We Found A Taste Of Real Andalucia

Our second day in Sevilla confirmed our suspicion: this where we would live if we were to live in southern Spain – at least for the winter as the summer (starting in late April) is brutally hot with temperatures above 40 Celsius being the norm rather than the exception. But in early April we had beautiful weather, high 20s (Celsius, of course) super-long evenings – especially with daylight saving times now being in effect it is light until 9 pm - and everything buzzing with people sitting outside having a cerveza or two, eating tapas, kids running around all hours of the night and live just generally being good. The Sevillanos (??) are said to be more arrogant and stand-offish than the rest of the Andalucians but they seemed friendly enough to us. The place definitely exudes more of “capital city” flair, with people on the streets well dressed and seeming more busy and focused to get places rather than just idly strolling around or playing the guitar on the steps of the cathedral. We caught a good time in some sense: between Semana Santa and the Feria, which starts on April 7th, tourists were probably scarcer than normal. Granted we missed Semana Santa which is said to be the most spectacular in all of Andalucia and the Feria which is a big deal with lots of flamenco, music, dancing, fancy dresses, merriment, food, and parading around until the wee hours of the night. It sure sounds great but that would definitely be a without-kid type of event and so paying less than half the price for the hotel than we would just next week and not having to push our way through the flamenco dancing masses with a screaming overtired child seemed an okay compromise. I even liked the souvenirs here, as souvenirs go, some of the t-shirts where actually kind of nice and not just like three grinning frogs saying Sevilla in capital letters underneath. So Sevilla made it to the top of my list of imaginary winter residences that I am dreaming up (Merida being another contender on this list). I could have stayed another day, week or month but we took off in the early afternoon and drove to Cadiz, about half ways between Sevilla and Conil de la Frontera where we were to meet Sabine and Paco on Saturday.

Cadiz certainly is a minor attraction as Andalucian vacation spots go and the surrounding suburbs are awful: ugly high-rise after ugly high-rise in the typically “friendly” pastels but once inside it is actually quite charming. It has been a big port for centuries, ever since the Guadalquivir river silted up depriving Sevilla of its mayor seaport. Unlike many seaports Cadiz seems laid back, not scary or dangerous at all with lots of people out all hours of the day or night eating, drinking and shopping. We spend only 24 hours there but no shady characters crossed my path. Speaking of paths, the streets, like we have come to expect around here, are very narrow and lined by old houses some renovated, some not so but all nice and clean enough to be inviting and fun. We visited the beach close to town which is dominated by this strange looking building that turned out to be an “Institute for Underwater Archeology” – first one I ever run across for sure. Colorful but somewhat run down fisher boats provided more opportunity to take cliché pictures which I resisted – for the most part. We ended up sitting in an area which seemed to have been the lesbian hangout right next to the hole-in-the-wall full bar where everything from a rum and coke to something in grass green that looked rather toxic could be had at 5 pm – and certainly was.

Or only problem with Cadiz was that it was almost impossible to score dinner before 9 pm and since “the man” only had the abbreviated version of his midday nap that seemed like a bad idea. So we ended up on the main plaza eating dinner when everybody else just sort of finished their coffee and cake and had just begun to get into the cerveza with some seriousness. The evening was spent in the bathroom – one more time. Our fancy hotel, which we couldn’t afford by a big stretch during high season was very reasonable during this off season and offered us complimentary usage of the “Aquaplaya” in the morning. So, it being free, we felt duty-bound, put on our bathing suits and trekked down there at 10 am the next morning to play around in various pools of water from ice cold to way too hot, one with rocks on the bottom, one with dozens of lemons and oranges floating around in it - which proved to be wonderful “firecrackers” and Max could not for the live of him resist the temptation to through them ever which way – some with little waterfalls and jets and such stuff. The ice provided for rubbing down after the hot bubble-pool proved to be great for throwing as well, and I have to accept blame for starting that one: it was too much even for me to resist. So soaked and deep-cleaned we took off for towards Conil which we reached only to realize that disaster had struck and Max’s teddy bear had “played around, wandered off and gotten lost” - that at least was the spin we put on it, trying to squeeze and pedagogic moment out of the fact that Uli had to drive back to Cadiz and rescue “Baerchen” and reunite him with Max.

The hotel in Conil was very nice, large modern with something like four pools, a “ciberplaza”, a children’s club, breakfast buffet of the nice kind included etc. Again, it’s one of the places we couldn’t or wouldn’t afford during high season when prices are about three times of what they were now but now it was entirely reasonable. Conil, as Cadiz, is no longer on the Mediterranean but already “around the corner” on the Atlantic which is much rougher, and also more impressive. The weather reminded more of a summer day in San Francisco, that is cold and foggy, than of an archetypical Andalucian summer day which suited us just fine, the ocean was somewhat wild with whitecaps and walking along the beach reminded of a walk along the Pacific. The five of us – Sabine and Paco had arrived as well – took a beach stroll to town, bought some wine, had some food, listed to Max talking about shooting firecrackers or canons in an endless loop, and continued our comparative study of California and Andalucia and the relative advantages and disadvantages of these locations. I tried some Spanish to include Paco more into the conversation as it is hard for him to follow a rapid-fire conversation in German and was partially pleased, partially frustrated with my ability/inability to express myself. I have passed the point where my proudest achievement is asking for directions to the post office and understanding the answer but discussing politics is a different matter and not being able to express myself can get very frustrating. Another funny thing is that – since I am studying Spanish based on English, not German – I automatically fall into English whenever my Spanish fails me (frequently) and then have to force myself back into German - funny how the mind works. It was fun though, at least for us, poor Paco probably got bored terribly during our German discussions but was polite enough to never let on.

This night we spent on the balcony, wrapped in whatever blankets or covers we could find, drinking wine, eating chocolate and discussing politics, culture, and the mundane. I was surprised and then again maybe I wasn’t all that surprised by how easy it was to connect with the two of them. Other than a brief dinner last year in Konstanz I haven’t seen Sabine in probably 15 years and but once met Paco very briefly what must be ages ago, Uli knew neither until we came here, and still it was like we had last talked a month or so ago and it never felt awkward. This reconfirms my theory that expats somehow are on the same wave length due to their shared experience.

Sunday we saw more of the Costa de la Luz, the point where the Brits under Nelson beat the hell out of the combined Spanish and French forces in the battle of Trafalgar back in 1805 (or so). The famous surfing hangouts near Tarifa where the in-crowed of the surfing world idles away the days kite-surfing (well maybe “idle” is not exactly the right term), Tarifa itself, a somewhat sleepy but charming little town with a old Castillo, two canons (big attraction for Max), like 300 bars and restaurants, an iglesia with a “bring your own candle” policy, good seafood and a very good pasteleria. Finally, already on the way back , we saw that mountain ridge that we concluded couldn’t have been anything other than Morocco only 14 km away across the “estrecho” separating the southern tip of Spain from Africa. The other big “lump” just down the road was Gibraltar, which we didn’t have time to visit and doesn’t sound all that interesting anyway unless you are shopping for cheap electronics, booze and cigarettes.
We are back in “our village” now as we have come to call it and our last Andalucian week is upon us. How can that be? So much still to see, Cordoba, a million little towns in the mountains and – just to spook ourselves – some classic examples of developments on the Costa del Sol: Marbella where the absurdly wealthy Arabs hang out and flaunt their wealth, Torremolinos, lovingly called “Torrey” by the Brits who have turned it into “Little London in the Sun” and Torrox, the Torrey of the Germans. Again we will have to prioritize and vow to come back to finish the job we couldn’t finish in these brief four weeks.