Ben’s Retirement

Despite a particularly long and tedious wait in line at Stanstead, and a brief scare in which they claimed Amit’s bag was too big to be carried on, we had a pleasant flight (we even got three seats to ourselves, thanks to Greg’s tried-and-true budget-airline comfort tip, can’t share it though…) arrived in Barcelona mid-day. We walked from the bus station down to the train station to buy our tickets to Paris. We had made reservations at a hostel, so after a great sandwich lunch, we hopped on the metro and headed pretty far out of town. We got off the train, found our bearings, and after about a 25 minute walk, found our way to the hostel. Except… the guy had no record of our booking. Amit managed to convince him to let us use his “work-only” computer, even though he assured us this was really really not allowed. Amit pulled up the record of the booking… to find out that we had booked a different hostel. Sigh. But the guy was really helpful, he called up the other hostel and made sure they did have our booking, gave us a great map of the city, and told us how to get where we wanted to go. We hopped on the tram line, and in not too long we were checking into our actual hostel. Of course, the receptionist there couldn’t resist making fun of us for getting it wrong the first time…

We headed for a walk along “La Rambla”, sort of a main street, where the median is lined with shops, street performers, and tapas cafes. We stopped after a while and had our first tapas. Some simple olives, ham, and cheese, but it was amazing. We opted for beer instead of sangria, figuring that we’d get some later.

From there we headed down to the waterside, then went looking for a place called “Can Paixano”, a hole in the wall that was supposed to have some great Cava (Spanish sparkling wine) and tasty food. After finally managing to track down the street it was supposed to be on, we walked up and down, but to no avail. We got a tip about another Tapas place from a bartender, and we ended up walking all the way to the beach before giving up. At that point we walked back to the hostel and headed to bed.

The next morning we got up and headed to the Sagrada Familia church. I remember learning about this church in my 9th grade Spanish class, so it was really neat to finally see it. It was even more incredible to see the differences in the older and more modern parts, since the church has been under construction for some hundred years. (Will they ever finish it? I bet not. Seems like quite the tourist attraction if it’s never done…)

After walking around (we didn’t end up going inside) we decided to give our Cava place another shot. We walked through the old latin quarter of the city.

Another bridge of sighs:

Our optimism paid off! Sure enough, Can Paixano was open (It’s closed on Sundays, and at 11 the rest of the week.)
The review we read described getting food and drink as “a challenge”. We weren’t really sure what they could mean by that, but we decided we were up for whatever they could throw at us. First of all, the place was just absolutely packed with people.
But with a bottle of cava for 2 Euro, what else would you expect. So we pushed our way up to the bar and tried to order. To drink there, you have to also order food. But our Catalan wasn’t exactly good enough to know exactly what we were ordering, so it was all a matter of pointing to what looked good. We got some fresh ham sandwiches. Then when someone else ordered some grilled chorizo, we just pointed and asked for some of whatever he was having.

After enjoying a great lunch, we decided to buy a bottle of Cava to take with us. With the bottle on our backs, we headed up the funicular to the hills around the city. Among other things we got to see the 1992 olympic stadium:

And a royal palace:

A view of the city:

Me and Amit:

With time winding down before our train to Paris, we decided to finally get some Sangria before we left. But first we passed the convention center, where there was a conference on European Science taking place. Amit and I walked in and took a look around at the booths. We also managed to make a booking for a Paris hostel using the free internet provided. We checked out an open-air food market off of the Rambla that we’d heard good things about. We’d heard, however, that we were there during the wrong part of the week: new shipments come in on a certain day, and we weren’t there to catch it. So most of the stands were closed, but there were still a fair amount of fruits, veggies, fish, and meats for sale.

We tried to retrace our steps from earlier in the day to find a certain Tapas bar that looked good: we still needed some Sangria.
Once again, we succeeded… sort of. We found the place, went in, took a seat, and ordered. Simple stuff, drinks and olives. Time was running short, but we weren’t worried… Except instead of going and getting our food ready, she took the order of the guys next to us. This guy wouldn’t stop with the questions! He was trying to order a salad, and somehow had one hundred questions to ask about every detail about its preparation. After 10 minutes we got up and left. We headed back to the hostel to pick up our bags, then went to the train station. Verified that we had some time, went across the street, and finally ordered our Sangria.
We asked them to hurry. We asked if we could pay right away (they eventually agreed.) We drank it down pretty quickly, with about 7 minutes until the train was leaving.

