Swiss Family Grass

Vinaros turned into a much longer layover stop than first anticipated. We were excited to have met an interesting group of people to socialize with and daily bike rides exploring unknown territory began to get us both into shape and seeing new sights. The familiarity of staying put in one spot we had come to know during our stay at Chauffour had brought feelings of wanderlust, and we intended to avoid lengthy stopovers, instead opting for a change of scenery every few days or so. Yet, somehow Vinaros began to feel like a new home. Fellow campers were friendly and each day we learned a new tip about where to buy the best beef in town, or which restaurant had the best prix fix menu.

With each passing day we were invited to fellow campers’ pitches for dinner, or on a bike ride to visit the local flea market. It seemed every few days we found ourselves in the campground office extending our stay another few days. Days turned to weeks and just as we made plans to depart quaint little Vinaros and head south, the inevitable happened. For those of you that know me, you are surely familiar with my luck. And, if you have been keeping track of our travels through this log, than you know that I have not needed to seek medical attention since Bend, Oregon (about ten months). But, entering into the third week of our stay I took a nasty spill off my bicycle. All at once I felt a sharp, burning pain spread through my wrist and palm. My knee throbbed and I sat on the sidewalk stunned, dumbfounded that I had become separated from my bicycle. Actually, I wasn’t all that stunned. I had been jumping from street to curb to sidewalk for the past few weeks to avoid the small cars barreling toward me while cycling in town. This time, I had tried to jump a curve with an angle similar to the pyramids of Egypt. I was not successful of course, and the disbelief that followed was only quelled by the immense pain I felt from head to toe. Andy and I assessed the damage and after a few empathetic words from him, I was back on my bike.

Actually, the true cause of delay to our trip actually came later that night. As I sat nursing my wounds, icing my knee, and feeling a sense of overall sorry for myself I prepared to climb into the van and wash away the day’s events with a good nights’ sleep. Andy had gone to clean the dinner dishes and I looked to the van’s kitchen counter to see a pack of Mentos calling my name. Mento’s, that small refreshing mint; the candy that whether mint or fruit flavored unleashes a pleasant feeling onto your tastebuds. It seemed the perfect cordial to a day riddled with pain. I inspected the package, removed three pastel colored candies from the foil packaging and popped two into my mouth. Next, I heard a crunch, not unusual as Mento’s have a hard candy shell. But this time, the crunch seemed too crunchy, and sure enough not five seconds later I was staring at a Mento and dental crown sandwich. One of the crown’s in my mouth, no doubt weakened by the fall earlier in the day, had broken and become part of my ‘after dinner mint’. I couldn’t help but laugh, and laugh out loud I did. I quickly ventured to the wash basins to show Andy my prize. As I turned the corner to the communal sinks, Andy could read the expression on my face, a ‘doomsday’ look and asked, “What happened?” Next, we did what one does when faced with a dental issue; find a dentist.

During a visit to the dentist, I was fitted with a ‘pirate like’ silver temporary crown. As we discussed cost of the new crown, it was hard for the Dentist to miss my expression of relief when he quoted me 330 Euro for all the dental work, including the porcelain crown.
The dentist seemed amused by the cost of dental work in the states and went on an on about how backwards our medical and dental coverage is.

Back at the campground we continued life as we knew it. We grew familiar with other campers, and watched amused as Petey would wait for treats every hour to be thrown over the dividing hedge by our Dr. Zhivago look alike neighbor. Most days he was treated to raw steak, with the occasional unidentifiable chorizo looking sausage thrown in for good measure. On our end, we tried to reciprocate by tossing salmon treats to their dogs Chica and Teddy.

Our neighbor wasn’t just feeding Petey. He was quite the cook, and the smells emanating from his trailer peaked my curiosity too. Apparently, our neighbor from the north specialized in Indonesian fare. He was preparing a grand buffet for the close of a marathon in Vinaros and let Andy and I be his guinea pigs. He served a four course traditional Indonesian meal and waited on the other side of the hedge with assured confidence that we would bring back plates licked clean. Many a day were spent chatting about cuisine and we learned a history of the link between the Netherlands and Indonesia that was quite informative. But most of all, we just enjoyed that our neighbors were interested enough to include us in their day to day goings on. It was quite refreshing to see that age was not a barrier, and our different nationalities meant nothing when it came to socializing.

