Actually, let me rephrase that: You can absolutely depend upon us to make – and then change – our plans (the Travel Plans section of our blog can attest to this).  Here, on the Mediterranean Coast of Spain, is yet another example of our reliable unreliability.

The guilty parties.

The Mediterranean Coast of Spain, the scene of the crime.

Original plan: Spend two slow-travel months on the coast of Spain, then take a ferry on April 29^th from Barcelona to Italy, zoom up to Switzerland, leave our vehicle there, and spend three weeks in May visiting family and friends in France.

What actually happened: We relaxed on the coast of Spain for exactly two weeks before hightailing it toward France, reaching our family and our house ten days later, on March 25^th.

In order to understand another total upheaval of our plan, it is necessary to explain the unfolding of a series of events and trains of thought over the course of our final weeks in Morocco and our first few weeks in Spain.

You already know that we’d originally planned to stay in Morocco a month longer, but that, at the last minute, we’d opted to head back to Spain because the Moroccan tourist visa renewal process proved more complicated than we felt like dealing with.  So, with our sights set on two months in Spain, we booked a ferry ticket from Barcelona to Genoa for Totoyaya and ourselves.  The logic behind this was that Bruno didn’t want to risk driving our vehicle through France because his papers are severely out-of-date.  We’d squeaked through France the year before without being noticed, but he didn’t want to repeat that stressful drive.

We’d chosen April 29^th because we wanted to arrive at Bruno’s brother’s place near Geneva before the first weekend in May, drive down to the south of France with him to celebrate their mother’s 80^th birthday, spend a bit of time with family, and then head north to Germany where we plan to put Totoyaya on a ferry to Canada in time for summer.

Yet, over the course of our first few weeks in southern Spain, we began to silently ponder the virtue of this plan.  I was thinking it and Bruno was thinking it but neither of us were talking about it.  Our ticket was booked and paid for – the plan was seemingly set in stone.  I was even talking to a few friends in Europe about meeting up with them along the Spanish coast.

The reasons we were silently second-guessing our plan were threefold.  Let me list them from least to most important:

1. We were feeling totally out-of-place in the camping culture of Spain.  I’ve talked about the campsites full of retirees before so I’m not going to rehash this topic again, but suffice to say the feeling like outsiders in our supposed community was beginning to really get to us.
2. Bad weather.  It was unseasonably cold in southern Spain for March.  Sometimes the sun managed to defrost the chill accumulated during the 6°C nights, but often the daytime wind and clouds kept that chill deeply embedded within us.  Yes, I know my Canadian family members are rolling their eyes right now, but let me just say that when you live in a camper van, you feel the weather so much more. You don’t have proper heating, you don’t have sufficient space indoors to seek refuge when it’s cold.  You eat outside, you shower in faraway public unheated bathrooms, you wash your dishes in cold water outdoors.  If it’s wet, cloudy, or windy, you don’t have the option to cocoon yourself in a toasty warm house.  You just have to face the cold.  And the cold was becoming a pain in our sides.
3. We felt the weight of responsibility at home.  This was the big one.  And the one I should probably explain a bit more in-depth.

Check out that storm (and the proximity of the next camper van)!

Curled under my heavy-duty winter duvet in the middle of the afternoon!!

Remember the post I made a couple months ago? The one about us selling our beloved Totoyaya?  That may have come out of thin air for most of you, but for us it was the result of a long-time conversation that really came to a head in southern Spain.

In Africa, traveling in a tiny vehicle without a toilet or shower was no big thing.  The weather was great and there were amazing, empty, cheap campsites in beautifully-located scenic chunks of nature.  It was totally awesome!

In the Middle East, I started to feel the challenges of our lack of facilities-on-board.  On the Arabian Peninsula there were no campsites, and we started having to think of creative ways of taking care of our daily needs, like showering with the bum guns of squat toilets in gas stations and bike riding to the nearest mosque for our morning, um, toilet needs.  In Dubai, I took out a yoga membership and used their shower, and in Oman we camped on beaches so we could grab sand in our plastic bucket and turn that into a porto-potty.  We used a lot of incense on the Arabian Peninsula.

