In Spain with Mom, Part II



SUNDAY, April 9, 1995.

On Friday morning, I woke up and had mom remind me to look out the window at our French Riviera paradise. I went for a little walk along the beach and through town before joining everyone for breakfast. We were all in good spirits, just happy to be there. The only bummer was a problem with the hot water heater that prevented us from taking luxurious hot showers in the jacuzzi tubs, which had massaging shower-heads. What do I want everything? Actually, I'd trade the shower for that romantic vacation on Mykonos. See? I don't want everything.

After breakfast, we piled back into the car and took a little drive along the coast to the Spanish border and back - only about 10 miles each way. There was one breathtaking seaside vista after another. We stopped in another little French town for a short stroll, long enough to see a few shops, buy some postcards, and call Adam (the only absent member of the Meislik family) to wish him a happy birthday. Unfortunately, the phone wasn't working too well. We ended up having to shout into the receiver. It didn't help that we'd awakened Adam at 3 AM! On his birthday no less. Well, at least we were thinking of him. (You did appreciate it, right, Adam?)

We headed northwest along the FrenchSSpanish border on a twisty, mountain road that just kept picking up elevation as we were treated to a scenic tour of the Pyrenees. I wish I had another adjective, but I'll say it again. The mountains were beautiful, even if they did induce some car-sickness. We got higher and higher and reached snow! We stopped in a small town and scraped together some baguettes and tasty Camembert (but certainly not wine, not on that road) for lunch on the road while continuing on toward Andorra. It was sunny with a chill in the air, but it wasn't that cold and it wasn't that snowy along the road, so it was strange to see people walking around in ski-suits and carrying skis. Just a little higher and there was still enough snow to ski!

Andorra is a tiny little country in the middle of the French-Spanish border, partially governed by both of its neighbors, but a country in its own right. Don't worry, I'd never heard of it either until I started browsing through Let's Go Europe. We reached Andorra and pulled over to take a photo of the "Welcome to Andorra" sign. It was neat to be at the point where three countries come together. I had one foot in Spain, one foot in France, and one foot in Andorra... want to buy a bridge?

The little country's big attraction is duty-free shopping. We passed by the border shops into the mountainous countryside. We drove past a slope full of skiers; it looked fabulous enough for Karen and me to consider getting left behind. Talk about Spring skiing! Boy did it look fun. A little further on, we headed down some of the most amazing switchbacks I've ever seen - a well-paved, multi-lane road descending what must have been thousands of feet into the Andorran valley. Long before we got there we saw "the squiggle" on the map, but no map could do this road justice. All the while we were making jokes about some confusion regarding the origin of Angora sweaters.

The city we found in the valley was nothing special - a smog infested shopping district - but the drive was worth it. We hit some traffic getting out of the other end of the country while working our way back into Spain. We stopped for dinner at a smelly truck stop and pushed all the way back to Madrid. Quite a long day in the car, but the scenery was incredible. Worth it, even if it was torture for my back.

Saturday morning, I got up early to look for a laundromat. Since I'd arrived in Spain, I'd been having something of a laundry crisis. I'd been sporadically washing stuff in the sink without soap, buying socks, buying underwear (mom was eager for this easy solution, though I thought it was dumb and really didn't want to accumulate extra belongings after struggling to lighten my pack by sending away "extra" socks and the like to Michele). Several times over the past week, I've looked for a laundromat unsuccessfully. I was able to find laundromats in Italy, Greece, France, Belgium... well everywhere I looked. But Spain was a different story. Finally I bought some Woolite and did some wash in the hotel sink. I left everything, undies and all, out to dry on our balcony railing, overlooking a popular shopping street off Porta del Sol. Thousands of Spaniards have now seen my underwear, but who cares as long as I have clean socks? I think it'd be best to avoid describing the intimate olfactory and sensory details of pulling on a crusty, smelly pair of socks worn for their fifth consecutive day.

With the laundry out to dry, we took a day trip to Toledo. There we saw a bunch of old Spanish religious buildings, including one with a neat interior with lots of arches, and an astonishingly boring El Greco museum. We also ate another boring lunch of tortilla espanol, but I didn't really care. I was more enchanted by the feeling of being in a hillside town with narrow, shady streets. It reminded me of Siena, although I'm sure many hillside towns would. Still, there's a fondness in my heart.

