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- travel - + europe grad trip - - waiter in a Chinese restaurant in Madrid 6 June  The last day of our stint in Spain began with a heap of noodles [1], at least in my case, as I bought an identical packet of chicken-flavoured ones to the one I already had, for a bumper serving. The hostel graciously agreed to let us keep our backpacks in the kitchen-cum-luggage room (where we chatted with an architecture student from China, and our last encounter was with an Italian cooking what else but pasta) despite us officially checking out at 11 a.m., thus removing one of our headaches as we resolved to give Madrid one last spin. My newly-shortened fingernails (thanks to a nailclipper on a keychain bought just for the purpose) only added to the sense of freshness. The Santiago Bernabéu stadium was squeezed out of our tight schedule, as the Temple of Debod won the right of first visit. It's not just any run-of-the-mill temple either, but an ancient Egyptian one, transported stone-by-stone and reconstructed on its current site in the Parque de Rosales, with two sets of arches [2] heralding the main structure proper. Despite its promising origins, there's nothing remotely dark or mysterious about it, as plenty of spotlights, refurbished wooden steps and helpful signs [3] present themselves at every turn, and that's not mentioning the hordes of visitors. I've breathed mustier air in some hostels, and it's essentially a museum that happens to have some of its walls as the exhibits themselves. The carvings mostly depict kings and pharaohs trying to curry favour with their gods with various little bribes, such as pitchers of water and crummy necklaces. One might think that most decent gods would have demanded a bit more imagination after a few centuries of identical trifles, but then it appears the practice is still well and alive today, so I suspect that mineral water bottlers and jewellers may still be in short supply in heaven (any entrepreneurs interested in some import-export action?). The great pharaohs of old may be further consoled that their dedication to the divine may now be recorded for posterity by hordes of heathen camera-wielding tourists - and remember, admission is free. Made our way back to the Príncipe Pío metro station, and the mall attached to it. The flower bouquet vending machines [4] were a particular eye-opener (there were ones for paperbacks as well), though the prices were not inviting at all. Those at McDonald's were, as usual, and two Euros got two BBQ Chicken burgers [5], by now a staple, for lunch. Note: The McOutlets in Spain seen so far have abandoned their usual red-and-yellow scheme for a metal-and-wood look - pandering to local tastes, perhaps? We popped into the Zara store in the basement, alerted by law that prices may be cheaper at the source. Turns out that they may be, but not by much if at all. Got to the Museo del Prado by about two-thirty, and spent four Euros each to wander the over one hundred halls for several hours. Security was tight, with all our bags being held in the cloakroom for the duration of the visit, prudent with a collection of near-incalculable value. Unfortunately, photography was disallowed within the museum, so the only image of a Goya I could take was his statue outside [6], but most of the works should be online somewhere, if one knows what titles to search for (Google Earth has highly detailed scans of a few of the pictures). It is no easy thing to discern the superlative from the merely exceptional, and being without formal training in art we had to take the museum's word for it on the top masterpieces there. In a way, it was a little underwhelming if one expects to be blown away immediately by the supposed best of the best, but as Hemingway acknowledged ("...I have watched them being puzzled. These cannot be great pictures, the colors are too fresh and they are too simple to see.") even literary genius does not automatically translate into even basic recognition of artistic merit, so we could not be too disappointed. The lack of commentary in English for most of the pieces was the greatest handicap for us. With time running out, we made a quick trip to the nearby Parque del Buen Retiro (i.e. Retiro Park) for a fast walk and sit-down by the side of the lake [7], where schools of aggressive fish could make scraps of food vanish almost before they hit the water. Had a run-in with another pickpocket, this time a young lady with a sweater slung over her arm (held at waist level). This hid her hand, as she blocked my entrance and tried to work the zipper of my daypack, which I had slung in front of me. A helping hand from alvin stopped that attempt, after which she stood around as if nothing had happened. At least the buskers who come in and play loud (and not particularly good) music do something for their coin. Our last meal in Spain was in a Chinese restaurant just a couple of storefronts away from our hostel, where I had 三鲜炒饭 [8] for three Euros and a bit and shared a bowl of chicken stew. It was also here that a friendly waiter made the quote that heads this post, after we displayed the ability to converse in Mandarin, suggesting that our Speak English campaign may have gone slightly overboard. I polished off the apple that I had been saving for days, and we collected our stuff and lugged it back to the Barajas airport, where we staked out a cushy corner next to a pillar [9, view from that spot], and alvin didn't manage to get his Madrid postcard. I whiled away a couple of hours with the travel guidebook, before settling down to sleep with my head on my backpack. 