In Turkey, things were better because there were campsites again, but the culture of those campsites started to change the closer we got to Europe.  By the time we got to Italy, I’d come to loathe the mega-campsites that were more like pricey mini-retirement-cities.  When I have to pay $30 to squeeze Totoyaya between two giant motorhomes on the edge of a busy road and then insert 1 euro coins into the shower for 2 minutes of water, I’ve lost the joy of camping.

The south of Spain offers four types of sleeping scenarios for camper vanners:

1. Free parking, widely available.  You can find a list of many of them online, and you will often see more when driving along (look for the agglomeration of parked camper vans).  We tried this a few times, but it was so complicated for us to find a place for our morning needs (cough) that it wasn’t a practical option for us.
2. Bush camping, technically illegal (we think).  We did this a few times in northern Spain, when we were sure we wouldn’t get noticed or hassled, but southern Spain is much more populated and “dangerous” so Bruno didn’t feel safe using this option.
3. Campsites, widely available year-long along the Mediterranean Coast.  But as mentioned previously, they weren’t at all our scene.  We occasionally found a few decent ones with a bit of space and at “decent” prices, but most of the time the campsites simply incited us to move on the next day.
4. Camper Areas, sometimes available, and an interesting concept.  They are essentially parking areas fitted out with some luxuries like basic toilets, showers, and facilities to fill and empty water.  The prices are better than for campsites (usually between 7-12 euros), but you are still usually stuck between motorhomes and busy roads.  This was our preferred accommodation option in southern Spain, but it still didn’t satisfy my soul.  I missed what camping had meant to me in Africa – peace, solitude, and communion with nature.

We occasionally hit-up bush camps that gave us views like this one, but the cops forced us on the following day.

This free parking gave us this view from the window! (But there was no toilet…)

You see the few camper vans parked along the water? It’s a free parking/sleeping spot.

As Bruno and I passed through southern Spain, the long-time theoretical conversation of selling Totoyaya became more concrete.  It felt like now was the time.  The time to create a more comfortable living situation, certainly, but even more importantly, the time to regain the freedom that this lifestyle had meant for us and that now we felt we had lost.

We began to seriously look at replacement vehicles.  We discussed our lifestyle priorities and realized that we wouldn’t find what we were looking for in a lightweight vehicle.  In France, Bruno’s regular driver’s license only authorizes him to drive a vehicle lighter than 3.5 tons – anything heavier and you need a truck driver’s license (C).  This C license is a very long, and very strenuous process in France.  To top all the vehicle stuff off, we’re trying to rent Bruno’s house on the beach by ourselves this year because we had had negative, unsuccessful experiences with rental agencies the previous two seasons.

So, here we were biding our time on the coast of Spain when we really needed to be focused on selling Totoyaya, passing the truck driver’s license, trying to find a new French-matriculated vehicle, and getting our house rental-ready.

All of these things would be easier to do from France.

Once our minds were made up and our plan had been turned on its head, we hit the road, fast.  On the map, we’d only covered four fingers in two weeks.  Now we would cover thirty in ten days.

If you’re going to do a road-trip, you could choose a worse place than the southern coast of Spain.  The road is good (memories of harrowing African road trips come to mind), there’s accommodation and food everywhere, and if you stay away from the highways you can almost always drive along a road that literally skirts the coast.  It’s the views that make this road trip worth it (though if you have time and inclination, there are tons of worthy town stops).

Some of the views along the roadside during our road trip up the Mediterranean Coast of Spain.

Cool chunk of road!

Pure rock.

Plastic greenhouses for miles.

My memories of this road trip are almost all a blur of arid cliffs, whitewashed towns, and sandy coves, but I was smart enough to write down my impressions of different chunks of coastline as we drove past.