When the travel itch grabbed us we dropped the top on the van and drove to Morella, a walled village perched high above a green terraced valley. The town castle rests on the top of the hill, and we hiked to the top with Petey. Sweeping views of the rolling hills and lush foliage surrounding Morella extend twenty miles from the vista point. After a picnic lunch we walked the narrow pedestrian streets of the town and Andy stopped for a quick haircut, a bargain at seven euro.

On another day we drove to Peniscola, a Miama Beach style strip with golden sand beaches extending as far as the eye can see. As with most of our stops, this one came with the requisite castle and narrow winding streets lined with white washed houses clawing their way up to where the noble once resided.

Back on bikes again, we explored the many ‘Todos’ shops of Vinaros, essentially $1.00 stores with shelves from floor to ceiling lined with all the junk you ‘must have’. Actually, we did make a purchase at one of the shops. That small two euro purchase has become constant amusement for me the past few weeks. I purchased a pair of slip on shower shoes for Andy. Something about the material that the sandal is made from causes a constant farting sound with every step that Andy takes. You can hear him coming a mile away, and I’m certain that our neighbors think I’m feeding him food that makes him gassy. Speaking of food, while we nearly always prepare our own food, we do attend the occasional restaurant. It’s amazing how little you can spend in Spain for an amazing meal. For 18 euro two people can dine on a four course meal that includes a starter, salad, entrée, dessert, bread, and a bottle of wine. You just can’t beat it. Pork and fresh fish dishes are especially divine.

While in town we would usually stop along the promenade, near the harbor to soak in the sun and views of the calm Mediterranean Sea.

Back in Vinaros Campground, Andy and our friends spent nights drinking fruity Spanish wine affectionately named “The Diesel”. The high octane libation was always a source of entertainment for me, as I would sip my Schweppes Naranja (orange soda) and watch as everyone’s teeth but mine would turn a deeper shade of purple as the night crawled on.

On our final night in Vinaros, we laughed the evening away with our friends Johan, Rina and Linda. To be honest, I can’t remember why the evening turned into a chorus of laughter. Maybe it was the ‘Diesel’, or perhaps it was the fact that Johan amused us with numerous sight gags always with a twinkle carried in his eyes. Or, maybe it was because the five of us spent the better part of the evening trying to remember the name of an old ‘Men at Work’ song, going to far as to call Linda’s husband in Ireland to try to get the name. The evening left me amused at the whole ‘About Schmidt’ atmosphere (once again, see the movie and you’ll know where I’m coming from) one gets when living in recreational vehicles, and the other part of me felt like a person having an out of body experience, merely a spectator not a participant.

The morning we left Vinaros campground I was walking from the restaurant with two freshly baked croissants (during our stay in Vinaros we had gotten hooked on the buttery Spanish croissants with their sweet flaky top, better than the traditional French croissants we had become accustomed to) and I did a double take as I passed a motorcycle. I was sure that I had seen a California license plate adorning a BMW cycle. Sure enough, the motorcycle had a California plate, courtesy of San Francisco BMW. I couldn’t believe my eyes! What a small world I thought. Since reaching Europe, we had only seen one US plate, and it was displayed in the rear window of a Pontiac in France. I had to find the owners of the bike, and that I did. When I found the young couple eating at the café, I approached and asked their story. As it turned out, they were an Irish couple who had been living in San Francisco for the last ten years, as dormitory residents for the Academy of Art. We chatted a bit, and they told me how they had moved back to Ireland only to feel that their hearts had been left in San Francisco. We discussed old haunts and our love for the City, and they told us to look them up when we returned to the states, as they were sure they’d be back by the time we were home.

As we drove out of our campsite the entire block came out to wish us safe travels and bid us farewell. We were stunned. As our van pulled out of the campsite, fifteen people watched and waved until we were out of sight. It was all at once a strange and moving moment. Not unlike the impression they had all made on us, we had made one on them too.

We decided to take the coastal road toward the Costa Del Sol. The drive was filled with amazing views of the Mediterranean.

