Finding My Spain

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It was in Valencia that we were reunited with our German bruder, Christian, and finally ate paella. The European Crew (minus Tommy) was reformed and the cuisine trifecta was complete, Sangria, Tapas and Paella. Hunting down the perfect dish, however, was not without its difficulties. In fact, if you ever need someone to quickly and effectively weed out the worst service and the worst food a city has to offer, please call Leni, Christian, Satie, Dee and myself. We did it in Berlin with the Cheese Platter from Hell and we did it again in Valencia. Desperation for water and air conditioning will drive sane, rational people into any establishment.

Although Valencia's beaches are offset by a stunning industrial backdrop, and the water is an unnerving brown, we spent most of our time in Valencia on the beach, straying into the city only at night (to hunt down the shit food/service double whammy we are so adept at) and on the second last day. Smaller, cleaner and quainter than Barcelona, Valencia seems less preoccupied with getting a stylish name for itself and much happier to sip caipirinhas in sundrenched courtyards. And if that's what you gotta do, then that's what you gotta do.

On Dee and my 3 month travel anniversary, the Trio bade farewell to Christian and Leni, and hopped on yet another 4 hour bus to Madrid. Not before the world proved yet again how tiny it is, and I ran into a Kiwi friend I met in America six years ago on a school 'Young Leader's Conference', on Valencia station. Any moment now, my brother's contiki tour will appear at one of our budget accommodations, I am waiting for it.

We arrived in Madrid hot and tired and desperately excited to see the nation's capital. This excitement would soon morph into a bitterness borne of theft and inappropriate bodily excretions. Our hostel was bangsmack in the middle of the city, on a prostitute lined street, a stone's throw away from the gay party district and right next to McDonalds. Ideally situated. We checked in with Mr Personality 2007 who sported a dye job from hell and rivalled only our cab driver in the arsehole stakes. Granted it was Satie's penchant for writing her Rs as Zs that got us lost in the first place, but we're still paying you mister, no need to scowl so hard your face folds in on itself.

Madrid is infections, there is no denying that. In parts, it is pretty, though nowhere near as effortlessly as other major cities, but there exists an undercurrent of energy you can't quite put your finger on, nor a name to. If you ever find yourself in Madrid, hungry and impoverished (the universal state of budget travellers) go straight to El Tigre, a bar that serves free tapas with every drink. And if you stay long enough and they start to close around you (around 2am) then you don't even have to buy a drink for the platters of chorizzo and cheese baguettes to arrive. Just, whatever do you, don't look at the floor.

Things began to unravel on our 3rd day, and it is here I depart from my narrative and read straight from my journal (which was penned in a tipsy state and thus I may have to notate at times ..)

I have to record this evening whilst it is still fresh in my (admittedly mojito addled) memory. Allow me to hark back to when man defecated in street. Actually, no must hark further back to the two hours Dee and I spent prostitute watching, as depressing as it was fascinating. Actually, no must hark back to when women raised skirt and urinted into grate, on public, much populated street. Defecation occurred en route to meeting Jeff and Mario. Man was ejected from tapas bar with great force – camel suit
pants then unzipped with feverish sense of panic and alacrity. Squatted, defecated. Dee and I in shock. Turned to see if anyone else saw it, woman passing by belched in my face. Continued to plaza to meet Jeff and Mario, but plaza full of agressive lesbians who kept trying to take chair reserved for Jeff. 80 year old woman in sunglasses took to busking area with interpretative dance from hell with small boom box and wizened husband as props. Fight broke out between two men moments later, scuffling sounds sounding over disco music. Engaged in some bizarre limb locking wrestle, rolling in gutter. Distracted momentarily, when fat man in white suit liberated phone from my possession and strolled away.

NB: Dee and I ran off like a shot to try and catch Fatso (who vapourised, probably on a waiting scooter) and so Mario got up to join the chase, still holding his sangria, then the waitress started chasing Mario yelling about him not paying. Mario threw euros at the table and continued running, sangria still in hand.

And so it was with a somewhat bitter taste in our mouths that we departed Prostitute Lane and Hell's Hostel for Granada. Madrid's parting kiss, or slap in the face, came in the form of abuse from a homeless man as we alighted our cab at Madrid's autobus station. Or perhaps it came in the form of the ticket seller who was too busy flirting with her disturbingly baby faced colleague to sell us our tickets to Granada. She did, however, pause long enough in batting her eyelashes, to inform us the next 3 hourly busses were full.

Hello bus station caffeteria, our old friend.

The bus ride to Granada was hellish, not least because it was four hours long and was each hour passed, the temperature rose to a balmy 41 degrees, peaking, of course, when the bus driver decided to take a break in the middle of nowhere. What made it even more painful was two girls in front of Dee who passed the time engaging in bizarre faux lesbian antics for, I can only assume, because no one else enjoyed it, the viewing pleasure of the lone male of the trio.

Granada is my Spain. I finally found it. Prior to actually arriving in Spain, if you had said to me, paint a picture of Spain with words, as you see it, I would have described Granada. After the frenetic pace (and public ablution penchant) of Madrid, Granada was the perfect antidote. White stucco houses, narrow alley ways under an umbrella of blue sky, stone water bubblers and geranium filled balconies. We spent our first day in the tea house area, which is a narrow and steep little street where tapas houses jostle with Middle Eastern restaurants and tiny but deep stalls selling the fruits of the combined Spain and Islamic influences that makes Granada so unique.

And then, of course, there is the Alhambra, which we chose to visit on a 45 degree day. Actually, rephrase, which we chose to walk to on a 45 degree day.
The Alhambra is, scorching heat, profuse sweating and lack of a water bottle over the size of 80ml aside, exquisite. The palace is a beautiful homage to Islamic art and architecture, but with a Spanish flavour. We went to the neighbouring fortress and looked down over a sunburnt Granada, cradled by the huge, dry mountains. The gardens were beautiful, at once green, luscious, neat and charming and, rather thrillingly, I have found my new house. The Summer House. It is my dream house, realised. Stark white walls, square courtyards with orange trees and ceramic ponds, so much space and sunlight, a literal Mediterranean paradise

And then it was a bus again, to Malaga, where we caught another bus to the airport, where we caught a plane to Milan and out of Spain.

For now, adios Espana, bonjourno Italy.