From Algeciras to Nerja: highly developed coastline, not very beautiful

From Nerja to Motril: lovely section, with a small parque natural, fairly lush flora, and quaint villages

From Adra to Almeria: not so nice, a lot of agriculture and plastic greenhouses

From Almeria to Aguilas: perhaps my favourite section of coastline, very rugged and arid, empty of human development, a large parque natural

From Aguilas to Benidorm: nothing special of note, more developed and more agricultural

From Benidorm to Gandia: less sea views but lovely rocks, fields, and traditional agricultural towns

From Gandia to Peníscola: nothing special of note, less coastal views and more towns and agriculture

Most of our tourism was of the drive-by variety, but we always did some exercise-tourism in the evenings.  The Spanish believe the coastline belongs to all Spaniards; as such, almost all of Spain’s 5,000km of coastline is public.  Restaurants and cafés line the coast, but even more wonderful are the seemingly-continuous promenades.  Since Bruno and I were spending a lot of time sitting in the car, our evening routine consisted of finding the coastal promenade and going for a bike ride or speed walk.

Nice bike path, right?

Another bike path.

Amazing bike paths, right?

An afternoon walk on a random beachside promenade.

When we hit-up Peníscola’s promenade, the first thing I saw was a fairy-tale-like fortified castle seemingly floating on the water.  I’d been good so far and hadn’t asked Bruno to allow me any tourism stops during our road trip, but old Peníscola was calling to me.  I had to see it.

Thus, we granted ourselves one final day of tourism before our arrival in France and the beginning of a non-nomadic period of our life.  We did what we’d become accustomed to do in Europe: grab our backpacks and cameras, walk to the historical area of town, grab a map from the tourist office, and then wander the cobblestone streets.  We gazed out at the sea and the coastline from the little fortified islet, we admired the old buildings (especially the one made entirely out of seashells), and we looked at a ton of restaurant menus.  But the town was filled with tourists, the menus were expensive, and I was quickly over it.  I was ready to head “home.”

Peníscola beckons from the promenade.

Visiting Peníscola – our final day our tourism.

The seashell house.

View of Peníscola’s city beach and promenade from its castle-like old town.

As we drove past Barcelona, I felt a slight pang – it’s a city I keep planning to visit and keep missing – but I was too busy navigating Bruno on and off ramps and exits to dwell on it.  It wasn’t until we reached that night’s campsite near Figueres and the border of France that it hit me.  This was it: our final night in Totoyaya, maybe forever.

As Bruno and I wandered around the farm on which we were camped, a deep sadness washed over us.  We visited the flower trees, vegetable garden, and small hot-spring waterfall nearby, and I felt like we’d reconnected with what camping had meant to us back in Africa, when I started this overland journey.  Bruno and I had come so far – both literally and figuratively – since then, and now we were ending an era.  We were moving onto a brand new chapter of our lives, one that would involve houses and driving tests instead of our trusty Totoyaya, the only constant since the very beginning.

Before you get too sad, dear readers, let me remind you of one thing: Bruno and I are reliable plan-makers in only one way – our unreliability.  You’ll have to stay tuned of Wandering Footsteps for the continuing details.

As close to Barcelona as I may ever get.

Our final campsite with Totoyaya, perhaps forever.

The nature, the peace, the solitude – the way camping should be.

But it’s only in the last couple of years that I’ve become conscious of my travel-for-food mentality.  I now write blogs about the foods I discover during our travels – like following the tracks of injira in Ethiopia, finding vegetarian food in Turkey, and understanding food customs in Morocco – and quite honestly, they are among my favourite posts to write.

And so, of course, I was excited to discover Spanish cuisine when I entered the country for the first time last October.  I had a very limited conception of what it would involve.  I knew about paella, though I’m not sure if I’d ever actually eaten it.  I knew about tapas, having frequently enjoyed an awesome tapas restaurant while living in Bangkok.

And, thanks to our Basque friends Josu and Ana, I knew about tortilla, the infamous Spanish omelette.  One night in Nairobi, the four of us had sat around our camping table as Josu and Ana sautéed potato and eggplant in half a liter of olive oil, drizzled into the pan bit by bit, before pouring in the raw beaten egg mixture, lowering the heat, and flipping the one-inch-thick omelette for the next thirty minutes.  As they cooked, they talked about how every Spaniard had their own preferred tortilla cooking method, usually based on the way their own mother had prepared it.  Josu, for instance, loved them a bit soft and runny in the center, while Ana preferred them fully-cooked inside and out.

