Travel Musings

I Love You, Flight 001

Canary Islands, Lisbon 2006 Trip, Initial Post

I haven't been this excited about a store since I first visited Sam's Wines & Spirits.

I have sought out Flight 001 to indulge in some vacation foreplay. I hope that picking up a little sumpin' sumpin' will spark my enthusiasm for my upcoming trip.

Does it, and how! I've become a not-quite-yet-middle-aged Veruca Salt (minus the obnoxious mink coat), ricocheting around the store in a state of shopper's ecstasy, declaring what "I want".

Yay!: the classic, Coffee, Tea, or Me? I haven't encountered this book since I nearly purchased it at a rummage sale in fifth grade (until Mom stepped in and quickly nixed the acquisition). Fabulous: The Mobile Foodie Survival Kit ($30). I don't recognize half the spices listed, but suddenly my travels would be incomplete without them. This sleep mask ($20) has got it going on. True, I own multiple sleep masks, courtesy of the major airlines, but none are Pucci-inspired.

And this: The Swiss Spice Salt + Pepper Shaker ($28). It's "made in Switzerland" and it "features water resistant engineering." Soggy salt is no fun. I'm sold. Holy crap. A periodic table passport cover ($18). I need this. I SO need this.

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I won't bore you with my salivations over the toile luggage tags ("as seen in Conde Naste Traveler"), the Holiday in Greece shower kit from Korres, and Orla Keily's cosmetic bag in stem print (so very marimekko).

Exercising all the restraint that I can muster, I reluctantly limit my purchase to the Swiss Spice Salt + Pepper Shaker (running out of sodium is never a laughing matter), a Time Out guide to Lisbon, and a Streetwise Lisbon city map.

Thanks, Flight 001, these purchases should sustain me until I leave.

ORD to AMS to MAD

Enough mediocre red wine and sudoku and Coach class becomes bearable. Although mixing excesses of the two distractions can turn ugly.

The trip is proceeding swimmingly, although I feel somewhat remiss for not having defined a theme for my voyage, not having identified a goal or two. No mission.

Where do all the damn eights go? They're being downright stingy by giving me only one. Not fair.

I relent to another bottle of cabernet: flight attendants must feel badly when customers reject their beverage offers.

I should have packed a pencil.

Anyway, as I was saying...Past trips have centered around an objective: sampling nouveau Spanish cuisine, procuring gourmet coffee, or tanning my body to an unhealthy shade of copper (Spring break, Cancun, junior year).

However, I did select two out of three hotels on the basis of their bathrooms: a weak, but workable, common denominator.

Great Iberian Bathrooms.

A pathetic theme/pursuit, but it suffices for now.

Booking the Hotel Puerta America

Thirty minutes and fifteen Euros (Madrid taxis are metered) after landing, I arrive at the Hotel Puerta America (I don't know how my driver found the place -- it's so inconspicuous).

I was forced to choose between a five-hour layover in Madrid or an overnight stay when I booked my intra-European flight.

I begrudgingly opted for the latter. But, as *Grandma always said: "When life gives you lemons, make vodka lemonade". And I did. I splurged and booked my overnight stay at the Hotel Puerta America.

The property bills itself as:

...a space that invites people to dream -- a never-been-attempted-before project that has brought together nineteen of the top architecture and design studios in the world from thirteen different countries. Each of the floors showcases a different concept in hotel rooms. All play with different materials, colors, and shapes to create spaces that bring together the best in avant-garde design and architecture, where creativity and the freedeom to develop each of the spaces has been the hallmark.

I felt quite smug the night I booked my room, having snagged it for a mere 155 Euros through the British Lastminute.com: quite a bargain compared to the prices touted on competing sites. I felt decidedly less smug, however, when I received my Visa statement and discovered that the price had not been listed in Euros, but in Pounds, which converted to a spendy $299.

The moral of this story: don't drink and surf.

*Actually, Grandma never said this (she was more of a 7/Seven woman), but she would have loved it.

