Spanish delusion

02/06/2008

A rainy fair well from Morocco as we boarded the ferry, heading back to Tarifa, Spain. I still wasn't feeling the best and found a shady spot where I could keep my eyes shut during the ferry ride. This was a new addition to my list of exotic journeys I have taken with my eyes closed. We arrived in Spain as the sun came out and already I was starting to feel better. Hola Espana! Where the women are beautiful, the beer flows like wine and ham (jamon) hangs in the store windows. We located the bus stop and waited around with the pot smoking skateys for the next ride to Algeciras, which looks across to the British territory Gibraltar and the famous rock of. We twiddled our thumbs at the bus stop for a while and then took the next ride to Granada, via Malaga, travelling along the coastal road between the abundance of villas built into the side of the rock mountains and the view they are all bustling to see of the Mediterranean.

As was our custom, we arrived in Granada (inland in southern Spain) quite late and had absolutely no idea where we were or where we were going to stay. We jumped on a local bus for town and checked into the first hotel we stumbled across. The room proved adequate and had a balcony view over the lights of the main street. Very romantic, lucky we had a queen size bed to share.

In the morning we set off to figure out what the go was with Granada. We moved into a family run, but completely unsocial hidden away backpackers, made plans for the following day and enjoyed a pleasant lunch in a local restaurant filled with tradesmen scoffing down the cheap menu del dia lunch. With the sun shining we went on a pleasant walk around the old buildings of the Albaicin and the shopping district of gridded lane ways. In the evening we indulged in baths, sauna and massage treatment at the Hammam Banos Arabes. We were both in need of a wash. As it was now getting close to ten we did the Spanish thing and went looking for dinner. Being two foolish guys we went off course and wandered into a pub for a couple of beers, only to discover the best part about Granada. FREE tapas with every drink! As the drinks kept coming so did the food. Talk about two happy boys. This is true. In most bars in Granada, free tapas are served with every drink. Although you pay a little more for the drinks, it ensures you have food in your stomach when drinking. Clever cultural quirk and one we were happy to embrace. For those who don't know, tapas cover a wide variety of appetizers and the tapas in Granada are the best.

Turns out Granada is a beautiful city, located at the base of the Sierra Nevada mountains and surrounded by fertile farmland. The highlight of Granada is the tapas. No, the highlight of Granada is the Alhambra, a Moorish palace/fortress built into the side of a mountain overlooking Granada. Tourists flock to see the Alhambra, and although I usually have a strong aversion to crowds of tourists, this place was worth enduring it. After an early rise (early by Spanish standards) to que for tickets we enjoyed a wander about the magnificently decorated palace quarters, squares and gardens. The architecture is splendid and the flowing water in fountains and pools and the gardens are beautiful. A fascinating place to visit. The Alhambra also has a great view over Granada, the farm plains and back into the Sierra Nevada.

Well pleased with our morning we found somewhere for lunch and then tracked down a cafe for a delicious serving of churros (long Spanish donuts) with hot chocolate (for dipping the donuts). I was in heaven.

With a full stomach what better thing to do than enjoy a siesta, which we did. I was back in heaven. Refreshed and with big smiles we wandered about before sitting down to drinks and lots more tapas (montaditos mostly) in a small bar. With very little effort we quickly latched onto a group of travellers (who had all met that night at a backpackers) and followed them on to a Shisha bar. A Shisha (or Hookah) is a water pipe used for smoking. The caterpillar smokes one in Alice in Wonderland. We sat around in a group of about ten, chatting away and sucking down the fruit flavours of apple and mixed berry. Thanks kids, nice to meet you all, enjoy your travels, we're off to Madrid.

Next days we went back to the bus station and jumped on the next bus headed north. The bus journey took most of the day as we travelled through farm after farm of fruit trees and olive trees lined up over rolling hills. As we approached Madrid we travelled through la Mancha, home of the Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote. As we passed through the countryside and by the famous giants (windmills) in Consuegra, I reflected on once prized and pedestaled Dulcinea del Toboso's of my past and the continuing madness of my role in the combine. Another tick on the list for our literary tour.

