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Rick Steves: Blog Gone Europe

I'm on the road in Spain, Italy, Slovenia, Montenegro and Bosnia — weaving my travel experiences into my business, and sharing what's on my mind. If you think it's inappropriate for a travel writer to stir up discussion on his blog with political observations and insights gained from traveling abroad, you may not want to read any further. — Rick

Pilgrims finish their journey. Jubilation sloshes all over the square in front of the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela each morning as those hiking the Camino de Santiago finish their trek.
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I'm tucked away in Santiago de Compostela, in the northwest corner of Spain. It's my last day here before flying to Rome. I have a three-part agenda: see pilgrims reach their goal in front of the cathedral, explore the market, and buy some barnacles in the seafood section — then have them cooked for me, on the spot, in a café.

Whenever I'm here, I make a point to be on the big square, at the foot of the towering cathedral of St. James, at around 10 in the morning. That's when scores of well-worn pilgrims march in triumphantly from their last overnight on the train — most finishing a 30-day, 500-mile hike from the French border. They finish their camino by stepping on the scallop shell embedded in the pavement at the foot of the cathedral. I just love watching how different people handle jubilation.

If Europe had a rain forest, it would be here. But instead it has a city made of granite painted green by moss. The historic and stony buildings of Santiago come in a watercolor green. Rainy as it often is, this morning the church is back-lit by the rising sun and, looking up, the weary pilgrim squints...small before God.

Routinely, pilgrims ask me to take their photo and email it to them. Then they say, "I've got to go meet with St. James" and — as has been the routine for a thousand years — they head into the cathedral.

Two blocks away, the market is thriving, oblivious to the personal triumphs going on over at St. James' tomb. There's something about wandering through a farmers market early in the morning anywhere in the world. It's a chance to observe the most fundamental commerce: Salt-of-the-earth people pull food out of the ground, cart it into the city, and sell what they've harvested to people who don't have gardens.

A yummy box of pigs' ears. Buy them tonight at your favorite tapas bar.
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Dried-apple grandmothers line up like a babushka can-can. Each sits on a stool so small it disappears under her work dress. At the women's feet are brown woven baskets filled like cornucopias — still-dirty eggs in one; in the next, greens clearly pulled this morning, soil clinging to their roots. One woman hopes to earn a few extra euros with homebrews — golden bottles with ramshackle corks — one named "licor café," the other, more mysteriously, "oruzo casero."

Another row of babushkas in shawls sit before rickety card tables filled with yellow cheeses shaped like giant Hershey's Kisses...or, to locals, breasts. The local cheese is called tetilla — that's "tits" — to revenge a prudish priest who, seven centuries ago, told a sculptor at the cathedral to redo a statue that he considered too buxom. Ever since, the townsfolk have shaped their cheese like exactly what the priest didn't want them to see carved in stone. And you can't go anywhere in Santiago without seeing cheese tetilla. In fact the town is famous for its creamy, mild tetilla.

Stepping further into the market, I notice spicy red chorizo chains framing merchants' faces. Chickens, plucked and looking rubber as can be, fill glass cases. The sound of cascading clams and castanet shrimp — red, doomed, and flipping mad — greets me as I enter the seafood hall. Fisherwomen in rubber aprons and matching gloves sort through folding money.

There's a commotion at the best stalls. Short ladies with dusty, blue-plaid roller carts jostle for the best deals. A selection of pigs' ears mixed with hooves going nowhere fills a shoebox. The ears, translucent in the low rays of the morning sun, look as if someone had systematically and neatly flattened and filed conch shells.

Barnacles are very expensive unless you buy them in the market and have them cooked to order. They're worth both the expense and trouble.
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I buy my percebes (barnacles) — at €25 a kilo, they're one-third the price I'd pay in a bar. I get 200 grams for €5 and hustle my full bag over to the market café called Churro Mania. There, Ramon and Julia boil them for €3 per person, plus 10 percent of the cost of whatever you have them cook up. Feeling quite like a local — sipping my beer so early in the morning — I wait for my barnacles to cook.

