Granda:The Final Days

On Thursday we totally kicked it at the apartment. I think all we did was visit our favorite little bar for café and tostada, and go to the store for lunch and snack stuff for the train ride on Saturday. The train ride will be eight hours on Saturday. We have to get up before the dawn to get ready to catch the train, haul our suitcases through early morning Granada, and catch the train. I love trains, but eight hours is a long time to sit.

Thursday night we went to another flamenco show. This one was in a cave in the Sacromonte. First we had dinner on the terrace with a sunset view of the Alhambra. Being the Terrace of a cave, getting to the terrace required squeezing up a small and very steep staircase. I do not think this would be a good idea for someone with vertigo. After we got seated our waiter plopped a bottle of wine on our table and began opening it. We had to explain that we don’t drink. Then came the offer of Sangria, they had already made up. No, gracias, we said. The lady said, “Can’t you have just a small amount to taste it.” I was reviewing the difficulty of explaining in Spanish that a fifty gallon drum would not be enough if I got started and decided to “just say no, gracias.”

The dinner was superb. I had gazpacho for starters, steak and potatoes and flam without alcohol for dessert. The flamenco show was great. They all have been so different. At the cave we had a singer and guitar player (they have all had a singer and guitar player,) a flautist, and four female dancers. We did not see any male dancers in Granada. I believe that is the school of flamenco that favors female dancers. The four dancers were all different. One was very dramatic and mean looking, one looked very much like a gypsy and was a small bit of a thing, one was merry and seemed to be having a very good time, and one older woman was the best pictorial of “WHATever” that either of us has ever seen. She looked like “been there done that, I’m over it” It was great. We loved her. We had dressed for dinner, so we took a cab back to our little apartment.

On Friday we spent the day wandering around the Alhambra one final time, packing and then went to the Arab Baths before dinner. I don’t know if they were authentic or not, but they had six “hot” pools and one cold pool, in a very dark stone and tile area. We were advised to alternate hot and cold. The hot was not hot as we know it in a jacuzzi, I would call it warm. The cold was definitely cold. We also had a nice massage and some yummy sweetened mint tea. By the time we left for dinner I was as relaxed as a limp noodle.

Train Ride From Hell

First a caveat. Leea and I have ridden buses and trains all over Spain, and John and I rode buses and trains for a good part of our trip three years ago. I have never had an unpleasant train or bus ride in Spain, until . . . The Train Ride From Hell:Granada to Valencia.

On Saturday we got up before the dawn for the journey from Granada to Valencia. If either of us had any glimmer of a clue of what the day would be like we may have just rolled over, gone back to sleep, and felt destined to live out our lives in Granada in the Sacromonte as gypsies. Leea actually said she could picture me living there.

It was about a fifteen or twenty minute walk to the train station with our luggage and back packs.All went well until we reached the train station and Leea went to get café. There were travelers fifty deep at the café bar. So she came back. After the next train left, she tried again, got her café only to discover that our train was boarding early. We have to board as soon as possible because luggage space is very limited on trains. So she gulped down her café, much to the chagrin of her taste buds and we ran to the train. We got our luggage stored and got to our seats. A few minutes later two women came with twin one year old boys who sat in the two seats behind us. The boys began kicking the seat backs, banging the snack tray up and down, coughing, sneezing and spraying germs. These two screamed or cried for about eight hours. Then they would reach over the top of the seat to try to pull my hair or hit me on the head. Their fingers grabbing at my hair brought memories of the terrible night with the cockroach in my hair. I was tempted to treat these lovely little boys the same way I did the cockroach.

They were quiet for about thirty minutes when they passed out. At times one or the other would let out a few sustained shrieks and people would turn and stare. What was worse is that when we got to Valencia their father met the mother and kids at the station, so the mother had already done this trip once and knew how horrible they would be, but decided to inflict them on a whole train car full of people nonetheless. I did have some sympathy for the two women, they looked frazzled, but my sympathy ran out about six hours into the trip.