In classic form we arrived in Madrid with no plans and set off to find somewhere to stay. The metro worked a treat. The public transport systems in Europe are brilliant, so simple and easy. We surfaced from the metro into a large public square and scammed our way into a hostel before grabbing some less than impressive food after getting frustrated with all the touristy restaurants. We didn't like our hostel and Madrid was a bit too busy for our liking, but we had a great day in Madrid, crammed full of interesting cultural experiences. We visited two of the famous "big three" galleries in Madrid. First up was the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, or The Sofia. The museum is full of Spanish artwork and we enjoyed guessing at Salvador Dali's surrealist paintings and were absolutely knocked off our socks by Pablo Picasso's Guernica. A solid fifteen minutes were savoured at the staggeringly wall sized, black and white painting, as we got lost in the brutal images from all different angles and viewpoints. The collection of pieces done by Picaso in preparation for Guernica provided a fascinating insight into how his ideas changed over time before creating the final masterpiece. After peeling ourselves away from Picaso we had a delicious and much needed vegetarian lunch. Next was the Museo del Prado where we skimmed by most of the permanent exhibition, stopping by Velázquez's Las Meninas, before throwing ourselves into a fantastic collection of work by Francisco Goya. The special Goya exhibit was put together in recognition of the 200 year anniversary of the 2nd May 1808 Spanish resistance against Napoleon's armies. Goya's work included many of his court paintings for the Spanish Crown as well as many pieces he kept hidden as he explored themes of death and madness with paintings of corpses and a series on bullfighting. The 2nd of May 1808 and the 3rd of May 1808 were displayed side by side and powerfully threw the horror of war in your face. A lot of the images stuck with us for some time.

Not having had enough of death and madness we then made our way to the Plaza de Toros. That's right, the bull ring.

This was a cultural experience that, after seeing, was not to be missed. We were particularly lucky as we were in Madrid towards the end of a major tournament. Crowds of well dressed locals made their way passed the overpriced food stalls and hired leather cushions as they filled into the arena taking their places on marked out sections on the concrete benches ringing around the stadium. The two brothers managed to find their reserved seats and got ready for something. In a completely full, circular stadium the brightly dressed teams of matadors, picadores (horsemen) and other assistants entered the arena and prepared themselves after bowing to the higherbeings in the grandstand.

The ring emptied and a confused bull entered. Not knowing the nature of a bullfight it was a fascinating spectacle. There are various stages to a bullfight with trumpets sounding the beginning of the next phase. Firstly, the bull is run around by the banderilleros (flag men) who flash pink capes from hideaways in the walls. Once the bull has had a bit of a jog, they send in the picadores on horseback. The matador then gets the bulls attention and directs him to the heavily armoured horses. Once the bull spots the horse they usually charge and try and lift the horse, at which point the picador rams the first two lances into the bulls neck. This is mostly to show the bulls ferocity. The horses then trot off and two matadors take turns at jamming two coloured spikes (banderillas - we called them umbrellas) into the bulls flank. With the bull now a bit grogy the matador re-enters the ring with a red cape (muleta) and sword. Here is where he shows his skill and courage, enticing the bull with the cape (bulls are colourblind, the cape is red to hide the blood stains) to charge him repeatedly. The crowd cheer the closer the matador is willing to let the bull get to him and the number of repeat passes. When the matador feels the bull has had enough he stands straight on with the bull and in a single thrust, stabs the sword through the bulls shoulder blades and heart. We both let out a short gasp the first time this happened, as the bulls which came into the ring earlier and nearly lifted a horse and ripped palings off the walls, stumbled and died. If the bull doesn't die from the sword, the bullfighter puts it out of its misery with a small knife to the neck. The bulls horns are then tied and the beast is dragged from the arena by a team of horses. Six bulls were killed in the evening, two bulls each for three matadors. The flashiest matador and the only one who actually copped the horn (we quietly cheered) was the eventual winner. It was interesting that as I watched I desensitised to the violence and appreciated the skill of the matador. You kind of look past the bull. It was a fascinating experience. Afterwards we shuffled out through the crowd and made the long walk back to the hostel, both in a bit of a daze.

