Loving (and Leaving) Spain

I had not expected to enjoy my time in Spain a much as I did.  (We had, after all chosen this holiday only because a friend had a conference to attend.) But love it, I did, although in two weeks there is only so much you can experience.  I am already making a list for next time: hike in the Sierra Madres, watch a flamenco performance, visit the Gaudi (art gallery) in Barcelona.  "Attend bull fight" does not make the cut.  Back in 1964 on my only other visit to Spain (with my friend Loretta) we went to a bull fight and walked out half-way through.  We knew that, one way or the other, things were not going to end well.  

In no particular order, then, this was I most appreciated about this endlessly interesting county:

The People.  I feel so embarrassed even admitting this, but having read our Rick Steeves' guidebook, I was prepared for a nation of pickpockets and thieves.  That tamper-proof man-bag that Bruce carried?  We could have saved our money.  (True, a gypsy woman in Granada tried to give us a sprig of rosemary but we rejected her overture and she moved on.)

The Spaniards we met were lovely.  They were especially tolerant of our fumbling attempts to communicate, and on one occasion came to my rescue as I tried to buy a cup of coffee on a train. A woman passenger had been standing near me in the cafe as I made inquiries about taking a coffee back to my seat.  When the barista seemed completely puzzled by the question, I shrugged my shoulders and went back empty handed.  But then the woman found me, offered to help, and we returned to the coffee bar.  Yes, beverages can be consumed anywhere on a train. But it is worth making the inquiry (even in fractured Spanish) just so you can meet fellow passengers.

The Sun. I love, love love Spanish sunshine.  It seemed more concentrated, more golden somehow than the September sun we left behind in Ontario. No wonder Brits and Northern Europeans have such affection for this country.

Omnipresent Embellishment. Spaniards have a wonderful sense of style, and it seems to me they are happiest when their surroundings are as beautiful as possible. And this applies to everything: buildings, gardens, cement walls, toilet rolls -- all deserve an extra flourish. 

This pretty church is right beside the Prado.

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Fanned toilet paper seems so Spanish !

    

There are no boring Spanish walls.

The Food.  In truth, we had some really dreadful food when we first arrived in Spain. A dessicated paella full of empty shells will be long remembered for all the wrong reasons. But in the north while we were hiking, we ate very well.  I especially liked the fabada, a delicious bean soup which we enjoyed in several variations.  And our meals seemed to improve throughout the holiday. The final dinner in an airport hotel outside Madrid was top notch.

A tapas market in Madrid offers olives of all sorts.

National Values.  It took the entire holiday to appreciate that Spanish clocks seems to tick at a different pace.  Breakfast is not at the crack of dawn.  A leisurely lunch is acceptable, and shops may close from 12 to 2 in order to facilitate this practice.  These are the habits of a very sociable people who make time for one another.  They value what is really important and enjoy the company of family and friends -- for a drink, a stroll, or a late dinner. And when they get together, they talk.  They are not forever checking their cell phones or texting.

Do things move more slowly in Spain? Here is the evidence: a WALK sign in Bilbao.

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We took another train from Granada back to Madrid for our return flight, and this time I confidently ordered cafe con leche and took it back to my seat. We watched the Andalusian countryside whizz by -- olive grove, after olive grove, after olive grove. (Surely the Spanish economy must bob along on a sea of olive oil?  Not so, according to Rick Steeves, although olives are a significant crop.)

From the train: olive trees as far as the we can see.

   
Back in Madrid on our last night in Spain I wanted to check one more fact in our Steeves' guide.  But when I rummaged through our backpacks, the book was nowhere to be found.  I must have left it on the train.  Call it kismet.

I bet that another English speaking tourist claimed our abandoned Steeves, and that the book has enjoyed many other Spanish adventures.  I only hope that the new owner didn't' take the advice to guard against pickpockets too seriously.  I wish had written a note (Not in our experience!) in the margins.