We ran back to the train station, went through security without having to put our bags through the x-ray (”You’re late! No time! Just go!”)
We had dinner in the snack car, decompressed from a pretty busy day, and got ready for our next adventures in Paris.

I was really excited about finally getting to see Cambridge. Amit studied there last year, and Greg this year, so for two years I’ve been hearing all about this place but haven’t really been able to picture it.

Greg and I arrived in the afternoon and went for a quick walk around campus/town before having dinner at a local pub.

King’s college (?)

The entrance to Trinity Hall, Greg’s college:

The dorms:

This is Trinity College, Amit’s college. At this point, if the whole “college” system confuses you, it’s just like the houses at Hogwarts.

The reason Amit was back in Cambridge was for his graduation ceremony. He finished his degree last summer, after our trip in Sweden, so he didn’t get a chance to participate in last summer’s ceremony.
It’s a very elaborate ceremony, so he definitely thought it was worth coming back for!

We took a punting trip on the river Cam with Amit’s family who was there for the graduation.

On our last day, we played a game of Croquet on the laws on Trinity Hall. I ended up winning, but that was more because everyone who got through the last gate ahead of me spent all their effort blocking Amit and Greg from winning…

Amit and I headed to bed at about 1am so that we could get up by 4 to catch our National Express bus to Stanstead for our flight to Barcelona the next day.

I arrived at Gatwick and took the train into Victoria station, where I had to figure out how to get to my hostel in Greenwich. The tube system was completely confounding at first glance. I couldn’t even really buy a ticket without feeling like an idiot. The station was just packed with people, the lines for the automated machines were epically long… If I’d been in a slightly more foreign country, for instance if I didn’t speak the language or if I really stood out as someone who didn’t belong, it might have been overwhelming enough to give me a panic attack.
I did get my ticket, and took the tube. It turns out that’s not the fastest way to get in, but who would have known.

I left my stuff and took a walk around Greenwich. I found the Royal Naval College, where it looked like people were getting ready for a graduation ceremony.

I also headed up to the observatory, and got the requisite picture of me in both hemispheres!

The next morning I headed in to town for the “free tour.” Laura Paul had told me about these tours; she had taken the Paris one and highly recommended it. I saw the London tour advertised in the hostel. It turned out not to be the same company that runs the tours in Paris (as well as those Amit and I took in Munich and Berlin) but it was a great tour nonetheless.

The tour started out with us watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham palace:

We got some pictures with the palace guards:

For Saket:

After the tour was over, I met up with Greg and we headed back to Cambridge together. I hadn’t seen Greg since we moved out of our apartment last summer, so it was really great to catch up.

After arriving in Algeciras, I was prepared for the onslaught of touts the guidebooks warned me about.
Fortunately, since I arrived so late, the port was empty and I could just walk over to the nearest hotel whose name I recognized from the guides. I checked in and fell asleep.

I had breakfast in the morning with a view of the Rock of Gibraltar. The Rock was known in ancient times as the Pillar of Hercules; Roman sources say that on his way to complete one of his twelve labors, he decided to smash the mountain of Atlas, thus connecting the Mediterranean to the Atlantic. The rock of Gibraltar was all that was left of the mountain on the north side.

I checked out of the hotel and walked down to the bus terminal to catch a bus to La Linea, the Spanish city at the border of Gibraltar.
While walking I saw a big clock at an intersection, and it was an hour off. I thought to myself “come on guys, you can’t even adjust your clocks for summer time?” Then when I saw another big clock showing the same time, I realized I was probably wrong… It turned out that going straight north from Morocco to Spain, I changed time-zones. Oops. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t have any bookings to meet…

The bus took about 40 minutes and cost only 2 Euro. I got to the border and walked across. They didn’t even check my passport, merely holding it up to show that, yes, I do own something that looks like a passport, was enough. I wonder if my Bangladeshi passport cover would have been enough?
The border station with the Rock in the background:

I was looking for the youth hostel of Gibraltar, but the roads were pretty poorly marked. I took some time walking around the main city streets, and eventually found the hostel. Unfortunately it was closed until 4pm. I didn’t want to carry my stuff around, so I looked for another hotel. I ended up finding one not far from the main square, so I checked in, left my stuff, and walked around a bit more. I ended up buying a new pair of shorts, since the pair I brought with me had completely fallen apart in Morocco. (I mean, i’m not picky, but they were really unwearable in polite society.)
The streets of Gibraltar:

After that, I walked up the rock to see the various sights. The Rock has been used as a fortress since ancient times, through the wars between the British and the Moors, and even in World War II.

