“no hay en la vida nada como la pena

de ser ciego en granada“

there is nothing in life

like the pain

of being blind

in granada.

<3L.

DAY 1

interactive map here.

DAY 2

a day spent exploring barcelona’s coastline via bike. bring your bathing suit or your birthday suit and leave your sense of direction at home (it seems i’ve never actually left home with mine)- today is about getting lost and navigating back by the sea.

interactive map here.

DAY 3

interactive map here.

DAY 4

 

interactive map here.

a guide to finding the perfect spanish wine for all your dope occasions.

in brooklyn our lives are often defined by contradictions. we sleep in the shadow of the world’s most infamous skyline and the flickering streetlight outside of our too-expensive shoebox apartment that we share with 3 other people in bed stuy. we wear ripped jeans and red lipstick to invite-only gallery openings on our way to a bushwick afterhours party. we chase a beer-and-a-shot with a beer-and-a-shot before a five course meal across the street. we look to elevate our lives in the most grounded way we know how. we let our reputation precede us.

The Housewarming Party in Bed Stuy. 

The Launch of [insert dope endeavor here]. 

Anna Brut Cava from Codorniu in Catalunya, $13

For 808s 212s and heartbreak. 

Petalos Bierzo, $20.

For the friend who’s leaving the city.

Quinta Milú, Ribera del Duero, $11.

 

¡salud, brooklyn!

<3L.

where I’m from, tomatoes are in our blood. we eat them as a side dish with dinner in the summertime, with just a little salt and pepper. or fresh out of the garden smushed between two pieces of white bread with a smudge of dukes mayonnaise. we have a festival in their honor each year, complete with tomatoes on a stick, a tomato dunking booth, a tomato queen, and other such non-traditional relics to the juicy, red gods of summer.

and so when I first moved to Spain I was delighted to be in a country that reveled these fruits as much as I did. it’s served as a simple accompaniment to almost every meal, rubbed onto crusty bread and sprinkled with olive oil and sea salt as pan con tomate. they grate it into tomato rallado as a sauce base, salad dressing, and the sticky, seductive secret to socarrat. of course, there’s the annual tomatina in buñol, outside of valencia. this quote from one spain’s most famous playwrights- pero sin tampoco olvidar el pa amb tomàquet

And of course, how dynamic a simple chilled tomato soup became as you travel through different regions. heading south to andalucia and gazpacho it is no longer gazpacho, the chilled, refreshing tomato soup you may be familiar with- it is salmorejo, a thick-based, garlic-laiden, dream of a substance that looks you straight in the eye and says to you, in that thick, distinctive andalusian way of speaking that you need to “tranquilo, nino- sientate aqui y por favor, disfrutate la vida.”

if you haven’t had it, you owe it to yourself- but beware, it may be impossible to go back to normal gazpachos, or really to eat anything else and not be thinking about it, for a while. this gazpacho runs down your throat and into your veins, your pores, until you become the gazpacho. and the gazpacho becomes you. and you are absolutely fine with that- it is not a resignation, it is an revelation.
try your hand in making it here- but don’t say i didn’t warn you.

recipe below

ingredients

1 (4″ long) piece of baguette, crust broken off (note: this can be up to 4 days old.)

2 cloves of garlic

1 teaspoon of salt

12 whole blanched almonds OR 1/4 cup natural almond butter

1 cup extra virgin olive oil (preferably spanish, or andalusian hojiblanca)

2 lb ripe tomatoes, peeled, cored, and quartered

1/2 english cucumber, peeled, sliced, and quartered

1/2 yellow bell pepper, core and seeds removed.

2 tablespoons sherry vinegar

preparation

soak bread in water for 1 minute (or 2 min for 2-day old bread, 3 min for 3-day, etc), squeeze dry and discard water.

mash garlic to a paste with salt using a mortar and pestle. blend garlic paste, bread, and almonds in a food processor or with an immersion mixer and slowly add olive oil while blending, until mixture is thick and smooth. add tomatoes, yellow pepper, and cucumber pieces a few at a time, along with vinegar, and blend until smooth. force soup through a sieve into a bowl while saying things like “Who’s your daddy??!” or allow to pass through a food mill to remove any remaining solid pieces.

transfer to a jar and let chill for 2 hours before serving.

to serve

add- one soft boiled egg, cut in half. toss in a dash of jamon bits. drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with spanish paprika. attempt to use a spoon although you know it’s a rudimentary tool for such greatness and that life is short- just assess what is appropriate given the company you are with and enjoy.