For some reason the train had to stop a couple of times to change engines and add cars. For the first leg of the trip, the car was like a meat locker. Then for the rest of the trip it had little or no air conditioning in the middle of Spain, in the middle of summer. And you cannot open the windows. Think of going through Fresno in the summer with no air conditioning, all the windows rolled up, fifty people in a small space, and don't forget the screaming children.

The one saving grace was that the percussionist from the Wednesday night flamenco show was on the train across the aisle and two rows up. This was some nice eye candy for the trip. Everything about him was gorgeous. When the boys shrieked he would turn and smiled at one or the other of us. Almost made me want to poke them with a pin so they would shriek some more.

By the time we reached Valencia we were exhausted and I had a headache. We stopped at the tourist office got a map, used the servicios, and had a cup of café con leche. I went and bought tickets for our trip to Barcelona on Wednesday and the lady at the ticket counter told me in Spanish, of course, that I looked much younger than my passport picture. It was like “welcome to Valencia.”

As our cab was leaving the train station it was blocked by a police car whose officers were trying to check the pulse on a drunk who was passed out on the sidewalk, having wet himself and the sidewalk. I was thinking, I might know him. And me with out my Spanish Big Book. Oh well. We thought he was dead, because the officer shook him a couple of times and he didn’t move at all. He was alive though, at least he still had a pulse. I was thinking, there but for the Grace of a very loving God, go I; and the whole nightmare of the train trip from hell seemed somewhat less important. In fact as Mike M put it, “At least it wasn’t the train trip to hell.”

The Heart of Granada

The Heart of Granada is the Alhambra, Sacromonte and the Albázin. They are all part of the rich heritage and diversity of this city. Like most of southern Spain, Granada was occupied on and off by the Christians (some of whom were Spanish Catholics) and the Moors or Muslims. Many of today’s cathedrals were once Muslim mosques and many of the wonderful buildings like the Alhambra are a mix of Moorish and Christian architecture.

The Alhambra is huge; it was in fact a whole city and military fortress, high on a hill with dungeons, homes, markets and a royal palace. Then the Christians tossed the Moors out of Spain and the Alhambra evolved. Today it is an amazing example of exquisite Arabic carvings and renaissance ceilings and porticos., lush gardens and calming pools, all surrounded by ruins of cultures beyond our ken but within the grasp of our imagination. I cannot do this mystical place justice with words so I will be sharing pictures on facebook and flicker. I have heard a Spanish saying, “That if you die and you have not seen the Alhambra, you have not lived.”

The Sacromonte is a city of caves carved into the hillside facing the Alhambra. It was first occupied by the Moors, but as gypsies began arriving in Europe from India, it evolved into a diverse gypsy community. The dwellings were quite complete and complex with several caves used to complete an entire estate for a family, including bedrooms, living rooms, stables, kitchens and work studios for ceramics, iron work, basketry, weaving and other occupations. They have a Museo or Centre de Interpretación where they have recreated living spaces to give visitors a sense of what the inside of the caves look like. People still live in these caves and I presume it would be rude to knock on their doors and ask to see their homes. The caves were not preexisting; they were carved into the hillside according to need and even have chimneys for fireplaces. They were very cool in the summer heat. I do not know if they get really cold in the winter.

On Wednesday night we climbed through the narrow streets of the Albázin and Sacromonte. Leea claims it was a mile uphill, but me thinks the lady doth protest too much. Walking any where here is what we call a “splat’ adventure, even on the normal streets. Many Spanish drivers seem to think it is sport and speed up as the pedestrians try to cross the street. And cars as well as pedestrians use the very narrow passageways they consider streets in some areas. I mean it would be difficult to walk three abreast, but cars navigate at top speed. So when you are walking, you need always keep a sharp eye out for a doorway or crevice you can squeeze into when you hear a car coming. I’m not so concerned at getting run over as I am about getting whacked by a side mirror.

We were on our way to the Museo or Centre de Interpretación to see a flamenco show. Leea laughs at me because I keep saying and writing flamingo, like I’m expecting to see pink birds. Anyway the flamenco show was on an outdoor stage which was probably pretty authentic for this area where impromptu music would start outdoors or in the caves. The performance was enchanting and made more so by the soft summer breezes.

