Home > News & Events

Jackie Steves Blogs Europe

Hitch an online ride as Jackie and her best friend Zoe explore the Iberian Peninsula for the first time.

We cabbed home that night. After 12 hours of sleep, Jackie and I finally woke up, and we headed to the beach. Barceloneta was vibrant, as promised: Men walking around selling "sexy cold beer" and women offering massages. After much deliberation, Jackie and I decided that it would be fitting to remove our bikini tops, because, after all, the expression "When in Rome" applied. We took them off sheepishly, and tried not to compare our nude chests to the many nude chests around us — tanned chests no less.

We had just started relaxing into our new Euro-liberation when a few Canadian guys spotted us. Hearing English brought us back to our American roots, which told us to put our tops back on. We did so, but the guys continued in their...pursuit. It was a disheartening situation, having our girl beach-date crashed by these narcissistic guys who just talked at us, until I realized we could use them as guard dogs so we could go swimming. Jackie and I swam in shifts, and I can't speak for hers, but my water time was a-ma-zing. The water was clear, blue, and just choppy and cold enough to be completely exhilarating. I didn't even mind the Spanish men shouting and hissing indiscriminately at bikini-clad girls, or my new Canadian bud pushing me in. My cheeks hurt from smiling, and it was the first time since leaving Seattle that I could claim perfect core temperature. Canadian bud, Scott, was shivering. Go figure.

That night we went to a sister hostel and drank liters of only the cheapest sangria. The sangria, although horrific, provided a nice catalyst for fast friendships. After an hour or so of forcing down the vile liquid, we were arm-in-arm with our new friends and ready to hit a nearby "hip-hop" club. We, being a very diverse group of happy-go-lucky tourists, brought the party. Unrestrained dancing ensued, and it was all very freeing and satisfying until, for me at least, the evening totally disintegrated. Like raisins in rising dough, we began to get further apart from one another, until I found myself surrounded by mainly strangers.

Now it must be clear by now that I do not have a healthy sense of stranger danger, but I will say that I do have the sense of mind to occasionally question the motives of strange men. By examining the context, time, place, and the placement and movement of their hands and eyes, I can usually arrive at some pretty accurate conclusions about these individuals. In this club, warning bells started going off. When the go-go girls arrived, indistinguishable from strippers, I knew my night would quickly disintegrate. Also, avoiding dancing with strange men grew more and more difficult. Some of them even argued with me as I clutched onto a fellow traveler friend, exclaiming, "Sorry, I need to dance with my friend." In broken English, the man replied, "No, you need to meet new people." He then jabbed my friend Nick in the stomach, and tried to grab me.

Admittedly, we enjoyed our night anyway, dancing to pseudo-hip-hop to the wee hours of the morning. OK, actually by 3:00 a.m. I was beyond exhaustion, not to mention frustration. I have a threshold, and it was reached. Jackie, being the stellar friend that she is, cheerfully told me that we could leave, so we navigated our way home with the help of a few strangers. One told me I had good pronunciation, which filled me with pride, and has given me the confidence to start attempting to speak Spanish more.

— Zoe

Posted on July 03, 2009
Comments (8)

After our promenade down the Ramblas, I was designated navigator to find our way back to the hostel. I thought we were taking all the correct turns on all the right streets, but somehow I got us terribly lost. Knowing no Spanish, I think I confused some of the street names. It was already 10:30 and we had to be back at our hostel by 11:30, when a group of people were going out clubbing together. So we quickly hailed a taxi and splurged.

We found a wine bar that served German food. Zoe inhaled a hot dog and I devoured a hamburger. The woman serving us said, "You are very quick!" We realized we were playing into the ugly American stereotype. We couldn't slow down to enjoy a leisurely meal because we were in such an absurd hurry. We barely had time to chew our food properly and then we washed it down with gulps of house wine. I was very embarrassed, but we had a night of clubbing ahead of us and it was important that we were nourished!

We got back to the hostel just in time to head out again with a big group of fellow hostel guests. Everyone carried their beer, wine, or sangria completely out in the open. Zoe and I shared a terribly cheap bottle of white wine. As we took turns taking swigs from the bottle, I felt ridiculous, liberated, and a little wild, all at the same time.

While drinking liberally like that on the streets, I definitely didn't feel like I was in the States anymore. I wasn't behaving like a Spaniard either, because we saw no other locals carousing in the streets like us. All the locals I saw were having much more classy evenings, drinking leisurely in wine bars. Oh dear, here we go again — acting as ambassadors of the ugly part of American party culture: sophomoric binge drinking. It's definitely a really fun time, but I am not proud of it.

We all took the Metro down to the beach, where there is a whole string of hot trendy clubs. We went to Club Havana and were some of the first people to arrive. Apparently 12:30 a.m. is totally unfashionably early in this country. It was a sizable club with about six bars, a spacious dance floor, and a terrace outside overlooking the ocean.

I could really distinguish — just by looks — between the tourists and the locals. Some of the locals were so well-dressed and beautiful! They seem to wear a lot of white.