Our intention for the next day was to hire a car and drive north to the Picos de Europa mountains in north central Spain. However, in a fantastic moment of spontaneous travel our plans changed. As we made our way to the hire car office, within 50m of the door, I turned to my brother and said I didn't feel comfortable hiring the car and would prefer to go by bus. My brother was a little confused, having looked forward to getting behind the wheel of a car, but followed my thought and we went to the bus station. At the station we gaped at the screen and noticed that there wasn't a bus going where we wanted for a while, but there was a bus going to San Sebastian in ten minutes. "Wanna go to San Sebastian instead?" "Why not?" And we were on the bus heading north to the Basque city of Donostia (San Sebastian). That is why we don't do tours. The freedom to make spot decisions, follow your gut, change plans and follow white rabbits is one of the most important parts of travel for me. Sure you get into trouble every now and again and take wrong turns, but that is part of the fun. The idea of someone else making those wonderful decisions for me, that is madness.

The bus ride to Donostia continued on through more farmland and started to enter some spectacular rocky ranges overlooking small villages. The bus ride passed over the Camino de Santiago (Way of St James), an extraordinarily long Christian pilgrimage route across the north of Spain. We saw a speck of the path as the bus went through the town of Burgos. Tick. When we arrived in Donostia we were both well chuffed with our decision back in Madrid as we checked into a comfortable twin bedroom in a home stay in the old quarter, enjoyed a beautiful sit down dinner, gazed across at the lights of the bay de la Concha and had a few quiet ones in a local jazz bar. Donostia is a picturesque town and was a definite stop for our Hemingway pilgrimage, as the town features heavily in Fiesta, The sun also rises, which my brother was reading at the time. We had hoped to laze about on a beach crowded with beautiful women sunning themselves in Donostia. However, the gods were against us and it rained the entire time we were in town. Not being ones to admit defeat we embraced the other cultural activity in Donostia, late night bar hopping. We braved the rain a few times during the day and walked the old town streets, crossed the river and had a look at the Zurriola surf beach and walked up Mt Urgall to the old battlements and Jesus statue overlooking the Bay of Biscay, La Concha’s Bay, the town and inland hills.

With our own room we enjoyed a siesta before going out for a pintxos dinner. Tapas are called pintxos in Euskara (the language of the Basque people, who are not Spanish).

After eating we went from bar to bar, finally finding a good dodgy bar in Gros (near the surf beach) for a few cerveza. In the bar we stood out as non-locals and got chatting with some Slovakians, Madridians and USAians. The Madridians turned out to be involved in the fashion industry and dragged us all off to an underground disco-tech with free entry and free drinks and a dance floor looking out into La Concha’s Bay. We had a late night and then an extremely lazy day as we waited for the rain to clear and the hangover to pass. We braved a walk around the bay and had a quiet pintxos dinner, nothing to drink and an early night. The next day we were off to the bus stand for the next ride to Pamplona. Location for the famous running of the bulls (Encierro) and the next stop on the Hemmingway tour. We only had a few hours in Pamplona so we quickly walked the 800m bull run course and grabbed a drink at one of Hemmingway’s once preferred places before jumping on the next bus to Jaca, our entry point to the Pyrenees.

Don't trust anyone

25/05/2008

The Kingdom of Morocco, located at the far north-west of Africa, with a predominantly Arab population (Sunni Muslims of Arab, Berber or mixed background) promised to be an interesting place to visit. And that it was, although I didn't find myself all that interested by the culture, as we were mostly exposed to the front line of Moroccan tourism, which consists mostly of touts, beggars, taxi drivers, scam artists and bartering shop keepers. Rather, it was interesting to be exposed to a different form of travel, where I felt the defences needed to be up at all times and it was interesting to note my discomfort at receiving a much great amount of attention that I would prefer. Not being an attention seeker, and preferring people generally leave me alone, standing out in the crowd so much that the low lives were drawn to us, got kind of irritating. Walking along a stretch of less than 100m, after just knocking back all of his mates, I was usually ready to tell the fifth pest where he could stick his "hashish". The predominant languages in Morocco are Moroccan Arabic and French, but most locals have picked up enough English to be able to try and sell you junk. Overall Morocco wasn't my cup of mint tea. I still haven't fully worked out why, but the place just didn't do it for me. Although the culture and almost all the sights were new, I didn't find myself intrigued. Rather, I felt more repelled. It was as if in a former life I was a poorly treated performing monkey, and returning to the scene awoke ill feelings. However, I find when I ignore my overall feelings towards the place and the people, and focus on individual features, there was quite a lot I liked about Morocco.

