Getting Settled in Oviedo

I have resigned myself.  There is no way to see it all.  It took us four days to get here and two days to get settled; negotiating with the parking garage for a place to park our car took three days and three trips. It took almost as long to find a power cord for Michael’s notebook.  This took a lot of Googling, aborted trips, many hand gestures, and several shaking of heads before we found the one and only cord that would fit in the notebook in El Cortes Ingles.

It took only a day to find a fan—just in case it gets hot again, which currently seems highly unlikely. And much Googling to find a supermarket—only to discover a great one right down the street at yet another branch of El Cortes Ingles.  The English Court has four different locations as far as we can tell—a grocery store, a clothing store, a travel store — and an everything else store. Apparently, they all over Spain!  — with more anchovy and tuna varieties than you can count —

We have also discovered that the Mercado in the middle of the old town is better than any supermarket, with more specialty items, produce, seafood varieties, poultry, lamb, and beef cuts than we could cook in an entire year.  An Internet Café has been harder to come by, and so far, in trying to find all of the above, I have used up 600 MB of my 800 MB monthly international roaming allotment.

We have hot water—apparently, the entire apartment building was having problems.  With our 60°F temperatures, the apartment is beyond cool to the point that I am currently wearing three layers as I sit here and type.  But enough of this, today is our very first day free of a list of things that we need or should do, so we are off just to look—not seek—not find.

A City of Statues

I step out onto the balcony, testing the temperature, scanning the pedestrians below to see how warmly they are dressed.  Some wear short sleeves; some wear light jackets.  There is no rain. The skies are not blue.  A very light shade of grey cloaks the city of Oviedo.  The day looks promising, and I feel confident that my three layers of lightweight clothing and a cotton neck scarf will get me through a day of exploring this city in Spain.

The elevator doesn’t work, so we head down the stairs, through the glass doors, and step out onto Calle Uria, heading east then north, on our way into the old town where no cars are allowed. I have read about an archeological museum in the back of the cathedral, and I am curious about the origins of this place where we live.

Rather than walking purposefully, we meander, snapping pictures as we go.

This city is a sculpture garden and I work hard to capture all that I see.

The Museo Arquelógico

The Museo Arquelógico—in the shell of an old monastery—has a modern interior but retains the inner walls that enclose the courtyard.  A museum within a museum.

We climb the stairs not to a room but to an education. The display before me is something I don’t think about every day — probably not even every year — perhaps not even once a decade. Something known. Something tucked away.

My English guidebook tells me that the first Humanoids, predating Neanderthals by more than 200,000 years, lived in Asturias over 300,000 years ago. I walk from display to display, reading the guide as I go, wishing I had WIFI at the apartment so I could learn more.

We are in an ancient land. The time span is difficult to fathom. There are displays of artifacts and detailed drawings to help with visualization—a Neanderthal waits around the corner, ready to club me but safely caged.  Many words of explanation greet my questioning gaze, but I cannot understand any of the musical Spanish language before me.

On the second floor, barely getting to know the Celts of Asturias, Michael taps me on the shoulder and tells me it is time to leave.  He heard an announcement on the PA system, and he is sure they are closing for lunch.  They are not, but we leave anyway, hunger at 2 p.m. pushing us out the door. “We can come back tomorrow,” Michael tells me. “Where do you want to eat?”

Always the same question each day. I check my notes, look at the map and point, “Here.”

Lunch at Punta y Coma

Calle Suárez de la Riva is at the edge of old town on the opposite of Campo de San Francisco from where we are staying.  We walk past an interesting looking restaurant but don’t stop.  It isn’t the ONE I read about.  I look up, checking the street name, only to find we have traveled too far.  We backtrack, discovering the interesting restaurant is indeed Punta y Coma…the name barely visible in the back of the outdoor seating area. A wide awning to protect patrons from what seems a constant mist doesn’t help.

Their menu de dias is only 11€ — this is normal.  But they also offer a super special menu de dias for 19,50€.  Michael opts for this one.  My look to him is a question mark. The non-special menu is too much food for me to consume. The mystery meat (I guess pork) with the penne pasta is fork-tender and tasty.  The whole fish served in a sea of red sauce, dotted with a swirl of green peas, is not my favorite. I have to fight bones and salt.  Eating only half, I eschew dessert, but can’t resist café con leche—with sugar. Reminding me of Italy, it is warm liquid coffee gelato.

Walking

Too full for words, we agree to walk and explore. Knowing that we will not reach yesterday’s 19,000 steps, we try for at least 10,000. Our nose leads us down narrow pedestrian walkways, finally bumping into a bright yellow structure with brighter blue shutters. The restaurant’s outdoor tables are devoid of customers, and large plastic bags tumble and slump, catching at the table’s edge. There is trash everywhere—which puzzles me—the street cleaners are out night and day. We see another statue that explains things. The dregs of the recently closed market are what cover the street. As we walk beyond the cluttered muddled mess, someone is already on the way to clean things up.

Our feet turn in the direction of The Original – Taste of America Grocery Store.  The food in Spain is so wonderful that I can’t imagine what they might want that America sells.  When I find out, I am horrified. It is mostly junk food. Perhaps there are better products beyond the window display. The store is closed for siesta. I will never know.