Flamenco is not just a dance, but a very serious art form. It is comparable to western ballet. It is often very dramatic and has a very stringent discipline of moves and steps. Flamenco refers to a certain kind of song, dance and the guitar. It developed from a combination of Arabic, Andalusian (southern Spanish), Sephardic, and Gypsy cultures. Latin American and Cuban influences have also been important in shaping the rumba and tango flamenco forms. Flamenco is the music of the gypsies and played in their social community. Andalusian people who grew up around gypsies and the life were also accepted as "flamencos." So flamenco is big in Granada. As we were walking home through the Sacromonte last night or early this morning (it was after 1 am) we could hear flamenco sounds coming from many different buildings, some performances and some practice.

We have been eating well. We are locals in our favorite breakfast place. This morning they just brought us each a café con leche and an order of tostada con mantequilla y mermalada. We didn’t even have to order. Leea is screaming in the bathroom. It seems the hair dryer attacked her, sucked in her hair and burnt it off. This is just another of our adventures. She is persisting and is determined to conquer the beast. I hope we don’t have to call the fire department when her head goes up in flames. We are getting ready to go to dinner and a flamenco show in a cave in the Sacromonte.

Granada: The Early Days

We arrived here on Friday in the late afternoon. We hauled our luggage to our apartment which is in a nice residential neighborhood close to all the things we want to see, but not on top of the tourist traffic. Our apartment is what I believe is a standard Spanish apartment. It has two bedrooms in a building that surrounds a courtyard with a fountain. You have to unlock an outside gate/door to get into the courtyard and then unlock the front door of the apartment when you get to it. It has a proper coffee maker which thrilled me, refrigerator, washing machine and wi fi.

On our first night here we just wandered the city, getting a feel for the geography and remembering the last time we were here with John. We tried to find the tourist office to get a map, but everything except restaurants were pretty much closed. We did find a small market where I was able to purchase coffee for the morning. We had a great dinner at an outside restaurant in a small plaza. I had an avacado and salmon quiche. It was good, but a little rich for my tastes.

The next day we found the tourist office, got a map and wandered through the Arab Market. That evening we went to wander the Albacin which is the Arab area with small winding passages, lots of touristy shops all selling essentially the same thing. We had some Turkish tea in a small den with people smoking hookahs (tobacco) and were all wired up. We climbed up and up and further up the narrow passages, getting lost, finding ourselves again, coming across lovely views and charming plazas and parks. It was fun and we were exhausted.

On the way home we stopped at a Chinese/Japanese restaurant and were pleasantly surprised. I ordered dumplings with pork. Leea had miso soup, tuna rolls and fried rice. I helped with the fried rice. Before dinner they brought us these wavy chips like things that looked sort of like styrofoam but were quite appetizing with a dipping sweet and sour sauce. In the restaurants here, they often bring you things for free that you did not order. It is like a treasure chest of goodies. The dinner was great. After dinner the owner/waiter offered us a “digestive” drink. John and I had a strange experience with a waiter bringing us an alcohol drink as a digestive. I told him we didn’t drink alcohol. So he brought us one without alcohol. Again the digestive was free and very tasty.

Our third day in town, we went to the municipal cemetery. Doesn’t everyone visit cemeteries when they are traveling? Well this one holds the remains of Garcia Lorca and many other famous and semi famous Spainsih writers, poets and artists, as well as average citizens. Mostly the fashion is to put the date of death and how old the person was when they died. This is a reasonable way of doing things and eliminates all the messy arithmetic. We were surprised at how many of the people were in their 70’s, 80’s and 90’s when they died. The life span in Granada must be fairly long, if you survived the Civil War. This cemetery was huge, not just in length and width, but heighth. Many of the graves are in structures that mirror the apartment buildings most Spanish people live in, at least in the cities. That is the are large retangualar blocks of several stories. In the cemetery they were like five or six stories high, with the coffins inserted and a plaque or other memorial placed as front or cover. The apartment buildings in the cities are usually five or six stories high with the bottom story often used for commercial purposes. The bottom story of the vertical graves are reserved for larger multiple person burials. There were also more standard graves similar to the ones we see in the states. And there were big family graves that are crypts holding six or eight family members with huge house like structures built on them or large sculptures. I mean this cemetery has a little guide booklet to tell you where the famous sculptures are and to guide you through the many sections. There is even the Miradora section where the crypts have views. Leea asked that we bury her here with a glass front and her head facing out so she can appreciate the view.