Then, the climax of my morning: Julia brings my barnacles, stacked steaming on their stainless steel plate, as well as bread, and another beer. I'm set. Twist, rip, bite. It's the bounty of the sea condensed into every little morsel...edible jubilation.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 26, 2009
Comments (14)

I'm in northern Spain working hard, but it is a little discouraging because so few Americans are traveling here. León and Burgos are great old towns with awe-inspiring cathedrals and plenty of colorful tapas bars. (I just found the Spanish twin to Scottish haggis — it's called morcilla and comes without the skin. You'd think a dog got sick on your plate. Smear it on toast with a fine red wine. It's quite tasty...if you like haggis...which I do.)

Sure, it's great traveling here. But I want lots of people to use my work. And the chances of that here, relative to just about anywhere else in Spain, are about nil.

Anyone walking through town with a backpack is likely a pilgrim, heading like me (but on foot) from France to Santiago. (Some 80,000 are expected this year — I figure that's about 500 a day through the season.) I play a game: When they walk past, I spin around to see the scallop shell dangling from their pack — as it has from the rucksacks of pilgrims for over a thousand years. I love the idea that the first guidebook ever written talked up “going local, packing light, and watching out for pickpockets” for pilgrims traveling the Camino de Santiago a thousand years ago.

My guide, Paco, is from Pamplona — a famously conservative town with a famously rowdy drunken brawl each summer when the bulls run. Today in León we walked by a sex shop and Paco said, “Not in my town.”

Pamplona is a center of the super-conservative wing of the Catholic Church, Opus Dei (with a university, medical science center, hospital, lots of money, and lots of power). Franco put it here to tighten Navarre's connection to the rest of Spain. I commented on the contradiction of pious Pamplona being famous for its annual drunken brawl, and tied it to the notion of a PK (a "pastor's kid"...often the troublemaker in middle school). Paco, who stressed that Opus Dei neighbors are welcome and respected, explained that they may believe sex is not for fun. But when they party...they really party. He then said, “We say, ‘In Spain, you could never say that that priest is not your father.'”

When Franco died in 1975, the end of his repression unleashed an orgy of pent-up hedonism. A decade of movies was known as the Destape (disrobed) period — when every Julia Roberts in Spain had to play topless. Today, these actresses look back and see the irony in the end of Franco's repression being replaced by what they now see as another kind of repression.

In Spain, humor changes from region to region. Paco's take: Andalusian humor is noisy and simple. People in the north have a raw, edgy sense of humor, Saturday Night Live-style. And in Barcelona, people love Woody Allen.

Paco, like everyone here, is high on Obama. Europeans are buzzing about his recent visit at the G20 meeting. Paco explained that the press is famously unimpressed by politicians. “And for the first time in memory, the press corps gave a standing ovation to someone...and for an American president!”

Paco's degree is in marketing. I asked him about “the brand of America.” He said when his grandparents were young, French sold. For his parents, Italian sold. For his generation (which came of age in the 1980s), American culture sold. For young people today, China and Japan sell. (Not coincidentally, the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao is featuring very popular exhibits by Chinese and Japanese artists.)

Paco said that back in the days of Ronald Reagan, people were charmed by American culture on TV and in the movies, and it seemed to match reality. In the last years, the American image on TV and in the movies didn't match the uglier reality people saw on the news. To Paco and his friends, Obama isn't the Messiah, but he has “the face of truth.”

I was impressed that Paco had the new edition of my Spain guidebook. He said, “Whenever we need an international book, Amazon.com is our answer.” They pay the same as Americans do — no extra for shipping. And rather than arriving in two or three days, the book comes in about 10.

