Cheapskate Chronicles: Free Walking Tours in Europe

Imagine arriving at the latest European city on your itinerary, checking into your hotel or hostel, and feeling somewhat disoriented by your new surroundings. How then to regain your bearings? Speaking from my personal experience traveling for 5 1/2 months all over the Continent, here's a simple recommendation: Join a walking tour. 

I've found that joining a walking tour gives me the confidence in navigating my new city (or at least lets me know which way is north or south), provides an overview of the city's attractions, and is a fun way to meet other travelers. All this in the couple of hours it normally takes.


For those carefully counting their pennies, you'll be glad to know that a revolution has swept all over Europe that has proved to be a boon to budget travelers - the concept of the FREE walking tour. Yes, that is correct, sir - young, motivated entrepreneurs in a vast number of European cities have decided to show you the highlights of their home town for the grand sum of zero. I took 15 such free walking tours in 11 different cities (spread over 7 countries) and can attest to the knowledge of the tour guides, and they make it FUN instead of simply overloading your brain with historical facts. 

I know you're thinking - "What's the catch? They can't give free tours for nothing?!". That is true, to a certain extent. The guides tell you upfront that they are working for tips (which makes them pull out all the stops), thus if you enjoyed yourself a gratuity at the end is much appreciated. 


Some tour companies (especially in Spain and Germany) also offer more specialized walking tours for which they charge money. Thus, by getting you to join their free offering, they hope that you will become aware of their company and be enticed to sample their other tours. For example, in Berlin Sandemans offers a bewildering array of tours: Third Reich Berlin, Sachsenhausen Memorial, Red Berlin, and even a day trip to Potsdam. 

Without further ado, below are the 15 such free walking tours in 11 different cities that I went on, and my general opinion. I'm sure there are even more free walking tours in other European cities that were not part of my itinerary (Paris, Amsterdam, London, Prague come to mind), so feel free to mention them in the comments section.

Spain

Madrid - I wrote a blog post about Sandeman's free walking tour which leaves from Plaza Mayor every day, and is offered in English and Spanish. (I took the Spanish tour). The Tapas Experience is also worthwhile for sampling Spain's culinary delicacies at four different places. 

Seville - Pancho Tours offers two free walking tours that cover different parts of this magnificent Andalusian city. Most of the guides are young Europeans from other countries who have lived here for years. Bring lots of water - it can get really, really hot in Seville

Barcelona -  Ah, everyone's favorite city in Spain, so it seems. Competition is intense in the free walking tour business here, but I was pleased with Runner Bean's Gaudi tour (which every fan of the famous architect should go on).

The Old City walk covers a lot of ground, including the Gothic Quarter. My tour took almost 3 whole hours since the guide just loved to share information about the sights. 

Lisbon, Portugal


In Lisbon, Uwe (a transplant from Austria) gives an offbeat, entertaining, and sometimes sarcastic view into Portugal's sprawling capital city on his dramatically named "See Lisbon Or Die" project. The tour takes you through the Chiado, Baixa and Alfama neighborhoods, and he will even ride with you on the famous No. 28 tram and advise you how to avoid getting pickpocketed. 

Budapest, Hungary


Confusingly, there are two competitors with similar names in Budapest - Free Budapest Tours and Free Budapest Walking Tours, in the mornings and afternoons with meeting points near each other in central Budapest. The guides speak excellent English, and will recommend restaurants serving authentic Hungarian goulash and fashionable nightspots.


In addition to the standard city overview walk, they also offer specialty-themed tours (also for free) like the Communist Walk. Led by locals who suffered under the oppressive Soviet regime, this tour was quite informative and would interest anyone who wanted to learn more about this part of Hungary's history.

Belgrade, Serbia


In my book, Belgrade doesn't offer much in terms of sightseeing, but that's no excuse to miss out on the 2-hour free walking tour offered five days a week, meeting at Republic Square (by the statue in front of the perennially closed National Museum). 


My tour was led by a lovely female student who spoke great English, and included a walk up to the old fortress. But what made the tour memorable was the huge downpour that made us all scramble for shelter underneath a pavilion inside the park, trying to huddle together while shivering from the cold rain. The thunderstorm passed and we went on with the tour without skipping a beat. 

 Berlin, Germany

If you needed solid evidence that Berlin has become Europe's third-most visited city, then witness the crowds that show up for Sandeman's free Berlin walking tour at 11am.  In all the other cities that I've joined a free tour, the participants numbered anywhere between ten and forty people, but when I strolled towards the Starbucks near the Branderburg Gate and saw the hordes of humanity, it was quite astounding. Over a hundred people were there, and were subsequently divided into three smaller manageable groups led by a different guide. The 3 1/2 hour tour covers Berlin's highlights, including the Jewish War Memorial (pictured above), Hitler's bunker, and of course, the Wall. 


For a peek inside the funky Berlin underground scene, Alternative Berlin offers their free tour twice a day, at 11am and 1pm. Be prepared to experience a lot of graffiti on this walk which does involve quite a bit of walking. Tour ends at a nice beach bar near the East Side Gallery where cheap drinks are available. To get my nightlife fix, I also took Alternative Berlin's "Anti-Pub Crawl" which went to a few "interesting" local hangouts which make Berlin the cool spot that it is.