It seemed tortillas, like so many other food icons from around the world, were a complex affair.  I was excited to eat it in Spain!

Had I know that tortilla would quickly become my go-to meal in Spain I might have curbed my excitement.

Spanish omelette, or tortilla. I wish I had placed an object in this photo to show you exactly how large it is!

***

Despite my obvious love of food culture, I always experience a moment of fear when I’m at the cusp of experiencing it for the first time.  I guess I’m intimidated, unsure of how to proceed, and self-conscious about my obvious greenness.

That’s how I felt that first day in Pamplona, as I stood staring at a bunch of small platters on the counter of a sunny bar.

I was in a pinchos (or pintxos) bar.  Pamplona was full of them, and now that it was noon, they were hopping.  Locals stood around wooden barrels with glasses of red wine and small plates of food, eating, drinking and being totally merry.  The snack-sized plates were pinchos, the tapas plates of Spain’s north.

It was obvious that Bruno and I should go up to the bar, point at a plate, grab a glass of wine, and choose a barrel.  There was one simple problem.  Almost every tiny dish on the bar was either wrapped in jamón (ham) or topped with some kind of fish.  As a vegetarian, I think the largest part of the fear when I first encounter a new food culture is related to not knowing whether the dish I’m staring at will be something I can actually eat.

With my incredibly broken Spanish, I mustered up the courage to ask the bartender if there was anything on the counter for me.  I think my words went something like this: No como pollo, pescado, y jamón.  Que comer?  If my brother and his Ecuadorian in-laws are reading this now, I’m sure they’re laughing at my butcher-like efforts.

The bartender, however, refrained from laughing at me, probably because my question was such a serious one.  She looked up and down her row of pinchos, winced, sighed, shrugged, and pushed the only dish I could eat my way: a potato tortilla.

The wooden barrels used in most pinchos bars as tables.

Locals enjoying their noontime pinchos and wine.

Our first pinchos bar, in Pamplona.

My go-to tapas/pinchos – tortilla.

I would soon learn this was the typical Spanish response when I’d announce my eating restrictions.  Over the coming weeks, I ate more tortilla at more pinchos bars than I’d ever care to eat, and when Bruno and I were asked to share dinner with a Spanish family while we walked the Camino de Santiago, they served their strange vegetarian guest – you guessed it – tortilla.

Nope, it wasn’t proving to be easy to be a vegetarian in Spain.  I encounter this challenge in most countries, but Spain was on a whole other level.  Jamón was everywhere!  It hung on the facades of restaurants and in the aisles of supermarkets, which was both fascinating and incredibly disturbing.  Worse, it was tucked into seemingly-innocuous food – I once ordered a vegetable sandwich from a restaurant menu and it came with two thin slices of jamón tucked between the tomatoes and cucumbers.

Our family meal of tortilla while walking the Camino.

Pig hind legs hung in supermarkets…

… and in bars…

… and even in doorways.

***

Still, I wasn’t about to give up hope in the face of this jamón-attack.  I’d fought against adversity before and managed to discover wonderful things about countries and their food.  Here in Spain, I’d start with the pinchos.

What, really, was a pinchos, anyway?  Was it lunch, or just a snack?  Was in the northern name for a tapas, or was it something entirely different?

I received muddled, seemingly opposing answers from most people I asked.  The most confident and nuanced answer came from Josu and Ana.  According to them, a pinchos was almost exactly like a tapas, but not quite.  Pinchos served the same purpose as tapas, namely as a snack between the Spaniard’s light breakfast and late lunch; but, unlike tapas, pinchos were generally served on a slice of baguette, like an open sandwich.

The purpose of this mini-meal definitely made sense in context of Spain’s mealtime culture.  The flow of the day in Spain is like no other country I’ve ever visited.  Spaniards are late-to-rise and late-to-bed, and this affects every aspect of their culture.  They take late, long, lunches that leave shops and businesses closed for several hours in the afternoons – from at least 2-4pm, but often later.  Lunches are large, involving at the very least three courses and often necessitating – especially in the hot south – an afternoon siesta (nap).  Because of this, their dinners don’t begin until 9pm, and on weekends can start as late as 11pm!  It’s a good thing their evening meal is light!