Paco is from Navarre (in the north). He said, "We are shy and reserved, but when you talk to us, you open the door." I have found this to be very true. He's a good guide for his region, but he's never been to Santiago de Compostela (the greatest city in northern Spain, just a day's drive away). I ribbed him about this, but admitted that I've never been to Yosemite (and he has). So he ribs me that, since he's traveling with me, he'll get to Santiago before I get to Yosemite.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 22, 2009
Comments (16)

I'm just a little drunk here after celebrating my two-day nip into France from Spain with a great dinner. Serge, a restaurateur clearly in love with turning people on to good food, asked me what kind of wine I liked. I said Medoc. He lit up, and brought me a bottle from 2003. He said, “That was a very hot year.” I said, “Yes. Wasn't that the heat spell that killed thousands of French senior citizens who had no air-con?” He said, “Yes, tragic...but this wine is excellent.” So, my guard is down and I'm just throwing together a ratatouille (spell-checker no help with that one) of observations.

Of all the places I've been researching in Western Europe, I believe Spain is the one where smoky hotels and restaurants are the most prevalent. I did find a place that has water in the ashtrays to absorb some of the smell.

Another thought on the “art” (and not, as locals insist, the "sport") of bullfighting: Newspaper stories on bullfighting appear not in the sports section, but in the culture pages.

In Spain and France, republicans are the progressive ones — those against the king or the dictator and in favor of the Republic. They get confused when considering American politics, where Republicans are on the conservative side of the political spectrum.

I'm always amazed at how stupid and demoralized museum guards seem. Surrounded by great art, they show no curiosity or initiative. Sure there are exceptions. And sure they have boring jobs. But they could learn where the El Grecos are and when the Picasso will return to its normal place.

In Spain, big museums now require groups to rent “whisper systems” for €1 per group member. This gives each person an earpiece and the guide a mic and transmitter. Guides love it because they can talk softly and all can hear, non-paying members can no longer freeload on their commentary, and they broadcast at a unique frequency that can be heard throughout the museum but only by members of their group — so no one can get lost. For the rest of us, it's nice because we no longer hear the babble of guides in various languages telling their stories.

I just saw an etching of a garrote-style execution in Barcelona. They sit you in a chair with a metal band around your neck and put a crucifix in your hand. Then, as a priest prays for you and the public gawks, they slowly tighten the band until you strangle to death. I knew this happened in the Inquisition (16th century). But the date on this execution was 1894.

I've been getting used to Vista on my new, fast, powerful, and tiny laptop. There's just one problem: When it's plugged in, I receive a low-level shock from the wrist board as I type. My tech man back in the office explained it's because my adapter doesn't engage the ground prong on the three-prong American plug. (Glad I'm done having kids.)

It's fun being in travel stride. Setting up the room is key. I review my pillow options from the varieties in the top shelf of the closet. It's been cold, so I find the extra blanket. I am proactive about asking for a quieter room if I get a room on the street and a lower floor. It can make a big difference. I gather up all the promotional clutter and needless remotes and hide them in a drawer. (I have an ethic not to turn on the TV — that'll be the end when I start cruising.) And life is so nice after dropping by a market and picking up some fruit, veggies, crackers, and juice (apple is best at room temp) to stock a little hotel-room pantry.

It seems hotels put an eco-friendly note in the bathroom saying, “Help us save the world. Hang towels to reuse, toss in tub to be changed.” I hang the towels...and invariably, the maids change them out anyway.

Here in Basque Country, it's politically correct for anyone with a website who supports the Basque movement to use .com rather than .es (the suffix for España).

Hoteliers tell me the economy is so tight and things are so expensive for people that vacationing French wait until they know the weather will be good before committing to a visit.

When you eat so late in Spain, each lunch is a kind of break-fast. For several days I've worked six hard hours with barely a drink or nibble. (That's why Spaniards have a kind of mini-pre-lunch late in the morning.) When I finally sit down for lunch and the beer hits the table, my body sucks it in with unprecedented gusto and appreciation.

