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Nicole's Diary of an Adventure in Morocco
Tuesday 6 September 2005 - London Stansted - Jerez, Spain - Algeciras,
Spain - Tangier, Morocco - Fes, Morocco.
We have embarked on an adventure to visit Suzanna in Fes, Morocco,
Africa. We are both a bit tired after 4 gigs in 4 days ranging from
Glasgow to Burntwood to Lewes and back to Wallingford, and we've
only had a couple of hours sleep. We rose at 4am and our good friend
Jonny Dyer drove us to Stansted as he was flying to Cornwall only
half an hour later.
We are now descending into Jerez. We got on the plane last as we
couldn't be bothered queueing for half an hour, so I got a seat
with no window, but peering through the one behind me I see rolling,
dry farmlands and large, well-defined mountains in the distance.
And with barely a word of Spanish (and what use will nino be?) we
are about to negotiate a trip from Jerez to Algeciras. Hooray!
We landed in the clear, bright sunshine of Jerez (Herez) and the
walk from the plane to the terminal was decorated with a pyramid
of wine barrels, all black, denoting I guess that Jerez is the real
home of sherry. The train station I now look at is gorgeous Spanish
architecture, covered in detailed painted tiles.
There was a very helpful bilingual tourist officer a the aeropuerto
who showed us how to get to Algeciras - taxi to Estacion de Autobuses,
then also gave us ferry information. I also asked her for 'please'
and 'thankyou' so I pronounced them right - por favor, and gracias
with a 'th'.
I sat next to a Spaniard who was fluent in English on the bus,
as John and I couldn't get seats together. An entertaining companion,
he came from one of the first houses on the Spanish coast beside
Gibraltar. He pointed out Gibraltar as it came in to view, and he
showed me the peak in the distance that was in Africa.
There are huge wind farms on the south coast of Spain and the north
coast of Africa, rising along the ridges and waving their whirling
arms from stately towers out to the deep jewel blue of the Strait.
When we arrived at Algeciras, my friend from the bus kindly helped
us buy ferry tickets speedily in Spanish.
Spain has retreated and the coast of Morocco looms, like a dry
version of Magnetic Island at home, but surprisingly similar in
some ways. But entering Tanger will not be like alighting at Picnic
Bay, (or Nelly Bay) I can tell…
Well, it wasn't as scary or confronting as I thought. John accepted
a ride in a grand taxi while I was still wondering where to find
a petit taxi as described in the guide book for 10 dirham, so we
paid 50 dirham to go to the railway station. There were no petit
taxis in sight. As 50 dirham is $6.80AUD, it was still reasonable
for us, but the taxi driver protested that he had no change when
John proferred a 200dr note. No matter, said John, Nic will you
wait here? And he sauntered into Gare Tanger Ville and bought our
train tickets, coming back at his leisure with exact money. Feeling
that the exchange had become a little more even, we got directions
at the station and went to a rather touristy strip of cafes to eat
something before our 5 hour train journey, for which we had a 2and
3/4 hour wait. Oh joy. The food was tasty and it gave us a chance
to practise our French, and to try the national drink of sweet mint
tea.
Now we're on the train. Although its fairly full, we are happily
ensconced in first class, Suzanna's suggestion for a more comfortable
5-hour journey.
Gare Tanger Ville is a brand new edifice of a station built beautifully
in a traditional Islamic style with a high atrium, natural light,
tall pillars surrounded at the base by orangey-apricot marble, and
huge metal screens comprising islamic designs.
I am observing Tanger go by on the train. It seems wrecked and
full of rubble and metal almost as though it had been bombed. Very
messy. A lot of men wandering round or standing or squatting with
no apparent purpose. A hillside entirely made of lego block houses
and television aerials. Every so often amongst rubble areas, suddenly
a tidy market garden.
A major construction site with stacked cast concrete and earthworks,
with pedestrians and their shopping trailing across it past a couple
of horses. More bulldozed fields of rubble.
Carrraaazy traffic, not just because its driving on the right and
John keeps looking right instead of left first. Many islamic women
wearing burquas (or jellibas), head scarves, trousers and robes,
but every variation possible including stilettos, thongs (flip flops)
etc. Just saw two tribal women, heads piled high with covering,
red and white striped skirt over trousers, sunbitten skin, like
people from Dune (perhaps they are Berber).
