Ze Vind... She Blows!

Spent yesterday morning on the beach. But it wasn't quite as you are no doubt imagining, warm sun, gentle splashing waves, and general beachy relaxing. Due to the aforementioned wind in Tarifa the beach was virtually deserted and being a 10km beach, this means Empty with a captial E. The wind was so strong it whipped the soft cream coloured sand into streamers and sent them hurtling towards the water. Imagine foot wide epileptic snakes made out of sand and you get the general picture. (It also meant that anything bigger than a pebble also found itself aggressively urged towards the ocean... like say... me!) When the wind really started to give it a go the sand felt like thousands of tiny daggers stabbing at your skin. Sort of like an over enthusiastic scrub at a spa. And left long enough the sand would do it's darndest to obliterate any belongings left unattended on the dunes. Like say... my flip-flops which were nearly lost forever.

Still haven't figured out why the people in Tarifa are not completely bat shit crazy due to the constant wind. But I suppose it goes some way to explain the plethora of bars and watering holes found around the city.

Today is logistics day. Get laundry done. Buy one-way (!) ferry ticket to Morocco. Take out money to turn into Dirhams and pay the lovely travel tour leader in Casablanca. Figure out how the hell to get to Casablanca. Etc etc, the list goes on.

Still hasn't totally dawned on me that today is my last day in Spain. Hell! It's my last day in Continental Europe, let alone Spain! Because tomorrow I head to Africa. AFRICA!!! Bloody hell...

The Most Southern Point

Continental Europe's most southerly point is the tiny town of Tarifa. Pointed like a dagger's tip at Morocco, this small village still retains it's spanish heritage despite being so close to Africa. It probably helps that it's pretty damn touristy.

But I gather it's wind that makes Tarifa run. If the streets lined with kite and windsurfing clubs, schools, and outfitters are any indication, wind is pretty big here. Course a better indication would be the gale force that's currently whipping itself through the streets! It's a bit like standing on the front of a ferry crossing to Victoria. Except you're on land... and there's bits of crap like cigarette packets and torn up palm leaves making threatening advances towards your head... And if you turn sideways you don't get gently pushed into the siderail, you get pushed into oncoming traffic... But at least it's warm! Though it does make everyone look like they're walking drunk.

Salty Swarthy Sea Port

Cadiz. City of multicoloured buildings crammed together in a clostrophobe's nightmare of alleys, squished onto a rough edged spatula of a penisula. Love it! But I do wish it wouldn't be quite so stormy. It doesn't rain long, but when it does it's rain with the intent to murder. This stuff actually hurts!

Still, my first impressions of Cadiz are good. Today I plan to hoof it around the perimeter seawall of the old city. From what little I've seen it's a goodie. Can't really describe how cool it is to look out on a tumultuous aqua green sea and know that somewhere on the other side of that vast expanse of water is North America. I have to confess, I've been waving at it like an idiot.

Yesterday I did something I've never done before. Something entirely outside my comfort zone. I called a pension from a phone booth, asked questions about the rooms, reserved one, found the pension, and paid for the room... all in Spanish. Yowza! The pension is a local family run job and none of them speak even a lick of English. Now, I don't speak Spanish. I can mumble a few phrases like "Quiero una habitacion para tres noches" (I'd like a room for three nights). But that's about it. Luckily the tourist info office was nearby so I kept running to her going "What the heck is a 'matrimonia'?" (Double bed, for the curious.) I'm paying quite a bit more than I would for a hostel bed. But there's only one hostel in Cadiz and it's full. Sooo... pensions it is. And frankly, it's really really nice to have a room to myself. If I want to have a little sing to myself while washing my undies in the sink, then damnit I can! Ahhh freedom.

Itchin' Feet

Alright. I think I've parked on my butt for long enough and it's time to move on. Tomorrow I leave the comfortable nest that is the Rambutan. Love it there, but it's time to go. My feet are itching to see new places and meet new people.

Will miss Granada though. Funny, the longer you stay in a place the more you get to like it. You know your way around. You know the buses. You know the operating hours of most of the shops. And you get to know the people in the neighborhood too. For example, I always buy my apples from this cute little grandad that runs a grocery store up the hill from the hostel. Not necessarily because his apples are better than anyone else's, but because he always gives everyone a huge happy smile. I'd tip extra just for that little pick-me-up!