Seville

Seville

Our hotel in Seville was in the Barrio de Santa Cruz, which in Arab and Christian times was the Jewish quarter (Judería). It is the most picturesque and delightful part of the city, with narrow winding cobbled streets, gardens or plazas with beautifully tiled benches, and restaurants that crowd the narrow streets. It is somewhat startling to be sitting eating dinner on a table with a white table cloth and real dinner ware (not plastic utensils) and have a motorcycle drive through the “restaurant” which you then remember is really in the street. Or a tour group comes through clicking away on their cameras to hopefully remember you eating dinner at some time in their future.

Our hotel was wonderful. It was tucked in a tiny little street through which two people can barely walk side by side. But it was a lovely place built from an old manor house, at its center is a patio with a fountain. The rooms were spacious by European standards, air conditioned and the beds had memory foam and were so comfy. The place was covered in beautiful tile. Within a minutes walk of our hotel room was the Cathedral and the Alcazar among many other lovely sights and buildings.

Of course we visited the Cathedral which is the largest in Spain and the third largest in the world. It has the largest altar in the world and it is all made out of gold sculptures of saints and other folk. The building used to be a Mosque. Like so much of Spain, Seville was occupied by the Muslims for centuries. So much of the architecture is influenced by the Arabic style or is a mixture of Arabic and Spanish which style is referred to as mudéjar. It is a lovely combination. Anyway the Christians tore down the Mosque and built a Cathedral. All that is left of the Mosque is the court yard of orange trees (Plaza de Naranjas) and the base of what is now the Giralda tower. The Christians left the base and added onto it a couple of times over the years so that now it looms over the city and was a helpful tool for finding our way home. Leea and I climbed the tower and were rewarded with some astonishing views of the city and a near fatal heart attack when the bells rang right next to our heads.

The Cathedral is lovely with soaring Gothic arches. I just love gothic arches. They do what they are supposed to do which is to inspire a sense of God and his sweeping power. The organ is about 25 feet high and the whole place is just immense with lots of gold in its coffers. I am still curious how the church saved the gold from being melted down to fund the civil war. It must have a gazillion chapels and altars and I think we saw all of them. If they were to hold mass in all of them at once it would sound like the Tower of Babble (yes I know the word is Babel, but babble is more descriptive)

Alcázar means palace in Arabic and the Alcázar of Seville was first built as a palace for a Moorish prince by the Almohades on the site of the modern day Alcázar. The palace is one of the best remaining examples of mudéjar architecture. Subsequent monarchs have added their own additions to the Alcázar. The upper levels of the Alcázar are still used by the royal family as the official Seville residence and are administered by the Patrimonio Nacional.

The Alcázar has some beautiful examples of Moorish tile work and carvings as well as some exquisite renaissance ceilings. It really amazes me how well all this architectural additions blend together. The gardens are a whole story unto themselves. It is like Disneyland. You try to cover the whole territory, but you can’t and you get lost and you have to find your way back. It is so very confusing. When John and I were there, I got so tired I laid down on a bench and was staring up at the sky through a tree. The next thing I know, a guard is waking me up and telling me I can’t sleep in the gardens, like I was some homeless person.

Went to an amazing Flamenco show the first night we were here. It was so full of drama. During a guitar solo the music was so full of sadness it brought tears to my eyes. The male dancer was amazing. I cannot believe how fast they move their feet. The place was small, hot and packed with people. But once the music started I was so mesmerized I forgot I was sweating like a pig, forgot everything until the dancing and music stopped. It is poetry, very dramatic poetry, in motion. Leea and I have decided that to be a Flamenco singer you have to be extremely good looking with dark eyes, a strong physique and shoulder length curly dark hair.

