Spain Trip Diary 3: Spain by Train with the Spain Pass

A view of Spain's vast central plains... en route to Madrid.

This is one thing I love about train travel: the window becomes one big screen through which you see your destination unfold before you, placidly.  And with high speed trains, one is offered a most enjoyable contradiction: one gets somewhere fast, unhurried.  It's something wonderful, really. When going speedily, doesn't mean rushing. For me, to be on a train is to sit still, in quiet contemplation of the scenery. There's time for a long cup of coffee, and a chance to write down thoughts in my travel journal. It's a great way to see a country, especially Spain, where tracks are lain on very scenic routes through the Iberian peninsula's variegated landscapes. Where many breathtaking ancient fortress-cities sit atop hills, and can be seen from the distance.  Spain's railway system is one of the best in the world: extensive, efficient, and exciting.  Covering the country's plains, and hugging its coasts, crossing its rivers and ravines, and cutting through cities, it is a truly rewarding experience to be on a train in Spain. So when I found out there was a new SPAIN PASS offered by RENFE, Spain's railway operator, I was absolutely thrilled. 

Our first trip with our Spain Pass, from Barcelona to Valencia.

The SPAIN PASS is a product designed exclusively for foreign tourists. One must present a passport to purchase it.  The cheapest one costs 165 Euros for 4 trips anywhere in Spain! No matter the distance! And on the nice kinds of trains too - any of them! - from the popular high speed AVE, or the sleeper-car equipped Trenhotel, or the coastal Euromed and Alaris trains.  Whether one wanted to travel from North to South from Bilbao to Sevilla; or East to West from Barcelona to Santiago de Compostela... one could do so for the price of one regular-prized trip on a high-speed train! One could choose more trips, for a higher price, ... and the ticket would be valid until the following year.

In the past, travelers to Europe relied on the EURAIL Pass for this kind of flexibility and convenience.  When my father first visited Europe in 1979, he used his EURAIL pass extensively, fully exploiting the unlimited rides by visiting 33 cities.  When he took us to Europe in the early 1990's, he bought EURAIL passes again, but by that time, there were many restrictions already: we had to apply for visas for all the countries we'd pass through, and some trains required supplemental fees.  Nowadays, with the Schengen visa, crossing borders is no longer as tedious for Filipinos touring Europe (thank God!).  We weren't planning on crossing borders though, our trip was dedicated solely to Spain, so I looked up the EURAIL SPAIN PASS and compared it with RENFE's own SPAIN PASS.  In the end, RENFE won the contest. And here's why: it was cheaper, and valid for longer, and could be bought at the train station, and it measured usage by the number of trips.  In contrast, the EURAIL SPAIN PASS cost just a little bit more, was valid for a shorter period, had to be bought overseas, and measured usage by the day.  Both options have their pros and cons, and I would still consider the EURAIL alternative when planning future trips, but for this particular trip, RENFE's Spain Pass suited our requirements best. 

Unlike in planes, they don't make you turn off your gadgets on a train :-D

In this age of budget airlines, taking the plane may be cheaper than the train, but it may involve a bit more pain... it would mean queueing up at the airport, going through check-in and boarding procedures, waiting to board, being squished into cramped seats, then traveling from the airport to the city center. Trains, on the other hand, especially in Spain, usually mean comfortable seats, and strategically located train stations in the heart of the city. And with high speed trains, the travel time has been reduced tremendously that it is comparable to flying. Train travel is really attractive, if only it wasn't so expensive! My initial search showed a plane ride from Barcelona to Madrid could cost as little as 39 Euros on Vueling airline, while the AVE train would cost 139 Euros... whoa! - that's a big difference. Good thing the Spain Pass arrived! It was released to the market days before we traveled to Spain. I was using RENFE's website to plan our trip, and I visited the site daily to study the timetables, and one day, I saw the announcement: "New!" it said, "Discover Spain with the Flexible Spain Pass". Woohoo! I felt the universe conspiring to give me a great trip :-D  

The product was so new, that when we arrived in Barcelona, the attendant at the sales counter had to ask for help from colleagues in inputing our information and preparing our pass - "It's my first time to do this" he explained.  It was the same story in Valencia where another first timer prepared our ticket and had difficulty fulfilling our request to be seated together.  "The system only allows me to book one person at a time and it chooses the seats"...he said, "but let me try to figure out how to assign you seats that are together", and he patiently worked on it, while we patiently waited. By the time we got to Madrid a few days later, the railway staff had gotten used to the Spain Pass. Our tickets were processed quickly, and we were assigned adjacent seats in a flash.  Just like that, in a span of a few days, it was no longer "new"... even the website removed the "new" label formerly attached to the Spain Pass icon.  They've ironed out the kinks, fast.  