But as I said, the time has come and I'm just DYING to get to Morocco. Sure I've managed to freak myself out about it. About the touts, the anticipated verbal harassment. Completely freaked. But when I get dreaming about piles of spices, inscense wafting thorough markets, brain jostling shouts from the vendors, and sights that I haven't yet seen in Europe... how could I not be just bursting with excitement? Besides, a friend once said that if you're not even a little scared on a big trip like this, there's no point in going. What you see and experience won't mean as much. I think she's right. (Thanks Aly!) So I'll keep the fears down in the bottom of my tum, and think only of the good. Of rainbow lanterns, brilliant blue pottery, beduin jewelery, early morning prayer calls, and camel rides in the golden desert.

Socks

Oh it's a sad thing to have to put on warm socks on your holiday! But alas, the weather has finally turned and it now gets pretty darn cold, specially in the evenings. (Though this is probably partially due to the fact that I've only got summer clothes. :P) But I can't complain too much. I've had gorgeous hot sunny weather longer than most. And jeez I'm headed to Morocco at the end of the month. Mind you, I'll be mostly covered up for an entirely different set of reasons, but at least it won't be cold.

Yes indeed. The plans for Morocco have been set. I've booked myself a 15 day tour that takes me all over the country. Into the mountains. Into the souks and markets. And most important... into the desert. Camel rides!!! I am sooo looking forward to that part.

I could have done Morocco on my own. I've certainly met other women who've done it and have fabulous tales. But they've also got a truck load of bad ones. And even women who've been in tours or travelling with guys says the harrassment factor is huge and it can make things difficult. So, a tour it is! Chickening out maybe. But this is the first time I've travelled on my own after all.

For the moment though I'm just kicking back and relaxing in southern Spain. Got here a bit earlier than planned, so I've got about 2 weeks to kill. No a bad place to do it though! And besides, once the tour starts I won't have much time for relaxing. After that it's off to London for a couple days and then home.

Craziness! Can't believe I'll be home in exactly one month to the day. Not entirely sure how I feel about that yet. It'll be soooo good to sleep in a comfortable bed, to have reliable showers with *gasp* water pressure! To eat good food, and especially to spend time with friends and family. But at the same time I know I'll miss the travelling. The seeing a new city every couple days. The meeting new people from all over the world and hearing their stories. Mind you... Vancouver's probably changed a bit in the last 6 months, so it'll be fun to discover it again.

P.S. For the record: I have a tan. It's a good one. I only bring this up because if the weather continues to be grey and rainy, it won't be there when I get back home.

The Best Adjective

Twisty.

I've realized that I've described many a city with this adjective. Twisty. And it has by no means been misused. However, it wasn't until Granada that it really felt deserved. The Albayzin quarter of Granada (where my hostel happens to be located, but more on that later) is the most labrinthine mess of disjointed passages, tunnels and roadways I've yet met. I absolutely freaking love it! But it does make things a bit confusing. Example: one of the girls at the hostel gave me directions to the supermarket. I attempted my best to follow them but spent a good 2 and a half hours looking for the damn thing. Not that I minded. I got to see all sorts of back alleys and forgotten streets that most tourists probably don't bother with.

The other amazing thing about this particular part of Granada is the destinct arab/moorish influence on the buildings. Doorways are moulded with the pointed archway, tiles decorate doorframes and window ledges, and colourful blue glazed pots adorn wrought iron window boxes. Lanterns swing from balconies, deep dark wooden doors are meticulously carved in writhing florals, and there are inscense shops wafting their wares around every corner. It's still Spain though. So the favored white washed walls and terracotta tiled roofs still apply. But it's lovely to have a taste of what's to come in Morocco.

Now, a word about my hostel. The word is: Freaking awesome! Ok that's two. But let's not split hairs. The fact is I'm in love with this place. It has an increadible view of the Alhambra. A giant moorish castle settled aloft a hilltop in the middle of Granada. And there's nothing better than to sit on the bouganvillea covered patio at night overlooking that impressive fortification whilst listening to homespun guitar music. Oh, and they'll even cook you a lip smackingly goregous dinner if you're willing to shell out a mere 4 some odd euro. Ahhh heaven.

(Plug: Hostel Rambutan, how can you not love that name?, www.rambutangranada.com)

The Barber of Seville

The beach was lovely, but my feet were itching so it was time to move on... to Seville!

Curiously enough, there is a destinct lack of barbers in Seville. Surely if ever there was a marketing ploy ready for the taking, this is it. In fact, it's a miracle that there aren't fifty self proclaimed Barber's of Seville. I can see it now: "Yes, I Carlos am the true Barber of Sevilla. No! Juan, de son of a pig, iz NOT the real Barber! It iz me! Don Carlos!" *Insert outrageous flaminco dancing here* It's really a shame. I'd pay to see that.