<3L.

this has been my mission. to leave no pan unturned, no eggs unflipped. to conduct countless hours of questioning and listless field research. I will slice. I will sauté. I will beat, pour, wait. -inhale- flip, and eat. I spent 11 months in spain, and have a lifetime ahead of me- as an introduction became a desire, an affirmation is consummated, an embryo becomes a fetus becomes a silhouette becomes a heartbeat. I will at the very least come to understand the simple perfection that is- the tortilla de patata. 

notes from the field (del campo):

“If you asked all of us teachers to make a tortilla, you would end up with 20 different tortillas- each person thinking there’s is the best.” so then what makes each one different? “It depends. It depends on how you cut the potatoes, on how many eggs you use, on how long you cook the onion… do you use onion by the way?” this was a question? I couldn’t help but question the integrity of a dish where you could reduce the list of ingredients by 1/3 and it was still acceptable. “Mine though…mine is the best.”
-Esther Hernandez, 1 nov 2013, teacher’s lounge.

“The secret?” They looked at each other and laughed. “Lots of practice, right?” She agreed. “I’ve been making tortillas everyday for about 8 years. It’s practice, and knowing just what each one needs,” she spoke of the omelet as if it was one of the students she served, sincere and frank.
-cafe de IES Manuel de Falla, 31 oct 2013

“The tortilla has 4 main ingredients- eggs, potato, onion, and love. The last one, that is the secret.” I gave him a sideways glance, the one that says- that was cute, now get real and tell me the damn secret.”Ok, my secret? My said, lowering his voice. “You must have very high heat. And patience. And when it’s time, make sure your moves are quick and direct.” he imitated flipping the tortilla as I sipped my caipirinha, wondering if we were still talking about cooking.
-Alvaro, arguelles, madrid. 6 nov, 2013

“This one. This is crap.” He said, as he grabbed a slice of the free tortilla and took a bite. “It’s crap but I am hungry.” I asked him why. “You try,” he said, handing me a slice. As I bit into it I was both angry and overjoyed. It was crap! And I could tell that it was crap! I felt like a novice wine drinker, spitting out an immature red for the first time at a tasting. I felt like a sailor finally gaining his sea legs, standing tall and unwavering during the storm. It was crap, CRAP I tell you!
-4 nov 2013, malasana, madrid.

As we sat in the plaza that night, surrounded by the pure history of Madrid- narrow streets, stone churches, street lights barely illuminating secret stone pathways down narrow alleyways, public fountains decorated with blue and white tiles, intricate ironwork showing faces and inscriptions. People moving along, basking in the moonlit of a cool autumn Sunday evening. Couples lost in embrace. And as he leaned over he pointed, and with all the reverence of a conquistador, finally bringing into vision the land he was seeking… and  I knew he was going to share with me a secret of this mysterious city. “There,” he pointed, speaking slowly, with reverence. “There is where you will find the best tortilla in all of Madrid.”
-Xico, 13 October 2013, plaza de la puerta cerrada, madrid.

“so i hear this is where you come to have the best tortilla in all of madrid,” i asked, with a smile on my face. the waiter’s face turned from playful to grave in an instant. i was confused. “i must be honest- you cannot find that here. but i will tell you that everyone in all of spain will agree on who makes the best tortilla in all of the country,” he said. i leaned in. “their grandmothers.”
-juana loca, la latina, madrid, spain.

so here, i suppose, is the fruits of my research:

ingredients
3 large potatoes (of the russet variety or similar)
1 medium spanish onion
5 eggs
olive oil. lots of it.
salt

directions
peel potatoes and slice into slices about 1/8″ thick and about the size of half-dollars or so. slice onion, thinnish. heat a medium-sized, non-stick frying pan on medium high heat with some oil in it. add sliced potato and onion and enough oil to nearly cover them, about 1/4 cup of oil (really). add salt (don’t be shy here- we have 4 ingredients. the salt marries them all together.) cook, for about 25 minutes, or until the whole troop is soft and salty and maybe a few parts are slightly golden. flip only when necessary- mostly let these all sit and meld together into a love circle of magic. (this is a loose translation or a very technical spanish cooking term, of course.)

when potatoes are tinder, strain potato and onion mixture through a metal colander over a bowl, capturing all of the residual oil (this can be reused on any dish, just keep in mind that it will be quite onion-infused.) let these sit and cool and mesh.

once they are cool, crack all eggs into a bowl and add just the teeniest splash of cold water. beat like crazy.
slowly mix in egg and potato- do not beat anymore, just mix.

heat pan over med to med-low heat. add a tiny pinch of the infused oil. once hot, pour in egg-potato-onion mixture all at once.

this is where things get serious.

shake pan gently as this cooks, letting the heat permeate evenly but the mixture not get too attached to the pan. slowly begin to work a spatula or other such tool around the edges, peaking to see how things are firming up as you shake gently.

grab a round plate that will fit inside the frying pan, covering the surface of the tortilla. when the tortilla is just firm but still quite raw on top, place plate upside-down over tortilla.

with one hand pressing plate tightly to the pan, FLIP the whole sha-bang over. don’t be scared, don’t hesitate. DO IT.

you should have a semi-done tortilla on the plate, raw-side down. now shimmy the raw side onto the frying pan so it begins to cook. begin to work the sides of the tortilla with your spatula, gently tucking in the sides and consequently puffing up your proud little tortilla.

after just a few minutes it will be done. the ideal tortilla is still runny on the inside but just firm enough to stay together. slide back onto the plate, let sit for 5 minutes.

slice, share, eat, die.