Plastic bags everywhere, caught on spikey brown weeds, all along
the train tracks. In amonst all the metal shanties and broken rubble
I saw a small flock of sheep and three thatched…. mangers?
A hedge of prickly pear tangled with black plastic bags. So much
litter, its unbelievable. Did a plastic bag factory explode?
A dog minding a scattered flock on a bare slope. Our yellow and
red train is long, smoothly curving behind us. A restaurant trolley
just came by, tea, coffee, soft drinks, sandwiches, cakes. There
was a sponge roll called "Spofy". Mmmm. Appetizing.
Haystacks like long-house thatched roofs without poles. Sugarcane
as a thick hedge surrounding an orchard. A donkey on a rope, rolling
on a dusty road. A stick and thatch animal shelter, a huge flock
of goats, two curious donkeys trotting towards a man walking with
a sturdy stick. The clouds are just like Townsville but the sky
seems wider.
Now we're far out of the town the litter has abated a bit. Little
burros all foraging along the rail tracks. A five-man soccer game
in a dustbowl.
I managed to ask a fellow passenger: "Excuse-moi, parlez vous
Anglaise?" We didn't have much language in common but combined
with signing, I discovered he would still be with us when we reached
our change-over point at Sidi Kacem, and he'll tell us. I am surprised
to have that much French, but its amazing what is stowed away and
comes to hand in need. Further along the track I discover that electrical
wire is actually a signal cable.
The many donkeys are tiny creatures, a little bigger than sheep.
Suddenly the scrubby dead grass clumps totally acquiesce to a broad
sand and salt plain. Now it divides in little levy banks and pyramids
of salt, bluish white. The salt plain abruptly runs into a hillside…a
long, pitch tunnel…a salt plain. The dancing squiggle of a
rivulet. Cloudy rivers only a foot lower than their flat banks.
Two dromedaries, many black and white cows. A white mosque pointing
the top of a brown hill. Long-tailed sheep - they look like woolly
dogs. The sun sets west over the sea - this place really is like
Perth.
"Complexe Touristique" - a sign on an unbelievable collection
of shanties. Ooh, no, don't go there. But with so many hotel signs,
we are about to arrive somewhere. Gums, natural looking gum tree
woodlands. Hard to believe its not Australia.
Little kids on a rise waving enthusiastically at the train. Prickly
pears drooping with their rosy fruit. Tleta Rissana is the station
we're in. Every field with any crop has a lean-to of sticks and
straw, which looks like a shade house, for the one who guards the
crops during the relentless desert days.
Now at dusk we see a city, full of intrigue. A square, packed with
people, another full of horses and carts with car wheels. El Ksar.
All the way to the outskirts of town people wre travelling in these
carts, the horses trotting evenly along the dirt.
Friday 9 September - Fes
As I spend more time in the city I begin to realise that what I
am experiencing is a living, functioning mediaeval city. I am on
Suzanna's roof at 6.45am, looking at the now-risen sun and the long
shadows on the sand-coloured town. This is a rabbit-warren, a labyrinth,
an intricate colony jumbled across the hillsides. I have some slim
chance after 2 and 1/2 days of finding my own way back to Suzanna's
house, I recognise some stalls in the souq, but I don't always know
them if we approach from a different direction.The house is a riad,
with a fairly large central courtyard tiled in a chequerboard of
blue and white. It has an orange tree and a lemon tree, growing
out of tiny holes in the tiles and towering up two storeys. We are
sleeping in the largest room on the ground floor, which is completely
open to the air. Its almost like sleeping in an open verandah. Suzanna
has acquired two comfortable queen-size mattresses (new) and we
have one - she is in the same-sized room above. I have learned to
say "La, sucran" (shu-cron) which means "No, thank
you", in Arabic (and isn't spelled like that). This is sometimes
effective for stopping insistent touts, often quite small boys with
wares like chewing gum, but sometimes older and with any goods,
from pursuing you. French is usually good enough, and it always
tickles me that "Excuse moi" and "Merci beaucoup"
mean something here - they were just party tricks at home.