In all seriousness, Seville is a lovely city. My map of the city has all these old beautiful buildings highlighted to help you navigate around the city. But that's actually quite useless as virtually ALL the buildings are old and beautiful. Huge goregous wooden doors, forgotten fountains, crumbling cobblestones, hundreds of horse drawn carriages (they'll stomp ya if you're not looking!), the biggest gothic cathedral I've seen yet, and an air filled with the smell of jasmine and orange blossoms. It's easy to fall in love with the place. I find myself a bit overwhelmed actually. Too much time in a lazy beach town left me a little unprepared for full on city life. "Traffic? What traffic? They HAVE traffic?"

Can't actually stay long here either. Too pricey, which is really too bad because I like it here. So tomorrow it's off to Granada. Cannot wait! Have heard far too many good things for this place to missed.

Blonde Foreign Chick

Some of you may remember that I dyed my hair brown before I left. But it seems it was in vain as a few swims in the ocean and a couple showers with cheap shampoo were enough to completely strip out all the brown midway through Italy. Leaving me a mangled mess of blonde. Fast forward a couple months and my hair is now a streaky festival of all shades of yellowy hair.

Not a huge problem back home. Just makes you look a bit trashy. But here... here it's a problem. At least for me anyways. It's the cat calls, the whistles, the weird clicking noises, and the car honks. Seems that if you are A) a woman, B) foreign, or C) blonde or any combination of the three, you get 'em all like crazy. It's actually getting a bit embarassing. Example: Walking to the beach this morning, a guy on a boat starts hollaring at me, another guy driving by honks, hangs his head out and shouts "Hey sexy baby!", and the guy at the gas station hollars "Hola! You made my day baby." Now I can ignore all this. But there happened to be about 5 middle aged tourists around me at the same time. One fellow turns around and says, "Were they shouting at you?". I just shrug, point the hair, and say "It's the blonde".

At this point it's just tiring to constantly hear that kinda crap. Where are all the nice men? Oh well, guess it's just a warm up for Morocco. Gah! When I fly back to London, British men are going to seem positively frigid!

Crickets and Cow Bells

One of the best things that can happen while travelling is to meet up again with people who you really like. So I nearly jumped for joy when Jes, a girl I hung out with in Lisbon, tapped me on my shoulder the other day and gave me a big hug. We've been marching around southern Portugal ever since.

While I'm quite happy to vegetate on a beach, Jes is far more adventurous. It's brilliant because it means I actually get to see something other than sand (which though glorious, does get a tad repetitive). Today we headed off in search of the village of Aljezur. According to Jes' highlights of Portugal book, it's a cute village in the hills with the intact ruins (?) of a moorish castle. Moorish castle? You just said the magic words! So with that we packed a picnic dinner and headed for the hills.

The bus out there was a little sketchy as it was super local and none of our fellow transportees spoke English. But through a frankenstein mess of Spanish and French we managed to get to where we needed to go. Aljezur! Adorable town with maybe 6 tourists, tops. White washed walls, rediculously tumultuous narrow cobblestone paths masquerading as streets, and millions of cats. This was my kind of village. The fact that it had a castle was just icing on the cake!

So we plunked our butts on the rubble ruins of one of the castle walls and looked out over a gorgeous misty valley filled with green farm fields and rolling hills topped with eucalyptus trees ("gum trees" for Jes). All the while cow bells twinkled and echoed across the valley. This is where we feasted on fabulously strong cheese, tomatoes and fresh bread, and assorted olives. Grapes and crisp apples for desert. And all the while I kept thinking, "I cannot believe I'm sitting on a castle wall in the middle of nowhere Portugal having a deliciously simple meal. This is just too awesome!" This is why I wanted to travel.

After the sun sunk below the hills we headed down into the wee village in search of a cafe to warm ourselves in. We found a nice enough place and were treated to warm chocolate. (We'd ordered hot chocolate, but they don't really get the concept here.) But the evening was lovely and so we drank our chocolatey drinks and played cards to kill the 2 hours before the bus ride home. Suddenly I noticed that all around was the sounds of crickets happily chirping their little hearts out. Marvellous I thought, can't get any better than this. But it did, because shortly after that the cows were lead in from the fields right beside our cafe. The night air was filled will the soft swishing of cow hooves on grass and the melodious chiming of cow bells like a hundred wind chimes sounding at once. Truly one of those wonderful things that happen because you're in the right place at the right time.

The evening was frosty, so Jes and I nearly froze in our shorts. But we kept our spirits up and even sung a rousing round of "Hail the Bus Driver". (This is what I credit for summoning the bus. It was only a scant 15 minutes late!) After a day like that, the ride home couldn't help but be viewed in a wonderous light. We had the bus almost entirely to ourselves. And gazing out the windows, shadowy forests were illuminated by the golden misty moon and skattering light from the bus headlights. The entire ride back we were serenaded by Jonny Cash on the radio. This day is definitely one to remember.