Javier, whose dad is a famous Michelin star-rated chef in Toledo (Spain), does his best to corrupt me at his restaurant. It was a lovely evening of being taught the importance of matching food with fine wine.
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The other day, the son of a famous local chef taught me a little gastronomy. Javier said, “Food with wine completes the circle. But you must do it right. Partridge makes good red wine bad red wine. Partridge and white beans...that's perfect with white wine. You must think with your stomach.” I'm still learning. The whole matching wine with food thing has been frustrating for me. But several times I've got it right this last week...and lift off...it makes a believer out of you.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 19, 2009
Comments (36)

I've been blogging for three years, and make it a point not to respond directly to comments. But so many people think I'm "anti-Catholic," I need to address this issue. (I have been writing all day...on a roll, finishing Madrid before diving into Basque Country. But I want to organize and share my thoughts on this.)

For years, my travels have caused me to think about organized religion. (When I got my history degree at the UW, one of my favorite classes was “History of the Christian Church.”) And for years, I've believed that anyone who enjoys getting close to God should pack their spirituality along with them in their travels. For two decades, I walked the tightrope of being a Christian tour guide wanting to facilitate spiritual growth among the religious ones in my secular groups without offending those who didn't have a faith.

One of my favorite tour guiding challenges was to organize “back door fellowships” on Sunday mornings, with an open, sharing atmosphere where spiritual people — from conservative Catholics to Buddhists to tree-huggers to Methodists to curious European bus drivers who've never seen this on a tour — would enjoy the chance to share spiritual ideas stimulated by their travels. We'd learn a few things about our bus-mates that would normally never come out in the everyday chit-chat of a tour social scene. I'd routinely get well over half the group to attend, and it was always a rewarding hour spent together. And we rejoined the group without having created a divide between us and those who choose sleep over worship that Sunday morning on the Rhine (or wherever).

My most political travel educational experiences have been as a participant in Center for Global Education tours put on by the Lutheran Augsburg College in Minneapolis. Through these, I developed the same Christian passion for “sanctity of life” that anti-abortionists have. But I defined “life” as something much broader than a fetus — rather, I kept a special focus on how structural poverty denies innocent people (precious children of God) the fulfilling life their Creator envisioned for them here on earth.

Most of the Central American staffers for CFGE were Catholics. I learned that many Catholics doing the Lord's work in Central America are excommunicated for their “social and economic justice” politics, and they just keep on keepin' on. I was inspired by their belief that part of their vow of obedience to the church was disobedience to the Church. (I draw a huge distinction between little-c church and big-C Church.) While many angry atheists hate God because of bad things the big-C Church has done, I cut God a little slack in that regard, knowing that Church government is made of people — as feeble-minded and plagued with greed, power, and corruption as political and business leaders can be.

Because I work observations about religion into my travel writing, I anger a lot of people unintentionally. I actually had death threats against me before a lecture in San Diego a few years ago from a fundamentalist Muslim group because I wrote that many parents throughout Islam were naming their children Saddam and Osama. The angry Muslims took my point very wrong. My point was that good people can celebrate courageous people in their culture standing up to empire (much like many good people supported Geronimo and Lenin and Spartacus and, of course, Jesus). Brutal and corrupt a dictator as Saddam may have been, to people who have a different perspective, he symbolized taking back control of natural resources from the USA. (I believe that, more than his meanness, was his downfall. There are lots of mean dictators with longevity...but not many who violate US claims to their natural resources.)

So, those San Diego Muslims thought I was insulting Islam, when I was actually explaining to ethnocentric Americans how someone so universally despised in our country could have a local following — and how good people might even name their children after him. (San Diego provided me with a police escort for my visit...and I gave the lecture without being hurt. It was kind of exciting.)