According to our friend Josu, pinchos are like tapas, but served on bread.

Pinchos on bread. Look, point, eat.

Tapas-time in Spain.

A little pincho pick-me-up before lunch.

This strange rhythm of life was very difficult for Bruno and me to deal with.  I’m the type of person that likes to try to adapt to the customs of the place I’m in; Bruno, on the other hand, works according to the rhythm of the sun – up early, eats when hungry, to bed early, repeat – and doesn’t give a rat’s-ass about doing “like the locals.”  I can’t tell you how many times we found ourselves in Spain wanting to shop or wander the streets exactly when all the shops were closed.

Worse yet, we fought about how and when to eat.  One day, early on in Spain, we found ourselves in Estella at noon.  We’d spent the morning visiting the town’s church and quaint alleyways, and Bruno had worked up quite the appetite.  Truth be told, I was hungry too, but my desire to do like the locals was greater than my desire to eat.  Not the case for Bruno.  He wanted lunch and he wanted it now.  I remember arguing about it in the town square before he sat down at a fast-food restaurant and devoured a pizza, me watching on with a mixture of disgust and pizza-envy.  An hour later I caved and grabbed a tortilla at a pinchos bar.

Eventually, Bruno and I came to a consensus.  If we ate a noontime lunch of pinchos, we could be like the locals while being true to the rhythm of our own tummies.  The key, however, was bar-hopping.  We would walk into a bar, grab a pincho and a drink, then find another bar and another pincho, until we were satisfied.

The bar-hopping part was my idea.  Bruno could have very easily eaten three pinchos in bar #1, but I could almost never find more than one vegetarian option.  Once I became too sick of tortilla to stomach another one, this process became even more time-consuming.  I’d sometimes have to visit three or four bars before finding a vegetarian pinchos, and each time had to go through the uncomfortable process of asking the bartender to point out a dish I could eat.  I got more strange looks in those bars than in my entire vegetarian life up to this point!

It was worth the effort though, because when I’d find a veggie pinchos, I’d feel the deep satisfaction of uncovering a layer of gastronomic understanding that I find so key to appreciating a country.  And I found a few delicious surprises, especially in towns like Bilbao and Pamplona, which are renowned for their pinchos innovation (pinchosovation?).  My favourite was a layered open sandwich of goat’s cheese, sweet membrillo (quince paste), roasted vegetables, and walnut.  Total yum.

I found one, I found one!

My favourite pinchos of all, roasted veggies, goat cheese, membrillo, and a walnut on bread.

Another good one, deep-friend cheese with a raspberry coulis.

Bruno generally filled up on several pinchos in bar #1. The bar-hopping was for my benefit.

A wonderful setting makes a pinchos-find even sweeter!

***

I refrained from writing this post until our return to Spain the following March because I’d hoped my second visit to the country would unlock something for me about its food culture.  It’s obvious that with only a few pinchos and a lot of tortilla under my belt, I didn’t feel I had much of a story.

I expected to return to Spain feeling excited to delve deeper into Spanish cuisine.  I was wrong.

What I felt was fatigue.  I didn’t feel like digging so hard to find foods that would appeal to me.  I didn’t want to watch people revel in their jamón while I stood nearby with my umpteenth tortilla.  It appeared that I was giving up on Spanish food before even giving it a second change!

During the four weeks Bruno and I were in the south of Spain, I mostly avoided restaurants (which seemed frustratingly expensive after Morocco, anyway).  When we did eat out, I chose non-Spanish dishes like lasagne and couscous.

But one evening in Cartagena, feeling perhaps inspired by the Semana Santa procession we’d just witnessed, I turned into a tapas bar.  Some may have chosen it for its hopping atmosphere or its central location in the main square, but I chose it for its extensive list of tapas menu items, of which at least a few seemed edible: garlic soup, battered cheese, stuffed artichoke, patatas bravas (potato wedges), and vegetable quiche.