Surf Paradise

On Thursday I hooked up with 6 of my fellow hostel mates and headed to the south-west coast of Portugal. Two of the girls had rented a car and offered to take us to this awesome beach. So if you can imagine 7 people, 1 small 4 door hatchback, assorted towels, water bottles, and picnic gear trundling along a bumpy Portuguese highway. It was a complete clown car. Best of all was when a police truck came up behind us. People were squished down, covered with towels and we all did our best to look non-plussed by the fact that 5 young fit people could cause a car to ride so impossibly low. Luckily they had something else in mind and didn't pay any attention.

The beach was incredible! Surrounded by tawny red gold sandstone hills, pounding crystal clear surf, and the bluest sky I've seen in ages, it was impossible not to fall in love with this place. The fact that it was filled with goregous hard bodied surfers didn't hurt either. ;)

Yesterday I headed out with a couple guys and we scrambled along some of the paths on the sandstone cliffs in search of a secluded beach to call our own. After a good trek we found it. Only problem was we had to scramble down a pretty steep slope. Me being more than a little spooked by a certain previous brush with falling, was pretty nervous. But the guys were more than helpful and managed to find a rope to use to help getting down. Again, this beach was goregous! And because of the steep climb we had it all to ourselves. Well mostly... most of the boats that tour the grottoes stopped by this beach. And for awhile we became tourist attractions as all wanted to know how the hell we got to that beach. Was kinda neat.

Lagos, the home base for these beachy excursions, is rediculously touristy. It's a crass unabashed resort town and backpacker piss-up spot. You're either white haired and retired or in your twenties and a scruffy backpacker. There is no in-between. Still, it's a beautiful spot to chill out. A piece of a normal vacation to break up the travelling.

Re: Lazy in Lisbon

Regarding the near death experience in Sintra: please chock this up to my indulgent over-dramatic poetic license. Thank you for the concerned emails, but it wasn't as bad as all that. Guess I'm a little too convincing in my tales. :(

The reality is I had a little stumble, but it was in no way life endangering. Just one of those moments where your heart leaps into your throat. If I HAD fallen it would have been onto some remarkably plush green grass about 6 feet down. I would have been fine. Though I doubt the camelia bush between me and the ground would have faired so well!

But rest assured I intend to be much more careful.

Today I'm off in search of a Lisbon specialty. PASTRIES! Yes. Beautiful creamy, butt enlarging tarts are the goal of the day. It would be a crime not to sample such delicacies!

Lazy in Lisbon

The 8 hour bus from Madrid to Lisbon wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. But still LONG nonetheless. More so because I'd thought it was only 7 hours. However, because Portugal is an hour behind Spain it was actually 8. Ugh. But being harrassed by a hoard of massive geese at some backwater trucker stop greasy spoon made an entertaining break. The country side was pretty too. If, like me, rolling hills of golden fields, tufty dark green trees, and wandering farm animals are your thing.

Arrived in Lisbon pretty late, so I didn't do much except get in a couple of those deep philosophical / political / moral conversations that backpackers LOVE to have over a couple bottles of wine. The next day was a bit more productive despite the rain as I managed to get a couple museums under my belt. Dumping my 1gb memory card on CD proved an interesting expierence given I don't speak Portuguese and the woman at the photo counter didn't speak any English. Still, we muddled through.

Yesterday was a bit weird. Apparently every single hostel in Lisbon was booked solid last night. Even the extra mattresses and couches were taken. So rather than spend the whole day desperately searching for a bed, I skipped town. A bit to the west is a cute little (touristy) town called Sintra. And it was there that I spent the night. Completely dead in terms of nightlife, but lovely in terms of scenery. Within an hours walk of the old town city center you can reach two palaces, their gardens, and the ruins of a Moorish castle. So awesome! Even if I did nearly fall off the ramparts to my death. Worst part is, there a bunch of tourists out there with photos of me and my near death experience. "Oh look honey. Here's where that girl nearly bashed her brains out on the 500 mt drop off the castle. How cute!" I blame it entirely on my imbalanced daypack. It had nothing to do with my clumsiness whatsoever.

Today I'm back in Lisbon at my homey hostel (it has cats!). I don't have any plans other than wandering the hills of Lisbon and seeing the sights. It's sunday so pretty much all the shops and markets are closed. But the old center of the city should still be interesting. It'll be a lazy day, but lazy days are always good.