Segovia, Pedraza, Sepúlveda: Semipleno!!!!!

con tomates is still alive and kicking – but its tireless author has been temporarily roped into the family blog cycle on Buen Camino. You voracious readers, you!

It is my first official day of glorious vacation from the snot-nosed beasties I work with (oh yeah, the students too), and it is time once again to escape the City. After a healthy bout of early-morning wanders through the labyrinthine halls of Atocha Renfe train station, Hertz bestows upon us a trusty steed. She may not be the zippiest ride in town, but she’s a reliable old gal.

Good thing, too, since the 1000 meter rise in elevation turns the Madrid drizzle into serious Segovian snow. Even the Master Planner herself hasn’t factored this into the “casually stroll around Castilla-León” schedule. Yet we do not balk; rather, we dive headlong into the flurries, intent on destination number one:

Cortados and bocadillos de tortilla española.  Priorities. A few minutes later, we add a slice of apple cake to the mix, because fruit is good for you.

Segovia is famously home to a Roman aqueduct. Astoundingly, it was constructed without any sort of mortar; less astoundingly, every single tourist who comes to Segovia takes their photo with it.

The appearance of a Telebanco ATM predictably causes the Master Planner (henceforth M.P.) to foam at the mouth, hungry for a snow-fueled shopping spree. We gently inform her that, no, Rick Steves really recommends you steer clear of the tchotchkes and head straight for the other big Segovian sights: its cathedal and its castle. I remember exploring the latter way back in my Earlham studying-abroaddays, and recall it as “pretty neato.”

I manage to get us semi-lost even in the itty-bitty town. John is delirious with worry.

I think we run past the cathedral at some juncture, and this is as close as we care to get to the castle. It is becoming rather nasty out, and the extremities of those of us who have deigned to leave our umbrellas in the trunk have ceased to communicate with the rest of our systems. Time to scoot.

Parting is sweeter sorrow for some than others.

The road to Pedraza is markedly less salty. We moderate our velocity accordingly, paying special attention not to plow into the swarms of crossing deer. After all, we wouldn’t want to be tardy to our most pressing order of business:

More cortados. And extraordinarily hearty yawns.

Pedraza is essentially deserted (M.P. calls it “sleepy” – yeah, like Rip Van Winkle maybe). Snow falls, silent and cruel. We romp.

M.P. imitates art imitating a lamb. La Reina Sofia can be a profoundly affecting experience.

Mid-winter starvation is an ugly thing.

“C’mon, take this photo. It’ll be really cool.”

I browse the snow-clogged airwaves for some poppin’ Spanish tunes on our way to Sepúlveda. I notice that it is neither hot nor cold outside, but a perfectly balanced and comfortable 0.0°C. I later notice I have snapped this shot at the most 1337 minute possible.

The skies momentarily clear in celebration of our arrival in Sepúlveda, and we spy a gargantuan swan/pterodactyl nest perched on the church spire.

Also, this. I suppose skele-horse mutants care just as much about dental heath as the rest of us.

At last, we arrive at our day’s real destination: lunch. The area is famous for its roasted lamb; M.P. has scouted out the best of the best, and I’ve made a reservation accordingly at Figón Zute el Mayor. We are instructed to turn up at the precise hour of 2:30 PM.

We have the catbird seat, front-row to the afternoon’s blusters.

No cartas here, no menú del día in sight. Rather, we are immediately served an enormous crosshatched loaf of crusty bread and a salty tomato-and-lettuce salad alongside a bottle of red wine. A sip and a crunch later, the first round of our lamb makes its entrance. You read that right: the first round. At Figón Zute el Mayor, they serve the prize dish in stages, such that each instance may emerge bubbling hot from the fire.

It is precisely what the evilly frigid day calls for: the slaughter and subsequent caramelization of the succulent flesh of an innocent. The roasted quarter has much less “animal” quality in its taste than your average lamb dish, and each element brings its own textural intrigue. Daddles sucks on the crispy fat hugging the ribs, I savor crunchy skin bits, and all continually soak bread in the cazuela‘s dark juices. We pick the bones clean, and then course two arrives and we do it all over again, because it’s there, because you have to, because today is as good a day as any for an absolute feast.

Exuberant carnivores.

Imperative before hitting the long road back to the city is one final cortado, after which I promptly zonk. Actually entering Madrid requires far more time and concentration than it ought to, and upon arrival no one feels much pep in terms of hitting the town. M.P. and Daddles elect to spend the night in, and John-boy and I abscond to my piso for Abuelita and Wii. Sam and her sister Lindsay join in for a Big Brain Academy tourney, sibling-style, and cap the night with semipleno after semipleno in an enthusiastic round of bowling.

After the sisters head back into the cold of the night, John and I bust out the World Series of Poker: Tournament of Champions. ALL IN.