S P A I N

Wednesday, 17 March 2004 - Day 4
 
The Cueva de Nerja
 
I woke the next morning with the ghost of San Miguel playing the kettledrums in my cranium and a trip to the local caves on my agenda.  After breakfast, armed with maps and brochures, we set out in search of The Cueva de Nerja.  The local signs pointed one way, the brochure another but, using the map, of all things, we found our way there in no time.
 
An interesting thing about driving in Spain is that all the stop signs are in English.  My guess is they're for the tourists; the locals will just ignore them no matter what language they are in.  It's not that the Spanish are bad drivers--compared with the Italians and French, anyway--but their cultural attitude of 'Mañana' doesn't seem to follow them into their cars.  For all that, they queue politely and don't blare their horns but, if you see an opening, you'd better take it or the guy behind you will.
 
Then there are the scooters.
 
Worse than cars by a long shot and seemingly more plentiful, they buzz around like midges on a hot August afternoon.  Turning tight corners on narrow streets with people walking all around you might be easier if you didn't have to deal with scooters whizzing by left right and centre.  They drive them on sidewalks, in pedestrian areas, up footpaths--no matter where you go there is no escaping the incessant lawn-mower buzz of their engines.
 
I can see why they are so popular--it's the best way to get around, and park, in the crowded and narrow city streets--but a few rules might help things along.
 
I managed not to run any of them down in the cave car park and was pleased to see they were not allowed to drive them into the cave itself, so things got quieter and a lot darker in a hurry.
 
I love caves and rarely pass up the opportunity of visiting one.  Knowing how cold they can be, I dressed warm.  Inexplicably, however, this cave became warmer they further we descended.

It was a big cave, too, which meant a lot of steps and huge, cathedral sized rooms backlit to make them appear both dazzling and spooky.  In the main cavern, I discovered that wearing a winter coat in stifling heat and staring up at a distant ceiling designed to make you dizzy is not a good idea the morning after a night of enthusiastic drinking.  About that time, my wife and I agreed that one stalactite looked pretty much like the next one and we weren't likely to miss out by skipping a few.

We decided to return to Nerja, mainly because we couldn't think of anything else to do.  It was a pleasant day, so we took a walk along the ocean, which doesn't loose its appeal quite as quickly as holes in the ground.  We squeezed past a knot of people--both locals and tourists--gathered around a man who had apparently fainted and hit his head on the sidewalk, then made our way to the beach.
 
We were both feeling a little washed out at that point; what I really wanted to do was go back to the hotel with a big cup of coffee and half a dozen donuts.  This was when the downside of all this quaintness made itself known--there was no place, absolutely none, to get a coffee to go.  Not a Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts or Costa Coffee in sight, not even a McDonalds.  It was a mixed blessing; I smiled at the thought even as my body screamed for caffeine.
 
Eventually, we returned to the town centre and had coffee at an outdoor café; nothing to complain about, really.  The disquieting thing was the ambulance that crept by about fifteen minutes later, blaring its siren in a futile attempt to shoo the scooters out of its path.  In it was the guy who had fainted nearly an hour ago.
 
I looked at my wife. "Remind me to not break my leg in this country," I said.

After coffee, we bought some crisps and beverages and returned to the hotel for an al fresco lunch on the terra followed by a siesta.
 
For dinner that evening, we inadvertently ended up at another British-owned restaurant.  It was called the Rendezvous and we thought it was Spanish until we went inside and were greeted by a waitress with a Brummie accent.  I had the chicken and chips; the kids at the table next to us ordered beans on toast and a cheeseburger.  They were out of Mickey Mouse ice bars so, for dessert, I had to settle for the authentic Spanish Apple Crumble with custard.
 
Thursday, 18 March 2004 - Day 5
 
Rained Out
 
It only took five days for me to figure out we were close enough to Gibraltar to visit it.  I've always wanted to see 'The Rock' since watching all those Prudential Insurance commercials during the Wonderful World of Disney when I was a kid.
 
I was really looking forward to making the trip today but when we woke up it was raining, so I had to put my excitement on hold.  In an effort to salvage the day, we went into town and did our holiday shopping.  I had a few items some people asked me to pick up and we wanted to buy a few gifts for some of the folks back home.

The weather began to break so we figured we'd go back to our room for another lunch on the terra.  In addition to picking up some beverages and goodies for ourselves, we bought boxes of cookies to bring home to our respective places of employment.  The entire bill--for our picnic lunch and the gifts--came to €8.20. Nothing is too good for our work-mates.
 
The weather brightened as the day progressed but it remained misty, so it was just as well we didn't try for Gibraltar.  Nothing would have pissed me off more than going all that way to find it shrouded in fog.  Besides, we would have missed the bullfights.
 
I'm as surprised as you are.  Televised bull fighting, during the family hour; isn't that a bit barbaric?  I realize bull fighting is a time-honored tradition in Spain but then so was drawing and quartering in Britain until surprisingly recently, and they gave that up.
 
We rooted for the bull, naturally, but, as always, the cards were stacked against him.  In the end, crazed and dying, he was heroically run thru with a sword and died while the crowd cheered and applauded.

For dinner that evening, we went to an Italian Restaurant called Pinocchio's.  This establishment was apparently owned and run by Spaniards who had a skewed view of Pinocchio, America and interior design in general.
 
The dinning area had very little in the way of décor.  A large and disquietingly limp wooden puppet hung from the ceiling, infusing the room with all the conviviality of a public lynching, and on the far wall, lit from above and displayed in what can only be described as a shrine, was a larger than life portrait of Walt Disney's Pinocchio.  I'm not sure about the wisdom of replacing the Blessed Mother with a cartoon character, especially in a Catholic country.  Granted, she probably didn't draw in the American tourists in quite the same numbers, but I think anyone who dines there will agree with me it wouldn't hurt to restore her to her rightful place, light a few candles and ask her for a hand in the food preparation department.
 
Up until then, I was certain no one could fuck up a pizza.  Pizza, I've been told, is like sex; when it's good, it's great, and when it's bad, it's still pretty good.  I have, however, never known sex so bad that I put it down and walked away from it.

This thing looked and tasted like it was made out of left over matzo crackers and tomato soup.  Rarely have I been in a position where I am expected to eat something with such a remarkable lack of appeal; and rarely has anything so unappealing lived up to its expectations with such enthusiasm.  I nibbled at it a bit, then pinned my hopes on the dessert menu.
 
I needn't have bothered.  The English-translation menu had items on it such as "Crepe mit Ice Cream," "Coffee, Wishy and Cream" and the rather vague sounding "Pudding."  We both chose the Chocolate Mousse as something both familiar and, hopefully, difficult to do badly.  It turned out to be pudding.  Mit Cream.

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