In a similar way, I can write things that some Catholics love and others hate at the same time. So, to all those who say, “Rick, stop picking on the Catholic Church, don't disparage the Catholic Church, lay off the Catholic Church, don't be so anti-Catholic” — let me say this: I believe Christian churches offer Christians spiritual nourishment. Like different ethnic restaurants can offer the same quality nourishment with entirely different menus, I think different denominations can serve different congregations. Spiritually, I love to “eat Lutheran.” While some would say only Baptists or Catholics or Latin-speaking Catholics or hat-wearing Wisconsin Synod Lutheran women will go to heaven, all of that seems kind of small-minded to me (and, I imagine, to God). If you want to feed your faith...just eat and eat where you like the menu. It occurs to me that “ecumenism” is one of my favorite words. I love to think it, do it, even say it. Ecumenism.

I consider myself a Lutheran Catholic (as Martin Luther would). My beautiful wife is Roman Catholic through and through. For years she was on the worship board of the Lutheran church in our little town, contributing her rich Catholic heritage to our worship style and making my church, Trinity Lutheran, a better place. I can't ever remember wanting anything so bad as for our daughter Jackie to be accepted to Georgetown University so her mind could be nourished and shaped by Jesuit higher education and professors. Our son, Andy, has had a great four years at Notre Dame (a Holy Cross Catholic school).

Yes, my brother-in-law, John Jenkins, is the president of the University of Notre Dame. I have a tremendous respect for him — personally, intellectually and spiritually. He is an inspiration in every way. And we differ in our style of Christianity. Ten years ago, when I was writing the script for a Lutheran (ELCA) video designed to tell the story of Martin Luther and the Reformation (which we filmed in Germany), I asked Father John for help (because I strove to make a balanced script and didn't want to offend Catholics with our history). John and I worked on it. But, finally (and wisely), John said, “For the good of our relationship, I need to end this collaboration.”

(The video was an exciting project — eventually it was sent to all 11,000 ELCA churches, and is used to tell the story of the Lutheran Church to all those congregations. It's on YouTube and available with four other shows I've done with the ELCA on a “Faithful Travel” DVD at our website. Until my Iran show, it was about the toughest scriptwriting challenge I've had.)

But back to my brother-in-law, Father John. Today Notre Dame is embroiled in a controversy because they've invited President Obama to speak at the graduation ceremony. Conservative Catholics who can't accept a leader who differs from them on the abortion issue are trying to stop the event. (They're even pestering Father John's dear mother.) That 95 percent of the seniors on campus want Obama to give the talk doesn't matter to them. Some people just "know" what's right, and can't accept people who differ.

This is not the first controversy that Father John has confronted, and it won't be his last. He is a principled Catholic leader making sure Notre Dame is right up there with its secular competitors as one of the nation's leading universities. And he will not be bullied by people who think they have a lock on the definition of sanctity of life. I believe in the sanctity of life. Father John Jenkins believes in the sanctity of life. And the people threatening to stop supporting Notre Dame because Obama is coming to South Bend do, too. The idea in this country is that no one gets to be the boss of what everyone else thinks. I like it that way.

Am I anti-Catholic? Some would think so. I choose to be Lutheran — it's just so right for me. The woman I love is a Catholic. I've sent both of our children to Catholic schools. I don't hesitate to say when I believe the Church (big-C) is wrong. I love what the Catholic Church has done in supporting people in Central America. I don't like what the Catholic Church has done (past or present) in Spain. Do I hold it (and religious wars, and pedophiles, and witch burnings, and the other things that make people really angry about Church) against God? Nope. And when I'm hungry, I'm glad there's a good place to eat nearby — and people willing to cook.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 16, 2009
Comments (72)

I've spent as much time traveling and researching in Spain as in most other countries of Europe, but I don't have as many friends here. I mentioned that frustration to my guide, Frederico (who is a friend). He shared an explanation: Spain's older generation grew up under Franco (the fascist dictator who ruled until the mid-1970s). Anyone my age and older didn't have the opportunity to study abroad, and foreign languages weren't encouraged in Franco's xenophobic Spain.