While travelling reference is often made to "the book", which encompasses all travel books. Lonely planet, rough guide, etc. For those wishing to travel with the guidance of a "book", please do so with extreme caution. Keep in mind that "the book" is trying to accommodate a large demographic of travellers. Remember what type of traveller you are and use "the book" appropriately. For some "the book" seems to almost guide their holiday as they stay at the recommended accommodation, eat at the recommended restaurants, visit the recommended sights, and essentially think the way "the book" tells them to. For others, the book is most useful as kindling. After our experiences, I have come to the conclusion that "the book" is a device of the devil. Like the devil, occasionally it will give you exactly what you want. However, this is only to lull you into a false sense of trust so it can more often than not contaminate your mind and lead you into making decisions against your nature and better judgment.

Riding the ferry across the Straight Of Gibraltar was a thrill. The cloudy skies opened up for our crossing and we lounged in the sun on the back deck with a small group of Canadian travellers, preparing for our arrival in Tangier. There was an air of uncertainty as we approached Tangier. "The book" had heavily warned against entering Morocco from Tangier, describing a scene of constant hassle and encouraging people to seek alternative ways into the country. These warnings had actually put off quite a few people (stupid people I should note) we met in southern Spain from visiting Morocco. Ignoring the warnings we wanted to see this for ourselves. Disembarking from the ferry we entered the Tangier port to find a handful of taxi drivers waiting for potential rides and a few stooges trying to sell sunglasses. What a let down. "The book" is rubbish. We shared a taxi, who charged us a bit much but we didn't know how it all worked yet, and went straight to the train station and booked tickets on the night train bound for Marrakech. With an afternoon to kill before the train ride we hoofed it, with our packs on, back into Tangier to see what the town had on offer. Tangier is a developing coastal city, with plenty of high rise construction going on, overlooking the bay beach. The town has a lively atmosphere with lots of people out and about, walking along the Avenue Mohammed VI (Esplanade), buzzing about the Medina (old town) market stores and sitting out in cafes drinking tea. We enjoyed a cold fruit drink in a snazzy bar overlooking the water before finding a great little local place for our first round of tarjines. Tarjines are a popular slow cooked stew dish in North Africa, cooked in a tarjine clay pot. As was our way throughout the trip we ordered one lamb and one chicken so we could share. The tarjines were delicious and a perfect addition to our culinary tour. We had a quick look in the busy Medina markets and bought some supplies for the train journey. We then walked back up the beach as the sun was setting and stumbled across a free hip-hop performance by the beach, with a lively crowd. The energy of Tangier was exciting and we looked forward to our next city. We boarded the train, got comfortable in our sleeping cabins and woke up from our best sleep for the trip, thus far, as the train made its was along the final stretch of desert plain before reaching Marrakech, inland in the south west of Morocco.


Stepping out into the pink of Marrakech in the morning, feeling refreshed after a good sleep, but having no idea where we were, we set off for town looking for a hostel, we got a recommendation for from a lively young bloke we met as we left the train. The hostel was tucked away along several laneways and proved to be a winner, in a traditional riad style with several levels of rooms all facing into a central courtyard. We dumped our stuff and went and enjoyed the morning sun on the roof with some crepes and a glass of mint tea, looking out across a new pattern of pink square-cut rooftops.


We took the day to prepare for a trek in the High Atlas Mountains, locating the bus stand and collecting provisions from various stores in the famous Marrakech souqs. The souqs are an always bustling busy market place, with a jumble of sheltered streets wall to wall with stores selling all types of local produce, spices, handicrafts and heaps of other junk. It is almost all barter trade which makes for a lively atmosphere, with tourists battling to try and get what they consider a good deal and store owners enjoying ripping off tourists. We didn't buy anything apart from food in the souqs, but enjoyed getting in amongst the crowd. The souqs sit alongside Djemaa el-Fna, the main square of Marrakech. The square is a huge public space which evolves over the course of a day from a scattered crowd of tourists making their way through the square dodging motorcycles, mules, orange juice stalls and snake charmers to being jam packed with people in the evening when row upon row of food stalls are put up and crowd attracting entertainment such as youth boxing, story telling and dancing exhibitions are put on. All this happens in view of the Koutoubia mosque (with a 69 metre high minaret) which is visible from all around Marrakech and is where the call to prayer is sounded across Marrakech five times day. The first few times hearing the call, especially the 3am call when all was still and quiet, it was an amazingly powerful experience. However, after a while you hardly even notice it, a bit like most of the locals. Marrakech had a wonderfully lively and exotic atmosphere and we found ourselves drawn to the Djemma el-Fna throughout the day. It took a while to get settled and be able to make out individual features from the mass of new sights and sounds.