   
I need to learn to count in French, and do addition
and subtraction, because its very hard to bargain well, and stallholders
expect a respectable amount of bargaining. I have bought some presents
and treats, and I could have paid less, but it does need to be balanced
up against my situation and that of people here. Some people only
earn 50 dirham a day, which is about $7 AUD. There are endless scams
to elicit a bit more money out of foreigners who are perceived as
rich, and why not, because by that gauge, we are.
I bought myself two shirts and a pair of loose trousers from Aziz,
Suzanna's acquaintance who has sold her rugs and clothes in the
past. He has two club feet and a command of at least three languages.
I bought two beautiful, unusual, pointy-toed pairs of shoes for
me. Soft leather and groovy.
John bought a leather jacket! It is so soft, lined with quilted
satin. So we've had quite a lot of fun. Moroccan leather is historically
famous, and it's certainly soft and beautiful.
It rained yesterday morning, for the first time in a long while,
apparently, but cleared by lunch. Suzanna and I went out into the
medina and bought a huge crumpet, the size of a giant pizza. It
was folded, still warm, and wrapped in brown paper, into a bag.
We had yoghurt and honey and coffee at home, and had a magnificent
breakfast. On our first day here, we walked for about 4 hours all
over the souqs and after the closing (siesta, but don't know what
its called here) went out in the evening too - we were exhausted.
We went looking for dinner, but S and I decided we weren't that
hungry, and olives, cream cheese, corn bread and tomatoes at home
would do. John was hungrier, so he lined up by a crowded barrow
at the Place R'Cif and had a bowl of snails, which he hooked out
of their shells with an unbent safety pin, and drank the salty broth
they came in, accompanied by a wedge of flat bread stuffed with
potatoes. All men were crowded round the barrow - this is a very
'traditional' society and women go out at night only with a purpose
and mostly accompanied by men or children. John stood there eating
intensely, enjoying himself enormously, I think. S and I watched
the young men hooning past on their mules.
Yesterday we caught a petit taxi up to the top of the hill and
had a look at a museum with a huge garden. Batha, its called, pronounced
B'tar. Building and garden were put in together in the nineteenth
century, and the huge jacarandas, date palms, big trees I didn't
recognise, white mulberries, many things… a beautiful garden
offset by exquisite architecture, but the musee itself was closed,
to change exhibition.
Tuesday 13 September - Impressions of our week, on the Train to
Tanger
Our week in Maroc was such an intense experience it felt like a
month. This what its like to be a child - every experience is so
new and complicated it takes full concentration and time is so full
it seems to move slowly.
I'm looking out of the train across arid plains and irrigated fields
to the Rif Mountains and thinking back on a tangle of experiences
in Fes and surrounds. Yesterday we did our closing business in the
Medina de Fes - John has a cold and was feeling bad so Suzanna and
I left him sleeping in our fine room and we went to see the tanneries.
The process of tanning leather still happens in the last tanning
souq de Fes; there were once six but the industry is in decline.
The leather is very soft and marvellous, and is entirely tanned
by natural methods in a complex of brick and render baths that have
been in constant operation for 1000 years. The skins are scraped,
then soaked in an acrid and putrid-smelling mix of animal urines
and bird poo. Really overwhelming stench. We saw all this from a
roof top where skins were spread out on straw in the sun to dry,
and where a con-artist guide, having conned us onto his roof and
not another (by telling us the other one was closed, which it wasn't),
demanded 10 dr each. Suzanna argued strenuously because downstairs
he clearly said "no gratuite", but in the end he was quite
aggressive and I have him 10 dr just to get out of there. There
wasn't any leatherwork I wanted to buy, but at a stall near Bab
Boujloud, John bought his lovely leather jacket, and annoyed Suzanna
by not bargaining properly! He just kept repeating the price he
wanted to pay until he got it.
One reason we were taken for fools and tried on more than usual
yesterday was that Suzanna brought her camera and large lens, which
was great when we went to see Medersa Attarine with some of the
best plaster, wood and zellij work in Fes, but gave the lie to "J'habite
en La'ayoun". (I live in La'ayoun)
After much wandering we came across a weavers' atelier with two
handlooms large enough to make bedspreads, both in use and fascinating.
I was especially interested in the wooden gutter along which the
shuttle flew, flicked by a string-worked mechanism from side to
side. The work was so brightly coloured and lovely I felt sure I
could not afford it, but the charming one-armed salesman, Abdullah-Ali,
assured me it would be a bon prix, as they all do, and after some
discussion, I bought a richly coloured throw for Dad's couch.