Spain's movies are dubbed — with lips flapping out of sync while you hear the dialogue in Spanish. This is another part of Franco's heritage. Young people didn't pick up the melody of foreign languages at the movies (as they do in most of Europe), and movies could be easily censored without people even realizing it.

My observation that younger Spaniards aren't very religious (the feeling I got after spending Easter here) is also related to Franco. Historically, the Spanish Church has long meddled in political power. Franco was highly moralistic, and the Spanish Catholic Church was his ally in all things conservative. While Franco is long gone, the moralistic ghost of the dictator still haunts Spain's youth in the Church government's conservatism — especially on abortion.

Spain does allow gay marriage (including the term “marriage”), and it's legal to smoke marijuana here (but not to sell it). But abortion, divorce, and contraception remain points of exasperation for the secular younger generation. The Church's rigidity in these matters alienates Spain's youth.

Guides here have no choice but to talk about Christian art — it's everywhere. But they do it with a (to me) sad detachment, often slipping in an “I'm not religious” disclaimer. Spain's youth are spiritual — another friend of mine here told me how much joy she finds in meditative whirling, dervish-style, while contemplating God. But there's no mainstream Protestant alternative to Catholic Christianity, so many opt out of organized religion entirely and have no faith at all.

Considering that the Church (capital C) is supposed to be a conduit between people and their innate need to get close to their Creator, it seems the Church here is not doing a very good job.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 14, 2009
Comments (33)

Anticrisis Menu. Business is slow at many of Europe's restaurants. Prices are certainly not going up and many are coming down.
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Research has been thought-provoking this last week. I'm giving my Spain book what amounts to a literary haircut: cutting legends and silly tour guide stories out of the book right and left in favor of real history; streamlining coverage; and deleting mediocre listings so as not to dilute the true finds.

My staff is a stickler for details, but I'm realizing some details (like restaurant hours) are futile exercises in over-earnestness. What day a place is closed is critical. What time it starts serving doesn't really matter. Listing which hotels have air-con is about to go the way of listing who has “hot and cold running water.” Same with free Wi-Fi. I'm inclined to delete all fax numbers…but that's a bit scary. (Does anyone still fax reservations to hotels? Please give a little feedback here. Would you miss not having fax numbers in a guidebook?)

I had one gourmet restaurant listed in Ronda that was famous. But when my local guide illustrated how overpriced it was by saying, “They serve foam on plates as big as the bill,” I saw the light and realized it didn't belong in my guidebook.

I met some Canadians in Córdoba who were enjoying my guidebook and told me they watched my TV series and found it "soporific." I didn't know whether they meant it was relaxing or a sedative.

Nearly each day I've enjoyed the services of a local guide. One way I help them (as they are giving me so much information) is to fine-tune their English. They can mispronounce a word for years and no one will set them straight. I find their lack of perfection charming, but they are always thankful for the tips. My Córdoba guide, Alicia, was a brilliant teacher but accented the wrong syllables in megalomania, continuity, rivalry, and massacre. And she pronounced “legend” with a long first e.

Alicia had just come off a German tour and was exasperated. Being half-German herself, she felt comfortable complaining. She said, “Those German tourists are so intense. They own you, test your knowledge. And at the end, they don't even say thank you. They squeezed me for three hours.” I asked, “Like low-class people who eat more than they really want at an all-you-can-eat buffet just to get more than their money's worth?” And she said, “Perfect.”

On a generalization roll, she noted how Japanese tourists can smell the best food in a restaurant but won't eat there if their guidebook says to eat elsewhere. (Many Americans over-trust their guidebooks, too. I've had Swiss hoteliers tell me that if my book says a trail is open and they tell the traveler it's now closed, the American will believe my year-old guidebook advice over their warnings. The power of the printed word can be frighteningly crazy.) My Spanish guide's favorite tourists are Americans because we are “curious, informal, and appreciative.”