The next day we shared a taxi to the mountains (Asni and then Imlil) with a French-Canadian couple we met on the way to the bus stand. Their French speaking skills helped with organising a driver, as we found the bus didn't run very often, or at all. We found that a lot of the sight seeing stuff and travel in Morocco was made difficult, to force tourists into hiring a guide. Often signs aren't even displayed, so you don't have much of a chance. Despite our consistent confusion we refused to get a guide and managed to get by. Determination can get you a long way. On the drive across the desert flat, the sky was clear and we could finally see the High Atlas Mountains, that overlook Marrakech, and couldn't help but get excited. Turning down several offers for guidance (at a fee) we set off from Imlil with a map (which we didn't even look at once) and made our way up the mule track to the Toubkal refuge at the base of Jebel Toubkal (the tallest mountain in North Africa at 4167m). The walk was a gradual climb over a flood plain and up through a valley, going by several Berber villages, surrounded by mountains. We reached the refuge without any trouble and setup camp as the cloud came in restricting visibility to ten metres.








Toubkal is a very popular walk in Morocco, being an achievable summit, so the refuge was crowded with people, including a large school group. We tented outside away from the others, but joined them for dinner in the mess, where plenty of travel stories were shared. In the morning we set off up the 900m climb to the summit of Jebel Toubkal in a steady single file line up a relatively well made track up a scree slope and some large pockets of compacted snow. It was a pleasant slog of a climb, as the view of the surrounding mountains became more and more impressive and dramatic. The last stretch was along a ridge line to the survey marker at the peak where the crowd were taking photographs of the stunning view and munching on energy food. We joined them for a short while, and congratulated some friends we had made the night before on making it to the top. The atmosphere of trekkers is quite friendly. After reaching the top, the only thing to do was make our way down, which was much easier than the climb up. On reaching our camp at the refuge I had a splitting headache and didn't feel like eating. Anyone who knows me, knows that when I can't eat, something is wrong. The rapid change in altitude probably got me. I had a quick rest, but with little improvement we decided to abort any plans of venturing further into the mountains and made our way back down to Imlil. There was a lot of time left in the trip. No point in overly pushing ourselves and risk missing out on more fun stuff later. Also, I wasn't all that in love with the High Atlas and didn't mind turning my back on them.






In Imlil as we were awaiting some others to arrive to share a taxi, we sat down for mint tea with some locals. They were friendly guys and we got talking about locals ripping off tourists. We took away from that conversation a great piece of advice one of the young men told us in a very slow and clear voice. He said and this exactly what he said "Don't trust anyone". Of course, about five minutes later he tried to rip us off, but that line "don't trust anyone" became our slogan for Morocco and the rest of the trip. "Don't trust anyone".

We crammed into the taxi and headed back down the mountains to Marrakech, the eerie sight of the sun setting into the desert was fantastic. Back in Marrakech we got some rest and nutted out where to go next. We didn't extend our exploration of the town, but did find a great little place for a tarjine lunch after asking a local. Always ask a local. The highlight for the day was going to the Marrakech cinema and watching Manchester United play Chelsea in the UEFA Champions final, all commentary in Arabic. The crowd weren't as lively as I would have expected but they got fired up at the end.

