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.

Carnaval

I go back and forth on Cádiz, and its third largest Carnaval celebration in the world. It is a ridiculous spectacle to say the least, and it puts to shame a few of my epic halloween extravaganzas on Sixth Street back in Austin. A million people line the narrow streets in costume, strange alcoholic concoctions  in hand, shoulder to shoulder in the shadows of old churches. Those not too drunk were in good spirits, kissing boyfriends and girlfriends and strangers and taking photographs they might regret tomorrow. I won a costume contest, myself. It was all a pretty good time, I guess.



A wise woman told me once we all have our course to run. For some those last longer than others and for some those courses never end. This woman once asked a man on the first date if he had in fact run his course, and I thought it such a perfect, direct question: one that could solve the world's problems. I do not know if my course is over, or if I'm ready for something else, but I do think I am changing. I hate to death the phrase, "I'm too old for this," but after walking soggy streets soaked in piss, even I was leaning that way. I liked Carnaval, but I didn't love it, and I find my actions these days to be much more deliberate.

I paced my evening well. There was a cute Dutch guide, responsible for getting everyone there and back alive, and while 55 people fell into drunken slumbers, her and I talked the hour back to Seville. I got off the bus without any regrets, the first stars fading away on the horizon, but I very well could look at tomorrow's wretched costume with a few. 

Rollin' Back

It has indeed become clear, after a fair amount of introspection, that my mind works differently than most people. These thoughts are put to the test in extreme environments, and the truth really does come out. Take now, for instance; at some point the honeymoon stage of a new place ends, the sights and sounds all become something normal, you are surprised one day by life's plainness, and you begin to look backwards instead of forwards. That sounds like something to write about.

I am very fortunate because when I do look back some very special people have equipped me with some very special memories. I remember beers on my front porch off speedway and silly video games late into the night. I remember walks up to Mount Bonnell when life needed some thought, looking out on the river and the lights and those flickering radio towers. I remember long 100 mile rides -- a distance I now realize would take me from Seville to Portugal -- sunburned and exhausted, and the BBQ meals that always followed. We did not need much those days, and man, you lose sight of those moments until they have been gone a long time.

I said something rather simple to a girl recently -- some random thought about her life -- and she called me profound. In my mind that read as sarcastic, and perhaps condescending, but it wasn't meant that way at all. Conversations these days lead to bland stares and mushy heads, like an endless stream of online videos. It's a terrible thing to be away from your people. It's a curious fact of life that those thousands of miles away feel closer than those sitting next to you in a circle.

This past friday I stayed in bed with a book rather than join a group in the streets. The next day the internet went out, and I was fascinated by reactions throughout our residencia. Everyone looked lost, wandering the halls in a way that reminded me of that day back in Alice Springs, Aborigines stumbling drunk in the park. I am sure I am viewed as strange, or old, or other things I cannot imagine, but I do not much care these days because I just do what feels right. I woke up healthy and alive the next day and had another nice cool run.

Every once in a while when I lay in bed, I put down my book and look up at the walls. There is an Australian flag, a Texas flag, and the flag of Andalusia waving softly with the breeze -- my makeshift version of interior decorating. It's times like this I sit back and drift off to some great things that happened once that really, truly, profoundly matter. 

Short and Sweet

I spent a fair amount of time today during my visit to the ancient Roman city of Italica, distracted away from the amphitheater, baths, mosaic tiles, and roads that occupied people's attention almost 2,000 years ago. I didn't spend much time thinking about how far that empire stretched to build something like this so far from Italy. All this because hoards of American 19 year olds, traveling in packs and armed with cameras, had better things to do. Everyone needs their moment to vent, and everyone hates their own country abroad, but sadly, I have understood for awhile now why Americans around the world are viewed as they are.

There are probably a billion places something important happened, and brown little markers where somebody died. Throughout history these places have been defiled and burned and wrecked by both intentional acts and straight negligence. When I watched a group of girls ignore a sign, side step a fence, crawl on a boulder, and pretend to be gladiators, I put my head behind my hands and thought some things never change. I probably thought it more symbolic than it actually was.

A friend and I stood out of the way, watching the panoramic view while trying to erase the little ants. I could not help but feel we all miss the point. As we get on an airplane in a few month's time, there will be photographs and small souvenirs and temporary friendships that say, "yes, it all happened," but we will all be the same people we were when that first plane took off.