But I digress. I need to close this now because I am writing this as I sit in Granada and we’ve been here two days and I haven’t written a word about Granada. Oh, the stress, must meet my deadlines. I need an editor and a proof reader.

Leea and I look at each other at least once a day and marvel at how blessed we are and how grateful we are because not only are we in a marvelous place having a marvelous time, but we get to go home to a marvelous place with all our marvelous loved ones and have a marvelous time. Can it get any better than being blessed everywhere you are? When I was drinking I was always running and the bad news was that where ever I went, there I was. Now, thanks to the program the good news is that where ever I go, there I am.

Seville and Food

For the first few days the food we came across in Seville was unremarkable, except for our yummy tostado con mantiquilla y mermelada we have each morning with our café con leche for breakfast at our favorite little café across from the cathedral. Leea was struggling with eating because she is vegetarian and Andalucia (Southern Spain) is a meat and fish eating area. We rarely find a restaurant with Spanish food that has any dishes on the menu that do not have meat or fish in them. In Madrid there were vegetarian choices. In Fuengirola we ate at Italian, Thai and Greek restaurants or cooked at home. But Seville is a challenge. I eat meat, chicken, fish and other critters and I was not even impressed with the food we were eating, hence no gastronomical epiphanies

All of this changed when we discovered a small restaurant right on our doorstep. We believe now that they could cook dog poop and it would taste good. We stopped there for dinner one night because we were tired and it was close to home. I had gazpacho, Leea had a creamy lobster soup and we split an ensalada mixta. Oh yum! The gazpacho was perfectly flavored and spiced. They brought little bowls of tiny croutons, chopped green peppers, cucumbers, and onions and asked what you would like to add. Well a little bit of everything is the only possible answer to that question. While eating, the waiter brought paella to another table and it smelled heavenly. We returned the following night and we had the best paella mixta I’ve ever eaten. Today we stopped in for some tapas on our way to the Flamenco museum. We had a tortilla española which was flavorful, light and moist. I ordered a half ración of dorado (some kind of fish) frita. I had no idea what it was, but it turned out to be small pieces of some white fish like a sea bass fried in a breaded shell. I was about to ask for some lemon or mayonnaise until I bit into one and realized that it had and exquisite lemon juice baked into the fish inside the breading. The fish was moist and soft and the breading was as light as a down feather. Tonight is our last night here and we are planning to have a lobster and rice dish. Leea leaves all the fish and meat in these dishes for me to eat and just enjoys the rice and vegetables.

We found out this restaurant and its hotel, The Hosteria del Laurel, are famous because this is where Zorilla was inspired to create his Don Juan character. At night university students often stay here and cloaked in black capes, they serenade the streets until dawn to raise funds for school, just as they've done for centuries. We were lucky enough to witness this one night at dinner. They tell me it doesn't get any more Spanish than that.

Dinner on our last night in Seville was both delicious and entertaining. We ordered a lobster and rice dish. I should have paused when the waiter said something that sounded like a warning and included some form of the verb encerrar which means to encase. Then the steel instruments that looked more appropriate for surgery than dining were set on the table. Slowly it dawned on us that we were going to have to extract the lobster from its shell. Now I know you are thinking Maine lobster and that’s no big deal, but what were served to us were the small lobsters called langostinos in a very wet if not soupy rice dish.

Leea of course took the high road and asked me to do the extraction because she is vegetarian. This, by the way, didn’t keep her from eating the little critters. So what ensued was pure comedy with sauce flying everywhere. I waded in like a demented and spastic Julia Childs. Leea flinched every time I moved for fear of being whacked with a flying leg or shell, visions of shells whirling in movie scene slow motion across the patio and smacking some other diner, and other nightmares. By the end of dinner we were both in stitches and the staff got a giggle out of it too. We decided the only thing keeping the scene from being totally barbarian was the lack of a club. The dinner however was delicious. I’m still laughing. So I think I have returned to my old habit of ordering meals I don’t understand and being surprised.