Zoe and I were really enjoying all the friends from our hostel, so we mostly stuck with them on the dance floor. After a little while I think the wine got to us and we got tired and sad — tired from jetlag and it being two in the morning, sad because we missed our boyfriends. So we called it an early night and took a cab back to our hostel.

— Jackie

Posted on July 02, 2009
Comments (14)

We threw on lightweight dresses and hit the streets, map in hand. Before we had even consulted the guidebook, we found ourselves on the Ramblas, drinking in the sights, smells, and of course, the sounds (it was delightfully noisy everywhere). Outdoor pet stores, street vendors, performers, and the inebriated shared the street with hoards of locals and tourists.

It didn't take long for us to meet a couple of these drunks...ahem...vivacious individuals (they were certainly high as well, but it became obvious that alcohol was their drug of choice). The shirtless one made a beeline for Jackie, and the toothless one, for me. I ignored mine's repeated demand for cigarettes, and listened to Jackie's tell what seemed to be a woeful tale. It sounded appropriate for an AA meeting, or maybe a therapy appointment, but was told with glee, on dirty steps, to complete strangers.

We wandered further, stumbling upon an outdoor market that we had planned on seeing. It was closing, but its vibrancy was evident even at dusk. Jackie managed to purchase a bunch of carrots, which we washed in a revoltingly filthy outdoor sink. It got the job done, though, and we chomped happily as we strolled through the streets, stealing giddy glances at one another.

Then we walked along the waterfront, and jet lag became more irrelevant still. I couldn't stop exclaiming how in love with the city I was. It was an unbelievably romantic setting, with huge statues everywhere, waves crashing, and wind blowing. The sky was dramatically purple with exquisite clouds. I couldn't walk more than a few feet without being paralyzed by the beauty, and my little digital camera was hot and tired in my hands.

We walked and walked and got more lost in the beauty of the city, eventually actually getting lost. The Medieval gridlines, or lack thereof, were not conducive to jet-lagged tourists finding their way home. Being lost and hungry didn't dampen my spirits though, because I felt like I was lost on the world's most extensive movie set. The old was brilliantly mixed with the new — traditional old Spaniards, teens in miniskirts and espadrilles, gothic architecture, and artful graffiti. Jackie, the more competent one, kept reassuring me that she knew where we were. I didn't know whether I believed her or not, but I was happy when we admitted defeat and taxied it home. Realizing that it was almost 11 p.m. — the time all the kids at the hostel were going out — we ducked into the first restaurant we found. It was a little German place, and in keeping with the classiness that Americans are famous for, we ordered a hotdog and a hamburger and scarfed them down in a minute flat. The bartender could not stop shaking her head and exclaiming that she'd never seen anyone eat so fast. In keeping with our ugly American status, we forgot to tip and literally ran out the door. We arrived at our hostel just in time to throw on some going-out gear and head out with our bubbly group. We were introduced to the nightlife and the metro system simultaneously and seamlessly, bonding with our diverse group of eager travelers immediately. We went to a club called "Havana," which was fancy and touristy, but undeniably chic.

— Zoe

Posted on July 01, 2009
Comments (4)

When I arrived at the hostel after a slightly hectic 20 hours of traveling, it was comforting to find my good old familiar friend, Zoe, napping peacefully on the bunk bed we would share in a six-person dorm-style room.

The first thing we did was walk to the nearby Plaça de Catalunya, the main square of Barcelona. I wish I had an audioguide like the kind you can use in some art museums, but one that applied to the whole city of Barcelona. So many statues and monuments are scattered around, and I'm curious what they are all about.

The Ramblas (The Champs-Élysées of Barcelona) runs from the Plaça de Catalunya down to the waterfront. We strolled down this busy street, trying to get our bearings for our Spanish surroundings. We walked through La Boqueria (a big produce market) as it was shutting down, and caught glimpses of bright rainbow arrays of vegetables, fruits, and candies.

We saw and encountered some bizarre characters as we continued our stroll down the Ramblas. One drunkard stopped me, saying he wanted to practice his English with me. He proceeded to tell me stories of drunken disasters that had landed him in that hospital — he pointed — just down the street. Then he asked me for more booze. We saw a man dressed in an entirely crimson suit and hat riding a bike covered in bright flowers. We also saw transsexuals, prostitutes, and tons of tourists.

Barcelona's waterfront is a crowded harbor punctuated by a few striking displays of Modernista architecture. At least that's what I've been told this bizarre architecture is called. I really don't know anything about it. I've read just a little bit about Gaudí, and I'm curious to find out more about this style that looks like melting cakes and dripping ice cream cones.

As we walked along the Mediterranean just after sunset, we thought of our boyfriends back home. We wondered if we should have brought them with us on this trip. They had expressed interest, but we were set on the idea of a girls' trip. Now we felt tinges of regret. We just wished they were here to experience romantic España with us.

Before I left on this trip, my dad asked me if I had any worries about anything. I said I didn't really, except that I was worried I would miss my boyfriend. He said that when he was just a little older than I am now, he had planned a trip with his girlfriend of the time. She wasn't able to make it, so he went with one of his best guy friends and had a blast. He realized that at such a young age maybe romantic couples don't make the best travel partners.