First I headed up to the old Moorish Castle:

Barbary macaques (which are the same species as the Barbary Apes from the Cascades d’Ouzoud):

View of the airport from the seige tunnels, dug in the late 1700s:

I continued my hike up the Rock, to St. Michael’s cave. The caves are some 700 meters deep, and during the ancient period, this was thought to be the entrance to Hades.

I climbed to the top of the Rock, about 470 meters above sea level, and found some old World War II lookout points.

I jumped up on top of the lookout point. I didn’t really realize just how high up I was, but this is what a 1200 foot vertical dropoff looks like…

View of the Med:

The next morning I headed to the airport for my flight to London.
This had to be the coolest airport I traveled through on my entire trip. The runway cuts right across the only road into town!

After sending Chris and Anna off in the evening, and Robbie, Jill, John, and Laura the next morning, I set off on my own exit.
I had booked a plane ticket from Gibraltar to London-Gatwick. I knew I could take a train as far as Tangier, then I hoped to go on to Ceuta, a Spanish enclave in North Africa, and take a ferry from there to Spain proper, then head over to Gibraltar.

Armed with at least four currencies, what looks like three passports, and an international cellphone with SIM cards from Morocco, the UK, France, and Estonia, I set off, in Jason Bourne style, for Spain.

The train took about 5 hours, so I ended up getting to Tangier later than I expected. About halfway through the trip, some guy entered my cabin and started a conversation. I answered in Arabic, he pretended to be impressed that I could speak Arabic. Turns out, he was trying to hustle me. Gotta give him credit though; he really did have quite the repertoire. First: are you staying in Tangier? An effort to get me to go to his friend’s hotel. Then, once I said I was leaving immediately to Spain, he asked if I had already bought my ticket. I followed the guidebooks’ advice and said that I had indeed already bought my ticket. He claimed he was going to be on the same ferry, heading to Spain on business tonight.

He contemplated for a while, trying to plan his next move. “I have only bought my train ticket as far as Sidi Ali. Maybe you can give me money for the rest of the ticket, then once we get to Tangier, my friend has a hotel and we can go there and I’ll get you the money I owe you.”

Well, I started playing dumb, pretending like I didn’t know enough Arabic to understand his request. He simplified his language, there’s no way I could feign stupidity anymore. I explained that I didn’t have any cash left, I was leaving the country immediately so I had spent the last of my Moroccan Dirham.

“Ah, so you’ve converted it to Euro?”
“No, I don’t really have any Euro either. Maybe 5 Euro.”
“Ah! Perfect! Because the fare is only 5 Euro!” (It’s not.)
“Look pal. I can’t help you.” I turned back to my book and ignored him. I left him with a “May Allah help you.”
He then made an ostentatious display of pulling a Moroccan youth out of the cabin into the corridor, returning and claiming that all was well, his “brother” would help him. Of course, I saw their transaction and there was no money changing hands. At the next station (not the one he claimed was the end of the ticket he had paid) he got off the train.

Anyway, I got to Tangier, walked along the coast to the bus terminal.

I found out that there was no way I could get to Ceuta until quite late at night, and that only after taking a bus to another city, then taking a taxi to Ceuta. I decided to look into taking the ferry direct from Tangier to Algeciras, Spain. That ended up being the best option, but my ferry didn’t leave for a few hours. So I walked around Tangier, found an internet cafe, wrote and mailed some postcards, then headed to the port.
(I didn’t slip in fishguts getting this picture.)

I had my last Moroccan orange juice (best in the world) and cafe au lait (you never, ever, get the same thing twice when you order a cafe au lait in Morocco. So it’s always an adventure)

I asked the guy how much it was going to be. It was lucky that he said 20 Dirham. Because that’s all I had, and that’s all he was getting. I ended up leaving Morocco with only 20 Sentimes, pretty good I’d say.
I watched the sunset from the relatively empty ferry as we headed to Algeciras.

