Barcelona Area: 6.9.07

The morning light comes early. The other women in my sleeping car gather their luggage and head out the door to our quarters as my feet hit the floor. My breath is caught by surprise as the large boss-man from last night bangs on the window

and shouts commands in Spanish.

Apparently, the train was about to continue to its destino proximo. A scowl out the window as I sling my pack and turn to meet the men arriving.

Breakfast sounds good as we deliberate and end up at the “Café Café” in the Barcelona train station. Unable to fill our request for the train station steak, we settle for another bocadillo.

Getting to know one another, Jude plans to remain in Barcelona for a few nights then continuing on to Marseilles, France. We intended on searching out the port to catch a ship though the Balearic portion of the Mediterranean Sea to the city of Civitavecchia, just north of Rome.

Map: Route of ferry from Barcelona to Civitavecchia, Italy.

The next table over, a young Arabic man

points directly at us and smiles large,

“Bin Laden! Bin Laden!”

Confused silence from our table until he offers our table cervezas, and we understand his edgy beard reference to make yet another a new friend, Aziz.

In his early twenties, Aziz is Moroccan and speaks Arabic, quite a bit of Spanish, and a little French.

Translating jokes for Jude and in return to Aziz, we are soon convinced to accompany our newest addition to his father's bar in nearby Reus.

Hopping from train to metro and back again,

Aziz runs an errand while we relax in

the cool underground.

Off the train, many people know Aziz as a strange carnival complete with masks and alternate universe versions of American cartoons warp into vomit inducing carnival “ferria” rides.

Wading through the crowds, he leads us to the Gaudi Hotel. Beautiful stone mosaic and a snotty desk clerk. “Completa!” (full!) is the word of the evening as he insults Aziz' linguistic abilities and shoots a nasty glance at our motley gang.

Apparently, the Gaudi is the only hotel in this offshoot area. Later, he said, he will find us a room.

Hiking forward, into an open square and an unmarked door which led to 30 tables full of Arabic men boisterously slamming plastic game pieces in a never-ending backgammon type competition.

Aziz darts behind the counter to a mature man wearing an army green button up. Smiles and welcome offered in our direction.

A private section behind the action, we lay our personal affects. A male server requests our drink order. “Tres cervezas por favor,” I reply. A confused smile and denial. “Ah...tres rons?” We are informed that alcohol is not an option. Attention paid shortly after to the details of this Muslim establishment reveal this should have been no surprise. Water and soda it is! For dinner: a fish, some “meat”?, and a conejo. Beautiful Moroccan spices! Unsure of what the chicken-like conejo was exactly, Aziz attempts to mime the characteristics of the animal food source. His message remained unclear until later research revealed: “rabbit”. Very tasty rabbit.

Outside, the workers smile and greet us as they clean up for the night. Aziz informs us of his need for sleep (we met him on the tail end of a two day party) and directed his friend to drive us to a hotel on the coast in Salou.

Muchas gracias, smiles, and hugs from Aziz' father and friends.

Exchange of telephone numbers, and into the night in a sleek black car. Quite a distance traveled, we are dumped into a wonderland very different from where we came.

Hotels, restaurants, and bars all touting an experience like home. Flying the Union Jack, Irish, Dutch, and German are represented...not a single Spanish flag anywhere.

Hotel after motel, we are turned down for a room. Soon wise to the situation, I am sent in alone: speaking English only, clear American accent carrying not wearing my bag. This tactic works and immediately we are granted asylum from the tourist ghetto hoards. Unfortunately, the price was too steep for the 2:30 am check-in time. After some persuasion, the fellow at the desk spilled the whereabouts of a more cost-effective establishment.

After being turned around, the directions come to fruition. The lobby is dark and the door locked, but the clerk awakens from his slumber to check us into a suitable room for a suitable price. After ditching our packs, we venture out for a bit to find food and/or drink- neither were available at this hour of 3:30 am.

Weaving back to our beds, we encounter strange characteristic groups of people from British “hens” dressed as bunnies to an irate IRA member who had just been mugged.

This certainly was more than we had bargained for.