For Those Who Stay

The three hour bus ride from Seville to Granada was lulled along by English voices, some of them louder than others. The road outside grew more and more rugged, hills giving way to small mountains, the temperature dropping the higher we went. It would have been easy to get caught up in talk of life back home, and dietary cravings, and the sensational hookups of young people here, but I kept my headphones in and kept my thoughts to myself. I looked out on perfectly aligned olive trees irrigating the horizon, and small white pueblos crawling up hillsides, and I felt happy to be in Spain. The soundtrack was a familiar tune from my newfound obsession with Mumford and Sons.

and the time we were given will be left for the world,
the flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by the plague,
so let the memories be good for those who stay

Those small hills eventually turned into the Sierra Nevadas, and the highest peak of the Iberian Peninsula. It was a clear day, and the snowy peaks sent sunlight down the mountain until the snow disappeared and turned to rock and the rock turned into the city of Granada. You hear surprisingly little about Granada around Spain -- it is one of its hidden gems -- but it did not take me long to grow attached. Some places have red flashing lights and bright beacons lighting up the sky and you just cannot explain why to anyone; Granada is one of these places to me.


If Granada is something of a forgotten place now, it was everything in its heyday. Until Isabel and Ferdinand arrived in 1492, it was the final Muslim stronghold, the definitive point or Moorish legacy. That peculiar race, the Moors, more a mix of people than a set national identity, had spread Islam across the peninsula for centuries. These were some of Islam's best moments, supporting equal rights, religious tolerance, libraries, universities, and supreme engineering feats, all lost in the perception of today's radical Middle East. Many argue the Renaissance was made possible by Muslim influence in the south, and this period of international greatness is no better felt than in Granada.



The Alhambra is a palace, or series of palaces and gardens, originally started in the 1000s and added onto century after century through Muslim an Christian kingdoms. It is the number one most visited spot in Spain -- more than the Sagrada Familia or the cathedral in Seville -- bringing in annually around four million tourists. Every year, mostly in summer months, these people walk its steep inclines, gaze upon its Arabic fountains, and look out on Granada from the tallest tower like people have done for centuries.

A man in a bar once told me Granada is a city you go to fall in love, and it does seem like the place to do that. Though when we call a city romantic, I'm still not sure what that means, because to me every sort of place is begging for a love story and I always make them up in my mind. Perhaps by romantic we mean timeless, and Granada does strike me as that. Most places it's difficult to see yourself along the diluted path of history -- we have to build parking lots and skyscrapers and bowling alleys -- but in Granada it could be any year and the view has not much changed.







The Royal Chapel sits down the road from the Alhambra, past old Arabic shops full of tourism paraphernalia. The remains of Ferdinand and Isabel are inside, provided you pay the fee. These two figures ruled half the world, for better or for worse, and decided to call it quits in Granada. Living in Spain, it is hard not to imagine these figures in life. They did a lot, and brought a very fragmented country together, while sending out the expedition would change the course of everything. They were the personification of Spain before Spain went south.

The monument to these people is -- in the true nature of Catholicism -- an extravagant gaudy relic that shows the king and queen dead and still with lions asleep at their feet and angels around their bed. I often wonder what people think about in that reclined position when they know they are soon going to die. I imagine in the old days, watched by a most unforgiving God, they would be thinking about that God's judgement. I personally think memories alone are meant to carry us in those last moments of life. As king and queen, looking at a very big life, I am sure there was plenty to think about.


The bus ride back was one of those rides you don't want to end, and I did as people do and drifted off to sleep thinking about all that shit that just happened. I will probably never have servants or live in a royal palace, but I don't much want those things. Our measure of success varies, and that's fine; one person is discovering America while another invents the boat that takes him there. I live in Spain while someone I know explores a dark corner in South America. It's all this crap that takes us, step by step, slowly, unrelentingly, from the world in 1492 until now.

Into the Country

Sometimes it does pay to have friends, and my friendship with an American paid off when his host family invited the two of us on a trip into the countryside of Andalusia. This is great luck; most Americans sit back in Seville these days, waiting for the first program-sponsored trips to begin. Granada and Córdoba and Cádiz will happen for all of us, but those will surely feel more like a tour and less like an adventure. In this sense, out in the middle of nowhere, I was exposed to something more authentically Spain, where the stereotypical children kick soccer balls around in the tiny streets and the toros graze off in the hills. I caravanned with three Spanish friends, their two wives, a seven year old daughter, and a grandmother. They told us stories -- slowly and simply so we could understand -- and we talked about history and they asked us questions about our own country. All that just does not happen every day.