Like I said before, we were excited about eating dinner at the Chinese/Vietnamese restaurant in Rabat.

We walked through the door, and Chris was greeted by the waiter rubbing his belly. OK, so that’s just a good-luck blessing. No big deal.
We’re shown to our table, have a seat. The waiter sort of stumbles in, and we ask him if he can get us some water. We ask in French. We ask in English. We ask in Arabic. He just stands there, not responding. Weird. He walks away, and we all just exchange an uncomfortable glance.

He returns again, still stoic. Another waiter eventually gets us some water and brings us some complimentary “sangria”. (It tasted like grape juice, at best.) Jill turns to ask him what he recommends. He starts talking, hiccups, and slurs, in French, “I… I rec…. I recommend…. the Chef.” Uh. Ok. He sort of stumbles out of the room. Everyone is pretty uncomfortable at this point.

Our star returns once again, this time Chris asks him a question about a dish. He turns his head away, covers his mouth and seems to wretch. He leaves through a service door next to our table. At this point we figure that he is either sick or drunk; either way we’re convinced he shouldn’t be serving us food. We discussed what we’d have done if this were America: it would include complimentary meals, walking out on the ticket, and speaking directly to the manager. But, It’s not America. And the customer is never right.

Everyone is generally uncomfortable. Robbie is shooting daggers with his eyes at this guy, who is aware enough to realize that something is amiss. When on the way to the restroom, Robbie witnesses the waiter nearly fall down the stairs. Robbie throws up his hands and looks to the head waiter for some sort of explanation, consolation, apology. The head waiter looks sympathetic, even slightly ashamed, but does nothing.

After our waiter’s most recent stumble past our table into the supply room to, presumably, wretch more, everyone at the table is uncomfortable to a new extreme. Robbie has been asking if we can leave since the waiter’s first appearance. But at this point, even Anna, the most accommodating and least-easily bothered member of our expedition, is asking if we can’t just leave. That’s when this picture was taken:

I decide to set up the video feature of my camera, hoping to catch just how uncomfortable we all were.
Notice his the slight swaying in his gait, the door he disappears into, and the general attempt of everyone at the table to pretend like nothing is wrong…

Unreal. So, we set the camera up for another clip. We couldn’t believe what happened next.
Notice the looks of terror on our various faces…

For the guy to pick out Robbie, the person among us who was most uncomfortable and was most upset/angry about the whole situation… wow.

We set out from the Kasbah towards Ouzoud, where we sought out a set of cascades.

At one point we got lost….

We checked into another beautiful Riyadh and walked down towards the falls.

And some fighting Barbary Apes:

After checking out the falls, we decided to go for a swim:

We woke up the next morning and did a bit more swimming in some of the pools further down. After a lunch of brochettes that we’re pretty sure they put back on the same plate they’d used for the raw meat, we left at 3:30 for what we thought was going to be a three-hour drive.

Not only did it turn out to be much longer (we finally arrived at Ras al-Ma at about 11), but our drive was certainly filled with adventures.

… Robbie got pulled over for “speeding”. The road shouldn’t have been a 60 kph zone, ultimately he was going like 43 miles per hour, and the guy gave him a penalty for doing 25 over, when he was only doing 15 over. The fine is double (which of course he had to pay in cash, one half to the Moroccan government, the other to Officer Ahmed’s already-plump belly.)

We then stopped for a “snack break” where we probably bought more junkfood than this establishment sells in any given year. We also managed to get lost, but eventually arrived at our Gite (guest house).

The next morning we found out that our Guest House host had a son who lived in Bouies Creek, NC. So, of course they think this is a perfect time to give him a call (keep in mind it would be 4am EST!) Because of the personal connection, he agreed to let us stay at the Gite another night. So we took a day trip to the sources of the biggest river in the country.
On the way we stopped to take some pictures by an old oak tree:

Narrowly averted catastrophe:

We got to the sources, but we couldn’t see anything. That’s because the banks had been lined with little huts selling tea, drinks, and snacks. So we sat down and had a coke, while dipping our feet in the cold water. Pretty refreshing on such a hot day!



We wanted to take a hike to find the oldest cedar tree in Morocco. We didn’t have time, but I sure hope this wasn’t it:

The next morning we headed back to Rabat. In what might have been my favorite driving maneuver of the trip, we parked the cars for the last time and waited for the rental guys to come pick them up. The cars successfully returned with all four panels on each side intact (c.f. our South Africa experience) we had a beer to celebrate. Then we took a walk through Rabat before Chris and Anna had to leave for the airport.