Romania

Brasov - One of the nicest cities in Transylvania (in fact, the city's slogan is "Probably the best city in the world") can easily be covered in a day, although you'd probably want to linger for at least a couple of days. The guided tour goes outside the medieval city walls for a climb up the Black Tower (which isn't black) to get an amazing bird's eye view of the city. Another worthwhile activity is to hike up to the Hollywood-style "Brasov" sign on top of the hill. 

Bucharest - It's one big concrete jungle, teaming with stray dogs to boot, but maybe the free Bucharest tour will make you appreciate this rather charmless city. Unfortunately, our local guide was lacking in charm as well, and merely recited facts about Bucharest in a straightforward manner. Yawn.

Rome, Italy

Ah, the Eternal City. Either you love it or you hate it. Crowds, noise, pollution - they're all present. You can spend days walking on your own, seeing the sights, but why do so when there are two companies offering a free walk. 

Rome Free Tour offers three different walks - Vatican, Colosseum and City Center.  I took the Vatican Walk which met at the Spanish Steps and crossed the Tiber to the Vatican City. The guide (a man) was somewhat dull, and we lost a few people along the way. 

In contrast, New Rome Free Tour offers only one free walking tour which concentrates on ancient Rome. I loved this tour, especially since we visited a few lesser-known churches (S. Andrea delle Fratte, anyone?) and the guide pointed out their unique features (e.g. painted-on ceiling). Not only that, after a look inside the Pantheon, he organized a coffee break at La Casa del Caffe, one of Rome's highly-rated cafes, and treated all tour participants to either an espresso or cappuccino. How I wish all free walking tours worked like this!

On the Seventh Day, there was Karaoke

The guy pictured on the right lacked the vocal range and any ability to sing on-key, but the Sunday afternoon crowd at Bearpit Karaoke in Berlin's Mauerpark vociferously cheered him nonetheless, if only for his bravado. 

Our hapless entertainer performed Elton John's "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" from the movie "The Lion King", outfitted in a garish full-body length lion costume (held in his right hand) no less. He stripped that off to reveal leopard print underwear, then removed that well. The tactic was effective in distracting the audience from his unfamiliarity with the song's lyrics, to say the least. 

Started in 2009 by an Irish fellow named Joe Hatchiban, the Bearpit Karaoke now attracts over a thousand people every Sunday afternoon. They crowd around a small amphitheater to egg on brave souls who sing, dance, and otherwise let loose - in the hopes of becoming famous, perhaps?

I heard about this only-in-Berlin karaoke event the Boat Party, an expat gathering every Wednesday night at the coolest venue possible - a boat moored on the river. A Russian woman mentioned it to me in a conspiratorial tone as an "insider tip". Little did she know that the LP gives full details of not only the Bearpit Karaoke, but also the Boat Party.  


Regardless, after six days of visiting fascinating historical sights and taking various walking tours, free or otherwise (quick kudos to Alternative Berlin and Berlin Walks), karaoke sounded like fun and a chance to rest my tired legs.


Although it's safe to say that you won't be hearing about most of the performers anytime soon, a few of them were actually decent and deserved a hearty round of applause. Quite a few are tourists or expats, thus most of the songs are in English. Some regulars, like Detlef (2nd photo), are quasi-celebrities, and his rendition of "My Way" (in German, of course) is nothing but inspiring. 

Easily the day's best entertainment though, was an Aussie guy who brought the house down with his version of "Physical", Olivia Newton John's hit from thirty (!) years ago. Performing with much gusto, he even rolled on the stage to live up to the song's title. Perhaps he also heard somewhere that ONJ wasn't quite referring to a gym workout as she croons "Let's Get Physical", so he stripped down to his underwear later in the song. Alas, the short video I shot does not include this part, but check out the talent at Mauerpark below. 

(Viewers of this post on the Lonely Planet website have to click here since the embedded video won't show up).

Vodka on the Balkan Express

If your experience with European rail travel is confined to the superb grand vitesse trains in Germany, Switzerland, or France, then trying to do the same in Eastern Europe will come as a rude shock. In these parts, minimal investment has been made in the rail infrastructure by cash-strapped governments, thus being whisked to your destination in a flash is but a dream.

I first learned this the hard way on the train route from Budapest to Belgrade. The journey took seemingly forever (in reality, eight hours), with the train stopping at each tiny town on the countryside, and sometimes just mysteriously stopping, period. The lights and AC (which didn't work properly anyway) would suddenly go off, and everyone would patiently wait while fanning themselves with crumpled newspapers.  Then the train would roar to life just as suddenly, and we'd be on our way - until the next time this happens. 

However, the train fares were quite cheap, so despite the stuffy compartments, mysterious stoppages, and generally decrepit facilities I still wound up taking them. Not all of my memories are negative though; the trip between Belgrade (Serbia) and Timisoara (Romania) was particularly exciting in an unusual way.