Back in Madrid, we had dinner at Casa Paco, a great steak house with an obnoxious waiter, and then headed to Florida Parc where in a Vegas style show room we watched an hour and a half of Flamenco dancing. There were two young, sexy (I'd even admit) male dancers with compact butts, small waists, incredible intensity, and sweat flinging off their hair into the audience. There were about six women with great flowing dresses with very low-cut backs. The show included lots of foot stomping, jumping, incredible grace, intensity, and smiles. The castanets were clicking away. At the end of the show, an older guy who seemed to be "the leader" stamped his heels very rapidly for about ten minutes. I've tried it since and it's not easy. He was very into himself, very proud. As Karen put it, he was "technically impressive," but as mom put it, he was no "young stud" like the other guys. Ten minutes is a long time to watch a guy stamp his heels. As I put it, it was a boring finale.


MONDAY, April 10, 1995.

On Sunday, Mom and I said good-bye to the Meisliks and headed to the train station to investigate the high speed train to Seville. It turned out we had a couple of hours to kill. Luckily, the modern art museum that had been closed last Sunday afternoon was open this Sunday morning. So we got another dose of Picasso, Miro, Dali, and other modern Spanish artists. Toward the later end of the chronological exhibit we got up to the stuff like "Red Canvas" that doesn't do anything for me. Then, it was off to Seville.

This week is holy week in Spain. Seville is having huge processions - parades with beating drums and thousands of men marching in white robes and hoods - outfits that look identical to the KKK. I found this similarity quite unsettling. I'd really like to know what, if any, connection exists between the outfits. Exploring Seville, it didn't take us long to get caught up in the crowds watching the processions. In the middle of each parade (one parade followed another - each one representing a different local something or other) is a giant golden ark with a giant cross with a giant crucified Jesus - really not so appealing, but very impressive. These arks are heavy enough to require about fifty men to carry them.

We wandered about, our navigation significantly impaired by the crowds and the parade route. We took a boat ride up and down the Rio Guadalquivir, which wasn't too great, but it filled a bit of time and let us see a profile of the city - the bull fighting arena, the world expo grounds, and some interesting modern bridges. Odds are that we never would have taken this ride had I not been approached by an attractive young woman who told me about it and answered my questions in bad (but extremely cute) English while occasionally touching my hand. Really, it just sounded good... now, why do they put scantily dressed women in car ads?

What we really wanted to see was the Cathedral, which was completely inaccessible because of the processions. We asked a confused security guard when we would be able to go into the Cathedral. There was absolutely no question that, although we spoke lots of English words, some Italian words, and some Spanish words with her for a good five minutes, no information was communicated. From what we could tell, it would be impossible for us to visit before we had to leave, but we were skeptical, and besides we were determined American tourists and we'd try again in the morning no matter what she said. Turns out this was a good strategy.

This morning in the Seville Cathedral, standing in front of a display that supposedly holds the remains of Christopher Columbus, I asked an obviously American family if this was the thing that holds Columbus' remains (we weren't sure we were in the right spot). The woman my age (the daughter) said that yes it was, but that three other cities also claimed the honor. Then I asked if he was actually buried in East Rutherford, and they laughed. They were New Yorkers with a good sense of humor. She then told us a great little story. She has been studying in Seville and told us that a few months ago she'd seen a Native American giving Columbus' remains the finger.


FRIDAY, April 14, 1995.

From Seville we took a jarring train adventure. I don't know if the problem was with the rails or the train or both, but in my hundreds of hours logged on trains I'd never experienced such a bumpy, jarring ride. I couldn't comfortably prevent my legs from knocking back and forth from one side of the seat to the other. Reading was virtually impossible. Mom was making a face that said, "This train business was your bright idea. I wanted to rent a car." We made a connection at a train station truly in the middle of nowhere - there was no city behind this hub. It was just a little connection point. Luckily, the connection showed up. We made it to Granada well shaken but not stirred.

That afternoon in Granada, we were treated to more, but lower key, processions. We walked around a bit, sipped Diet Cokes in the town square, and then went for a walk around the Arab quarter. We stopped at a neat little Turkish place and sampled Turkish coffee served to us by a friendly, well-mannered, and seemingly sane Arab man (I admit I have some prejudice here). The coffee was terrible.

