The next morning we enjoyed the last of our complimentary breakfasts. As we left Madrid though two misfortunes happened.
   The first was Mikki losing her battery. This wasn’t just any double-A battery—it was the battery of the ultra hi-tech camera she shares with Risa. It took awhile for her to recover from that. And in the airport, while she was recovering, I discovered that I lost one of the earrings I was wearing.
   My favorite pair pa naman. The Venetian masks.
   We were two bummed out sisters for sure. But we dealt with it.
   We left Madrid at 1:30, and Mikki and I cheered up because of the perky steward. By the time we arrived in London, 5:30, we were exhausted from the traveling. At the Heathrow Airport, the immigration line was really long—surprisingly longer than the one in the Philippines. It was weird to see all of the signs only in English, and to see many, many ethnicities after being to so many homologous (?) countries. Weird, and a bit of a relief. We left the airport at 7 o’clock.
   The drivers are on the right side of the car. The cars are on the left side of the road. :D
   At Holiday Inn, we only got one room. I thought it was going to be really cramped. To my surprise, the room was big enough to fit us fice easily. Holiday Inn Kensington, despite not being a bed n’ breakfast, was swell.
   At first we were too pooped out to do anything. Someone turned the TV on and we caught our first ever episode of Dr. Who. Wow. David Tennant is hot. ;) And the Queen-Victoria-is-a-werewolf plot was rather ingenious. Pity I saw only the ending.
   Now, my mom’s cousin lives in the UK; Tita Grace married an Englishman and went to live there. They went to stay in London overnight just to show us around! That first night we were there in London, the Lawlers took us out to dinner. Tita Grace met us in the hotel lobby.
   Other than my parents, the only person who met them previously was Kuya Tommy. My brother stayed with them for a bit when he went on the IFS (International Foreign Study) Program. Tita Grace was really nice—I liked her immediately. But more on that later.
   To get to that restaurant where Uncle John was waiting, we had to use the Metro. Only Risa was discounted; for the rest of us Dad bought funky automated blue passes which were called Oyster Cards.
   Only Mikki, and other Neil Gaiman fans would understand why I got so giddy when we traveled using the Underground. The second I saw ‘Mind the Gap’ I started to giggle. Unfortunately, due to the new laws there weren’t any hobos loitering in the Tube. It was all good, though. I saw station names like ‘Earl’s Court’, ‘Temple,’ and ‘White Chapel’. Two amusing drunks were on the train with us.
London Below



   We got off at Leicester (pronounced LEY-ster) Square, which was full of people—it was a Saturday Night, after all. There were tourists, girls out on hen parties, and ordinary Londoners relaxing after work. Tita Grace weaved through the Saturday crowds and led us to a Mexican restaurant.
   Uncle John held a strange object in his hands, which turned out to be an electronic waiting list placer. Chiquitos was apparently so popular that it needed such things. Tita Grace ordered coke light for us kids, and frozen margarita for the adults. While waiting, we sat outside and watched the people go by.
   The Lawlers were so fun! Tita Grace coerced my parents to let me have some margarita. Uncle John seemed genuinely interested in what we said, and made for a funny conversationalist. It was too bad that their son Connor couldn’t come. When he learned that my brother wasn’t going to be there, he refused to go to London; according to my aunt, he didn’t want to be stuck with three girls.
    I found that really cute, for some reason.
    Finally, we got our table. By that time we were really hungry. Extremely satisfying dinner—beef and chicken wraps, barbequed ribs, nachos, chicken wings…we couldn’t finish it all. The waiters, I have to mention, wore really funky shirts—‘Famous for Fajitas’, ‘Hot Hombre’, ‘Desperate Desperado’…I really, really wanted one.
At the Mexican Resto

  

   

    Once again it took forever to get my sisters and me functional.  We used the bus to get near MCARS, and just our luck, it started raining.  My luck, especially—I was only wearing my new bolero over my thin shirt, and I had no cap or umbrella.  I was kinda chilly, the way Johnny Depp is kinda a cool actor.            
    Gotta love sarcasm.            
    We reached the Reina Sofia Musem at 11.  MCARS, or Museo Collectión Artes de Reina Sofia is a museum that showcases modern, postmodern, and probably post-postmodern Spanish artists.  Once I thawed a bit, I enjoyed the surreal and figurative works.  Some painters worth checking out:

• Jon Gutierrez Solana, and his dark figures.
• Joan Miró’s colorful, whimsical abstracts, like his tribute to Pablo Picasso (Mujer, Pajaro y Estrella, 1970).
• Pablo Picasso himself.  Saw Guernica.  It was awesome.  That huge a painting (it covered much more than Juan Luna’s Spolarium), and it only took him a month to do it.
• Salvador Dali Domenech.  I love his work.  I have a print of The Temptation of St. Anthony from the Louvre, thanks to the Rubik’s cube finals I had in March.  In Reina Sofia, the really cool paintings were El Hombre Invisible (1930), El Enigma Sin Fin (1938), and 1929’s El Gran Masturbador—the last despite the obvious subject, or perhaps because of it.