This morning before we left Seville we had a demur breakfast on the patio of café con leche, croissant and yogurt.

Bits and Pieces

These are just miscellaneous impressions that I gathered and did not fit in any prior post.

One Wednesday night, before I jumped the flames to get cleansed at the San Juan Fiesta, Leea and I went to a Thai/Chinese restaurant. We had some Spring rolls with sweet chili sauce that were crispy on the outside with succulent vegetables on the inside. Then Leea had curried tofu and vegetable, while I, the barbarian, had chicken stir fry with lemon grass. The chicken pieces were so tender and juicy they were like piccata with a slight taste of the lemongrass, slightly lemony but not lip puckering or overwhelming.

The following day after being cleansed and/or welcoming summer I slept until nine. I awoke to a brilliantly hot day, did laundry, and barely got it hung on the line before it dried. I had some yogurt and did my morning meditation book. Leea asked what the plans were for the day and I said, “I don’t know.” I was shocked. Maybe there is something to this cleansing thing.

Anyway we walked to town on a hunt for a mata mosca (fly swatter). We went to the ferreteria, but they didn’t have one. So we went and had lunch, peach juice and tortilla Espanola for me and coke and bocadilla de tortilla for Leea.

After lunch we went to what can only be described as a junk store, think Big Lots only tiny, a store with a little bit of everything, a Spanish version of a five and ten cent store. Anyway, they had a mata mosca. Then it was off to the Farmacia where Leea got some allergy medicine and attempted to weigh herself but the scale didn’t want to cooperate. We decided it was not worth the trouble and maybe this was the universe telling us we didn’t really want to know. So we went to the internet café.

On the way home we stopped at the panaderia and got some pan (bread loaves – think bread in the shape of French bread, only it is Spanish bread.) Next stop was the heladeria where we got two scoops of helado (ice cream.) My choice was chocolate and nata de nueces de carmalizada which seemed to be saying ice cream with chunks of caramel. They threw the word California into the English translation but it did not appear in the Spanish. Leea had vainilla y nata de nueces de carmalizada.

Then it was siesta time and I barely made it home before the siesta hit. It has been a long, hard day, but we need to soldier on because we had to go to town for dinner again that night and a meeting and probably some café con leche. Normally, Wednesday is our night to eat out, because the meeting on Wednesday is at 8 pm and we stop and eat after the meeting. This week we are forced to eat out twice, because of the Fiesta de San Juan. We all have to make sacrifices for our beliefs.

Out the window of our apartmento, across the road is a large stone wall. It is probably sixteen to twenty feet high and curves around the corner of the road. It is a retaining wall for a large house on the hill. It is made up of stones of various sizes, shapes and colors. There are tans, browns and grays of various hues and tones all set together to form a flat surface. The wall is a gorgeous work of art. There are two antique looking lamp posts on the road in front of it. The lamp posts consist of a metal pole set in a square base that tapers toward the top. Atop the pole is an octagonal lamp with the lower four sections made of frosted glass being two thirds the height of the lamp and the top four sections made of metal completing the final one third of the lamp. At night when the lights are on and cars drive by I imagine scenes from every old spy or action movie I’ve ever seen that is set in Europe with a car whizzing along a hilly road toward danger. It is an amazing thing, the mind.

The boxes for depositing mail at the Correo (post office) in Fuengirola are four lion’s heads with mouths wide open, ready to eat you, on the outside of the Correo. Object is to place the mail in the lion’s mouth. One mouth is for local, one is for the Málaga province, one is for Spain, and the last one is for extranjero (foreign.) So we are going to drop our post cards in the lion’s mouth before we leave town because we don’t know if all Correos have this feature and we don’t want to miss the opportunity of feeding the lion.

Fuengirola is (pronounced Fuen as in buen in bueno, her, roll, a.) When John and I were first here and we were taking the bus from our camp site to town and had to say tell the bus driver where we were going, I could not, for the life of me say Fuengirola. Now it just rolls off my tongue. The Brits pronounce it Fue-in-grrr-roll-a. But then they say Hi-un-dye when speaking of the auto Hyundai. Leea and I have had a few conversations about the derivation of British and Amenrican words and pronunciation.