I was joined in the compartment by three Aussies - Glenn, Matt, and Adrian, and a Russian woman traveling on her own, Elena. The three guys started on the bottles of vodka and Coke as soon as the train pulled out of Belgrade, while Elena and I abstained. 

They were cool dudes though, and pretty soon we were swapping travel stories and laughing loudly in our cramped quarters. They told me that they were going all the way to Bucharest, a grueling 15 hour ride, scheduled to arrive at Romania's capital at 6am. Loco, I said to myself.

Our festivities were marred somewhat by the foul odors emanating from the toilet around the corner, especially when passengers who use it neglect to close the door firmly behind them. The putrid smells would waft over to our seats, thus after a while we resorted to yelling at the startled offending parties to go back and shut the damned door!

An hour before we were scheduled to stop at the Romanian border for immigration checks, the train came to a halt. Dozens of Serbian police came onto the train, and started prying open ceiling panels, flashing their torches into it, definitely looking for something. We had no idea what was happening, and were frustrated by the delay, especially the guys who had exhausted their vodka supply three hours into the journey. 

Some of the officers walked off the train carrying armloads of cigarette boxes, no doubt smuggled by some of the locals. Come to think of it, two shady looking characters, one with a big belly and the other wearing an unfashionable tracksuit, had been scurrying back and forth along the corridor all night, holding small duffel bags which seemed full going that way and then empty the other way. 

After over an hour's delay, the train was back on track. Night was falling, air was getting chilly, the guys were getting antsy and were wondering how in the world they could make it to Bucharest without their Stoli. In the meantime, the two suspected smugglers still kept going back and forth even in the darkness. 

The Romanian border was soon crossed, our passports checked, and the train sat stationary for half an hour. More smuggled smokes were discovered, this time by the Romanian police, making me wonder why the Serbian officers didn't find them. Ah, perhaps Mr. Big Belly and Mr. Track Suit were one step ahead of the authorities. 

Finally, Timisoara station was reached, and I said my goodbyes to my wonderful companions. It was now nearly 11pm, a good two hours later than the scheduled arrival. And I had no idea how to get to my hostel. Adrian had other ideas though. He pulled me aside, handed me a twenty euro note, and asked if I could find a liquor store at the station that was still open and buy them some vodka and Coke. He was placing my trust in me, a virtual stranger, with no guarantee that I wouldn't walk off with his money. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Tired, hungry, and unfamiliar with my surroundings, I agreed anyway and fortunately found one nearby. After some difficulty converting prices from Romanian lei to euros, the twenty was enough to buy a few bottles. I carried the stash, luggage and all, up the stairs to the platform where the train sat waiting. As I hurried up the final few steps, I could see Matt, Adrian, Glenn and other foreign passengers (no doubt eager to partake in the booze) hanging out of their compartments' windows, peering in the darkness and looking for any shadowy figure that resembled myself. 

Cheers erupted when I became visible, and handshake and grateful hugs were exchanged as I handed over the liquid gold. The clapping and hooting was still in full force as I slowly retreated to make my way back to the station, still unsure how to find my hostel. 

HARD bargaining at Istanbul's Grand Bazaar

A notorious non-shopper on holidays, Istanbul's Grand Bazaar held no attraction for myself. I took a quick stroll inside yesterday, entering at Gate 1 (pictured), walked long the main passageway for ten minutes or so, reached Gate 7 at the other end and then exited into bright sunlight. Smiling smugly, I mentally ticked off one of Istanbul's major tourist attractions from the must-see list. Been there, done that.

However, this afternoon's clouds that darkened the sky and threatened rain at any moment forced me to duck inside the world's oldest and largest covered bazaar for a second time. 

The stats are certainly impressive - built in the fifteen century, the Grand Bazaar has 21 gates, 66 streets, nearly 4,000 shops and almost 30,000 employees inside - and hosts millions of tourists looking for bargains on silver jewelry, fake Abercrombie and Polo apparel, and all other sorts of merchandise I had no interest in buying.

Strolling around the bazaar, I eventually grew weary of seeing the same goods displayed at multiple stalls, but did a double take upon seeing several figurines (look right) nestled on top of "Turkish Viagra" bottles, which left no doubt as to the potency of the product.  

Curious, I asked the young lad manning the stall what Turkish Viagra was made of. He vaguely replied, "A combination of herbs and spices", then proceeded to offer me a small bottle for 15 lira ($8.50). I declined, thinking to myself, "Sounds like snail oil", yet  amused by the verbiage on the bottle's label claiming that "you will be able to make love five times in one night".

"Well, how do you know that it really works?", I inquired. Even the lad, who couldn't be more than fifteen years old, chuckled at that one and shrugged his shoulders. 

"I don't want to buy it. I just want a photo", I explained, obviously not the first person to do so.

"Sorry, mister, no photos", he replied, pointing to the sign above the smiling figures lined up side by side, as if waiting to launch their missiles.

Spotting assorted bars of olive oil soap stacked among his merchandise, with a sign indicating "4 bars - 10 lira" ($5.60), I tried a different bargaining tack.