The town of Aracena sits just below a few big bluffs. The Sierra de Aracenas stretch as far as the eye can see. It reminds me of that Thanksgiving in the woods out in the boonies of Tennessee. There are old Roman ruins from before Muslim conquest at the top, along with a traveling biker gang.

We sat in the small town of Fuenteheridos for tapas, beer, and conversation, watching people live very simple lives; Some sold necklaces and others roasted nuts in the streets. My American friend and I were surely the only native English speakers for miles.




We were told Almonaster la Real has one of the most beautiful views in Spain. It is a very small town in the provence of Huelva, which reminds me that small is one of those relative words. Less than 2,000 people live there. After following narrow roads up a few steep inclines, we ended at the top.



Up on the hill watching over the city sits the Mezquita de Almonaster la Real. This mosque was built in the 9th century and renovated by Christians in the 16th. Inside you see the striking crossover of religions, present everywhere in the south. Remnants of Arabic writing and Muslim architecture are everywhere.



As night fell, we were wonderfully exhausted and cramped in the car driving home. I surprised myself by how well I spoke Spanish, but it still such a difficult thing to do. People who began the day as strangers ended the day as friends, and language had nothing to do with any of it. If I had been dumped out of that car on to the side of the road, I would have no idea how to get home, and there is a great power and feeling of freedom when you do small trips like that. Signs like this, ones that point every direction, are a reminder that Seville and a lot of things are far far away. 

The Guadalquivir

I had a run by the river today. It was the first run in many days, which makes it the kind of run where sweat feels different. It is saltier and heavier, and tastes stronger as it runs down your face, burning harder when it hits your eyes. When this kind of run is over you feel all the better because you released bad things the body needs to get out, the kind of waste that sits in people who never move until something serious happens to their health and they realize they should change something. These first runs are necessary, part of a process I love, and the next one will feel stronger and lighter as will the one that follows that. This is how running goes.

This run was important for me also because it was my first run ever in Spain. Having done it in a few parts of the world already, it takes on an almost spiritual significance, a way of coping and understanding and organizing life in your head. The steady tap-tap-tap of your feet slows things down when the world is flopping around you. I will not admit to culture shock, but I will say things have been difficult. Important details are missed in rapid Andalusian Spanish, important turns are missed in a complicated city, and important phrases are butchered to the banker, the grocer, and the bartender. The program here rightfully turns your whole world inside out, and running, as it has been for me many times in the past, is the best sort of addiction.

Things aren't that bad. We are provided plenty. Tomorrow I will sit in a plaza in one of the oldest cities in Europe eating tapas and drinking beer, watching people walk the same narrow cobblestone streets Christopher Columbus walked over 500 years ago. A friend said during lunch the other day that sometimes she looks and her life and just laughs. It is a feeling I can relate to, and I'm lucky to enjoy such things.


In Spain I run along an important and historic river. Starting in the mountains outside Cordoba, it flows west to the ocean. During Columbus's time it was full of wooden galleons carrying gold from the Americas to Seville, making this the capital of the world. This was the highest point Spain ever reached, the world's first global empire operating in every time zone South America to the Philippines. The Spain of today does not resemble the Spain that once was, sidelined, overlooked -- one of history's great falls from grace.



Jan Morris calls a chapter in her book on Spain, Sol y Sombra -- sun and shade -- and it highlights the difference in temperatures between the two, especially true in Andalusia. You certainly do feel that here. Wintertime in the shade and you need a jacket, but no matter what, if there is sun, you feel some sort of warmth. I have not felt that in other parts of the world and that is a part of Spain that resonates with me and I'm sure a few others.

Young people do things like this for a number of reasons, and in this sort of program I have seen a lot. For a few sorority girls, it's all a party and one big hangover that they'll probably wake up from in a few months time. For others it almost seems mandatory, something that school or family required, so they suffer while friends remain comfortable at home. At times I am idealistic and think anytime an American goes abroad it's a good thing because so many never will. Other times I cover my face when I hear them talk aloud. I have talked to good Americans about bad Americans, and a general consensus remains: we have an idea why the world hates us. Each day I try and make the image better, piece by piece, like that girl who throws starfish into the water.



I looked at the river one last time today and thought about my own reasons for being here. They certainly are a little vague. I want to learn Spanish in the only way you can. I want to live this city, and take some of it with me the next place I go. All this might change a million times, and that will be just fine too. My view is that you don't have to know, especially at my age. You just have to try and find out.