Shortly after that in Place Seffarine I bought postcards and stamps
tht came to the same amount, and realized that I should acquire
more handwoven cloth for presents. Suzanna and I went home for lunch,
by which time John had been to the Hammam and been thoroughly scrubbed,
and was ready to go shopping with me. With some difficulty I guided
us back to L'Art Bleu, the weavers, though at one stage I wasn't
sure and John asked directions to the one-armed man called Abdullah;
at first we were talking about the wrong man, and then I mentioned
he was a weaver. Oh, Abdullah-Ali! Managing to avoid employing a
guide, we were pointed the right way, and found his beautiful shop
again.
On the way home we erroneously thought it would be quicker to go
up the Talaa Saghira to Batha (the other main thoroughfare is the
Talaa Kbira), and after a long and tiring walk, all uphill, got
a petit taxi at Batha to R'Cif. Despite John feeling desperately
tired, we stopped and bought some vegies and lentils and Sidi Ali
water in the souq, and when we got home I made a delicious soup.
Got luggage organised, had yet another engaging and ideas-based
conversation with Suzanna encompassing Australian politics, sociology,
customs, childhood.
Just stopping at Asilah by the sea. Turquoise, glorious with flying
white capped rollers, trailing their manes on the wind. Had to get
up at 5.30 but of course we were woken by the usual call to prayer
at 4.15, relaying across the city's mosques for 10 minutes.
Volubilis
On Sunday we had a big, big adventure. Suzanna organised a driver
with advice from David, and at 7 am, Monsieur Driss collected us
from R'Cif in his battered diesel Merc, and drove us to Volubilis,
probably the largest Roman ruins in Nth Africa, and certainly the
most complete Roman city I have ever seen. It stood well after the
Romans abandoned it, probably inhabited by Berbers, who many have
assisted the Romans' departure (a bad insult to a Berber is ' your
father died in his bed') until in about the 800s, the Moroccan saint
Moulay Idriss and his followers nicked a lot of the stone to build
their holy city further up the valley.
Volubilis is incredible. It is a large town, with huge houses still
marked out by their foundations and lower walls. Once it must have
had a regular and plentiful source of water, because in the dry
dust are the remains of fountains, public baths, large water features
and pools in the centre of houses, public cisterns. There were several
beautiful and mostly complete mosaic floors, including one in a
bath house of a man riding backwards on a mule. The centre of the
town still has a stone arcade and tall columns, some of which have
been partially mended with sections of brick to hold the stones
up, and it creates a breathtaking effect. Atop two of the columns
were massive storks' nests. It was particularly moving to look out
across the hills and the view of fields, and realize it must not
have changed very much since the Romans looked out across that view.
After a long and thoughtful wander, we repaired to the outdoor cafe
at the entrance for water and coffee.
The cafe could easily be at Horseshoe Bay, but it's a tourist trap
and Moulay Idriss, our next stop, is worse. We ended up with a guide,
because we couldn't shake him, and when we gave him 20 dr for his
trouble he got stroppy and said it was 120 dr; he was an official
guide. Once again Suzanna went into action, having the most French,
to insist that he needed to fix a price beforehand, and we left
him behind and made our own way back to Driss, who was praying on
his mat. Moulay Idriss is a beautiful city, a holy city of Islam
where non-Muslims may not stay overnight, and possessing the only
round minaret in Morocco, a gift from Iran.
We went on to Meknes where we had a delicious lunch of tagine,
couscous, and harira (soup). It was expensive by Australian standards,
and the waiter explained carefully that the VAT on the bill was
not the tip, and then pocketed it. John mentioned this when paying
the cashier, who had no idea the waiter had it, and it all got complicated,
and I'm sure this scam works a treat with tour groups.
 Driss
took us to the Sultan's stables, which were closed for another hour,
so we went to the small but gloriously well-stocked souq and enjoyed
ourselves. The displays of olives and fruits were so meticulous
and geometric and decorative, I wanted to buy some of everything!
S bought a beautiful basket with leather handles. We had coffee
and fresh orange juice.