In the morning we jumped on the bus to Essouaira, a popular beach side town. We went beach wards in the hope of chilling out for a few days and to see the Atlantic. Unfortunately, my stress levels only went up as I was frustrated by the abundance of tourism somehow spread about that less than impressive beach. The beach is popular for wind and kite surfing. Thus, the wind doesn't make it a very pleasant beach to lay down and read your book. It was good to get our first dip in the Atlantic Ocean, although we didn't stay in long as the water was bloody cold. We enjoyed a nice tarjine dinner in a restaurant one night and on our second evening watched the sunset into the Atlantic from the old battlements., before shouting two local girls to dinner. Don't trust anyone. I didn't enjoy Essauoira. A big part of my distaste for the place can probably be attributed to me catching the travellers arse which made going to the bathroom a more frequent and exciting experience than usual. It was inevitable that I would get an upset stomach. We were adventurous with our meal selections, often blindly choosing dishes on a menu, as we were keen to try new things and also we couldn't read what was written anyway. Also, I was sharing everything from clothes to food to water bottles with my brother who had just come from India where he had battled dysentery for two months. Regardless, Essaouira gave me the shits in more ways than one, so we decided to head back to Marrakech. On the bus to Marrakech I gazed out the window at the passing desert scape and was struggling to find anything of beauty in what I saw. Obviously, I was tired of Morocco so I told my brother I was more interested in Spain than Morocco and would prefer to have more time in Europe than try to flog a dead horse in Morocco. Why would you flog a dead horse? So when we arrived in Marrakech we jumped straight on the day train to Tangier and travelled all day back up to the North coast. We gazed out the window throughout the train journey as the carriages filled more and more and the train made its way through Casablanca and Rabat (capital of Morocco) and finally up to Tangier. Back in Tangier in the evening we checked into hostel El Muniria, well known as a popular haunt for beat generation writers. This was a fitting addition to the literary aspect of the tour, especially as I was reading Kerouac's "Dharma Bums" at the time. We bummed about town that evening, having tapas and our first and only Moroccan beer in an extraordinarily dodgy bar. We enjoyed a few drinks in the Tangier Inn below our hostel and got chatting with some overly friendly and later revealed queer french folk. In the morning, still battling sore guts, it was onto the ferry and we were heading back to Spain.

Morocco was an interesting experience. At that stage in my holiday, when I mainly just wanted to relax and get into the swing of not having to do anything in particular, Morocco was a bit too much like hard work. The tarjines were good though.

Worth it for the tarts

17/05/2008

Lisboa is the capital of Portugal and was the starting point for a five week journey in which a foot was set in Portugal, Spain, Morocco, France and the United Kingdom. Lisboa was the first port of call for boring business purposes. Attendance was made at the "Measuring the changes" conference on deformation monitoring surveys, in which your humble narrator gave a short presentation on bla bla bla work stuff. The nervous butterflies of public speaking that had been fought with on the day long flight to Europe were quickly swatted away when it became apparent that the sleepy crowd consisted of just over a handful of onlookers. All that effort and worry, and zipp, it was over. Works done, now what.

Still wearing my smart clothes, I returned from the conference to the disgustingly common Holiday Inn Continental hotel. Sitting in the lobby I awaited the arrival of what I had most looked forward to seeing in Lisbon, my big brother, Ben. After reading and rereading stories of his adventures in India and Nepal for the last four months I was excited to see him and turn his travel adventure into our travel adventure. With a scruffy beard and a tired look he walked into the lobby, turned straight in my direct and stuttered a smile before we embraced. Both spluttering over our words, I took the back seat in the conversation as stories began to pour from Ben's mouth like a waterfall. He had been travelling a long time, had done a lot of new and exciting things and could not restrain himself from telling all to someone close. As tiredness and hunger began to kick in, it was time to get something to eat, drink and then we'd think about what we were going to do. From this point on in the story all references will be to "we" instead of "I". Throughout the journey Ben and I were essentially joined at the hip and rarely did anything without the other by our side.

The conference was how you say "poor", so we skipped out on some sessions and went off to see what Lisboa had to offer. Most of the Lisboa sites are located on the riverside. Which is appropriate as Lisboa was a launching point for many discovery voyages, particularly across to South America and India. An overlooking, ever watchful statue of Jesus, the Discoveries Monument, Belem tower and Jeronimos monastery were all visited. It can be nice to see old buildings and monuments, but it takes a fair bit to blow our skirts up. Inside the monastery cathedral it was pretty cool and interesting to see the tomb of discoverer Vasco da Gama, who opened up the trade route from Europe to India, with a direct passage giving Portugal a monopoly over the spice trade.

That was about the extent of touristy stuff we did in Lisboa, the rest of the time was spent fulfilling obligations at the conference, wandering around the maze of laneways along stone tiled paths between tile patterned buildings looking for cyber cafes and somewhere nice to eat. By chance we stumbled across a pastelarias in Belem (pastry cafe) famous for its Portuguese egg custard tarts. With a fresh batch served warm and blistered on top (as though burnt) with a little cinnamon on top these were the best thing ever. The atmosphere at the counter of locals climbing over each other for them and a stringy beggar putting his hand out, only added to the experience. In fact, post-Lisboa I continuously promoted Lisboa and Portugal with the expression "it is worth it for the tarts". I think they have a similar expression for going to Amsterdam.

