Lejana y sola

Currently: on one of three buses we’re taking between Tarifa and Nerja, Andalucía, Spain.

I believe I left off last time at Córdoba, which I was really glad to have visited, even had it been only for the fact that we read Federico García Lorca in AP Spanish in high school, including a poem called “Canción del jinete” (The Horseman’s Song), featuring the line, “Córdoba. Lejana y sola” (“Córdoba. Distant and alone.”).  The city itself was overall beautiful, in a very different way from what I was used to Salamanca.  Appropriately enough, it indeed seemed abandoned at times – almost without people, let alone tourists, in some parts (not that this was a bad thing at all).

Speaking of which, here are some pictures of Córdoba!

The exterior walls of the cathedral

So. cool.

I approve.
(So much, random fact, that I matched my shoes to the cathedral.
Not that you can tell that here.)

The city center, all decked out for Christmas

El Corte Ingles is a giant department store all over Spain,
and it essentially controls the country. When Corte puts
up its Christmas decorations, everyone else can start, too.

The carolers in the plaza.

Ole!

After 3.5 months in Spain, yes, I'm already a better flamenco dancer than
these novices.
(Not actually.)

Oooh.

We left on Sunday morning, heading for the beach town of Tarifa, which is even further and lonelier than Córdoba.  As such, we had to catch an hourlong train from Sevilla and then take a three-hour bus to Tarifa.  

Since Sevilla is so beautiful and historically important, we figured we’d spend the afternoon there.  Essentially, Dad and I did everything that I had already done on the IES excursion there, but I really enjoyed just being in the city again, and I could lead us around without a problem. 

It worked out well, too, since the weather was fantastic (unlike the monsoon in Córdoba) until just before we got on the bus out of town.  In six hours, we walked around, got a mediocre lunch, visited the cathedral, did some more walking through the gardens and the Plaza de España, and returned to the sketchiest bus station I’ve seen.  Having now climbed the tower at the cathedral twice, I’d like to say that I’ve accomplished the extent of my exercise in Spain. (Joke.)

Despite how difficult it’s been to figure out the logistics of this week of travels, it’s all worked out fairly well (knock on wood).  We haven’t really booked anything more than one town in advance as we’ve gone through the past few days, but it’s low season for tourism, so as long as hotels are open and buses are running, there’s been room for us.  And this spontaneity has been made possible thanks to my laptop, free WIFI, and my Spanish cell phone. Again, I am SO glad that I can speak the language here.

So after a bus ride spent vigilantly staring out the window for some sort of clue as to where we were, we indeed got off at the correct stop in Tarifa. Why on Earth were we going to the beach in winter, when it’s rainy and cold? Well, Tarifa’s just a little beach town on the Mediterranean that’s just a ferry ride from Morocco. And then on top of that, the town itself, as we discovered Sunday night, is just darn adorable.

We stayed at a little hotel right on the coast that was actually on the wall of the old town.  Inside the walls, the streets are narrow, the buildings are white (at least originally) and beautifully worn, and you can see little hints of the former Moorish influence sprinkled around the town.  Though in the summer, Tarifa is overrun with European beach bums and kitesurfers, it was even emptier than Córdoba, and I loved it.  Dad: “It’s almost like being the only people in Disneyland.”

We even found a Tex-Mex restaurant that night! I had planned on holding out on Mexican food and then demanding it for my first meal back in the US, but they had quesadillas with guacamoleeeeeeee. I’ll probably demand it, anyways.  Most entertainingly, when I asked what came on one of the quesadillas, the waitress actually started explaining to me what a quesadilla is, even bringing out a tortilla and folding it in demonstration.  I had to stop her – it only happens to be one of the few foods I survived on during my picky-eating childhood.  I realized, though, that Spaniards would be really confused because a Spanish tortilla is an omelet – not related in the least to a Mexican tortilla. Most of them haven’t even heard of these “tortillas de trigo” (wheat tortillas), let alone quesadillas (yet somehow they survive).

Even better, this tiny little bar was filled with about 10 people (tiny place) intently watching the fútbol game between Real Madrid and Sevilla, appropriately enough.  Watching soccer with the Spanish just never gets old, and Dad is a massive soccer fan, so this worked out fantastically.  After Real Madrid won, we headed back to the hotel, streets still deserted, because we were waking up early to go to Africa the next morning. 

No big.