up and covered with a ketchup-curry powder sauce. If you know me, you know I 1) won't get drunk and 2) have a special fondness for drunk food regardless. This, my friends, is drunk food at its finest.


Currywurst

Hot chocolate mit schlag, or with a hit of fresh, homemade whipped cream on the side. Love, love, love.

Lots of fresh produce - oranges, apples, artichokes and other local items, but also, interestingly, I saw a lot of tropical fruit around. I tried my first fresh lychee nuts in Germany (yes, duh, they are better fresh, by the way).


tropical fruits at Wiesbaden Saturday market




Mom buying fresh bread


Needless to say, I am fully converted.



***This is partly untrue: in my last breakfast at the hotel, the lady who made our eggs and bacon BOILED the bacon. It looked like big grey wobbly tongues. Exception proves the rule.