Bare wires where the TV should be in our Hotel Niza

Cadiz to Barcelona: 6.8.07

Today we would part ways with our amigo, Botz,

and continue 11 hours by train to Barcelona.

Rail map: Black line is the route from Cadiz to Barcelona.

Clean clothes remain in the underground car park: No showers or primping this morning. Check out from the hostel and begin the search for an affordable bite to accompany a cafe con leche.

We sit and watch the people we saw last night over and over again. Another small town under the guise of a big city.

Trudge back to the car park to arrange our bags. Botz delivers us to the coastline where goodbyes are exchanged. We will see one another again- the call of España is irresistible.

Alone together again, we hike to the train station outside the walls of the Old Town to arrange travel to Barcelona. 

Leaving in a few hours, our tickets assign us separate male/female sleeping cars.

The station is modern and clean. We enjoy sink showers and a change of clothes.

After stowing the bags in a gigantic locker, a return to the heat of the day in search of sights and a bite to eat.

Atlantic waves crashing against medieval skyline attract prolonged gazes.

Classical style sculptures are scattered randomly throughout the old town.

Spanish hours again foil our attempts to find a dinner. Train leaves after 8, the typical set-up time for the evening meal.

Accepting a cold beer, a thoughtful server offers a reduced selection of tapas from lunch. We request his favorite, a raw slice of salmon wrapped around a dollop of creamed cheese.

Back to the train station

to gather our packs and find our beds.

Both our rooms are empty as the train rolls to a start. Celebration with the ron miel from Málaga: moving forward in luxury!

Perhaps we would be able to stay in the same room after all...

Through the narrow golden hallways to the bar car for a beer and some crisps to take in the beautiful countryside from the panoramic windows.

After a few stops, back to the rooms to see if any roommates have arrived. A mature Spanish woman arranges her personal effects upon checking in.

We engage a conversation in Spanish until two young Canadian women with packs join us. They speak no Spanish, only a bit of French. I translate for the Spanish woman. Shortly, A very tall, lanky, black-haired, young faced Canadian named Jude from Toronto joins the social atmosphere. The Canadian chicks are interested until Jude's age of 19 is spilled.

“You're just a baby,” they exclaim.

We depart to the bar car again for energetic conversation and beers.

 











At the end of the bar car, a clean-cut but rough looking guy standing alone catches our eye.

We move to include the Spanish speaker we pegged as military, but is actually a futball fan.

Around 1am, a heavy, high-strung boss-man

gives us the boot to our rooms.

The guys share with two older Spanish men in suits, and, so, alone, retire to the female only room.

The door is locked!

A swift knock notifies presence

and the chain is dropped.

Step into the pitch room,

the door slams and locks behind.

Nothing to see, settle into bed

and try to catch some sleep.

Cartajima to Cadiz: 6.7.07

After a fig and bread, Botz has no reservations at El Refugio for the next few days and closes the hostel to drive with us to Cadiz.

Founded in 1100 BC by the Phoenicians, ancient peoples from the coast of present day Lebanon, Syria, and northern Israel; some say it is the oldest city in Europe!

A fond farewell and “See ya soon!”

to Cartajima.















A short stop in Ronda in front of the bullring.


*Said to be

the home of

"modern" bullfighting... where the matador got off his horse,

and fought the bull on the ground*


Delivering Paco to Ronda for his shopping.

After a two hour drive West to the Atlantic coast, the influence of the medieval Islamic North African Moors remains evident in the famous architecture of the “Old Town” of Cadiz.

Leave the packs in the car to wander about

and locate a bed for the night.

After not much luck, y una cerveza stop,

Botz locates a questionable locale.

An unmarked, unremarkable entrance

to a worn atrium

complete with

a blind, deaf lapdog

urinating on checkered tile.

The taxidermy head

of a toro.

A decent price, and the whole place to ourselves! Clash of the Patterns: bedspread with the ceiling, ceiling with the wallpaper- and not much could go with the bizarre drawing behind the mirror.

On the other hand, the institutional green hue and long white hallways with the ever-present checkerboard floor were an aesthetic treat.

Courtyards and soft smooth marble stairs lead

to empty rooms.

After a rest,

out to the Atlantic!

Huge cement cubes are piled upon one another for the surf break.