We came back to the car, waited for Driss to answer his call to
prayer, and went to the stables, the size of a massive palace, and
under repair. Massive, echoing chambers, domes, arches and corridors.
John made friends with two young workmen, took their photo, and
ended up making a cadeau of his chapeau to one of them.
Now very tired, we were happy to be driven home, an hour of so
through the fertile but dry country surrounding Fes. Merci beaucoup,
M'sieur Driss.
Fes
We were shown around a restored riad belonging to some of Suzanna's
friends.
Gorgeous in every respect. We sang Briar and Rose in the towering,
echoing central courtyard, and the two men working on the restoration
came to listen. Josephine's partner, Peter, who wasn't there, has
been teaching them Aussie colloquialisms, but I think they've been
taking his English with a grain of salt, because as we left, the
cheery 19 year old Si Mohammed said, "Goodby, nice to see you"
(practising his English), and I replied "See you later!"
Doubling over and roaring with laughter, he repeated "See you
later" as though he had never believed Peter 'til now.
Josephine took us to see her little riad which is being refurbished
rather extremely. It was unbelievably dusty as the walls have been
stripped. John waited outside, it was too much for him, and I think
my sore throat and subsequent cold began there, as the dust is full
of lime, I later discovered.
On Saturday night we had a marvellous dinner at Riad Mabrouka,
run by two Frenchmen - a fairytale of architecture and garden. The
food was unbelievable, four wonderul salads to start…no! Beetroot
soup (cold) with crème fraiche and bread, THEN salads of
eggplant, tomatoes, can't recall the details of the others, then
tagine of seafood, perfectly done and with couscous. Finally a delicate
dessert of thin, crispy pancake layers only palm sized, with layers
of confectioners custard, a drizzle of honey, layed about with strips
of fresh mango. Then the a la menthe or caffe. We had this dinner
with the famous David, who directs the American School and has bought
some real estate in the medina. He is an expert on the architecture,
and explained quite a lot about plaster work to me, including the
kind of finesse that makes the best work. Different layers carved
into the relief and fineness of detail. He also walked there and
back with us, touring his own riad, and making detours around the
streets to show us good examples or explain ideas to us.
The other big highlight in my Moroccan experiences was a visit
to the Hammam - a traditional bath house, this one 400 years old.
We entered the door of the Hammam, across the way from the carpark
that leads to Riad Mabrouka where we ate so well.
For 10 dr we could bathe ourselves, for an extra 50 we could have
a masseuse each. Mine was called Yemena, and she had no English
and very little French, but she made herself clear in Arabic and
mime. We stripped off, left our bag of clothes out in the front
room and they locked our watches away. We were led into a steamy
room with zellij floor and domed ceiling with hole for skylight
and to let out steam I suppose. There were about 10 buckets, big,
heavy, blue plastic buckets, full of water, which was collected
and replenished from two zellij-lined cisterns in the next (hottest)
room. One cistern was cold, the other very hot. At first she just
doused me in warm water and left us to sit in the steam for a while.
Then hair washing. We took shampoo and conditioner. Oh, no, first
she soaped me all over with a smear of engine-grease-like soap.
Beautiful. Then hair. She combed the shampoo through my hair and
scrubbed my scalp, then scooped basins of water over me to rinse
it.
All the water flows across largish squares of zellij in orange
and yellow earth colours to a central drain which, like all the
bathroom drains I saw in Morocco, was made from a block of white
marble with holes through it, about 6.
After hairwashing came scrubbing. Yemena had a black glove/ mitt
made of a fairly finely textured but thick mesh, and she started
to (very) firmly scrub my arms in long, strong strokes. And off
peeled a layer of grey skin in rolling threads. There was so much
of it coming off I was amazed and Yemena laughed. There was a whole
lot of moving me around on the floor to scrub different limbs, back,
front (I would never have scrubbed myself QUITE that hard but I
trusted her), and at one stage she laid my head on her thigh and
did my neck and chest, and in doing so swung her breast close to
me - there was an animated discussion and a lot of laughter about
babies. She asked me later if I was married, eventually indicating
her ring to make the question clear. I told her I was, and inevitabley
the next question, which I expected, was "are you a maman?"
No, no babies. Oh, sad. A little later I caught the eye of the woman
washing herself opposite me, and she gave me a sorrowful look and
gesture.