When my gaze wasn’t locked on the ever changing coastline, I was amazed at the number of construction cranes filling the skyline. Spain must have one of the fastest growing coastal land developments in the world. At times as many as fifty cranes can be seen in one beach rimming town. The sprawl is overwhelming and an affront to the senses.
In towns where the development seems to have no land to continue, signage and tourist trade rally to compete for the shrinking advertising wall space. Malaga in particular is a sign of when tourism goes wrong. The streets are littered with English signs advertising every type of cuisine and sunburned Brits walk from shop to shop looking like tomatoes rolling through a Del Monte plant assembly line. The whole place feels like a pressure cooker, with tourist consumerism at its’ base. At the center of it all, the once pristine beaches are now too crowded to be enjoyed and too overrun with expatriates to feel any sense of local culture.

Another aspect of the Costa Del Sol that is quite striking is the number of interior design and furniture stores. Every block along the coastal highway has a number of stores hawking everything from chintzy home decoration to high end room embellishments. If you are every looking to redecorate a house, Spain is the place to go for ideas. This country has home décor from to satisfy all tastes, shabby to chic. I was absolutely amazed at the number of shops, and the overwhelming selection. It’s worth the flight to check out the latest design trends in Spain.

Our first stop along the Costa Del Sol was in Marbella, or rather just outside the town limits. The campground was cramped and loaded with people, mostly Spanish. The campground back gate led straight to the beach, and Andy and I spent a lazy afternoon playing gin at an outdoor beachside café. Andy had a carafe of Sangria and I had a Shirley Temple. I won the match, but I must admit I had a slight advantage after Andy’s third round of Sangria.

We quickly left the bustling campsite and continued along the coast to what turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip. Tarifa, Spain is a fantastic seaside town located at where the Strait of Gibraltar dumps into the mighty Atlantic. Our campground was located adjacent to the most spectacular stretch of beach. And, we had what I thought was the best pitch in the whole place. Our campsite rested on a plateau, surrounded by nothing but gorgeous views of the water and Africa, just 9 miles across the strait.

Tarifa is known as Europe’s premiere kite surfing destination. The mornings in Tarifa are deceptively calm with nary a sole on the beach, perfect for long strolls with the dog.

By mid afternoon, the winds come in with a surge and the skyline becomes a sea of color, as kite surfers take to the water. Watching surfers cut through the water with ease made one think that the sport required little more than the nerve to jump on the board and the know how to fly a kite. A quick conversation with a young German kite surfer educated us to the dangers of the sport. Many people have had ears and fingers sliced off when their kite strings pull from the force of the winds. Even worse, decapitation is not totally unknown. Apparently a man had been beheaded last year when his kite strings became entangled with another surfer. So, Andy and I remained spectators of the sport and looked with interest across the water to Africa and pondered taking a day trip to Morocco.

On our second morning in Tarifa we walked the extensive beach into town. The walk along the beach from the campsite into town takes about forty-five minutes, and the time passed quickly as we ran into another couple from the campground and began a conversation. David and Isabelle are from Australia. Actually, Isabelle now resides in Australia, by way of Chile. She left Chile two decades ago seeking political asylum. While in Australia she met David, a true ‘outback’ Aussie who tells stories of world travels that keeps the listener engaged and amused. They were in Spain visiting a couple they had met while camping in their home country. The couple, Vicente and Catalina, had invited them to Spain so that they could show them all the beauty that Spain has to offer. But, I digress. We walked with David and Isabelle to Tarifa and they showed us the entrance to the old walled city and directed us to an internet café so we could check our mail. At the café we parted ways and agreed to meet later for drinks back at the campground. Andy and I strolled the small cobblestone streets of Tarifa, winding in and out of buildings like a maze. The Moorish influence is most evident in Tarifa, with striking rounded architecture and intricate designs woven into building facades. And, if you take the time to peer through building doorways, you will find yourself staring into beautiful courtyards, ornately decorated with blue and white Spanish tiles. We had lunch in Tarifa at a café along the promenade taking time to enjoy our favorite pastime, people watching.

Later that night we walked over to David and Isabelles and enjoyed a bottle of wine, or rather I should say several bottles of wine. Vincente and Catalina schooled us on many things Spanish, including but not limited to wine, regions worth visiting, and Spanish music. For Spanish music they highly recommend the guitarist Paco De Lucia. Later, while visiting Seville we were able to pick up one of his cd’s, and listened to the rhythmic strumming of one of Spain’s musical treasures as we drove through the Spanish countryside bound for Portugal.