Back at the conference we attended the social dinner which was a bus ride away at the local equestrian centre where they train horses (beasts) to trot about in a silly way and prepare them for the bullfighting ring. Apparently in Portugal they have horse mounted bull fighting. In a stuffy crowd of spatial industry stooges we watched the horseys parade around the arena, and tried to keep our sarcastic comments to ourselves. A pleasant dinner was put on, of particular note was the sangria (wine punch) and chorizo sausage. On leaving the equestrian centre we caught site of two horse trainers (a young boy and girl) canoodeling by the horses in the stable. We laughed as we found new meaning to the expression "Yeah, I'm in a stable relationship". It was even funnier if you were there.

Our last evening in Lisboa was spent with a wonderful group of Italians from the conference. We joined them for tapas and carafe after carafe of slightly sparkling white wine, then continued on for a delicious seafood dinner of mussels, codfish and creme brulee. The wine continued to be poured throughout the evening as we became more and more friendly and the laughter got more and more wild. A short glass of grappa (strong stuff of Italian origin) for everyone capped off the evening and sent us on our separate ways. Thank you Lisboa, but that's all we have time for. We're going to Spain.

In the morning we jumped on the train heading south from Lisboa to Faro, on the south coast of Portugal. We quickly found the bus station, grabbed a bite to eat and then were on the bus heading to Sevilla, Spain. We crossed the border to Spain without even knowing it, as we were both mid-siesta, already embracing the culture. Our arrival in Sevilla was perfect. Streets were closed down and fireworks were being let off in honour of the two Australians coming to visit, or some religious festival. Either way it was a cracker of a start. Not being ones for planning too far ahead and refusing to pre-book at a hostel (I don’t want to stay at a backpackers if you have to book a week in advance, which to me goes against the nature of backpacking), we set off in search of accommodation. We stumbled across a Canadian couple with confused expressions, gaping into their travel book, and offered to help them find their hostel. If they had space, we could stay there too. We bustled through the crowded streets, covered in rose petals and tried to avoid getting in the line of the firecrackers being launched at our feet. We located the very cool looking hostel, tucked down a little alleyway off a main shopping street in the heart of Sevilla, with a rooftop sitting area overlooking the neighbouring buildings. All checked in, time to eat, so we took a recommendation and went and enjoyed an evening meal of tapas with our new Canadian friends, in a local restaurant overflowing with voices and the colour of the festival.

After such a wonderful welcome we decided to give Sevilla a day and went for a look around. Sevilla is a great place to simply wander around the lanes and streets. We checked out the cathedral, with the Giralda minaret come bell tower, the elaborately decorated high altar and the tomb of Christopher Columbus, another well known explorer. The inside of the cathedral was impressive and worth a look. It was even fun taking on the little old fortunetelling ladies out the front, waving sticks of rosemary. I got my generic fortune read, but handed back the stick when the old bag started asking for folding money.




We had a good cheap meal of montaditos (tapas style baguette rolls) in a cool little bar and went off in search of a flamenco show. Unfortunately, the performance was to be in a bar jammed full of North American accents guzzling down pitchers of beer, which raised doubt as to the quality of the "authentic" flamenco show. We decided to leave before the show got going.

In the short amount of time we had been in Spain, we quickly realised that the Spanish women are extraordinarily attractive. After one day I officially fell in love with all the women in Spain, convinced, based on the near 100% strike rate, that they were each as beautiful as the next. It’s just a shame they all smoke like chimneys. Actually, I am sure there are some unattractive women in Spain, they just aren’t allowed out of their houses.

The next day we were up early and hoofed it to the bus station, just in time to catch the bus south through the rolling hills of farmland to Tarifa, a popular windsurfing spot at the very southern tip of Spain. A beautiful lunch of seafood themed tapas was had by the seaside as we waited for the ferry and watched the beautifully dressed Spanish women parade by. With more of Spain to look forward to we turned our attention to Morocco, Africa, visible to the south, and boarded the fast ferry to cross the Straight of Gibralatar.