  

    Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to take pictures inside.  I think we had lunch at the museum itself; as usual, the food was overpriced and nothing special.  After our lunch, we set out again for the Palacio Real; the public could be admitted inside now that the royals were away.  Dad rented only one audio guide, so whoever was unlucky enough to hold it had to relate the information to the rest of us.  Mom opted to sit while we toured the accessible grounds.
    I’ve been to a couple of palaces prior to this one—Versailles, the Alhambra, and a couple of crumbly ones with long-forgotten names.  The feeling I get when I step inside a place steeped in luxury and tradition however remained the same.  If I stand still for a moment and let the others in a tour group pass me by, I can almost see nobles draped in jewels and idly gossiping…

    Breakfast like in all the rest of our hotels (except the one in London) was complimentary.  And like nearly everyday, it took my family the whole morning to get ready to go out.
    Something happened.  Basta.
    We took the city bus tour, another hop-on, hop-off version of the one in Palermo. The bus first stopped in Museo del Prado.  I didn't take copious notes here as I do everywhere I go (you should see the poor dilapidated notebooks I carry around), since I did the last time four years ago.  I heart Velasquez, despite the paintings of the Infanta Margarita.  The depictions of Saturn eating his children are gross, and El Greco's art is downright depressing.  Too many good stuff to mention—simply put, I love the Prado (Go, Goya).  And I wish we spent more than a couple of hours there.

Meep.

Puerto/Plaza

    Since we weren’t going on the train like the rest in the SRMO group my family managed to get a good night’s rest.  We left Nice at around noon.  The whole day was spent in planes, and I get the sense that relating my whole airplane experience might be a tad boring.
    (I do not like security at Amsterdam.  I feel so violated.  Sniff.  )
    Nevertheless, I was excited—I was going to Madrid.
    See, I’ve been to Spain before.  I entered the summer program of my high school that involved a weeklong stay at a Spanish high school, lodgings at convents, and pilgrimages to the spots where our martyr founder taught (Go, Pedro!).  It should’ve been fun, and I did have fun, when the girls I was with weren’t acting like rejects from Mean Girls.  Thank God for Kissa and Anna (and Jana and Kit).  Grr.
    Anyway, this time I was going with my family.  Hurrah, right?  Never mind that the parents didn’t listen to me most of the time and ended up stumbling towards the direction and train and place—and phrase—which I knew was right in the first place, only after bad consultations from various other sources.  (Ignore the resentment.  It happens all in a day.)  I did have fun.
    We arrived in Madrid at around 6 or 7.  After some time, we reached our hotel, Puerto Del Toledo at Plaza de Toledo.  The rooms weren’t as great as the ones in West-End at Nice, but still very good.  My family grew hungry, so we set out for dinner.  In a smoky bar we ate tapas, appetizers (pica-pica) of jamon Serrano and queso and callos and pan.  Yum.  Only Mom didn’t like the bar; the rest of us were glued to the football game on TV.    

    We passed by a quiet town on the way back.  Vaullaris is notable for its pottery; when we entered the town proper, there was a large, colorful ceramic dish mounted in honor of Picasso.  Picasso stayed here in his 60s, going into ceramics just to prove he was a genius in any medium.  We passed by in fact Madura, Pablo Picasso’s former gallery.  It wasn’t hard for me to imagine the temperamental artist working there.
    Our dinner was set at seven.  We managed to reach it on time.  It was my last day with the other kids, so I went out with them after dinner.  The Ricaldes, The Baloises, Jojo and I (my sisters opted to go hang with my parents, in their words “stay with the money”) walked by the beachside.  Contrary to what Jennifer said, there was quite a bit of nightlife in Nice—on the bay walk, at least.  Two performance artists struck shivering poses reminiscent of yoga.  Skateboarders some ten years younger than me, and others twice my age were seen strutting their stuff every direction I turned.
    We did nothing but talk—turns out that everyone was connected by at least two degrees, barring of course the father connection.  Funky.  Our number gradually dwindled (the rest of the group was taking the train early next morning), and by the time I reached classy Negresco only Owen and Raffy were with me.
    Negresco’s lobby was super (pronounced ‘th’).  Seriously; it looked more like a museum with its collection of eccentric sculptures and furniture.  Amongst the eclectic art was an extremely fat cat, surveying all around her like a queen.  I later found out that she was a queen—Carmen the Siamese cat was born in that hotel, and from the moment of her birth was pampered and spoiled.
    When Raffy and Owen went back to the hotel, I caught up with Dad and Risa.  We ended up going to an internet café and writing an extremely convoluted message to Kuya. 

    In my little notebook there’s something scribbled about Notre Dame des Pins (our ‘Our Lady of the Pines’), but I can’t decipher it.  I dozed off somewhere in between St. Tropez and cannes, and when we did arrive in Filmfestivallandia I was pretty groggy.    
    Cannes is synonymous to its film festival, and to be honest that’s all I can remember.  Our only stop there was the Cannes Film Centre, where the walkway is accented with hand imprints ala Hollywood Walk of Fame.  My day was made when we saw a certain hand…
    For the rest of the day, I kept quoting Chuck Norris.
    On the way out to Cannes and back to Nice, there were gorgeous houses with unusual glass façades.  These were the vacation houses of Arabian princes, who loved the French Riviera.
    Oops.  I meant Côte d’Azur.  It was the Americans who gave that name (I think) to distinguish the 200 km long stretch from the Italian Riviera.  Naturally the French hated that so one man renamed it the Blue Coast.