From our table, I had a clear view of a bartender whose sole job it was to shave paper-thin strips of ham off a pig leg wedged onto some heavy-duty holding device.  He didn’t stop for a moment my entire meal – in fact, he finished the giant pig leg and started shaving a second one!  Jamón Iberico was obviously a best-selling item on their menu.

As our tapas items arrived one by one, it was a comedy of errors.  My quiche had a giant shrimp for garnish and my garlic soup was sprinkled with jamón.  Even my stuffed artichoke looked so much like a chicken drumstick that, in my communication struggle with the server, I almost sent it back thinking it was, in fact, that.

The bartender whose sole job it was to slice off ham from the pig leg.

My vegetarian quiche, with a big shrimp on top.

My garlic soup with jamón.

My stuffed artichoke looks more like a chicken drumstick.

That meal was my Final Supper in Spain, and was a sort of metaphor for my entire experience of its food culture.  I have to pick off, give away, or second-guess almost everything I want to eat in Spain.

***

There is a happy ending to this misadventure, however.  As with every country whose cuisine I’ve had time to explore, I’ll take a few recipes and food items home with me.  They may seem old-news to some – artichoke hearts drizzled with olive oil and vinegar, jars of red roasted pimentos that I can add to almost anything for a douse of flavour, and the coolest non-spicy green chilis ever, pan-roasted until dark brown and popped into the mouth.    Those last ones are a much-beloved tapas, and one of my new favourite appetizers.

I also learned to make paella.  Right after we finished walking our Camino, Bruno and I spent an overnight with Javi and Jasmine, the Canadian-Basque couple we’d connected with through our overlander friends Phil and Angie and with whom we’d stored Totoyaya while on our pilgrimage.  That evening, Javi taught me the secrets of paella – the short-grain rice, the paste of saffron and garlic, the laissez-faire attitude one needs to adopt while the rice simmers in tomatoey juices.

Green pimentos make an awesome appetizer! Just salt, sautee, and pop ’em in your mouth!

Sharing paella with Javi, Jasmine, and their son Emeric.

My own vegan paella simmering on the stovetop. It was just as delicious as the seafood-infused paella!

That night, we’d shared authentic home-made paella, which was so generous of them that I cheated and ate it despite the seafood.  Later, I used Javi’s cooking tips to try my own vegetarian paella; it was – honestly! – just as delicious.

More than the meal ideas I’ll take home is a deeper grasp of a country’s culture through the all-important lens of food.  I’ve long loved the idea of tapas/pinchos – the fact that you get to try loads of different foods in one meal – but now I understand its place in the rhythm of Spanish life.

And if I think that Spain is a little too reliant on animal products and deep-frying, and that maybe – maybe – it’s time they adjust their cuisine to meet 21^st century ideals and needs, well that’s just the opinion of a new-world, tree-hugging, almost-vegan Canadian.  In response, the proud and traditional Spaniard will likely raise his glass of Rioja, dig into a plate of jamón Serrano and boisterously offer me a consolation prize of – you guessed it – tortilla.

We had just arrived in Cartagena, Spain, and were settling into our campsite for the evening.  It was grey and cold, we were far from town, and we were surrounded, as usual, by retirees.  We figured we’d spend the night and head on the following morning.

But then: “You’ve arrived just in time,” gushed the Spanish owner when we approached her office to check in.  “Tomorrow starts la Semana Santa!”

I had no idea what that was, but I learned pretty quickly.  And what I learned had me convinced I should – no, needed – to go into town the following day instead of driving on.  I silently thanked myself to traveling with the freedom and flexibility to reinvent our plans as we please.

La Semana Santa translates as Holy Week, and refers to the week or so leading up to Easter Sunday.  It’s a once-a-year festival that is celebrated all over the country – in fact, it’s one of Spain’s most famous events and rather surprising that I hadn’t heard of it.

Basically, the festival is a series of religious processions (like parades) that sort of re-enact the Passion of the Christ while serving as penance for participants.  Most processions involve carrying extremely heavy floats on one’s back, and some routes are as long as 14 hours, so penance here is taken quite seriously.