Random Tarifa

Random Thoughts

It’s been a while since I have written. Partially it is because we have been busy doing very little and partially we don’t have ready access to the internet. And maybe I have been pouting because I keep writing and I get little response. I think the most responses came after the Las Cucarachas chapter, mostly things like “ehhh!!” and “yuck!!” and “creepy!!.” Leea and I are sensitive and some days we feel unloved because there are no messages in our inbox. So, if you are all feeling sufficiently guilty, I will now proceed with my story.

Well the cockroaches won. We are tired of sleeping with one ear cocked and the lights on to keep the cockroaches at bay. Or maybe my love of movement won out. I have discovered that I love to travel, as in moving from place to place. I love to get up in the morning and just go wandering on foot, especially in these towns with a maze of narrow winding streets. Staying in one place isn’t my favorite thing to do, even in a foreign country. In any event last night we came to Tarifa we will return to Fuengirola today, pack up and leave for Sevilla! We are both very excited.

We took two buses to get to Tarifa. I had forgotten that boarding buses in Spain is an art form and you have to dispense with all manners and graciousness or you will find yourself standing for the whole trip or sitting on the curb as the bus pulls away. You can’t just stand in a line pointing towards the middle of the door, because people push in from the sides, so you have to position yourself at about 45 degrees and push slowly forward moving your feet ever so slightly and pretending to be polite. Then when you get close enough you have to grab the bar that runs along the side of the door. This prevents anyone from pushing in sideways, especially the older ladies who are masters of the art of pushing through a crowd. Last time we were in Spain John went into a little market to buy a banana and the older ladies literally squeezed him right back out the door. His problem was he had been brought up to give deference to older ladies. In Spain you could starve with that approach.

While boarding one of the buses, on of these squat older ladies, dressed in a skrrt and top version of the leisure suit, grabbed the pole and attached herself to Leea’s back making sounds somewhere between moaning and feeding chickens. She looked like a square soft toned polyester patch on Leea’s back. But Leea stood her ground and boarded the bus before her attached lady. I was so proud of her.

Tarifa a very small town on the southern most tip of Spain. From Tarifa you can see Africa, which is about 35 minutes away by boat. As posited by the former Govener of Alaska, I am now an expert on foreign affairs because I saw Africa from the bus this afternoon. Tarifa sits on the point the where the Atlantic and the Mediterranean meet. It is one of the most windy places in Europe, and therefore a major kite boarding spot. Kite boarding is done with a small surfboard like object which is attached to the kite. When done correctly in good conditions the rider spends most of his or her time twirling in the air. Tarifa is like surf town, think Huntington Beach with Spanish flavor. So it is a fun place, with tons of young people, and the sight of the kite boarders is extraordinary.

Our hotel is in the middle of the old walled city. Very nice. And we are especially excited, almost orgasmiccaly so, to be able to sleep with the lights off and have a shower where the temperature stays set where you put it and doesn’t go spastically from ice cold to scalding hot.

We spent the afternoon napping and then went out shopping. They have several fun brand stores here. John’s favorite was Tarifa Piratas whose goods sport images of Piratas. I think I have decied to get an image of Johnny from Las Piratas del Caribean tattooed on my calf. Leea’s favorite is Mala Mujer whose merchandise suggest that bad women are a good thing. For instance the tee shirt in pretty pink I bought for my granddaughter says, “Si crees que yo soy mala deberias encontrar mi madre,” or “If you think I am bad you should meet my mother.” Sorry Laryssa. I really wanted one that said, “you should meet my grandmother,” but they haven’t made that one yet. The store we both liked is called kukuxumusu. No, my hands didn’t slip on the keyboard, that’s the name of the store and the brand. Their stuff has cartoon images of animals, some very graphic, all very funny.

Then we had quesadilla and patatas fritas at Coyote a TexMex place John and I loved when we were here.