At the train cafeteria with my cafe con leche, bocadillo, and guide books!

As soon as we boarded our Euromed train to Valencia, I just had to visit the train's cafeteria for my cafe con leche and bocadillo de jamon y queso.  I bit into my first taste of Spain in over a decade since I last left it when I turned in my MA thesis and left for home back in 2002.  As a graduate student in Spain, I've taken this train many times, and memories came flooding back as I viewed the unfolding landscape. We passed by the dry mountains of the Costa de Azahar...and I remember climbing those mountains before. Oh wow! When did I last have the energy to climb a mountain?  Then we saw endless rows of olive trees; then orange groves; and stretches of beaches and the vast blue sea.  It was all so exciting, and calming at the same time.

Valencia's charming Estacio de Nord, right next to the bullring.

We just came from a long haul flight from Singapore, and we've been traveling for nearly 24 hours straight since we left our house in Manila, and I was neither tired nor energized - I was in that confusing zone between wanting to move and wanting to rest, too excited to sleep, but too tired to run... and for this ambivalent state of mind, being on a train was perfect. I was moving, while standing still (or should I say, gently swaying) in the train's cafeteria.  I was traveling - by looking out the window, but also resting, retreating into silence, free from the obligation to talk.  I was looking out, and looking in, reconciling past and present, I was both cooling down from the flight, and warming up for the days of traveling ahead. A train ride, is like an incubator of sorts, a place to extend gestation for a bit longer, after already being delivered into the world.   A trip, like an idea, can benefit a lot from a period of incubation.  Plans can develop and mature appropriately in situ, and no amount of pre-planning can compare to being there at the destination, at that very moment. Then, and only then can you tell how many layers of clothing will be sufficient for the current temperature; and how much money you'd willingly spend for a good meal. Guide books and on-line fora can provide advice, but only you can gauge for yourself, your personal threshold of comfort.  All these qualitative assessments can happen only in context, when you arrive. A train ride, after a plane ride, is a perfect occasion for such  musings.

And in Spain, some train stations are destinations in themselves.  Valencia's Estacio de Nord, for instance, greets visitors with proud displays of the region's locally produced ceramic tiles. The ornate old mosaics on the walls and ceilings are often accompanied by contemporary art installations and exhibits, making the train station a museum-gallery of sorts.  In Madrid, the Atocha train station is like an indoor garden, an oasis of sorts, teeming with plants from rain forests.  The shops and restaurants under the grand garden atrium give a taste of the bustling scene outside.  We lunched at Samar Kanda, an elegant restaurant on a terrace overlooking the train station's tropical garden.  Like a secret little place, the restaurant was shielded from view, and located far from the busy corridors of the huge train station.  We "incubated" for a moment, hatching our plan of attack for taking on Madrid.  The restaurant gave us a sense of being outdoors on the street, without the biting cold, and fear of pickpockets. We felt warm and safe, and after a good meal, we felt ready for our adventure.

At Samar Kanda Restaurant in Madrid's Atocha Train Station.

When I traveled with my mother in Spain back in 2000, we took the train and she mentioned how she used to take the train from Manila to Bicol.  "I took you when you were a baby, you were in a bassinet on my lap, and I held you throughout the ride, lifting you when the train swayed and jumped, so you wouldn't wake up".  Wow. I could imagine my mom, my indefatigable, self-sacrificing, nurturing and tender mom, not being able to sleep so I wouldn't wake up.  That's the kind of mother she was.  And maybe that's why I feel happy in trains, reminded of my mother, and how she lulls me to sleep, swaying me from side to side when I was a baby, the way she does with my children now.

I can't wait to take my children on train rides, so we can see the world unfolding, together. I find myself now, echoing the dream once made by my father when he first went to Europe: "someday, I'll bring my children here".