The wall of the old city:

Can you tell which one is John?

Afterwards, we went to a Chinese/Vietnamese restaurant. Chris and Anna were eager to eat some Asian food, something they can’t get in Mauritania too easily. You know what, I’m not even going to tell you what happens next. You’ll have to wait for the next post. I need to make sure you read this story. It has to be the greatest moment of our Morocco trip…

The roads weren’t exactly highways:

Compare to the baggage carts in Bangladesh:

When we got up to our hotel, the Kasbah du Toubkal (the filming site for parts of Kundun) we were just astounded by the natural beauty of the place. The days we were there were filled with hiking, eating delicious food, and meeting all kinds of interesting guests, including the hotel’s co-owner.

I’m glad we didn’t have to drive the Atos on this road:

A Berber village:

Chris, John, and Robbie on the trail:

After our hikes we would have lunch, rest up, and then meet on top of Jill and John’s rooftop balcony for a happy hour before dinner.

While Jill and John enjoyed their room in the tower, the five of us got a much better deal, we slept outside under the stars.

On every hike we’ve gone on for the past twenty-two years, John has always been telling us about the snack shop that’s going to be there at the top of the mountain for us. Of course, after years of hiking in the Appalachians, he’s never come through on that promise.
Well, it might have been the biggest shock of our lives when we got to the top of the pass on one of our hikes and found this:

Can John ever deliver on this promise again? Well, he did the next day as well, when three little kids were selling cokes at the top of the pass. But 2 in a row is probably as lucky as he’s going to get.

The Kasbah:

The decision to go to Marrakesh was already one of the toughest points of contention in our itinerary. It’s one of those places that you just feel like you have to see. The attraction point is the old city and the huge square in the middle. John had wanted to see Marrakesh since the early nineteen-sixties. Jill knew it was going to be unbearably hot. Robbie wasn’t looking forward to the stress of the city and wanted to keep relaxing at the beach. Chris and Anna were ready to get away from the beach. I figured Marrakesh would be neat for a little while, but certainly wasn’t enthralled about driving through it. The guidebooks said “Don’t drive in Marrakesh.” The couple we met at our apartment in Essouaria (from Asheville, NC, small world) told us to avoid it alltogether. And the apartment representative assured us that driving there would be “easier than in Tokyo”. We figured we’d give it a shot, spend 2 nights there and then head on to the mountains.

We were supposed to meet our landlord at the McDonald’s on which was right off Ave. Mohammed the fifth as you enter town. (Note to those who travel to Morocco: Every town, city, village, or hamlet you enter, you will be entering on Ave. Mohammed V.) Well, we were, in our typical fashion, quite late, and our guy seemed eager to go. He told us to follow him. He jumped on his vespa scooter and jetted off like Mario Andretti. Driving in Marrakesh isn’t fun. Following this guy at least turned it into a game…

We got to the apartment, and there seemed to be something in the air:

We set off for the city center, our group of seven an easy target for faux guides. But we managed to make it down to the center without incident.

One of the greatest things about Morocco might have been the fresh orange juice. Everywhere we went, delicious orange juice better than any I’ve ever had, even fresh squeezed, in the US. And a whole lot cheaper than a jug of Tropicana. We got some of the fresh stuff at the market in Marrakesh:

The remarkable part about the square is the way it comes alive at night, with rows and rows of stalls selling grilled Moroccan dishes.

The first night we opted for the Moroccan-Thai fusion restaurant. It turned out that it was only “fusion” cuisine in so far as that there was Moroccan and Thai stuff on the menu. But that suited us just fine, since we’d had our fair share of Tagines up to that point.

The next day we ended up back at the square. Here’s a view during the day:

We walked around a bit, saw some spice markets. This is why you come to Marrakesh.

Just remember that the same exact spices can be bought in the grocery store for many times less… I guess that’s not very much fun though.

We then continued on the the Bahia Palace.

John in the courtyard:

We then headed on to the Madrasa, an old Islamic school. Interestingly, Morocco has closed virtually all of its Mosques and religious sites to foreigners. This is in contrast to Egypt, for example, which has many Mosques from different time periods which are simultaneously open to tourists and in regular daily use for prayers. This school is one of the few in the country that are open to tourists.