"Well, if I buy four bars of soap, will you let me take a photo?". Surely he would be eager to make a sale and grant a small favor to this polite tourist.

He pondered the offer, and countered, "Okay. Three bars and a photo for ten lira". 

It was my turn to consider. "Nah, this is stupid", I said to myself, "I'm not into strongly scented hand made soap anyway", and started to move away after waving him goodbye.

"Wait, wait", he called out, after I had taken a grand total of two steps. "Okay, four bars of soap and a photo for ten lira. Only for you, my friend". I smiled widely in response. I repeated his phrase in agreement, handed over the correct note, picked four colorful bars at random, and carefully sized up various angles before taking a lone photo.

Both sides had emerged victorious in the bargaining process. He had his money, while I had my photo, a memorable anecdote, and would surely be the freshest smelling tourist in Turkey (and Europe) for the next month. Shopping while on holiday wasn't quite so bad after all.

Chance Encounters of the Random Kind

One of the great pleasures of traveling is meeting new people under unique circumstances. Since I've just crossed the three month milestone on this European mega-trip, it's time to reflect on the new friends I've made along the way, and our mostly fun shared experiences.

I recall a few occasions when I've met a person and subsequently bumped into them somewhere else, and laughed at the coincidence. What's more, all these instances involve friends I've made through the English language volunteer sessions in Spain and Germany (documented here, here and here) that I've participated in.

So, without further ado, some unexpected chance encounters that turned out to be quite fun.

No. 1.  Sitting in the common room of the Posada de las Huertas hostel in Madrid, intently doing trip research on my laptop, I turned to the young woman sitting at the adjacent couch and made a remark about the erratic Wi-fi signal. She agreed, and we chatted briefly about our travels, past and future, around Spain.

The following day, I was hobnobbing with fellow volunteers at the tapas reception for the English language program, enjoying my fourth glass of sangria when I noticed an attractive latecomer entering through the door and joining our group. A familiar face, but from where...could it be?! All doubt was removed when she glanced in my direction and  a similarly shocked expression registered on her face. Yes, the girl last night at the hostel.

Introductions dispensed with, Rebecca and I discovered we were part of the same group volunteering for a week in Valdelavilla, and became fast friends henceforth.

No. 2. Although we were staying at the same dormitory at the hostel in Sevilla, I only formally met Chelsea when we were seated next to each other at the flamenco show. Afterwards, the two of us went for a few drinks, and I suppose I extolled the virtues of Vaughan Town's language program a bit enthusiastically, so much so that she immediately filled out an application form online once we got back to the hostel.

The following day, I left Sevilla without having the opportunity to get her email address, and from time to time idly wondered if Chelsea was accepted as a volunteer, and if so, for which week and location.

Two weeks and three cities later, after a full day of sightseeing in Oporto, I was at the Rivoli Hostel's lounge uploading photos, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to block out the noise from a group of seven women talking and laughing loudly. After a few minutes, I  realized that an Aussie-accented voice, the loudest among all, sounded a bit familiar, and took a closer look at the long-haired blonde that was the source of it, whose back was turned to me. Yes, it was indeed Chelsea, by coincidence staying at the Rivoli hostel as well.

Moreover, it turns out that despite her preference for a different venue and date, Vaughan assigned her to the same program that I was participating in (my second) due to a last minute cancellation by another volunteer, thus the fun times continued for an entire week.

No. 3. I noticed the Orthodox church in the main square of Brasov (Romania) due to its lovely architecture, and well, also because it was beside the unmissable KFC outlet. I decided to wander in for a look and compare the interiors with another Orthodox church I had seen in Timisoara a week prior.

After a couple minutes inside (worshipers are treated to the heavenly aroma of the Colonel's crispy chicken), I went out and was greeted by the sight of a familiar figure twenty feet away. It took a couple of seconds to recover from the shock, then I chuckled and  said to myself, "Surely this is too good to be true...", before finally calling out, "Hey, HOLLY!!!".

Yes, for it was none other than Holly and her husband Terry, who were traipsing around Romania, and by sheer luck our paths crossed. Holly was a fellow volunteer at the inaugural English language program held in Germany's Black Forest area only a couple of weeks ago, and was quite prodigious in figuring out some of the nearby hiking trails and sharing with the rest of our group. After catching up a bit, we reconvened later in the evening to join the free walking tour around Brasov (being avid walkers, they had already covered most of the ground by themselves, but it was all new to lazy me), followed by a 3 hour Mexican dinner paired with the local wine.

Hard-luck Hungarians brew some lemonade

Perched atop Gellert Hill in Budapest is the Liberty Statue, a bronzed figure of a woman holding a palm leaf with both hands. While this fetching image might seem to be a heart-warming symbol of freedom to the casual visitor, the reality is quite different. 

Initially, it was constructed in 1947 to commemorate the liberation of Hungary from the Fascist Nazi regime by the Soviets in WWII. However, that was before they realized that their "rescuers" had no intentions of leaving anytime soon, and that they had to endure the Communist ideology that the new bosses imposed. Ah, the sad reality of being a perennial loser in armed conflicts. ("In the next war, make sure we're not on your side", a walking tour guide sarcastically commented, only half-jokingly).