Tuesday morning, we headed to Granada's main attraction - La Alhambra and the Generalife. This is the most popular tourist attraction I've visited. The ticket that we bought at roughly 9:30 AM didn't let us in to see the palace until 12 PM! By the time we were leaving at about 1, people were buying tickets that let them in at 5, and there was a line out the gate and down the hill. On the outside, La Alhambra doesn't look like much, but inside virtually every surface is covered with extremely elaborate Arab paintings, mosaics, and engravings. Lots of wild, loopy, crisscrossing patterns. I'd never seen anything in that Arab style before - it was quite a unique visual experience. Not the kind of thing I'd like to have at home, but perhaps I'd change my mind if I had nine wives. The rest of the grounds, which we had plenty of time to explore, were OK. The Generalife had some impressively well-maintained and extremely old carved bushes, but mainly it was a lot of standing around waiting to get into the palace.

Enough of tourist-attractions. Mom wanted (and I couldn't argue, though I was a bit nervous about trying another beach town) to spend the last few of her Americanly scarce vacation days relaxing on the beach in Marbella. We arrived by bus. Standing around in the bus station trying to get information about returning to Madrid, I realized when I went to get out a pen that something was missing. My day pack! I'd left it on the bus, journal and all! I had a major spaz. I ran back outside and luckily the bus was still there loading passengers for the return trip. I pushed frantically, rudely, obnoxiously, even rambunctiously past a well-dressed and slightly offended Spaniard. I didn't care.

Photos of Seville and Granada

From the bus station, we went to a travel agency where we finally determined that our best route back to Madrid was the bus to Malaga and then a reasonably fast train. Then, we went to our hotel. At first glance it looked run-down to me, plus it was a bit out of town and not walking distance from the boardwalk, but it's what we were able to find on short notice. The room was dirty and reeked of paint. The beds were saggy. The pool uninviting. The advertised private walk to the beach was not so private and not so nice. Mom stood by her find, and I complained, but really what could we do? I did some more laundry in the sink. We were sitting around and finally mom realized that the room really sucked. Now what? We'd ruffled the beds a little, done laundry in the sink, but we wanted to leave. A few phone calls later, we were at the front desk. I stood quietly off to the side embarrassed and biting my tongue as mom courageously explained that the room just wasn't up to snuff. Much to our surprise and delight, he simply let us go - even called a taxi for us. And so with a bag full of wet laundry, we checked into the last, luckily vacant room of a fabulous luxury hotel right on the beach. Now we're talking. The bad news was that the weather was cloudy (naturally).

Luckily, the weather shaped up, and by the time we had to leave early Thursday afternoon, it was perfect beach weather, and we were ready to stay a few more days. In fact, I would have except that I'd left a bunch of stuff mixed together with my mom's stuff in storage at our hotel in Madrid. Oh, well.

While in Marbella, Mom and I basically went our separate ways except for meals, since she was content to just lay on a beach chair all day. I took advantage of the pool, the fitness center, and went on a quest for an English bookstore to buy a copy of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises since I plan to swing by Pamplona on my way out of the country. It sounds romantic to read about Hemingway's Pamplona while visiting my own.

There was an international men's beach volleyball tournament just getting under way. The teams were out practicing and playing preliminary rounds. People were free to wander in and out of the stands. I watched for hours. These guys were good. Plus, it was great to sit out on the bleachers in the sun, watching the games, the beach, the waves and the people. Walking around hiding (not very well) behind my sunglasses I caught glimpses of lots of good looking women in bikinis - some of them even had their tops on. I haven't been mentioning too much about "babe-watching," but I'll admit it here, because it was particularly good, though I chose not to mention it to my mother at the time.

Thursday night we were back in Madrid in time for one last hurrah of a paella dinner. Friday morning I gave mom a big hug and kiss goodbye and watched her taxi carry her away to the airport.

Photos of Granada

Photos of Granada and Marbella

Suddenly, there I was, a solo traveler again, pack on my back, standing in the middle of Porta del Sol.

It was one last look around Plaza Mayor, a trip to McDonald's for the Big Mac that I'd been dreaming about over my millionth forkful of paella, and then I hopped the bus to Pamplona.



Copyright 1997 by Bradley Edelman
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