We’ve been traveling at a quick pace throughout the smaller Andalucian
cities making it difficult to keep track of everything we’ve experienced
much less find an internet café capable of handling uploads to
the site. The last few days have been a whirlwind so I’m grateful
that we’ve decided to skip the long drive to Barcelona (and anyhow,
we’ve both already been) and sticking to just the Southern part of
Spain.
Since Seville, we’ve been to Arcos de la Frontera, Ronda and Nerja before landing here in Granada. Again, each city seems unique, with differing weather, terrain, religious and cultural influences and most importantly, food and drink offerings. Speaking of driving, Chris is an absolute terror behind the wheel. I white knuckled my way all over Andalucia with Chris driving 170km/hour over twisty roads (and still being passed by little old ladies)! This might be fine for Mario Andretti, but keep in mind that this is the same spacey, absentminded guy who just the other day went out for coffee and was halfway out of the hotel before realizing that he wasn’t wearing any shoes. Another reason to not drive: it costs $50 just to fill your tank.
But it was all worth it to get to Seville, which, as it turns out, is a wonderful city with ancient plazas, a tranquil Jewish corridor, huge cathedrals, fortresses and other historical sights to satisfy the Spanish and foreign tourist. But all of this history is balanced by broad, tree-lined avenues with tons of great designer boutiques, stylish young professionals and a very vocal college population. During the time we where there, we witnessed two student protests calling for better facilities and services. Although both protests were large and well organized, they exhibited such a cheerful air that at first, we mistook them for parades.
Arcos de la Frontera, on the other hand, was to be very sleepy. The city center sits at the bottom of a huge cliff while the residential and more scenic areas climb the hill and end at the top with the Santa Maria cathedral and majestic views of the neighboring farmland. Arcos is known as a quintessential “white town” with its whitewashed houses, steep cobblestone alleys and flowerpots lining the corridors. As we struggled to fit the Peugot up the narrow streets we regretted accepting the free mid-size upgrade. We pulled in the mirrors and prayed that no one was coming in the other direction (now I know why the church is at the top of the hill – apparently, to show thanks!). Unfortunately for us, but lucky for the locals, we did not experience the tranquility for which Arcos is famous because on the day we arrived, there was a “manifestation” and the streets were teeming with activity and Guarda (police). Apparently, the region’s farmers had called a meeting with the Governor to insist upon the mandating of rights so every orange, olive, sheep and cattle farmer in a 50 mile radius had the run of the city on the one night we were there.
We had better luck in the Ronda, a town comprised of two different sectors separated by a dizzying gorge and joined in 1755 by the Puerto Nuevo (New Bridge). For his trouble, the architect of the bridge fell to his death while inspecting the finished piece. We hiked toward the bottom of the gorge and snapped pictures (which just did not do it justice). Our memorable experience was heightened by our stay in the charming little hotel just out of town. Many of our friends and family have been inquiring as to where we’ve been staying, what we’ve been eating and how we’ve been spending our evenings. Well, if we are lucky, we stay someplace like the Alavera de los Banos. The rooms were small and rustic, but the hotel had a charming little restaurant, a small dipping pool and a backyard where ponies and donkeys grazed. In the morning we would see the shepherd bringing out his flock of sheep as we ate a breakfast of fresh fruit in the flower filled garden.
Although the usual suspects of Westins, Ritzs, Paradores (upscale government owned hotels that tend to boast the city’s best real estate), three star hotels (a lot like budget business hotels in the States), two star hotels (equivalent, sad to say, of a Red Roof Inn) and your standard hostels (nope, won’t sleep in a bunkbed) exist, I would happily forgo a TV, phone, pool, mini bar, hairdryer and iron for a bit of true charm and sense of friendly hospitality. One quirk about Spanish hotels that I must note is that they never provide you with a clock and all of them offer only twin beds! Well, I guess you can’t accuse the industry of not doing their part to keep the population under control (it is a Catholic country, after all).
As for the meals, again, we had one of our most memorable dining experiences in Ronda. After eating our fill of cured ham sandwiches, we splurged on dinner at Tragabuches which was reputed to have one of the most cutting edge chef’s in all of Spain. The restaurant itself was modern and simple yet every aspect, including the plates, utensils, lighting, etc., was carefully thought out. The food itself was equally meticulous (in some cases, the word “self-conscious” is more fitting). The unique menu featured a foie gras yogurt with scented orange; a cold soup of coconut, tuna and lemon; tiger nut and watermelon – all equally interesting and wonderful. By the time we got to the entrée, I was looking forward to the “blood-pigeon at low temperature”. Keep in mind, the translations in Spain have been very amusing (as evidenced by one menu’s “beef filet with dick salt”) so we assumed it was a quirk in the wording and expected it might be a squab confit. We were speechless when at last, we were served the piece de resistance and horror of horrors, there was indeed a red, raw, bloody breast of pigeon sitting on our beautiful square china. Apparently, the only quirk in the translation was that “low temperature” meant “no temperature”. Did the Chef go home suddenly and his staff forget to cook the bird? Did the oven break down?
Chris finally broke the silence by saying, “Well, at least it’s highly uncommon to get salmonella from birds of flight.” For some reason, I found this hilarious and could not stop laughing. I was under the table with a napkin over my head trying to hide my giggles. Chris actually yelled at me and told me to sit up and try it. I took two tentative bites before proclaiming, “it tastes like chicken” and then proceeded to cut it up (while looking away) into little pieces and piling it up to make it appear smaller. Chris, ever braver, got halfway through his before he got freaked out. For some reason, I thought of Chris’ parents and how they might react to such a dish. Dick, a man who loves his steaks rare to the point of raw, would have dug in. Deedee, an avid bird watcher would have brought out her binoculars and trained it on her plate. When I mentioned this to Chris we both broke out in such laughter that every table started to stare. We felt like philistines until the two men next to us actually sent their pigeons back to be put into the oven. So much for cutting edge.
We were a little sad to leave Ronda until we saw the sandy beach of Nerja. Now I will sound like a hypocrite when I say this, but we stayed in a Parador right on the beach and it was one the highlights of our trip. Imagine a posh hotel with a huge pool, its own little colony of restaurants and bars (indoor and outdoor) on the premise, and an elevator that takes you right down to the beach. How lazy is that? We had a big room with a huge, fantastic balcony that overlooked the Mediterranean. We heard that Nerja also had some nice caves to explore but who cares when you’ve just endured two months of non-stop rain in Ireland? All we did was sleep, sunbathe, splash around in the pool, walk along the beach, and eat, eat, eat. There are great alfresco cafes set up along the boardwalk, our favorite being Moreno’s which made huge pans of paella on a barbeque pit.
Because the Spanish dine so late, we typically didn’t finish dinner until after 11pm and forgoing the nightclubs and cheesy flamenco shows (I admit I really wanted to go, but Chris refused), we would go for a walk and then retire to our room where we would play chess and drink wine until one us started cheating. Great fun!