Moroccan women are beginning to modernize, and the king has recently
accepted some requests from feminist lobbyists, so that the law
has changed in regard to divorce (it is no longer possible to complete
it verbally, now both parties have to agree to the procedure) and
a few other rights, but generally, and especially in traditional
Fes, gender roles are clear and segregated. Women need to marry
and have children to have status. Its impolite for foreigners to
reveal their bodies in Fes. Best to cover arms and legs, although
ankeles are not too offensive. But talking to our travel companions,
Sarah and Kate (see paragraph below), they found in Marrakech with
its greater volume of tourists that tight fitting and ware western
gear like singlet tops, bare-backed tops and short skirts are quite
acceptable. I think that many of the people we met in the Medina,
especially Suzanna's neighbour Naoma and the traders in the souq,
rarely go elsewhere. There are almost no teller machines in the
medina, just a few and not reliably open, and we realized it may
be because its mostly a cash economy, and locals don't use them.
Our trip to Jerez was slightly complicated. When we got on the
train at Fes, the two other passengers in our compartment were Kate
and Sarah, two friends since school who work in London and have
started a business doing mail-order knitting kits with a how-to
DVD. They were lively, interesting company and we enentually travelled
with them all the way to Algeciras. We changed train at Sidi Kacem
and weren't in the same carriage any more, but Kate had suggested
we share un grand taxi at Tanger, so we got together there and took
a grand taxi from the station to Tanger port.
We found a fast ferry one hour terminal, only to discover the weather
was too windy for them to cross to Algeciras, and they were only
doing the short crossing to Tarifa. We soon figured out they were
also running a free bus from there to Algeciras. We got on the ferry,
through customs/ passport control, and it was departing in 15 minutes,
but the cafeteria really had no lunch, only snack foods. It was
just as well we brought a lacy wedge of bread, like a paratha, which
I bought last night in the La'ayoun souq, and a variety of nuts
and dried fruit, plus some dates John got in Meknes, as it is now
7.18pm Spanish time and 5.18, Maroc time and we haven't had a single
meal all day. Haven't had the chance.
We caught a petit taxi from R'Cif to Gare de Fez at 6.20 this morning,
had coffee there and since then we've been on the move. We disembarked
at 2.30pm Maroc time in Tarifa, and the bus left 45 minutes later,
just enough time to clear passport control and sort out which bus
and where. It was blowing navels out in Tarifa, and as we climbed
into the hills beyond it, going to Algeciras, I wasn't surprised
to see those most extensive wind farms I've ever seen, catching
the gales from the straits of Gibraltar.
We pulled up a hill and a big sculpture sailed into view; and the
bus driver pulled over amid cries from the back of the bus. I was
a bit surprised that a rural sculpture would be significant enough
to warrant stopping, and then I realized everyone was yelling because
the engine had carked it and black smoke was pouring out of the
bus. We all got out. We stood around in a fresh breeze with racing
clouds, looking a the sculpture and wind farms, with some passengers
fretting aloud about connections to Gibraltar and Malaga.
Then fairly swiftly, the motorbike cops arrived and we were hurried
back onto the bus, which then cruised down the hill under escort
to a much safer stopping place where, within 5 minutes, another
bus arrived to take us the next 8 km to Algeciras. We parted company
pretty quickly with our new friends there, as they had to rush to
connect with Malaga, and we discovered a 5 minute cab ride could
connect us with the next bus to Jerez, or we could wait over 2 hours
at the terminus there for the following one.
Leaping into a cab and trying hard to remember to substitute "Gracias,
senor" for "Merci, Monsieur", to which we'd grown
very accustomed (and thanking Sesame Street for teaching us to count
a bit in Spanish) we made it!
A night in Spain
The bus from Algeciras to Jerez took 1 and 1/2 hours, and by the
end of all that travel I felt pretty grubby and tired, and John,
whose cold is worse than my mere sniffle, was grumpy, irrational
and emotional. I had already said I wanted to go out on the town
in Jerez, at least to eat, but also I wanted to try some of the
famous sherry. The English word Sherry is a corruption of Jerez
or Xeres, and I wanted to try the local drop.