Spain Diary 2: Our Roast Suckling Pig Story in Toledo

My hefty serving of cochinillo, at Restaurante Don Diego, Toledo, Spain.

You are what you eat. And we found out in Spain, just how Filipino we were, when we bit into the crispy skin of their famed cochinillo, or roast suckling pig, and all we could think of were pork dishes from home.   We were in historic Toledo, which has the reputation of being that one city that best offers a window into the Spanish soul.   It is a common saying that if one has only a day to spend in Spain, one should spend it in Toledo.   And we were told that cochinillo was a specialty of the region.  So we we trained our eyes on our culinary goal - to find a good restaurant where we could get a taste of this famed dish.  Thus began an epic journey, a laborious search for good pork.  We felt like knights in search of the holy grail. Seriously.

Behind me, the historic walled city of Toledo, Spain's old capital.

When my husband Oliver purchased a sword from one of Toledo's shops (for they are well known for sword craft as well), we asked the shop owner to recommend a good restaurant. We mentioned cochinillo and they started to swoon - "es muy rico" they kept saying, repeatedly, and with appropriate gestures to match.  They gave us the name of a restaurant, and the name of the person to look for, and directions that didn't really help. We got lost.  Toledo's medieval paths are bound to play tricks on the mind. It is like entering a maze.  And with hunger comes poor judgement.  The cobblestone steps and the hilly terrain didn't help ease our pain. We were tired, confused, and desperate.  I asked for directions at another shop, and mentioned the magic word cochinillo, and the shop owner swooned again, and said "es muy rico!", and proudly pointed us to another restaurant, with a business card this time, and she wrote her name on the piece of paper to show the waiter, so he'd treat us like her guests.  We showed this card to locals, and we were directed up and down, and on and on, through more winding streets, until at last, we walked through the entry arch of a walled compound, and found a restaurant tucked in a corner of an inner courtyard... a secret place frequented by locals.

After a long search, at last! We found this restaurant.

  

Meson Restaurante Corral de Don Diego, it was called.  And the waiter swooned and responded with "es muy rico" as soon as we said the magic word.  Like a prayer, the word cochinillo, when uttered, got a reverent response. You could tell the locals were very proud of this dish.  It will take some time to prepare, we were told. And though we were starving, we said we could wait. We've walked this far and waited this long, surely, we won't quit now? So while waiting for our food, we took the time to appreciate the restaurant's interiors.  We chatted with the owner, who introduced us to a local painter, seated at the bar with what could have been his nth drink for the day.  He painted the murals on the walls of the dining hall, which looked like a mini shrine for the worship of meat.  There were legs of ham hanging from the rafters, and deer antlers displayed on the walls.  It was quaint and cozy, warm and oh so charming. It was a tough choice deciding whether we'd sit indoors, or out in the courtyard.  We later decided to sit outdoors to take in more of Toledo's sights and sounds.

The restaurant's charming interiors.

While waiting for our main course, we started our meal with a lovely spread of vegetables: fresh tomatoes, and grilled asparagus with sea salt, and mushrooms with bacon bits drizzled with olive oil. Oh that was so good.  These are not the usual vegetables we find in the Philippines... not the same size, and not the same texture.  We also ordered a plate of piping hot paella with tasty langoustines.  We were properly primed for the main course. We were so ready for the cochinillo, we summoned the waiter and asked if it was ready...and it was! 

And so it came.  In a plate so huge it felt like a platter, it came. Each of us had a daunting serving of cochinillo that looked like a quarter of a piglet.  My husband, a true meat lover, looked so excited as he started to dig in.  We took our first bites. Then there was silence.  Then we started to chuckle. One can't control the direction one's thoughts would take. A bite of succulent pork will trigger instant associations, unfiltered, uncontrolled.  For Oliver, it was Mang Tomas lechon sauce.  Wala bang sarsa? he asked playfully.   For me, the sauceless roast pork reminded me of lechon Cebu! I was in Toledo, Spain but I was doing a mind trip to Toledo, Cebu!!!  Or more precisely, to Toledo's neighboring town of Carcar, and its wet market where lechon is bought by the kilo, and where Oliver and I had our last pork feast early this year.  Mama was reminded of pritchon, the deep fried suckling pig, especially the one served at our wedding, the one our guests continued to rave about long after Oliver and I exchanged vows.  We were unanimous in thinking this cochinillo is not the best roast pork we've ever had... not that it wasn't any good. It was good. It was worthy of the "es mur rico" phrase the locals described it with. It was rich.  But our palates were proudly Filipino, and completely decolonized. 