7 June  I soon discovered that my stuffed backpack was not the best of pillows, and instead extracted my sweater for that purpose. That did the trick until four-plus in the morning, where I woke and decided that the sweater would serve better worn on my torso instead. Well, it was about time to check in anyway, and I ended up being a further 20 Euros out of pocket as my luggage had somehow swelled to 11 kilograms in weight. Being a bit of an Anglophile, I was rather looking forward to setting foot on England, but wasn't all that surprised as the Ryanair jet touched down in driving rain - the head stewardess cheerily wishing us a nice trip as we dashed down the ramp stairs and across the uncovered tarmac to the terminal seemed terribly British humour. Stansted Airport being some distance from London, we boarded the Stansted Express train for a 45 minute ride into the city proper. Tried an interactive trip planner, which had the neat option of being able to print out suggested routes [1], not that any of them took fewer than four hours. I was already feeling much happier at being able to understand signs and posters, and more importantly, communicate effectively. Many of the poster advertisements appeared to be for novels, something that just isn't seen back home. The rail employee who validated our BritRail passes even mentioned that his wife had been nagging him to bring her shopping at Orchard Road, after hearing that we were from Singapore. I believe that the Spanish are no less friendly, just that it was difficult for them to express themselves in a non-native tongue. Soon after, we talked with the guy who pushes the drinks cart down the train cars, who happened to be from Uzbekistan - the wonders of a common language! Bought an Oyster card and split with alvin at the Seven Sisters, as he went to live with a friend for a couple of days. I headed with sel down to the famous King's Cross station, three stops down the metro, where we boarded the 10:30 to Glasgow (passing by York). As the BritRail pass covered everything, there was no hassle involving reservations and extra payments, making me like the place more and more, even if I subsisted on a few Kit Kat bars [2] for breakfast. Zipped by White Hart Lane and the Emirates (imposing from the outside) among other landmarks, as the weather took turns to change from fair to funny along the way, and I amused myself by watching raindrops chase one another horizontally across the train windows [3]. Special mention: Each seat in the train appears to have a power socket and Wifi access, though I didn't try that due to the relative shortness of the trip. Landed in York on time, and our next problem was locating the hostel (Astley House), even after seeking help at Tourist Information. We set out upon a rather discouraging walk down Clifton street, and were aghast when the door numbers appeared to halt at 122 (on the side of a convenience store). The locals we approached were more than helpful, with one old guy in particular going out of his way to give further advice, but none of them were sure exactly where the hostel was. We finally found Astley House down the road and across the street, and frankly given our experience we can't give it high marks for location. The other aspects are another matter altogether - we had feared for the worst after the hostel was rated rather poorly (#157 of 177 B&Bs in York, last checked) on one site, but the price was right and the manageress was helpful (and moreover had a very cute toddler). She gave us a three-man room (with a double four-poster bed [4]) for all three nights, despite us needing the full capacity only for the last night. The room and ensuite bathroom was clean enough, with a warm carpeted floor, and even complimentary bath and shower gel. I don't know of the experiences of past guests, but I'm having a pleasant one myself so far. We even have a direct view of the clocktower of the Clifton Parish Church across the street from our window. The winds, given that it is nominally summer, were something else altogether, and made me wonder just how footballers play in England. I had a craving for fish and chips, but only found a shop serving them with some trouble (strange since our room has an explicit warning against bringing the dish in). Even the small version was very generous [5], and I followed that up by purchasing a copy of The Sunday Times [6] for a whopping two pounds. At these prices, it's no wonder why they say the print media is dying, though the article quality may be very good. Would it be too hard to sell the sections separately? Left the evening free for rest and relaxation after a Donor Kebab dinner (no photo for once, but it was hefty strips of meat on a bit of bread in a light orange takeaway foam box), considering the conditions of last night. (N.B. For those who got rickroll'd, here's the real website for Astley House. Sorry, couldn't resist. Next: A York Day Out
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