Vincente and Catalina are natives of Mallorca, and many laughs were shared that evening as Vincente pointed out to us ‘six degrees of separation’ between just about everything gracing the globe and Mallorca. Junipero Serra…from Mallorca. Christopher Colombus…born in Mallorca. Bill Clinton…visitor to Mallorca. Willie Nelson…Mallorcan. Okay, so I made the last one up, but you get the gist. It became a long running joke, and everything that came out of Vincente’s mouth was followed by a pause only to be broken by my chiming in with, “Isn’t he Mallorcan?”

After getting to know each other a bit we could tell that we had been accepted into the fold as Catalina instructed Vincente to go to their refrigerator and get the ‘good stuff’. What emerged was a soft spicy sausage spread called Sobrasada. The spread tastes similar to linguica and is served on toasted bread. Sobrasada was followed by pastry from Mallorca and Spanish champagne produced by a vintner friend of theirs. They waited to hear our evaluation of the sparkling wine to tell us that we probably wouldn’t have cared to know how it was produced. Evidently it’s a small production, done for friends and family the ‘old fashioned way’. My vivid imagination instantly planted a picture of a very hairy man with dirt laden feet stomping the grapes that made the water of life I was now drinking. I guess I had drunk enough of the bubbly not to care, because as a group we polished off two bottles of the stuff.

The following evening we met and played billiards with a young couple from England. Kit and Kate are on holiday and had come to Spain to hit the beaches and explore the Sierra Nevadas. We talked until the billiard room closed and then moved the party to our tent and talked until the wee hours of the morning. They shared many travel stories, especially extreme sports stories and I listened intently, remembering what it was like to be young again and have no fear.

Taking a break from slow pace of beach bumming, Andy and I drove to the rock of Gibraltar one day. The queues to gain entry to Gibraltar are long. Gibraltar, one of the few remaining territories of the United Kingdom requires one wishing to visit to meet the same entry conditions as if you were traveling to England. As our car inched along in traffic we prepared our passports and vehicle documentation. Then, we realized it may be necessary to provide Petey’s passport. It dawned on us that Petey had not yet had the two treatments needed for entry to the United Kingdom (as they have to be administered 48 hours ahead of any visit to the England and we weren’t planning to go to the United Kingdom until October). We knew Petey would be eager to jump to the window when we rolled up to the border crossing and panic set in. Had we waited all this time in line only to be turned away at the last moment? Sharper minds prevailed and we threw a Greenie into the back seat just as we made our final approach to the border agent. Petey dutifully jumped in the back (and out of site of border patrol) and we were in. With that said, Gibraltar turned out to be one of the ‘should have skipped it’ stops on our journey.

Gibraltar as a rock is actually quite impressive…if admiring from afar. Once you are on the rock, a mess of traffic and run down buildings combined with unorganized redevelopment construction is all one sees. I liken the rock to a dilapidated military installation turned tourist attraction, sprinkled with locals who have stayed on the rock for who knows what reason. If you ask me it’s a major fire hazard, an island with a maze of misplanned streets leading virtually nowhere. All directions point to a small area of pedestrianized streets that the tourism board likens to a mini England, complete with pubs serving fish and chips. Wandering the streets felt like visiting an amusement park that had fallen on hard times, and that paired with the road rage coming from the cars of nearly every passing vehicle made for a stressful visit. At one point, Andy and a local of Gibraltar were having a verbal duel for a parking space that ended with the man shouting, “Go back to America” and an expletive I won’t repeat here because tender eyes are reading this log. By the way…we were rightfully entitled to the space as we were there first.