There is a happy ending to this tale though. In 1991, the last Soviet troops left Hungary, bringing with it not only independence, a painful transition to a capitalist economy, but also a unique dilemma. What should be done to the countless Communist-era statues (including Lady Liberty) that towered over public squares and parks, their Big Brother-like presence a constant reminder of oppression?

The initial overwhelming sentiment was to destroy all these statues, as a means to erase the bad memories. But then someone argued, these statues are part of history, and wouldn't it be fun to put them all side-by-side in one place, as a reminder of the dark past? (And perhaps make some money off curious tourists). 

This idea gained currency, and thus was born Memento Park (or Statue Park), situated about an hour's ride outside Budapest. The park operates a bus service that leaves from Deak Ferenc at 11am everyday, with optional guided tour which is well worth the extra cost.

The statues at Memento Park did evoke a sense of awe in me, both for their sheer size and notoriety of the people they depict. Although it was certainly no picnic under Communist rule, nowadays the locals feel free to laugh at the symbols that used to torment them. 

The one to the left is officially the Republic of Councils monument. When first placed in City Park, its immense back side did not make it popular with families enjoying their Sunday afternoons. 

However, here inside Statue Park, this is the most photographed monument, and has been nicknamed The Coatroom Attendant. With some imagination and from a certain angle, the gargantuan statue looks like a man running after someone, yelling "You forgot your scarf, sir!!". 

Consider another memento that won't evoke any nostalgia -  the so-called "people's car" , the Trabant. Owning one required a down payment of one-half of the sticker price, then twiddling your thumbs for 6 to 8 years before taking delivery. No word if choosing a specific color resulted in a longer delay. 

Now the Trabant, with its mediocre performance and smoky engine, is considered a symbol of the failures of centralized planning. A popular joke goes like this:

"How do you double the value of a Trabant?"
"Easy, fill up the tank with gas".

How about our friend Lady Liberty? Why was she left on top of Gellert Hill and not made to suffer the same ignominious fate as her peers?

Perhaps the Hungarians thought it fitting to have an eye-catching symbol of freedom visible to everyone, so the inscription on the plaque was simply changed to something more apt.

It now reads, "To the memory of all of those who sacrificed their lives for the independence, freedom, and success of Hungary."

Amen to that, and to the further expansion of Memento Park. While the past can never be erased, it's time to adopt a capitalist mindset and pack in the crowds who are eager to gawk at the Communist era's relics - for a price.

Pick your Pintxos in Old Town San Sebastian

"Choices, choices...", I sighed, as I surveyed the numerous plates laid neatly side-by-side on the bar at Tamboril, a restaurant just off the main square in old town San Sebastian. "So many pintxos to try", referring to the elaborately-prepared, colorful bite-sized creations that rested on each plate, "and only three meals a day".

Tamboril was the second stop on my lunch hour, preceded by a drink of txakoli (a cloudy white wine) and a taste of two dishes at another bar. Known as tapas in all of Spain, these appetizers were referred to as pintxos in San Sebastian, a charming seaside city located in the Basque country, a region in the northern part of Spain where the eponymous language rules.

In Basque country, there is a unique way of presenting and ordering pintxos. Instead of the dishes being enclosed inside a glass case, tradition dictates that they be laid out on the bar. Patrons are handed a plate and go from one end of the bar to the other to pick whatever pintxos appeal to their eyes and stomach, socializing along the way with other customers.

Once they have finalized their choices, depending on the bar, the attendant either adds up the bill based on the price of each dish (if prices are not the same), or waits until after the patron finishes eating and simply counts the number of pintxos consumed. The latter was more prevalent in the past, but since it wasn't quite fool proof (i.e. toothpicks stuffed inside pockets were not uncommon), thus I experienced it only once.

With all these dishes begging to be tasted, I decided that instead of eating sit-down meals at restaurants, a more ideal strategy would be to go on a pintxo crawl for every lunch and dinner during my visit to San Sebastian.

In addition to variety, the pick 'n choose method eliminated the guesswork involved in choosing food from a foreign language menu, and made for quicker meals - in just half an hour you're done and off to the next joint. For lunch and dinner I'd hit three different places, ordering a couple of pintxos in each one, along with a drink which was either the above-mentioned txakoli or low-alcohol cider.

Ah, the selecting part - that's where I was gripped by moments of indecision, especially if they all looked delectable. One personal guideline is to opt for the more elaborate creations (as the pics hopefully illustrate) instead of the more typical croquettes, Spanish omelet or jamon iberico straddling a piece of bread. Or sometimes I'd chose based on how colorful a particular pintxo looked, and hope for the best.

Newbies to the Basque pintxo culture could be forgiven for being squeamish at the thought of other people's errant fingers brushing against adjacent pieces of food, or wonder exactly how many hours the pintxos have been sitting around, but unlike other regions of Spain, tradition has overcome efforts to eliminate the practice here.

Another surprising part is that waste (napkins, toothpicks) are simply disposed of by chucking them on the floor. However, it is said that the quality of an establishment could be measured by how much detritus adorned its floors.