Anyway, I believe that when you're young you should never ever let love set you back. If you love travel then you should seize every opportunity presented to you, especially when you're young. While boyfriends might be thousands of miles away, these days they are really only a Facebook message or a phone call away.

Zoe and I are going to be like Vicky and Cristina in Vicky Cristina Barcelona — minus the whole love affair of course. Who can watch that movie and not want to come here? We might not have time to do all the soul-searching those girls did, but at least we'll get a taste of some of that intriguing Catalan culture.

— Jackie

Posted on June 30, 2009
Comments (10)

I am Zoe Schuler, daughter of Doug Schuler. I have a feeling this will mean little to you. Rather, I will introduce myself as Zoe, the friend of the daughter of Rick Steves. I am beyond excited to be traveling with Jackie to Barcelona, Madrid, and Lisbon.

But, waking up at 3:20 a.m. felt wrong. Zipping up my suitcase felt like a mistake. Stepping foot in the airport felt ominous. I couldn't stop going over my schedule in my head, obsessing first over the different gate numbers and flight numbers, and then over the bus stops and street names. I felt intimidated knowing I would have to spend my first day in Barcelona sans Jackie, would have to navigate alone, relying only on my own competence. These feelings of dread were to spontaneously evaporate upon my first sighting of a square, or plaça.

After a grueling 20 hours, my last plane touched the ground, and I looked out my window to behold Barcelona... It looked like Los Angeles from the air, with smog just as thick. On the ground, I followed the directions provided by our hostel and got on the Aerobus. My travel fatigue soon translated to giddy excitement.

I got off the bus at Plaça de Catalunya and immediately knew that my tiresome journey had been worth every second. I wasn't in California anymore. The architecture was beautiful as promised, the people colorful, and the general feel bustling. I wandered the streets, asking for directions in broken Spanish from two different strange but friendly faces, and eventually found a locked door with a small sign that read "Hostel De Sant Amberg." I rang the buzzer.

"Si?"

"Hola," I stuttered.

I was immediately buzzed in, and opened the door to a small foyer. There was a staircase, an ancient elevator, and a small hallway with a turtle sitting innocently on the ground. I told myself to be positive as I climbed the dark, depressing, and hot stairs.

As it turns out, a heightened sense of positivity was not required. I opened the hostel door to behold a small paradise. Clean rooms, free Wi-Fi, and, most importantly, fellow travelers who were friendly right off the bat. While I waited for my bedding to be washed, I befriended an American named Frank and we headed off to get some eats. In my tired state, it didn't take long for me to let my life story come pouring out. We enjoyed a meal of very oily pasta, then headed home for a very long siesta. Four hours later I awoke to Jackie's gentle sing-songy, "Zoe... Zo... Zoe, wake up, girl."

Posted on June 29, 2009
Comments (7)

When I arrived home in Seattle after completing my first year at Georgetown University, I found two plain black Moleskine journals, identical to the one in which I am currently writing, on my bookshelf.

I opened one of them and read the following:

They prize hospitality so highly that they are more than happy to welcome me, a stranger, into their house for three weeks to sleep in their only bed, and eat the little and basic food they can afford. Here, you don't need to worry about makeup, checking your email, owning the hottest pair of jeans, or getting into the best university. There are always plenty of siblings around to play with, the whole family does chores together, they eat every meal together, and they smother each other with kisses whenever they feel like it.

I wrote those words two summers ago about the host family I stayed with in Morocco while on a “global service-learning” trip with a group from my high school.

I opened the other journal and read the first few lines:

Last week, I marched across the quad with my class of 120, and up to the stage wearing a billowing black gown and a wreath of orchids to be handed my high school diploma. I survived high school, but will I survive the next month? Tomorrow, I fly to Europe. This time will be different, however, from the past 18 summers of traveling to Europe because I will be traveling with no parents. It will be just me and my friend, Juliana.

Those words were written just last summer.

Excerpts from both of those travel journals were published in blogs on my dad's website. Now I write in my third plain black journal words which will go in my third travel blog.

Before I begin my summer job as an assistant guide on a couple Rick Steves' tours, I will travel for ten days in Spain and Portugal with Zoe, one of my best friends from high school. I've traveled all over Western Europe every year of my life, but have yet to step foot — or rather, roll suitcase — on the Iberian Peninsula. I can't wait to see what I've been missing. Ten days will be just enough time to spend a few days in three of Spain and Portugal's major cities: Barcelona, Madrid, and Lisbon.

I've known Zoe since I was 11 and went to school with her from sixth through 12th grade. At one point we decided that one day one of us would be president and the other would be vice president (we haven't gotten around to that quite yet). At a later point we decided that, despite our parents' wishes, we just had to get our bellybuttons pierced together (we did get around to that — sorry mom!). Most of my memorable adolescent adventures involved Zoe, but the one on which we are about to embark will surely outdo the rest.

Posted on June 28, 2009
Comments (9)