Ronda

My favorite day in Spain to date happened in Ronda. It's not far away, exotic, or particularly well-known, but it was still my favorite day. That same weekend one of those companies -- the ones that make sure study abroad students have fun -- sent hundreds to Morocco to ride camels and camp in the Sahara. Ronda, by comparison, was a quiet little getaway, a hour away by bus. Two friends came and left that afternoon, and then I was all alone in a charming town. You don't fall into Ronda; it is a place certain kinds of people seek out.



Wandering the city with a big bag of olives, I came across the plaza de toros, and was told by an old man I look like a young Hemingway. I do not know enough about Hemingway yet, but I know he wrote about Spain and liked the bulls, so I probably should learn a little more. Passing the man and the bulls, I came abruptly to the cliffs that overlook the sierras around Ronda. Olive farms stretched out below, defined by tiny roads and lit by small fires. The white buildings slid out onto the edges. The famous bridge that defines Ronda -- fit for a Lord of the Rings film -- sat where the two tallest cliffs came together, blending into the rock.


After walking down those cliffs into the canyon below, the stream turned into a lovely waterfall. Without any park laws, or fences, or general restrictions whatsoever, you are vulnerable to your own stupidity. You can climb ladders or wade your way through rapids or hang off a cliff as your please. Stupid or not, friends and I crept up to the edge of the waterfall and it was a gorgeous day, a gorgeous scene, and the water was cold and fresh on our feet and faces.




At one particular bypass looking out on the bridge, a gorgeous girl from Melbourne asked me to take her photo. I noted her accent, commented on it, talked with her awhile, hiked a bit, talked with her awhile longer, and a few hours later at dusk we met for a drink. Fast forward a few days, after taking a few chances, and I woke up to her smiling sleepily in Granada. Travel romance is probably the truest sort of romance: open and fearless and urgent. This all was never the plan, but that's freedom I suppose, and when no one in the world knows where you are, you certainly have nowhere in the world to be. I digress; all this happened later, and there will be more stories around that I'm certain. The sun fell away in Ronda that night and I sat happily on my porch, listening to the little stream below, reflecting on why it pays to choose the simple things.