My husband, ever the meat lover, excited to dig in.

Of course there's a part of me (and my husband shares this too, I think) that aspires for some degree of cosmopolitan culinary connoisseurship. There's a part of me that wishes for my taste buds a kind of world citizenship.  We wish to savor global cuisine and to appreciate authentic dishes in their own terms, as they are intended by local chefs for their local audience.  Oliver praised the cochinillo's subtle flavors which offered an opportunity to better taste the meat, in its purity, without being masked by too many condiments.  I tried to enjoy the cochinillo's crispy skin as it crackled between my teeth.  "Es muy rico", indeed (although Mama stands by her assessment: "no tiene sabor"). Much as we enjoyed our meal, with our bottle of bubbly, comparisons to our versions of roast pork were inevitable, and a sort of gustatory nationalism surfaced.  Just as the numerous works of masters at Museo del Prado made us want to revisit Juan Luna's "Spolarium" at our National Museum, so too did our cochinillo adventure make us want to have some of our own Pinoy-style lechon.

As luck would have it, my sister was in Cebu while we were in Spain. And she bought a few kilos of lechon Cebu to bring home to Manila.  How fortuitous it was, that she arrived at our house bearing gifts of pork, on the very evening we arrived from the airport.  The lechon we craved was right at our table. It was one warm welcome of the splendid kind. Truly, there's no place like home.  

Spain Trip Diary 1: Return To Castellon and Benicassim

Castellon's Cathedral and Tower, in the town center.

If you were pressed for time and had an entire country full of wonderful sights to visit, would you choose to spend a day retracing steps and visiting old friends? Or would you save precious travel time for new places you haven't seen before?  This was a choice I had to make a few weeks ago, while planning our trip to Spain.  My sense of history took over. I decided to make a stop in Castellon de la Plana, where I completed my MA in Peace and Development Studies exactly 10 years ago. So much has changed in ten years, with the city, and with me. But so much has remained the same - there are things that don't change: the medieval cathedral and the tower beside it; the central market just across the square, the fountain in the middle, the cobblestone steps, and tiny streets with their tiny shops that close for siesta. And my memories of the place - those too are unchanging.  I will always feel forever 21 when I walk Castellon's streets.  

Calle Enmedio, the street of my old school - and the Mango store in the corner.

I was 21 when I received my scholarship to study in Spain, and I moved away from home for the first time. It was my initiation into adulthood, my first taste of life without my parents' protection and support. I learned a lot of painful lessons: for the first time I felt hunger when all shops were closed for holidays and I couldn't feed on the cash in my pockets.  I just had to wait it out, and sleep with an empty stomach, and a lonely heart, in the cold of winter, thousands of miles away from the warmth of family.  That's the thing about Spain. It shuts down when it feels the need to: for siesta and fiesta, for a general strike, or even for an epic football match.  Once, my sister and I waited at a railway station, for a train that didn't come as we made our way home from a day of teaching English in the mountains of Vall d'Uixo.  We decided to finally leave, and we walked across deserted fields in the fading light, encountering no one for too long in the tiny town of Xilxes/Chilches, just outside Valencia.  I couldn't shake off the feeling of isolation I felt then.  

The plaza I passed by daily, for a stop at the Cathedral, and Central Market.

And even now, ten years later, in the deserted plaza of Castellon at siesta time... it all came coming back to me, the loneliness and alienation I once felt here.  Coming from the heat and the hustle, the chaos and color of Manila's streets, Castellon was cold and quiet on most days (unless of course at fiesta time called "Magdalena" when the streets reverberate with bangs and booms of the loudest firecrackers known to man). The loneliness of regular days is probably the reason why I learned to party hard here, to dance and drink until morning came, so I could load up on momentary happiness to fortify me for the long stretches of sadness ahead.  But it wasn't really the parties and people that gave me the most comfort and solace while I was here. It was really the lessons I learned in class - I did learn a lot with my MA, life-changing lessons that fundamentally shook me to the core and left me with new frameworks for seeing the world and my place in it.   My mind opened up here, and learned countless lessons not only from books, but also from conversations with teachers and classmates from all over the world, and also from Spain's streets and the way of life of its people.  Being a Filipino in Spain is an intellectually rewarding experience - one sees so much to reflect on - everywhere - as though every moment offers a means of discovering an antecedent, a cultural root of sorts, an old link in a chain that spans across the ages, and the seas, and leads back home.   