Alicia once visited America (Boulder, Colorado) and was frustrated by the thin history. An archeologist by training, she needs history. She wondered aloud if, because Americans can generally dig down and find no history, while Europeans dig and find evidence of people who lived there long before them, perhaps Americans feel less need for and respect of history.

Just a week into my trip, it's hard to know exactly how the financial crisis is affecting Europe. My take: Hotels aren't lowering prices, but I'd email them directly to take advantage of prices bound to be soft. Local tour guides are hungry, and tours will go with fewer people on them just to save some income.

With the bad economy, locals now want jobs immigrants were once welcome to take. This leaves immigrants roaming around without work. Crime rises, and so does racial tension. The danger of car break-ins and petty theft is higher now. With economic ups and downs over the decades, I see a clear correlation with general affluence and desperation on the part of poor people.

Spanish unemployment is reportedly at 17 percent — the highest in Europe. When I said many Americans had lost much of their 401(k) retirement savings, Spaniards said, “What's a retirement account?” They live without that security, counting on a humble national pension (national health care, subsidized senior housing) and little more.

One guide told me Málaga has as many cruise ships in 2009 as in 2008, but people are spending very little on shore. In Toledo, guides are staying busy thanks only to Spanish, German, and French school groups. International tourism is way down. Restaurants are spookily empty. It makes doing my research harder.

I saw a guy wearing a T-shirt proclaiming “What Financial Crisis?” walking in front of a restaurant advertising a “special anti-crisis” menu.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 12, 2009
Comments (49)

I just arrived in Toledo...and it's holier than ever: Dark El Greco clouds overhead with bright clear horizons, and hail pelting huge masses clogging the streets awaiting the Good Friday procession.

(Eight days in, and I've researched Granada, Nerja, Ronda, and Córdoba. My trip is nine parts, thirds broken into thirds: Andalucía, Madrid/Toledo, Basque Country/Galicia; Rome, Tuscany, Florence; and three TV shows in the former Yugoslavia.)

Holy week clogs the streets in Spain. Every city south of Madrid seems to have a Semana Santa schedule booklet listing each of the processions: its home church, where it starts, and where it ends. In Córdoba, they were staggered, leaving every hour or so through the afternoon and lasting many hours each — some into the wee hours.

People lined the streets in anticipation. Cameras on long booms were poised in front of neighborhood churches. In bars, all eyes were fixed on the TVs watching not soccer or bullfighting...but live coverage of their town's Holy Week procession.

Streets are speckled with dribbled candle wax and sunflower seeds from last night's procession. Spaniards seem to be voracious sunflower seed-munchers at parades.

In my earlier days, I would have been in hog heaven with all this commotion. On this trip, I have a mission — to review restaurants each night. Last night in Córdoba, I physically couldn't get through the crowds to the restaurants on my list. So, I joined the scene.

Paraders in their purple-and-white KKK-style cone hats, Crusader swords, and four-foot candles shuffle endlessly. Like American kids scramble for candies at a parade, Spanish kids collect dripping wax from religious coneheads, attempting to amass the biggest ball on a stick for their 2009 Easter souvenir.

Even in our fast-paced and secular world, the rich traditions are strong. While it seems half the population is caught up in the action, I've yet to meet anyone really thinking about what Easter is all about. Maybe faith is a private matter. Maybe it's dead. Maybe I'm talking to the wrong people. Maybe it's inertia from centuries of moms making you go. Or maybe people just like an excuse for a parade.

The procession squeezes down narrow alleys, legions of drums crack eardrums in the confined space, the local press jostles with tourists for the best photos, kids sit wide-eyed on paternal shoulders, and finally the float itself rumbles slowly by: gilded, candlelit, and crushing bystanders against rustic ancient walls. Parade officials — like holy bodyguards — make sure progress is unimpeded. I look up, and high in the sky is what Good Friday is all about: an extremely Baroque Jesus lurching forward under the weight of that cruel cross symbolically climbing to his crucifixion.