For our part, we tried to make the best of it and ventured all the way to the other side of the island (where the road literally and abruptly ends) to watch tankers pass into the Strait of Gibraltar. Marine vessels litter the waterways and one looks out at the sea wondering what far away lands the goods are destined for. One positive thing to note is the wonderful views to Africa that can be had on a clear day. We were lucky enough to visit on such a day and sat on the nearly deserted far side of the island having a picnic lunch and remembering that our British friend Tracy had told us not to bother with the stop. Boy was she right…

Back in Tarifa we met a couple from the Netherlands who spend five weeks at the campground we were staying at. Erik first approached me by our van and asked the string of questions we are so used to getting now, “You’re from the United States? How’d you get that car here?” Our conversation continued with Erik sharing about his travels in the states and later he invited us over for a BBQ where we met his girlfriend Linda (a dedicated nudist) and spent the evening chatting about politics. And I do mean chatting. There was no discussion or debate, just friendly chatting about how current political climates have changed our two nations. We may live on opposite ends of the globe, but we face similar issues. Separate, but the same. From Erik we picked up another culinary trick that we have now incorporated into our daily routine…cappuccinos topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with cinnamon. Mmmmm…

Our week long stay in Tarifa ended with me vowing to return again one day and driving slowly along the last stretches of coastline, so as to savor each last mile. Within a few minutes the coastline disappeared and we were heading toward the three grand cities of Granada, Cordoba, and Seville to visit historic landmarks worthy of short stopovers.

Before reaching the trio of cities we drove the winding roads of Spain into the rolling hillsides, populated almost completely by olive trees. It appears that there are as many olive trees as Spaniards, since olive trees seem to drape the landscape with their silvery green leaves. We stopped for a night in Ronda, Spain, a village sitting high atop a gorge valley. There are two bridges in the city that day back to Roman times and the views from the bridge overlooks are terrifying. The town itself is known for its’ bullring, as it is one of the oldest and most monumental. We strolled through the Bullfighting museum, which has an extensive collection of bullfighting art and costumes. We also were able to see a special exhibit of the Royal Harness Collection, an imposing collection of the ornamental gear worn by horses used for Royal events and travel throughout the ages. A fabulous exhibit, and not to be missed. After the museum we walked through the bullring, climbing the stairs to the viewing levels, all the time feeling the wave of excitement that lives there whether visiting during a sold out bullfight or when the ring is filled only with the spirits of past matadors.

The main street in town provides the perfect environment for a late afternoon stroll and we walk the cobblestone streets stopping only for a gelato and to people watch. Later, we biked two miles back to the campsite, almost completely an uphill battle, and were disappointed to see that the swimming pool at the campground had not yet opened for the season.

The next morning we drove to Granada to see what many guide books list at the “If you only see one thing in Spain…” place, the Alhambra. Granada itself is a dizzying city, complete with traffic snarls and dilapidated barrios. Yet, perched high atop the city is an oasis, a Moorish palace and gardens that have been exquisitely maintained. When you first arrive there is a theme park feel, as gates and ticket booths swell with throngs of tourists But, don’t be deterred. Once you enter the gates, the crowds reduce to a trickle as visitors fan out to explore the massive grounds. We spent the afternoon wandering through the gardens, visiting the ruins, and looking out at the spectacular city views.

At our assigned time we visited the palace and became mesmerized by the architecture and intricacy of design. The palace has sculpted waterways running throughout the maze of rooms and courtyards, and one can see how water has become such a grand and luxurious symbol of life. The detail in the tile work is all at once a puzzle and marvel of workmanship. Most of all, I was impressed by the arched windows, nearly all of which provided a panoramic view of lush green grounds and bountiful fruit trees. I can understand why royalty built the jewel know simply as Alhambra, which translated from Arabic (al-Hamra) means “the red”. And a fine red jewel it is.

For our next stop we ventured to Cordoba. The manager of a campground that was filled to capacity directed us to a rural park that had campsites that resemble the style of camping we are more accustomed to in the states. Spring wildflowers could be seen in fields of pine trees and the setting was tranquil. After a restful nights sleep we drove to the city center, left the van by a heavily shaded park and biked to the famous La Mezquita.

The great mosque known as La Mezquita now houses a church and tiny chapels that surround the perimeter are dedicated to the many saints Catholics pay homage to. I never realized how entrancing religious art could be until my visit to the Mezquita. I was particularly taken with one piece, and gazed through the chapel gates to admire the attention to detail and rich color the artist had used. For the first time in my life I found myself looking, and I mean really looking, at the paintings before me. Small nuances that had gone unnoticed before were now glaring beacons. I’m not saying that I was having a ‘Da Vinci Code’ moment (read the book to know what I mean, and forget about seeing the movie), but the breadth of the paintings is too much to be absorbed by just a passing glance.