With the concentration of establishments in old town San Sebastian, It's quite hard to chose among them. There are a couple of ways around this - one can take a somewhat pricey two hour pintxo tasting tour with like-minded foodies that goes to five or six different bars and samples two or three dishes at each one.

A cheaper alternative would be to spend significant time, as I did,  in between meals consulting the website Todopintxos which suggests various routes for pintxo discovery, and where voters rate individual dishes and places. The effort is very much worth it, this I can personally attest to, as I smile at the memories of the delicious pintxos and pat my stomach contentedly.

Click here for more posts from Spain.

Aveiro, the "Portuguese Venice"

I know - those long boats and canals look familiar. At first glance, you could be forgiven for thinking those are gondolas on the Grand Canal in Venice. Nope. Although similar to gondolas, these are called moliceiros, and the locale is Aveiro in Portugal.

Not to worry if you hadn't heard of Aveiro, neither have most of the Spanish people I've met. Located just an hour outside of Porto, this small city is often dubbed the "Portuguese Venice" because of its similarities with that more illustrious Italian city. 

Having visited three big cities in a row - Granada, Sevilla and Lisbon - I wanted a break from the crowds, and needed a place to simply relax and be free from the pressures of sightseeing.

There are lots of smaller towns that touted their features in glossy brochures, but Aveiro stood out because of the novelty factor. Like any tourist, I was curious about those canals and long boats, not having any plans of visiting touristy Venice anytime soon (I took the gondola ride there ten years ago), I figured the city and moliceiro ride would be a good substitute.

Clearly the forty-five minute jaunt on the canals was going to be the highlight of my stay here. After a short wait to gather the minimum six passengers (on a weekend!), we set sail and passed underneath numerous bridges (the most interesting is pictured above with Aveiro's emblem), saw the huge McDonald's logo pasted on the huge mall dominating the center of town, and a few other noteworthy buildings. The architecture along the banks doesn't exactly inspire comparisons with Bruges or Amsterdam, to be honest.

Moreover, sorry to disappoint romantics, but there is no hunky gondolier in striped shirt rowing the moliceiro  and belting out opera arias as you sip expensive champagne. Commentary is provided by a staff person who struggled to be heard above the din of the motor as he alternated among Portuguese, French and English, with varying levels of proficiency in each. 

That proved to be the only touristy thing I did in Aveiro, and two days passed by quickly spent just strolling around, visiting the upscale mall with all the name brands, and eating a lot of sweets. So, it wasn't quite like the real Venice, but then that was probably for the best.

Yellow Pastry tour of Portugal

"So why is it called bolas de Berlim?", I asked Paula, a local Portuguese whom I met at the hostel in Porto. "It didn't come from Germany, did it?".

Paula laughed, then replied "No, of course not. Because it has two halves, with the thick cream in the middle. Sort of like East and West separated by the wall".

This bizarre explanation with outdated political reference notwithstanding, the bolas de Berlim is just one of many sweet treats in pastelarias' display cases that entice passers-by to ogle and stop for a quick snack.

While critics might harp that Portuguese cuisine doesn't rise to the same meteoric heights as their larger Iberian neighbor, in the sweets department it's definitely no slouch. 

My personal favorite is the pasteis de nata, sweet custard tarts topped with burnt caramel and surrounded by a flaky crust. Four cafes lined the seven-minute walk from my hostel in Lisbon to the metro stop, so every day I would venture inside a different one, order two pasteis with cafe con leche, and devour them standing at the counter.  Hard to beat that for a mid-morning snack.

In Aveiro, a traditional pastry called ovo mole still rules. Shaped in different forms such as shells, fish, and clams, these treats have a very thin wafer-like exterior, and a very sweet inside made of egg yolks and sugar. 

I found the ovos moles quite addictive, and found an excuse to pop one into my mouth every few minutes, only to discover to my chagrin that my newly-purchased box of twelve is now empty. Oh well, time to go back to the store for more.

There are lots more Portuguese pastries that I haven't tasted, possibly for the better,  health-wise. Just these three alone brought my sugar intake to stratospheric levels, and only lots of walking offset the calories (how many, I didn't want to know) that were consumed. Don't let anyone fool you into thinking Portuguese food isn't great, but cast your eyes towards the pastelarias.

Alhambra in Granada

I wasn't that quite enamored with Granada, despite glowing feedback from other travelers I've met. Perhaps it was because I was coming off an emotional high from Valdelavilla, but more likely the intense heat that made walking around a miserable affair. 

My hostel was situated in the Albayzin, an area with narrow, unmarked and uphill alleys filled with Moroccan tea houses and shops. In fact, it felt like being in Morocco at times, and fortunately it was only a few minutes hike up to the Mirador de San Nicolas, a popular hangout at sunset for the great views.

That big palace on the cliff is the Alhambra, the star attraction in this city. Perhaps the most well-preserved of all Moorish architecture in Spain, over three million tourists visit the expansive grounds and palace every year.

