España

Spain, Spain, Spain, a breath of fresh air after Africa. Women are everywhere, wearing whatever and as little as they want. I didn’t realize how few women I saw in Morocco and Tunisia. Now that women fill half the street, I realize how many women are missing from the North African streets. With Spain I feel like I’m returning to an old friend, it’s so easy and familiar. It’s a culture I can understand and navigate with ease. Not wondering if I’m being ripped off at every transaction, small children don’t laugh and point, and no one stares!! Tajines and couscous were great but can’t hold a candle to the European gastronomic arts!

 

 The tapas here are phenomenal. Ali-oli sauce and eggs piled on potatoes taste great! Small plates heaped with delicious food cost two Euros and the sangria is only three. Our first night in Sevilla was spent experiencing the bustle of a Spanish tapas restaurant. The waiters served us in a no nonsense fashion and we stood at the bar while Spanish was shouted all around us; people jovially pushed and shoved to get from table to table. The melodic notes of Spanish soothingly washed our ears of Arabic’s harshness.

The next day we wandered down narrow Spanish streets, admiring the cobbled roads and quiet confidence of the Spanish people. The Sun beat down, adding to our tan and forcing us to take cover after lunch. We emerged again at night for a tapas tour presented by our hostel. Our kind host took us to fantastic little places and ordered exotic tapas, from shark, to pork secreto, to zucchini roasted in squid ink. They were all delicious. We met some Canadians from Montreal and the night was spent swapping travel stories.  Some Aussies also regaled us with tales about Australian “drop-bears.” An Aussie drop bear is a small version of a grizzly that drops from trees onto unsuspecting, sleeping campers. At least Aussies try and convince you they exist and once you bewilderedly admit they may exist, they burst out laughing informing you it’s an elaborate joke.

 

Our last night in Sevilla we attended a Flamenco show.  Forty people packed into a small dim room, the heat rising, while the dancers captured our attention. They slammed their feet down in rapid gunfire bursts, steps so quick that they blurred before our eyes. The guitarist flew up and down the scales while the vocalist sang with all his heart. As the dancers twirled in their finale, the sweat leapt from their brow and showered the audience. I was tired from just watching the show.

Onwards to Barcelona_-- a complete gong show after the quiet streets of Sevilla. People move like ocean currents, swirling this way and that. Old architectural apartments watch over streets crowded with expensive and over-priced restaurants.  Walking down to the beach, we find it packed; stretching as far as the eye can see. People jump about in the large salty waves while women recline topless, taking in the Mediterranean sun. After leaving the beach I drop my camera and “smash” break the lens from the body! A lady walking by visibly winces and shakes her head. Amanda and I spend the next day trying, to no avail, to get it fixed before we fly out to Palma. While trying out lenses to perhaps buy a new one, I discover that -lo and behold- the lens and camera still work if held together just so. With a damaged but working camera it’s time to head to the Island of Mallorca.

Mallorca is packed with Germans. Every sign is written in Spanish, English and German. We got off at the wrong bus stop and ended up trudging an hour and a half to our hostel, wearing large backpacks and cooking in the Mediterranean heat, while palm trees waved in the wind. The next day we planned to snorkel but a wind whipped up, and dashed the water, and our hopes against the rocks. We lucked out the next day with a car rental and reasonably sheltered bays. The underwater life swirled around us, fish darting here and there, while sunrays danced along the seabed floor. We saw grey “cow” fish along with exotic “rainbow” beauties. I even found an old Smartphone on the sea floor.

Cap de Formentor

Driving across the island we saw almond orchards and wheat fields all framed by the surrounding mountains. The grey mountains were peppered with green trees and in the Mediterranean light reminded me of Greece. We explored a beautiful market in the small town of Sineu, with its old cathedral standing watch over every sale and purchase. Amongst the salesmen and merchants there was a gentleman playing what appeared to be an old, round, briquette BBQ and making beautiful music with it. After the market we undertook a perilous winding journey up to the cap De Formentor- the northern most tip of the island. The road is barely big enough for two cars and on tight corners I had to reverse to let buses, coming the opposite way, pass by. The actual lookout was so crowded and a mess, Spanish folks had parked their cars in no parking zones, that I just u-turned and headed back down to the beach! Needless to say after Greece and Spain driving the flats of Saskatchewan are going to be extra boring.

BBQ musician!

We finished the night by sharing a plate of clams and realizing that we have become the couple that we hate to serve: the ones who share mains and buy the cheapest wine on the menu. But why buy wine at the restaurant when we have a jug of Spanish sangria waiting at the hostel?  

 

We’re now on a plane, high above the Atlantic, watching Iceland’s never-ending dawn approaching. Adios Spain!