Bettina and Max Would Like This Place

High-maintenance guest that I am, I e-mailed the Hotel Puerta America in advance of my stay, requesting specific floors. My first choice was the top floor, the twelfth floor, designed by Jean Nouvel (warning: annoying website), who more recently built the new Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis and the Agbar Tower in Barcelona.

My second choice was the first floor, designed by Zaha Hadid, a Pritzker Architecture Prize winner. Her floor was most oft-referenced in articles I read on the Hotel PA.

My third choice was the seventh floor, designed by Ron Arad (even more annoying website a la Space Invaders), who I believe is better known for furniture design than architecture.

The (quite congenial) front desk person informs me that the Jean Nouvel floor is comprised of all suites (and therefore beyond my price range), the Zaha Hadid floor is fully booked (either her reputation preceeds her or the hotel is hosting a convention for acrophobics), and I am booked on the seventh floor. That's fine.

My hotel room, white and gray from floor to ceiling, is a minimalist's dream. Come to think of it...my condo is gray and white. I just spent $299 to stay in my own place for a night!

My bathroom enthralls me, however I don't recommend it for anyone harboring body issues: most surfaces are mirrored (including the ceiling). I feel a little bit like Sybil when I shower. The room's best feature: the toilet encapsulated within a glass pod, similar to that tube that you stick your money into at the bank's drive-through window. Atop the toilet, I envision myself starring in The Buggles' Video Killed the Radio Star clip as That One Lady In The Silver Monotard Space Outfit who is sucked up into the ceiling.

Night falls: I pop an Ambien and grab the remote: with a single forefinger I shut the window (which fills an entire wall); lower the blind; and command my tv screen (which is as wide as a projection screen and half as high) to descend from the ceiling. All from the cheesy luxury of my Hefneresque, oversized round bed.

Hi, Conan (I think the Ambien is setting in). I'm, like, at the drive-in, only in my bed instead of a car (and I'm not making out with Devin).

I drift off to hazy visions of columns, and rows, and more columns of numbers. But no eights. And so many spaces. Taunting, blank, white, unfilled sudoky spaces.

Floor Envy

I intentionally awake early to cruise the elevators and floor-hop, an activity the management attempts to deter by limiting elevator access (via keys) to one floor. Fortunately, the other guests are floor-hopping as well. The mood is convivial: we conspire to provide access to forbidden floors to one another. My co-guests are a fun group.

I dub the fourth floor the Battlestar Galactica Floor. The Wizard of Oz tune, If Only I had a Heart, pops into my head. I declare the garish sixth floor the Revlon floor. The dark fifth floor (not pictured), decorated in an Ancient Egyptian/Oh Mighty Isis motif, is laughably, wonderfully camp.

And, for the grand finale: I gain access to the Zaha floor, the floor that got away. White, open, mysterious -- much like the mocking sudoku puzzle that scrimps on eights.

Damn. I want to stay on this floor.

However, I can't afford to linger over what might have been: I must catch a plane to Tenerife.

p.s. As much as I love the Hotel Puerto America, I recommend the Santo Mauro for anyone spending multiple evenings in Madrid (if money is no issue). The SM is oh so swanky.

How I Did NOT Spend My Summer Vacation

I planned my trip around Lisbon, debating for weeks on where to spend the remainder of my trip. I desired a change of scenery from a metropolis (both Chicago and Lisbon) and I hoped to avoid the expense and headache of renting a car.

As always, my primary source of information were the reports and opinions posted on the Talk section of Fodors.com. Matt_from_England's and lobo_mau's legendary thread, Things to do In and Around Lisbon, (which has spawned second and third installments to accommodate the hundreds of replies it has generated) described several day trips from Lisbon. Based on its recommendations, I considered maintaining Lisbon as my base and taking multiple single-day journeys, but I realized that the to-ing and fro-ing would quickly become a drag.

Marvao was internet posters' favorite area within Portugal (after Lisbon), but it seemed a tad too sleepy for whiling away four days by myself. No other single area of Portugal distinguished itself as a favorite among fellow Fodorites or travel guide authors.