As you can imagine, it pays to buy your ticket online in advance. I logged in on a Saturday and the earliest availability was for Wednesday evening, which worked out just fine. Alternatively, people have reported success by showing up early (around 7am) to join the queue. 

There's not really much else to say about the Alhambra that other people haven't already said. Even if you're not into palaces and architecture, the Alhambra is well worth spending a few hours in.  It does live up to all the hype, and one can only marvel at the intricately carved and colorful patterns adorning the walls.

Don't Stand so Close to Me

Watching a live bull fight for the first time is quite mystifying, especially if you're almost totally ignorant on the topic but have only heard heated arguments on the pros and cons of this spectacle. 

Apparently, one of the trademarks of an excellent torero (or matador in English) is how close he is willing to stand near a specially-bred toro bravo, provoke it to rush at him, laughing in the face of physical injury or worse, death. Pure insanity, if you ask me, but part and parcel of this slice of Spanish culture. 

Here's a short video to illustrate the artistry and skill of our torero, as he shows his mastery over the wounded bull.  As you can see, my advice has fallen on deaf ears.

Click this link if embedded video doesn't show up.

These theatrics go on for a while until our protagonist has judged that the bull is ready to be put to death. He then takes out his sword (cleverly hidden behind the cape) to strike the final blow. Sometimes though, these proud and hardy bulls are tough to put away. 

Below, the bull has the sword sticking out of his back, but is improbably still on his feet. The torero's assistants wave their capes furiously to make him even more dizzy and weak. After all, their boss has to get his applause from the crowd. 

Click this link if embedded video doesn't show up.

On a slightly more gruesome note, after the inevitable has occurred,  the clean-up crew comes to take the bull out of the ring, a final indignity suffered by the brave beast. Then it's on to the next round at La Maestranza. 

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A Star is Born in Valdelavilla - Part III

"I LOVE blondes!!!", screamed Greg, as he turned around after zipping across the room like a madman, his arms raised to the skies for dramatic effect. "Blondes with long hair and boots and short skirts and a big chest...". Then, using his normal voice, "That's how you should do it. You're being too normal".

I glared at him through the black-rimmed glasses straight out of Harry Potter that he made me wear ("it's funnier"), and wished this would all end soon, before physical and mental fatigue overcame me.

We were in the third hour of rehearsals for the Valdelavilla Players' most ambitious production yet, a fifteen-minute collage of scenes from Woody Allen's "Play It Again, Sam", with yours truly cast in the title role of Allan, a whiny neurotic whose wife recently left him. (Woody himself played the role in the movie, those were the days).

Showtime was but two hours away, and the cast hadn't gotten down their parts yet. As the lead star, I bore the brunt of Greg's criticism, and his caustic mood was made worse by an abscessed tooth. Every little mistake that David, Rebecca, Laura or myself made irritated him. Moreover, being a former professional theater director, Greg was used to working with real actors, not "normal" language volunteers who shirked from the spotlight - heck, I never even gave Powerpoint presentations at work, and now I was tasked to play a character who alternated among three different moods - neurosis, whining, and dream-like fantasy.

I admit that I was flattered when Greg approached me on the second day, and broached the idea of having me play Allan. "You can do it, I'm sure of it", were his exact words. He continued, "Besides, you're the only option I have - the only other male Anglo is too old to play a 29-year old character". I consented to do it, in the spirit of camaraderie with every volunteer and program participant in Valdelavilla, despite the absence of any acting experience whatsoever.

But now, as he barked at me to run onstage from the sofa to the chair at the corner, to give "MORE, MORE, MORE" in acting hyper, full of pent-up energy, I had second thoughts. However, it was too late to cancel now, and I would let everyone down, so I resisted the urge to scream back at him, told myself to calm down, and just soldiered on.

eagerly awaiting our production of "Play it Again, Sam"

So, we rehearsed, over and over. And got better, step by step. At some points I could even hear Greg laugh out loud as we ran through the scene. I made a few more boo-boos, mostly due to overeagerness (maybe I was turning into Allan!) in reciting my lines without waiting for my co-stars' prompts, but laughed them off.

Finally, we were ready for the big show. Or as ready as could be. I took the stage and sat on the right hand side of the sofa, agitated and fumbling nervously, waiting for my friends' knock on the door.

The rest was a blur - pacing around the stage, reciting my lines (which I had mostly memorized, though we were allowed to read from the script), screaming at the top of my voice to drown out Linda's phone conversation as she tried to set me up, trying to remember Greg's litany of advice (e.g. wait for laughter to stop before proceeding with next line, run from one spot to another WHILE saying your lines), and just acting like the crazed person my character was supposed to be, and then switching to the deflated whiner mode when reminded of my failures.At various key points, I heard Greg's distinctive laugh rising above the other audience members', and smiled a little in self-satisfaction.

Then just like that, it was over. The cast joined hands for the traditional bow to uproarious applause. At dinner time, the other participants took their turns to shake my hand and offer their congratulations. Clearly, my laid-back demeanor did not inspire much confidence in delivering an incredible performance.  No, I repeated over and over, I had never acted before. "Get out of here", I responded with a big smile to those who suggested that I should consider exploring community theater as a career option, adding, "all that red wine must be clouding your judgement".