Sevilla.

It was my first experience really traveling alone. it was weird leaving my hostel and not planning a route with someone else, not asking if anyone was hungry, not checking if we should stop for coffee, just popping in wherever. And this was nerve wracking not only because I was alone, but because Sevilla is laid out as if an ADD spider wove a web as its streets and I am utterly directionally-challenged. Upon my initial excitement the first day I let myself wander aimlessly and excitedly for about 5 minutes and realized I had no clue what direction I’d come from and sat down and looked at the map. After days of exploring the city somewhat aimlessly, every time I returned “home” at night, a new friend who worked at the hostel would always ask me if I’d finally gone to Plaza España. I would have to admit I hadn’t made it there yet… and he would insist, “you have to go Liz. Tomorrow- prometeme.” When I asked why, he just said “trust me, you must see it.” And so I’d promised him I would.

And I would- everyday I planned to. Each day I had gotten lost, or distracted, or the line at the cathedral had taken too long, or I’d ended up sitting in a botanical garden and writing and feeling so fulfilled that I didn’t even think twice about what I could be missing out on.
My last day in Sevilla, David told me again, this time in a much more serious tone. “Liz. you have to go see it. Tomorrow, first thing you do.”
So I did. Even though I was tempted to get distracted by so many beautiful things, I walked in the most direct meandering pattern the narrow streets allowed me to, and I arrived at the place on the map that seemed to tell me I was there, at my destination- Plaza España. I looked around. There was a fountain or two, some vendors. a stone walkway between some trees. I immediately began to question my new friend.

I followed the path and turned a corner beside a nondescript building and what appeared in front of me literally took my breath away. I remember having to grab a nearby railing for a minute, to sturdy myself as I closed my eyes. And when I opened them again I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing. And at that moment I understood the indulgent magnificence that it is to travel, and especially to travel alone- to soak in every bit of that site, of your feelings, of your thoughts- to appreciate a moment so much, to feel the breath in your lungs and the ground beneath your feet yet still feel incapable of comprehending how beautiful the world is.

and then to dare yourself to take another step.

visit Malasaña and Lavapies.

Malasaña, a neighborhood just north of the center of Madrid, is made up of narrow streets lined with charming restaurants, hip bars, cozy music venues and hidden plazas rife with flea markets and vintage pop-ups… and it’s been doing this way before it was considered “brooklynesque”.

check out open mic night at cafe la palma, try the house-made burrata at bar amor, have a cocktail in a dreamland at el jardin secreto, and paruse the peddled goods in the plaza del dos de mayo. Have a refreshing Cibeles beer, “de grifo” or on tap at almost any bar. it’s made in Madrid and was one of the first micro-breweries in the city.

oh, and there’s a place there called Madklyn. I don’t feel the need to explain, just go there. you’ll feel right at home.

 Lavapies, pronounced “lah-va pee-ays,” literally means footwash and is the grungy up-and-coming neighborhood located between the tourist hub of Sol and El Paseo del Prado (or madrid’s museum row) just east of the center Madrid. If you’re lucky enough to be there for the “tapapies” tapas food festival, have a drink and tapa at every bar and restaurant you stumble upon. any other day of the week, check out la playa de lavapies and tribuetxe for tapas and drinks, la escalera de jacob for live music, and la fugitiva for books, coffee, and engaging conversation among the city’s artist community.

in case you missed it…

click here for my insider’s guide to madrid, the sunniest capital in europe.

(first destination happens to be tattooed onto my finger… just in case I get lost.)

VAMOS.

i have $1000 from selling my most prized possession (a 1998 Jeep Cheerokee), a passport, and a map. I have the knowledge of the places I must go- Madrid, the keeper of a significant piece of my soul; Istanbul, a city whose mysterious appeal has taunted me for the past three years, and Cappadocia, a place that with one photograph captivated me enough to relentlessly haunt me in my dreams, sleeping and waking. and with those resources I hope to create enough displacement, enough momentum, enough moments of pure awe to last me until the next. to follow along with me, sign up to get Brooklyn, I’m Trying updates delivered conveniently to your inbox or look to my instagram feed for views of the world through my lens. and if you have any advice for the 6 days to fill in between the places I am using as anchors, please leave your suggestions below. or, you know… come along. in any capacity. come.