When we arrived at the hotel, we were THRILLED by the luxury of
it. Beautiful architecture with tall 19th century style windows
and high ceilings, and our room was in a separate wing out the back,
with a security entrance, black marble stairs, wide, pleasantly
lit corridors and, when we entered the room, a little antechamber,
a magnificent bathroom done in black and white marble, with bath,
shower, big basin, toilet, bidet and lots of towels. Then through
another door off the antechamber, was the large bedroom. A space
for bags, and a wooden, polished dogleg staircase were before the
wonderful king size bed, with lots of space around it, mirrors,
cupboards, tv, armchair, and window with three layers of drapes,
all cream, all twice my height, overlooking a) the carpark and b)
the bullring. Up the stairs was a lounge room. Armchairs, couch,
another tv, coffee table, desk and window looking into a skylit
indoor garden.
John had a long shower. He came out revived and hungry after the
long day's travel. I had a shower, marvelling with a bit of culture
shock at the way it wastes water, after a culture of bucket baths
and communal baths for a week. Feeling clean and revitalized, we
walked about half a kilometre into the town, marvelling at the attractive
architecture and fountains, cobbled streets and date palms, and
looking for food. Unfortunately we soon found ourselves in tourist
central, an attractive square in a pedestrianised area, which had
four cafes with tapas menus in English that didn't look very authentic.
We had a conflab and decided in any given town, the good places
to eat are usually a few streets away from the centre. We had honed
our vision of what we were seeking by checking out the tourist bit,
and we took some Euros out of the bank.
After a bit of walking back the way we came and along another side
street, we came across a tapas bar on a cobbled street with tables
out the front. We inspected the menu and decided we could manage.
A cheery, young waiter attended us and my first question, very slowly
and clearly, was, "Do you speak any English?"
"No, I'm Spanish!" I'm fairly sure he said. Ok! We said,
quattro tapas, dos vino blanco. We had a fractured discussion about
which tapas, knowing we wanted the chorizo Iberica and tortilla
de patata, and let him suggest the rest. The only things he checked
were, did we like carne and pesce (pescina). Whichever words he
used, they were so like Italian, I agreed we liked meat and fish.
Two glasses of a light, smoky white wine not unlike Frascati arrived,
and a plate with six slices of anchovy which were immensely tasty
and dressed in oil and maybe steeped in lemon juice or a lemony
vinegar. John brightened. So did I .
The tapas was served with a little basket of short breadsticks
like Grissini, and two short forks. Next arrived large thin slices
of a chorizo about 10cm across, and cubes of a tasty smoked ham
(jabon), and a wedge of hot tortilla de patata, which is a frittata.
Yum. And more pan-sticks. We finished all of this and managed to
convey to our cheery waiter that we were tourists (yeah, I noticed,
he must have thought), and wanted to try Jerez wine. There was a
list of local wines by the glass. He pointed to an ad on the serviette
box and suggested we try Tio Pepe. OK. I also ordered Ensalada de
los huerta, because I wanted some greens. It came with lettuce,
tomato, onion (I worked out pretty much what everything was from
the list, but it was easier to pick the onion out than to ask for
none), white asparagus, tinned but nice, and a dressing of 2 little
bottles of olive oil and local vinegar. We also had another tortilla
de patata and a plate of white asparagus with mayonnaise. And the
sherry.
It was honey coloured, dry as a bone, full of shades of flavour
and a fitting end to a great meal. We wandered back to the hotel
and had gelati on the way. Couldn't figure out what the flavours
were, but I think I had something resembling zabaglione. Anyway,
it was delicious. I fell into bed… no, first I reorganised
my luggage so I could make a quick exit in the morning, and John
went out of curiosity for a pint at the Irish pub across the road
where he was the only one drinking Guinness.
We were too late to enjoy a complimentary buffet breakfast as we
needed to be at the plane two hours before the flight. However,
while John checked out, I went to the buffet (in a grandiose dining
room) and put some food into a napkin to eat on the way. I got slices
of cheese and gorgeous Spanish ham like soft pancetta, two boiled
eggs in their shells and a big bunch of green grapes.
At the aeropuerto I souvenired a poster of the Caballos Andalucia
(dancing horses) from the tourist info booth, and we bought bottles
of Tio Pepe Palomino Fine for Vix and Jonny and to share at Jacey's.
And then it was time to fly back to England...
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