I eventually decided upon the island of Madeira, based upon its abundance of flora and fauna, stunning landscapes, and levadas, which are small watering channels transversing the island. They double as walking trails. Searching hotels on the internet, I fell in love with the stylish Choupana Hills, a boutique property featuring bungalows designed with Asian and African influence, built on pillars, and overlooking the bay. The price (230 to 294 Euros -- not to be confused with Pounds) is reasonable for the package, but I couldn't justify parting with those kind of bucks (excepting one night at the Puerto America, booked by accident).

Casa Papagaio, which I discovered on Secretplaces.com (an indispensable resource for locating charming accommodations in Southern Europe), better-suited my budget than Choupana Hills (bungaloes are a mere 49 to 99 Euros per night). The place wowed me: a pool and modern living room overlooking the water, "well-trained" dogs running around the garden, and a levada connecting the property to the main town of Funchal.

Unfortunately, several weeks after sending faxes and e-mails, I finally received a reply informing me that the property was sold-out.

*Stupid island.

So I dug through my stacks of travel magazines and discovered an article on the Canary Islands in the July 2001 issue of Traveler.

*Not to brag or anthing, but I quote Homer

Ron is my Co-Pilot

The blurb beneath the title of the Traveler article on Canary Islands read:

The Canary Islands have long been a bolt-hole for Europe's sun-starved horde.

Which really didn't grab me, but then it continued:

But beyond the beaches, Ron Hall finds spectacular vistas, striking architecture, and a new attention to syle.

In fact, Ron Hall paints the portrait of an archipelago suffering from a bad case of split-personality, the condition being most manifest in its "most beautiful and varied" isle, Tenerife.

Bad Tenerife (the southern portion) is charged with displaying the "...worst excesses of package tourism," having a "...reputation for the rowdy behavior of its British and German clientele," and harboring the "...Mare Nostrum resort, consisting of five five-star hotels, twelve restaurants, a casino, and a theatre, all hidden behind a grandiose Roman colonnade and classical sculptures almost Vegas-like in its pretensions."

Good Tenerife (the northern portion) is blessed with Puerto de la Cruz, a "...a substantial coastal town that...still has the aura of a genteel watering hole," the "...two charming old Spanish colonial towns, La Laguna and La Orotava,"  and "...a sophisticated, family-run hotel, the San Roque, converted from a seventeenth-centuray aristocratic mansion" with interiors that "...are paradoxically furnished with modern classics by Mies, Corbusier, Breuer, Eileen Gray, John Rennie Mackintosh, and the rest."

*I'll take Tenerife for a hundred, Ron.

But the lingering question remains: South... or North...?  *Deal... or no deal?

Tourism excess...or gentility?

Rowdy behavior...or charm?

Vegas-like pretensions...or sophisticated modern classics?

*I'm gonna go with Tenerife North, Ron.

*Is that your final answer?

*Yes.

*Nevermind the gameshow voices in my head

Wild Card

I peer down at the Atlantic Ocean and my stomach tumbles. Fear? Panic? Yes.

I'm flying unaccompanied to a remote island off the coast of Africa (the coast of Africa, for God's sake), based on the recommendation of some guy named Ron Hall (which is a game show name, not a real name) and I need to navigate my way to some obscure village -- La Oro-Something -- and manage my way to the Hotel Alhambra, which (according to the website) is a former 'gentleman's residence' I don't even know what a 'gentleman's residence' is I may be trapped within a former brothel whose owner is near-crazy and intrusive and will make me look at bad paintings (according to one poster on Tripadvisor.com) and my family won't know for a good week that I'm missing and even then how will they find me do they know how to dial outside the U.S. they don't know to dial 011 or to drop the zero before the city code did I drop the zero when I sent them the number I will never be seen, or heard from, again someone better look after Fido and Oliver I'm so fucked.

I had uncovered very little information on Tenerife, La Orotava, or the Hotel Alhambra, so 'gut instincts' guided my trip planning. Second guessing my earlier 'gut instincts', I slump deeper into my seat, lower my shade, and focus on my tattered puzzle, now an obscene mess of inked criss-crosses, hatchmarks, and scrawlings.

