S P A I N

14 - 21 March 2004

Preparations
 
As if I needed further proof that I am turning into an old fart, I managed to inadvertently pack--for a weeks holiday in Spain--two pair of tan trousers and seven blue shirts.  After realizing what I had done, I decided against re-packing; at least I wouldn't have to waste any time trying to decide what to wear every day.
 
We were going on a modified package holiday that included our own choice of hotel and departure location, so it was customized nicely to our preferences, yet was all-inclusive.  Just under £500 per person entitled us to a weeks lodging in a three star hotel, a rental car and all transportation.  I considered it a near-perfect deal until the holiday company called and told me we had qualified for a bonus.
 
We could, they explained, opt for free travel insurance, no-fee money exchange or a complimentary car upgrade.  I explained that we already had travel insurance, we traded pounds for euros for free at our bank and did not want a bigger car.  We had purposely chosen the smallest car available because we were going to be driving around in small villages in Spain where SUV's were probably at a disadvantage.
 
Undeterred, the young lady on the other end of the phone informed me that we were entitled to a bonus and, by God, we were going to choose one because she couldn't put the order through until we did.  So I chose the car. 
 
"It's not much bigger than the one you originally ordered," she sympathized after I grumbled about the uselessness of their 'bonus' scheme.
 
I should have taken the redundant travel insurance.
 
After getting up at 3:30 AM to catch a 7:30 flight (their idea, not ours), enduring airport croissants, an in-flight breakfast and non-EU immigration, we were presented with a car fully twice the size of the one we drive in Britain.
 
Even so, we managed to make it to our hotel without much confusion or mayhem.  By one o'clock that afternoon we were comfortably ensconced in a charming room with a balcony (called a Terra) overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
 
The hotel we stayed at is new, but built in the local style in a way that manages to imitate it rather than parody it.  Like many edifices in the area, the hotel is built into the side of a hill, an unorthodox construction that places the car park at the top of an almost vertical drive and the reception area--on the ground floor--located above the rooms on floors one and two.  It's a strange set-up, but one necessitated by the lack of horizontal land in this corner of the world.

Clinging to the hillside the way it does assures each room a spectacular view.  Our terra looks out over palm and banana trees growing in the narrow garden belonging to the hotel.  Beyond is a small olive grove bounded by a two-lane highway--the double-edged sword that makes this hotel ultra-convenient to get to yet spoils the otherwise tranquil atmosphere.  To the left, the Mediterranean undulates under slate skies and, straight ahead, the foothills of the mountains rise higher and higher to the north.  Adorning their peaks and clinging to their steep slopes are villas and houses, both old and new, all painted such a dazzling white they look like drifts of snow.
 
We were tired, but the day was mild and pleasant and the bulk of the afternoon stretched in front of us so we decided to drive into town to do a little exploring.

Sunday, 14 March 2004 - Day 1

Reconnaissance
 
Depending on how you look at it, Nerja is a large town or a small city.  Either way it is an agreeable size; large enough for a variety of eateries, shops and bars yet small enough to negotiate easily on foot.  That is, if you can actually drive into the town centre and find a place to park.

If I had come to Spain straight from the United States, there is no way I could have negotiated the tiny and confusing jumble of alleyways between building that they call streets.  I would have been too stunned, and unable to believe they actually meant for cars to be on them.  After two years driving through village roads in Sussex, however, it wasn't so bad.  We even found a parking spot without too much difficulty and, by following people wearing plaid trousers and sandals with socks, we eventually located the tourist centre of town.
 
Being a Sunday, practically everything was closed, but there were enough tacky tourist shops open for us to buy a few post cards and we wandered the streets, noting the locations of interesting shops and inviting restaurants.  I was even able to find a few Irish pubs.

Satisfied that we had mastered the town, we trekked back to our car.  Along the way, I ducked into an open market to buy a few cans of beer.  There were two types of beer in the cooler--San Miguel and San Miguel Pilsner--so I took two of each and set them on the counter.
 
The clerk put them in a bag, held up his thumb and two fingers and waved them at me, repeating a word I did not recognize as Spanish.  I wondered that he wasn't giving me some local street sign but, after repeating the word more and more loudly, I understood that he meant "three."  Then he gesticulated wildly at the cooler repeating "three," "three," "three." 
 
I couldn't make out what he meant.  I studied the cooler but found no sign that said "Three for the price of two," or "Limit of three to a customer."  I realize my Spanish is not great, but even in NY, if a store clerk started shouting "Three" at me I would be just as confused.
 
Eventually, I decided he meant I needed to buy three of one or both brands, so I took a third San Miguel out and put it on the counter.  That seemed to satisfy him, though he was probably thinking, "Christ, I try to tell this guy he can only have three and now he's buying five, I better just get him out of here before he wants six."
 
He told me the price, which I didn't understand, so I handed him a ten.  From the change, I figured the beers each cost about 80 cents, not something I was going to complain about despite the bizarre behavior of the store staff.
 
Back at the hotel, we deposited the beverages in the small fridge hidden in our wardrobe and set out to locate the dinning room.  The hotel was eerily quiet and, although we knew we couldn't be the only people in the building, we came to realize that we were almost certainly the only guests.
 
We ate in an empty dinning room, waited on by the hotel manager.  The food was exceptional; I had the ostrich because I had never eaten it before.  It came in a blackberry sauce and, to my surprise, didn't taste like chicken.  Unfortunately, that makes describing what it did taste like a bit awkward.  It tasted like nothing I have ever eaten before; I guess, if I had to make a comparison, it tasted like ostrich.  I highly recommend it.
 
After dinner we returned to our room where I rounded out the evening with a beverage and cigar on the terra, listening to the rumble of traffic on the nearby highway and looking out on the surprisingly dark mountains.