Lucky for me, Cartagena hosts one of the best and most unique series of events, including the first procession in the entire country – the following morning at 3am.  I didn’t expect to attend that one, but decided to attend the two other processions happening at more human in the day.

And so, just after lunch that penultimate Friday before Easter, Bruno and I hopped on a bus into the historical district of town.  What struck me immediately was the palpable anticipation in the air.  Crowds of families were in the streets, eating their notoriously late lunch.  Vendors peddled bright plastic toys and balloons – there were even a few carnival rides in one of the main squares.

This could have been a typical Sunday in Cartagena, but a few clues gave things away.  Flags and posters with religious insignia were draped over residential balconies, and heaps of plastic chairs were strung along the sides of the pedestrian-only streets.

It was clear that Cartagena was awaiting something big.

Balloons, carnival rides, and plastic toys for sale in the historical part of Cartagena.

Plastic chairs lined up for the day’s Semana Santa processions.

Religious banners hung from balconies and businesses.

Flags with religious insignia hung from balconies, and residents loitering, clearly waiting for something big to happen.

I’d learned a bit about the Semana Santa processions the previous afternoon from the very gracious and loquacious campsite owner.  The processions are organized by the city’s four religious brotherhoods, the oldest of which dates back to the 17^th century.  Despite a bit of friendly rivalry between the city’s two main brotherhoods (the Marrajos and the Californios, the groups work together, dividing amongst themselves the days leading up to Easter to re-enact the Passion bit by bit.

I would witness a traditional Cartagenan Semana Santa procession that evening, but first up was a unique procession – the floral offering to the patron saint of the city, the Virgen de la Caridad (Our Lady of Charity), in honour of her yearly Feast Day.  In this procession, women and children (and a few men), dressed in traditional clothing and carrying elaborate bouquets of flowers, parade through the streets of historical Cartagena with the goal of depositing their bouquets in front of la Iglesia de la Caridad.

Bruno and I were parked at a café when the participants began to arrive and converge in front of a beautiful baroque building.  It was pure chaos with loads of women, from barely-able-to-walk to surprised-they-still-could-walk, and I was doubtful that any procession would emerge out of this crowd.  You could tell this event was a big deal, especially for the many little girls, who were totally dolled-up and posing for the many cameras.

Participants of the floral procession converging in front of this lovely building.

Dolled-up little girls posing for a proud mama’s camera.

From the youngest to the oldest, all marched in this procession.

The goal of this procession is to offer flowers to Our Lady of Charity. This is her church.

This is her offering.

Yet the procession itself was quite casual.  Women pushed strollers, chatted with their friends, and talked on phones.  Their kids munched on snacks.  One pushed her own baby doll on a stroller.  Each group was led by a banner which announced their organization or congregation.  The groups proudly showcased traditional costumes from different regions – some were dressed like peasants, others like sailors, and a few looked like they were ready to dance the flamenco.  Most dresses featured lace shawls, lots of satin and sparkles, and flowers in their hair.  These bright and shiny costumes, worn only once a year, seemed to celebrate femininity.

It was fun to watch the conviviality of the women and families walking in the procession, but it was even more fun to watch the musicians march by.  There were loads of marching, and in each of them were an impressive amount of children!  There was also a group of bagpipers (I thought, of course, of my mom, who loves bagpipe music!), a few groups with castanets, and even a group of dancers with skirts that flared out when they spun!  It was the cheery music that contributed most to the feeling of celebration.

The procession itself.

And the musicians.

Even a dancing group of spinning tops!

And that’s why it was such a shock to witness that evening’s procession.  The procession of the Most Holy Christ of Mercy and Most Holy Mary of the Rosary was the complete antithesis of that day’s jovial flower parade.  Here, the participants (called “penitents”) were totally serious – they gazed forward, walked in union, and halted in unison, all to the beat of drums.  The whole thing was solemn and downright creepy.

It was probably the outfits that got me the most.  Almost every penitent was wearing a capirote, a tunic with a pointy hood with slits for the eyes that is so reminiscent of the Ku Klux Klan that it’s impossible not to shudder.  Though most were carrying candles, many held rods, guns, axes, and other weapons.  With their slow, unison step, I felt like I was witnessing a procession of ghosts arising from the dead.