Closer look reveals home to hundreds of feral cats.

Food and water provided by kind animal lovers.

We settled for a beautiful dinner array of grilled fish: swordfish, mackerel, and tuna. As we finished, it was getting dark and people began to arrive for their typically Spanish dinnertime at 10pm.

Carousing the old town, we find some drinks, music and people watching! Return to the room late, the door is locked. With persuasion, the owner awakens to let us into our beds.

Cartajima: Los Pueblos Blancos. 6.6.07

This morning we wake with an appetite...finally! Botz fries some drippy eggs and we enjoy with a crusty bread and coffee.

Unfortunately, our late start of the day does not allow for a trip to a site of interest:

Cueva de la Pileta (Cave of the Basin):
a cave with prehistoric drawings!

Instead, we opt for nearby Cueva del Gato (Cave of the Cat) at Botz's suggestion.

A brief, beautiful twisted drive though the mountains to the footpath leading to the cave.

Shade of fig trees cool the moist landscape.

A short hike over a small stream and under a train trestle leads to a pond with a waterfall that dumps crystal blue.

Closer inspection reveals the water is a river flowing out of la cueva. A small cement catwalk allows for views of the waterfall as well as Cueva del Gato.



There was an overwhelming chill in the air emanating from deep within...

Entering the cave is prohibited as it lacks a safe walkway.

Most of the a large trees around the mouth of the cave and river are fig trees. We were warned not to indulge in the King's oranges, but perhaps a fig is fair game...

Not exactly *tasty*

or ripe, the fig

is someone's home...

a tiny worm!

Part of an endless food web,

the worm is sacrificed

to an ant colony.

We start our hike back down,

stopping at the edge of the stream.

Botz recommended this water for swimming-

maybe a little early in the season.

Icy tingle of cave cooled water soon drove me back to sandals in grass!

Exploration of the arced trees on the other side was out of the question...







...but Botz took his own word and swam under the waterfall and back!

Continue hiking to the car, and stop at

Hotel Cueva del Gato

for a cool drink.

Networking skills land us a new friend, Tina, the dog-in-residence.

Striking purple

among so much beauty!
 
 

On the road,

exotic homes dot the hills.
The outskirts of a village larger than Cartajima,

a bullring of a different size.

Our guide carries us

to an ancient Roman ruin

- Acinipo. The newer addition of the gate

is closed and locked.

Apparently,

on the other side of this hill

there is an amphitheater.












From the fence,

the distant ruins arouse curiosity...

 

Back into the vehicle, we shoot drive-by style hanging out the window, roaring to our next stop-

Setenil de las Bodegas.

 

One of Los Pueblos Blancos (The White Villages), Setenil dates back to the middle ages and was built from a system of caves.

**Los Pueblos Blancos are whitewashed mountain villages established at high altitudes for defensive purposes.**

With a destination in mind,

Botz leads us through this silent, surreal location.

The buildings are built out of the living rock...inside they are caves!

At an opening in a wall, the other side of the horseshoe shaped village is visible.

Arriving during siesta, people are not around, but signs of life are everywhere..

Under an overhang of vine covered rock, a stop for chilled local sherry and some tapas frias (cold snack) consisting of rich olives and cloves of garlic- the best olives ever! The garlic was soaked in a brine and eaten whole...wonderful!









Inside the bar, the walls are moist with rock water. The living stone surrounds everything causing the temperature to be much cooler than outside in the village.



A church high above the entire village- it is built right on top of them!













 



The sun begins to sink low in the sky
and there is still so much more to see...

Into the pueblo blanco Ronda: our previous only known destination, the bus station is no comparison to the gorge.

An enormous bridge spans the seemingly endless pit adorned by terraces.







Back through the now familiar dusty mountain roads to El Refugio. On the terrace, a blanket of pink fluffy clouds overtake nearby Paruta village.

Soon, we are joined by Fernando and a family from Ireland who own a local farm, and we visit the new bar in town.

 
Only open for one week, we play darts and meet new friends: among them, Paco and the hospitable owner of the bar!

The next morning, we will continue our trek through the Mediterranean region to the ancient coastal city of Cadiz with our good friend Botz...