Robbie out front:

John and Laura walking in the courtyard:

Robbie, used to sitting in the corners at school?

At that point, Jill, John, Robbie and Laura had felt like they’d had enough of the hustle and bustle, so they headed back to the apartment. Chris, Anna, and I wanted to see a bit more of the city, and wanted to try a Vegan restaurant their friend had recommended (I was desperate to try a pumpkin couscous, a local delicacy).

We found the non-tourist part of Marrakesh, which was refreshing. Active markets and bustling streets, but with people going about their own business and not hollering at us to buy some dumb junk.

We eventually did find Chris’s restaurant. But sadly it closed at 5pm.
The amount of lean in that wall made me pretty uncomfortable though…

So the three of us returned to the square to get food from the stands. It was a pretty neat experience. We took three loops around, each vendor shouting at us reasons why his was the best, even though they all looked identical. One was particularly obnoxious, some were offensive. We first sat down for some soup at a place that only Moroccans were eating at. We figured that was a good sign. Had a great lentil soup, and a chickpea soup. Then we walked around again until we found a vendor who’s salespitch appealed to us. This guy appreciated that we spoke/were learning Arabic and wasn’t pushy. So we sat down and had some brochettes.

Then we walked to meet the rest of our group who were having dinner on the other side of town. We had ice cream at Haagen Dasz, then headed back to the apartment.

This is my attempt to take a picture of the moon in front of a tree. Not much I could do without a tripod or place to set the camera. I thought it was a particularly Middle Eastern picture that would look pretty cool. It really just looked more like this.

I give up trying to correctly spell the name of this place. I mean, transliteration is tough enough as it is; even worse trying to transliterate it all into French. I’ll have to wait till I get back to see what Hans says. As best as this tells me, it should, in English, be aṣ-ṣūwairah, but that’s assuming I’ve put the shaddas and the tashkil in the right places and interpreted the dipthongs correctly… I give up. No more about this city.

Here are some pictures:
The city at night:

When we woke up the next morning, we saw the view from our balcony.
Just in case we got attacked:

We walked down to the beach. This one wasn’t as crowded, but it was still fairly active. The water was pretty cold, but it was refreshing.

We walked back through the city, found the alcohol shop to buy a few beers and bottles of wine for the apartment. On the way back, as we snaked through the old city, we saw a Mexican restaurant. This was a big deal for Chris, who after a year in Mauritania is longing for a burrito from the cosmic cantina.

Before we went to dinner, we decided to walk down by the docks. It’s pretty interesting and remarkable that an amazing city like Essauoaria is still an active fishing port and hasn’t been completely overrun by tourists. The fishing boats lined up made for a good picture. So good, in fact, that I decided I’d try to get down closer for a better look. There was a ramp down to the water’s edge, so I took it. At the bottom, years of algae, seaweed, and fishguts had combined to make a pretty slippery paste. I started sliding down, but figured it was only a few more feet until it leveled out and I’d be fine. Well, just then my feet slip out from under me and I go cascading down the ramp. I had managed to fall on the arm that wasn’t holding the camera, which was lucky (though the case did get really dirty). I went ahead and snapped the picture, then tried to figure out exactly how I was going to get back up the ramp. I guess it was a combination of bouldering and sheer luck that I managed to get up and find the Pauls so I could get a room key. If walking through a foreign city covered in fishguts isn’t a solution to embarrassment, I don’t know what is. I got back to the apartment and used probably an entire cornfield worth of ethanol to disinfect the cuts and scrapes I got when I fell.
The picture that cost me so dearly:

That night we had dinner in the old Jewish quarter at a great restaurant where we got our own private dining room on the courtyard.

The next morning, John, Robbie, Chris and I took a drive down the coast to see if we could find any good surfing spots. Apparently, the entire year is great for surfing in Morocco… except July. We did see a wind farm and found a sufers cafe. The wait was epic, but the food was great. We saw a sign for a beach, only 12km away. We got on the single track rocky road, and realized that it would take us an hour to get there. We turned around and headed back.

Chris wanted to eat at the Mexican place we had seen. We wound our way through the city trying to find it… and of course it was closed. We ended up eating at a restaurant that it’s promoter insisted had “democratic prices.” I don’t know what that means. But the food wasn’t great.