Also in the Mezquita is one of the largest wood carvings in the world. Yet another masterpiece, the deep rich brown stained wood encompasses seats for the leaders of the church, pulpits, and decorative features that extend high into the busily cherub painted oval ceiling. Rows of benches are rarely empty as tour groups and individuals alike take a seat to admire the carvings, each blink of the eye bringing a newly discovered face or crest. It too is a piece of art that reminds one of the great attention to detail paid by artists of yesteryear, who for some one piece could end up being a lifelong work.

After visiting the church we wandered into the Jewish Quarter, where the only sign that Jews once dominated the landscape could be seen in the ornately painted street signs bearing Jewish names and the small Jewish star tiles for sale at tourist shops.

We rode our bikes back to the van and decided to picnic in the park. Andy made sandwiches consisting of salami, cucumber, peppers, cheese, and tomatoes on freshly baked pannini bread. They were ‘scrummy’, as our British friend Linda would say. Yep, you guessed it…yummy. On our way out of town we picked up a piece of Torte Espana for the following day’s breakfast, a quiche like torte made with eggs and potatoes

Our final stop on the cannonball tour of the trio of cities was Seville, home to the largest gothic cathedral in the world and the Alcazar citadel. Unfortunately, with the fame of being the ‘largest’ of anything, comes the drawback of major tourism trade. The cathedral is nearly completely encircled by book and trinket stands selling all of the usual guides to the site (in a minimum of five languages of course).

For me, the best part of the visit was the stop I made at a churro stand run by a young Spanish couple. The churros coiled like a hose and sizzled in the oil, only to be plucked from the bubbling cauldron by a huge round spatula like net. Drained of the grease, wrapped in paper and sprinkled with sugar, the churro makes a perfect portable snack for sightseeing.

Back on the road again, it was a matter of an hour or two and we were crossing a bridge into Portugal. We stopped at the border tourism office and were welcomed by a smiling, well informed tourism office employee. She provided guides to the sixteen municipalities of the Algarve region and directed us to the village of Ohlao, for a traditional fishing village atmosphere. We spent a few days touring the town, rather unspoiled by tourism and then continued along the national highway.

During our drive we stopped in Faro to visit a Jewish cemetery and museum, the cemetery being the only remaining sign of post Inquisition Jewish presence in the Algarve. Smack dab in the middle of the busy Faro city center, the nearly hidden iron gates open to reveal a courtyard filled with cypress trees. The small cemetery has just over 100 graves, some marked by marble gravestones and others simple pebble graves. The small museum provides a detailed history of the small Jewish presence found in Portugal, the most notable being how the Jewish community in Faro actually came about after the Marquis de Pombal asked a sixty family Jewish group to relocate to Portugal to help rebuild the post 1755 earthquake economy.

Back on the road again I began to notice one striking difference between the national roads of Portugal and Spain.
An interesting aspect to the driving in Portugal is that unlike Spain, where the highway hugs the coast, in Portugal the coastline is a well kept secret, a stones throw from the highway. Take any turn off the highway bound for the coast and you are rewarded with quaint fishing villages and unspoiled beaches. But remain on the highway and you miss it all. I think it’s what’s kept development at a limited pace, a marvel considering the beauty of the Portugal’s coast.

After leaving Olhao we drove the Algarve coast all the way to the tip of the continent, Cape Vincente. Dramatic cliff top drops are only rivaled by the fisherman leaning over the edge trying for the daily catch. A hazardous sport perfectly captured in a photo exhibit at the museum housed at the citadel.

Returning to the Eastern Algarve we decided to stop in a tiny fishing village. Armacao de Pera strikes the perfect balance between understated tourism in harmony with local people. Beautiful beaches and coast side cafes hug the coves and the people are friendly and inviting. We decided to stay awhile and enjoy the seaside town. Days are spent riding to town for the early morning market and lounging by the campground pool. Evenings are calm, with a gentle breeze whistling through the eucalyptus trees. Right now as I write this update the sun has set and a neighboring camper is playing folk music, presumably from his homeland of the Netherlands. He serenades us each evening as the sun slides down the orange tree lined groves of the Algarve coast. The slow soothing sounds of his accordion will lull us to sleep tonight as we dream about adventures that lie ahead.