Later, back at my hotel, it occurred to me that the float floated not on wheels but on boys. Unseen and unheralded, bent under all that tradition, a team of boys was trudging for hours through the throngs.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 10, 2009
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Three days into my Spain trip and I'm settling in just right. (I believe that when I sweat, there's already a faint whiff of jamón.)

Tonight I blitzed restaurants and tapas bars in Ronda with a local guide and friend. I needed a bite to eat before running all over town to check restaurants, but it was out of the question for him — just too early. Antonio, who eats at 10 p.m., can't get his brain around Americans eating so early. I told him I routinely eat at 6 or 7 p.m., and to him that was a wild as eating at 10 p.m. is to an American.

I've been eating standing up a lot in tapas bars. (I'd much rather sit.) Antonio said Spaniards eat standing up without a second thought, but they really like to sit when they smoke. And they are astounded when they hear about Americans eating while they walk or drive.

For breakfast today in my hotel, the only cereal was the local frosted corn flakes. As there was no “more mature” option, I was tickled to have a bowl. But the cereal milk was heated... apparently standard here in southern Spain. My poor frosted flakes were immediately mush. Not grrrrrrreat.

Southern Spain is inundated by expat Brits and Americans living here. Locals say, “If they could take the sunny weather home, they would; but since they can't, they stay here.” Many live here for years without learning the language, or even trying. Brits have their own system of English-language private schools that fit right in with schools back home, so their kids are set for higher education back in England. The expat community has their own English-language radio station — "Coastline Radio 96.7 FM." (The DJ finds last night's Letterman and Leno jokes transcribed at www.newsmax.com/jokes/ and recycles them.)

I connected with an American friend yesterday who's lived here for nearly 20 years. His email address had been the Spanish for “CowboyDave@yahoo.com,” but he changed it. When I asked him why, he explained that to the Brits, calling someone a "cowboy" is like calling them a scam artist. (When ripped off, they'd blame a “cowboy builder” or “cowboy auto mechanic.”) It was coloring people's perception of him.

Learning on the road is a big part of being on the road.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 06, 2009
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I'm off - Spain, Basque Country, Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia - for 70 days. A piece of notebook paper in my pocket is my reassuring companion for the last days before departure. Jotting down things I need to do and things to pack as they come to me brings peace of mind as, with two months of work, there's lots to organize and lots to forget.

Still, once at the airport and at the gate, things I overlooked pop into my world, reminding me that I always feel a little awkward at the start of my big annual trip. Reaching into my day bag, I found a paperback I didn't intend to bring — when I landed at Heathrow, it landed in the recycle bin. I didn't bring my normal $200 cash reserve. With just a few bucks in my wallet, I'm relying entirely on my two ATM cards with no ready cash safety net. I'm sure it'll be okay...but I've never left home without a cash reserve. I neglected to tell my bank I'd be out of the country and to expect withdrawals from Europe. And I forgot to change my voicemail at work. I like it to be my gleeful voice explaining I'm gone for a long time. This time it'll have to be another voice. Reading through my Spain guidebook, I came upon our excellent suggested reading and movie list. A few less Jon Stewarts or Office episodes and a little movie watching tailored to my upcoming travels would have given me better insight into Spain. It just didn't occur to me until now. And I neglected to call my first hotel to reconfirm...and to remind them that I'll be getting in at nearly midnight.

With three hours of downtime at the Madrid airport, I got my euros (used a freestanding ATM machine not clearly associated with a bank — which I try to avoid), and got my cell phone geared up with a European SIM card (I brought two phones — my basic American phone wouldn't take the card, but my old Nokia works great; €15 and I'm in business with about 20 minutes of call time and piles of text messages).

After a €28 taxi ride from the airport, I'm set in my Granada hotel — midnight, streets polished by strolling Spaniards. I feel like a groggy bear coming out of hibernation. But I think within a day or so, I'll be settled into the rhythm of research and pounding the pavement to the melody of Spain.

Posted by Rick Steves on April 04, 2009
Comments (37)