The kudos flowed even during the after-dinner scene. Several barflies, including B., a drama teacher, pronounced myself as having rendered the Best Performance in a Lead Role in a Musical/Comedy among the three nights of entertainment at Valdelavilla, and even my tormentor Greg took me aside, and said "We did it. I had my doubts after the first thirty minutes of rehearsal, but you improved so much. Now you're the talk of the (tiny) town".

Don't bother looking for Youtube videos. Sadly, there is no video nor photographic evidence that documents this epic event. I still don't know how I pulled through without any nerves, staying as cool as a cucumber*, nor why I bothered to stay up till 2am memorizing the dialogue. Perhaps if career opportunities in the Informatics field dry up, a niche playing Woody Allen characters onstage might not such be a bad idea.

*"fresco como una lechuga" in Spanish, literally "cool as a lettuce", since cucumber is pepino. Not sure how this came about.


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A Day in the Life at Valdelavilla - Part II

"Do you really have to talk for ten hours a day, to a non-native English speaker no less?" is probably the top FAQ when informed of my Vaughan Town week-long volunteer program at Valdelavilla, usually expressed in a tone of incredulity.

The answer is YES. Much more than ten hours, actually. The day starts with the 9am buffet breakfast (including churros), and then the next 4 hours are devoted to one-on-one conversation sessions with a Spaniard. So what do we talk about? For each hour, phrasal verbs (e.g. "to back up") or idioms (e.g. "to sleep on it") are assigned for discussion - these can be challenging and a bit nonsensical, I thought, so in some cases I preferred to let the conversation flow instead of talking about them.

Vaughan Town also recommends bringing some conversation starters or aids - playing cards, games, and the like. While I did print photos from previous travels, they were only used as a last resort. The key is to be creative and tailor the conversation around relevant topics given the person's background - for example, having heard Javier mention that he had been on business trips to Japan, I dug up photos of ryokans (traditional Japanese-style inns) and recounted my experience staying at a capsule hotel in Tokyo. Or if financial markets are your forte, then a lively discussion with Jose Luis (the most talkative Spaniard) to dissect Ben Bernanke, interest rates, the EU debt crisis and other weighty topics. And every chance I'd get,  I'd talk about the Roger vs. Rafa rivalry, and the ongoing Roland Garros (French Open to you non-tennis enthusiasts) tournament. I bet none of the other Anglos went within a mile of these topics.

After these grueling sessions, the meals come as a welcome relief. I shouldn't complain, since given the imbalance in numbers we Anglos get a free hour now and then while the Spaniards don't. Meal times can be complicated as well, since the program director ensures that there is a mix of Anglos and Spaniards at each table, so that they resist the temptation to lapse back to forbidden Spanish.

As advertised, the staff prepares a sumptuous three-course meal (appetizer, main course, and dessert) accompanied by wine, and the food was generally excellent and plentiful. (A very minor quibble: Perhaps the organizers might look into offering a rotating selection of riojas and ribera del Dueros instead of the same red all week long). However, the conversation never stops during meals, and after a few days some Anglos would exchange knowing grins upon overhearing this volunteer go on about her cruise ship experiences yet again, or avoid being stuck at the same table with this loud, whiskey-swilling woman from Manchester.

Ample time is given (1.5 hours) to recover, both from the heavy meals and conversation fatigue, during the siesta. I tended to sit in my room reading or taking a nap, especially after the "grind" got to me. We then reconvened at 5pm for a group activity, typically games or dance lessons, which are followed by more one-on-one sessions and/or mock teleconferences.

At 8pm, a nightly entertainment show is put on by the Valdelavilla Players, which consists of - who else? - the volunteers. Don't be surprised if Greg, a professional theater director who moonlights as the master of ceremonies for these sessions, pulls you aside during the day, explains the role he wants you to play, and before you know it you've committed to rehearsals,  enduring his constant caustic remarks and endless quest for perfection. Whatever notions of having a relaxing week should have disappeared by now.

Dinner follows at 9pm, another three courses and much more wine (now we REALLY need it). Although entirely optional, people whose energy levels show no signs of flagging hang out at the bar (there is only one in Valdelavilla), talking, talking, talking...until the clock strikes midnight when the staff kicks out everyone.

After the first day or two, the Spaniards start warming up to the Anglos, and more importantly, start understanding their accents, and become more comfortable expressing themselves in English. Though most were sent by their respective companies to attend this rigorous eighty-hour session, a few paid the hefty fees out of their own pockets (I also heard some got a last minute fifty percent discount), for which I admire and salute them. With the wheels eased by alcohol, the conversations become more animated whereas during the initial stages, they'd just nod and pretend to understand. Whether or not they're even remotely interested in cruises or politics or tennis is a different story though.

If you've been keeping count, that's a total of roughly 12 hours of continuously speaking English every day (not counting siesta time). Not sure what guarantees Vaughn Town gives to the Spanish participants as far as attaining conversational fluency in English, but gaining five pounds seems to be a sure-fire thing.


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