The airport appears civilized enough. My bags arrive promptly and I thread my way to the Information Desk. I've read that a taxi to La Orotava would cost me plenty, and that my best bet is to catch a Titsa bus. Titsa operates an extensive fleet of high-end motorcoaches that blanket the island and serve as a primary mode of transportation for the majority of its residents and tourists.

My bus ride is brief, pleasant, and seamless: I immediately locate the 102 bus to Puerto de la Cruz, where I transfer to La Orotava on the 101. The Titsa employees are oddly helpful (bus drivers, in my experience, tend not to be 'people persons').

The Hotel Alhambra is located two blocks from the station. I pause at the crosswalks to allow the cars to pass, but they stop and wait for me. Ungrudgingly! Chicago drivers accelerate when a pedestrian dares to enter charging range, crosswalks be damned. Maybe I will survive this Canary Island experience afterall.

I arrive. So this is what a gentleman's residence looks like. I ring the bell and seconds later Taoro greets me through the ornate wrought-iron gate.

Moor is More

Taoro is an adorable, sleepy, pony-tailed, gentle dude of eighteen or so. I could adopt him. Lennon's Imagine plays in the background. The mansion is bright and open -- cheerful. I'm at-ease immediately.

T leads me on a brief tour of the magnificent 18th century residence, dutifully describing the over-the-top (but awesome) murals in the dining room, which were painted by Venezuela's Antonio Otazzo, who vacations in La Orotava.

These must be the "bad" paintings to which the Tripadvisor reviewers were referring. Actually, I think they're wonderful -- not that I'd want them adorning the walls of my own place, though. Fabulous Moorish foyer. I'm a sucker for North African decor.

The busts (representing the four seasons) overlooking the balcony wall are bizarre (in a good way).

I'm eventually led to my chambers. I approach the bathroom tentatively: afterall, I selected this property based on the lavatory photos on Secretplaces. Disappointment is no doubt imminent.

Love the op art bathroom. Love. It. Only, why do European hotels provide two toilets but no washcloths?

My rooms share four floor-to-ceiling windows. Fresh air and the sight of the ocean are precious: at home my windows don't open, the Red Line obscures the view from my back windows, and Crate and Barrel and Crunch dominate the scene from my front windows.

Tenerife is beautiful and The Alhambra amazes. I worry too much.

By the way, the rate per night is an mere 69 Euros. Insane!

Alone in Puerto de la Cruz, Part I

I explore La Orotava. The historic hamlet boasts baroque architecture, ornate mansions, gardens, and pastoral squares. Oh, and LO is a steep town, angled at a slope of at least 45 degrees, or so my grousing calves claim. San Francisco Nob Hill steep.

LO sadly lacks appealing restaurants with decent people-watching, so I bus it to Puerto de la Cruz, an easy commute. PdlC is the Spanish St. Jean de Luz: mixed shops, mediocre restaurants, humanity (tourists and locals alike) on parade. I wander the alleys awhile, entertained by my inner commentator. She's neither erudite nor droll, but that's ok: neither is her audience!

A restaurant named Prom catches my eye. Will you go to the Prom with me? I mentally implore of my non-existent travel companion. Damn, I'm funny! I crack myself up! Only...a downside of solo travel is having no one to appreciate my lame jokes. If a one-liner is uttered in Tenerife and no one hears it: is it still funny?

Something I pass triggers a memory of the fairly-annoying Pet Shop Boys song, Discoteca. The tune's refrain comprises 90% of the lyrics:

Hay una discoteca por aqui?

Over and over and over again. Ad nauseum. The track loops stubbornly within my head. Now I'm walking in time to it:

Left foot: Hay una

Right foot: disco-

Left foot: -teca

Right foot: por aqui?

Left foot: Hay una

Right foot: disco-

Left foot: -teca

Right foot: por aqui?

Maddening. Another downside to traveling alone: having no one to distract you from your own thoughts.