This morning I got up and while Leea took a shower and wrote post cards I went out and wandered the little narrow streets eventually strolling along the paseo. John would be so proud of me. I was strolling so well that some of the locals said, “Buena’ día.” Leea and I spent the afternoon strolling on the beach ankle deep in water and laying in the sand. We had our back packs on and I thought we looked like army cadets on a long training march, but Leea pointed out I only had on my bathing suit bottoms, not fatigues.

We should have more consistent internet availability for the remainder of our trip, so hopefully I will be sending regular missives.

La Guerra de las Cucarachas

It is amazing that I can get emails on my phone here in Spain informing me that a bill is due in the United States and that I can pay that bill using my phone. What is equally amazing is when I get cranky because I think this takes too long. My appreciation for technological advances is short lived. I want more, faster advances.

I have been suffering from lack of sleep continuity. I believe I am getting enough total hours; it is just not deep sleep or continuous sleep. Why you ask? It is due to the La Guerra de las Cucurachas, the cockroach wars. Apparently big ( about two to three inches) brown cockroaches are common in this part of Spain. They come in from the gardens and patios. Apparently, these little fellows do not like to hang out in the kitchen or bathroom with the rubbish. They prefer my bedroom and more particularly my bed, or maybe I am just on their silk trade route from Mararkesh, Route 66 or some other route.

One of my first nights here, I awoke out of a sound sleep with some thing tickling my scalp. It could have been the beginning a fine erotic dream, but it was not. The tickling was a cockroach strolling through my hair. I would love to report that in my best Gandhi attitude I found a jar and moved the little fellow back outside. But, startled awake by the realization that a cockroach was crawling on my head, with heart pounding, barbarian that I am, I hunted the little bugger down and smushed him to death. Are they all male? Or do I just attribute the male gender to all things irritating? That’s a question for another day Dr Freud.

Since that night I have experienced three more middle of the night encounters with the little beasties, on my arms and legs and just scratching their way to my bed. I find you can sometimes hear them when their hard bodies and legs are traversing over or along hard surfaces. So I sleep with one ear open for the sound. And if I actually encounter one, or even think I hear one, I am fully awake and on the hunt. Then it takes a while to go back to sleep. All of this is not conducive to a deep continuous sleep. I have sprayed so much poison that I am probably going to be investigated by the El Departmento de Protección del Medio Ambiente (Environmental Protection Department.)

But these are luxury problems. Our days are spent eating, sleeping, lying in the sun, reading and watching TV. We actually found a channel we can get that has reruns of all the CSI’s, Mentalist, Numbers and the Unit. So it is grist for the evening mill. Wednesday nights we go for café con leche around six, then the internet cafe, a meeting at eight, then dinner out and a stroll along the paseo (boardwalk) and home.

Our friend Eileen lent us two large novels (War and Peace size) based on the Spanish Civil War. They were both very good reads and informative. One was based primarily in Madrid which we had just visited and one was based in Granada which we will be visiting at the end of the month. Their civil war was all part of the fascist versus communist struggle to control the European continent. And of course, this being Spain, the catholic church was involved. Surprisingly, or maybe not, they supported the fascists. But it is hard to imagine a country so completely torn apart from within, no one able to trust neighbors or even family members. It was similar to our civil war, but on a larger scale and fought with tanks, bombs, land mines and fighter planes. Apparently the La Guerra Civil was so traumatic and then followed by the ruthless reign of Franco that when it was over their was a pacto de olvido (an agreement to forget) which held through all of Franco’s reign until his death and continued until 2007 when a new Law of Historical Memory was passed which condemned Franco and his actions against his opponents. So now books are being written and they are very interesting and enjoyable to read. If you are interested in a good book, look for Winter in Madrid by CJ Sansom and The Return by Victoria Hislop. These books are both by British authors but they are very enjoyable reads. The British, as well as peoples from other countries were involved in or affected by the Spanish Civil War, as well as, WWII. Many citizens of other countries fought on one side or the other in the Spanish Civil War. I am on the look out for books written by Spanish authors about this time period. If any one is aware of any, please let me know.

So this is your humble reporter from Spain signing off for today.