Casa Ana, my favorite cafe for studying, where I learned about Focault, Derrida, Said etc.

I walked past Casa Ana, a cafe I used to frequent.  It was here that I pored over my course readers in philosophy and learned about Focault and Derrida, and Feminism, and Orientalism, among many other "isms" which I came to understand with the help of countless cups of cafe con leche.  It is still here. MY merienda place.  I am happy to see it hasn't changed much - that it is still in the same spot, serving the same food. It takes me back in time, as though I were visiting 2002.  I walked past the Post Office, passing under the arched entryway in front that says Correos y Telegrafos. It is a beautiful brick building with a lovely interior to match. I used to come here to fill up boxes with Spanish goodies to send to my parents, to give them pieces of my life. I always loved this building, and how it linked me to my loved ones.   

Castellon's Correos y Telegrafos, the post office where I sent off boxes headed for home.

Then it was time to meet with old friends who call Castellon home.  "I can't believe you're here! I've missed you!"my good old friend Penny squealed when she saw me. And I wanted to cry.  It's like the distant past collapses with the present.  It is peculiarly disconcerting, how our conversation was so clear, despite the confused time frames.  To hear her voice again, and the distinct way she spoke, it was just like yesterday. "You haven't changed a bit!" she told me. And I couldn't believe what she said. We both changed, of course, profoundly! - but in a way, she was right. It didn't feel like ten years had passed.  She was as I knew her, and perhaps I was, in her presence, how she knew me - even if I am a mother now, and no longer the center of my world as I used to be. It was fun! It was great, great fun to be having tapas in Spain with my Spanish friend. 

Penny at a Tapas Bar in Castellon's La Salera Mall.

Penny drove me to Benicassim, the beach resort town where  students of the Masters Program used to live, where we had many barbecues and brunches, volleyball games on the beach, and parties that drove the neighbors mad... where we cooked dinners for one another, and made family out of strangers... where we laughed and cried, and learned life's lessons, good and bad.  It's a place of love and heartache... which seemed like big, big things back then, when we were in our early twenties.  Now in our thirties, haha... we know better now.   

The entrance to Orange Park, my old apartment complex in Benicassim.

Orange Park hadn't changed at all! It looked exactly the same. The same whitewashed low fence, the same orange sign, the same plants in the same spots. Wow. De ja vu.  I felt like I had walked into an episode of the Twilight Zone.  It was as though I'd see my old dog Sandy, running towards me any moment. I felt like grabbing my rollerblades and gliding down the street.  

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I missed my sister who shared this time in Spain with me... she should have retraced these steps with me too!  Oh well, that's a plan in the making. We can keep returning to Spain at various points in our lives, until we're old and retired. But that's way off in the far, far future. In the near future though, I could imagine returning to Castellon again soon, with my husband and kids.  So I could tell my daughter and son where mommy used to live and study.  Before turning in at the end of my day in Castellon, I stopped by the lovely shop called "Imaginarium" where I picked out Spanish children's books for my kids to read, so they can have a piece of Spain.  

With Sidi, Sophia, and Dori, at the Graduate Building, Universidad Jaume I.

The next morning, I visited the new building in Universitat Jaume I, where the Masters Program now holds its classes.  In a way, I am not "retracing steps" because it is in an entirely new location.  But I got to see familiar faces, of Sophia and Dori who worked with the program back then, a decade ago, and my old classmate Sidi, who is now a doctorado himself, and teaches new batches of students of Peace.

I had no regrets about taking the time to retrace my steps in Castellon and Benicassim.  Yes, there are many cities with great sights to visit all over Spain, but what Castellon and Benicassim have to offer, I cannot find anywhere else. They offer me a chance to revisit friends, re-tell stories, refresh memories, retrace steps, and re-live my personal history - even if only for a moment.  It was good to be back.