The evening’s procession with KKK-like outfits.

The Semana Santa procession are very serious and very creepy.

Weapons were even being paraded around.

The truth, however, is far less eerie.  The conical hoods date back to the Middle Ages (long before the KKK) and were created so that those demonstrating their penance could mask their identities.  The items the penitents carried in their arms simply denote the hierarchy within the brotherhood.  And, anyway, the nazarenes, the mostly-young participants who look like Little Red Riding Hoods and prance around distributing sweets and postcards with religious images on them, definitely lightened the mood.

Indeed, red was the most popular color of the evening, for it is the color of the Californios brotherhood.  About half of the capirotes were dressed in red, and all the Nazarenes.  Whether wearing red or not, however, all penitents displayed religious insignia on their banners or sashes.  Some burned frankincense, others carried pure gold crosses.  All stopped intermittently to do the sign of the cross.

Red is the color of the Californios brotherhood.

We forgot to photograph the young Nazarenes because we were too busy getting sweets and postcards from them!

Banners with religious insignia.

Gigantic gold crosses.

Beautiful gold-stitched banners displaying religious insignia.

The purpose of the processions is to re-enact parts of the Passion of the Christ by showcasing a series of gigantic – and extremely old – floats, or paseos.  One unique aspect of Cartagena’s Semana Santa is the strict order of the processions.  First come the capirotes in certain formations and carrying certain tools, then the drummer and the band (a very important part of the procession as they keep the time of the march), and then the float itself.  Some paseos are pushed along on wheels, but the most impressive ones are carried.

I don’t know how much the paseos weigh, but it’s enough to warrant five rows of twenty or more bodies, squeezed together under thick wooden beams.  If there was one example of penance, it was here (though the soldiers walking for hours with high kicks comes a close second!).

This amazing float is being transported by at least 100 women. Talk about penance!

Look how squished together they are!

Men marching with incredibly high leg kicks. Also a good example of penance.

I was utterly entranced by the procession – by the entire day, in fact – so it was only later, as we caught the late-night bus back to the campsite, that I remembered how lucky I had been to be in Cartagena during its Semana Santa.  Witnessing the festivities was a fascinating treat and gave me a glimpse into an age-old tradition that is still alive and well in Spain.  It’s for these moments that I travel!

Two days later, as we drove through a little town north of Cartagena, I caught a glimpse of bright satin robes glimmering in the midday sun.  I smiled inwardly.  A few days before, I’d have had no idea what these outfits represented.  But, thanks to my serendipitous arrival in Cartagena, I now knew that the colourful robes were evidence that, here in Spain, religion is far from dead.

Driving through a random town a couple days later, I recognized these outfits instantly.

Penitents hanging out at a tapas bar post- (or pre-)procession.

Religion is alive and well in Cartagena – and, indeed, all of Spain!

Of course, anyone who knows anything about Spain knows that it is anything but sterile.  But I was looking at Spain with Negative Nancy goggles on.  It was hard not to – after spending three months in such a fabulous, exotic, interesting, and alive country as Morocco, almost anywhere would seem boring.

Plus, we were on the Costa del Sol, one of Spain’s number one tourist destinations and a coastline reputedly so overbuilt with resorts and casinos and clubs that one would have to look hard – really hard – to find even a shadow of Spanish culture amid the generic architecture and modern, could-be-anywhere culture.

If it weren’t for the climate, we would have skipped this coastline entirely.  But, it was early March, and we didn’t fancy coming face to face with the late winter in the rest of Europe.

It appeared we weren’t the only ones thinking along these lines.  Andalucía has literally hundreds of campsites – most of them like all-inclusive resorts – dotting the coastline, and all of them were filled to overflowing with retirees.  Seriously, the campsites here made those in Morocco seem empty.  Apparently the south of Spain had become the new winter migration spot for European retirees scared-away from North Africa by the media.

So now, we were in the Cancun of Europe with almost all of its snowbirds.

Fresh off the boat from Morocco, Spain sure does seem sterile…

And crowded.  And this was one of the “good” campsites.

Picasso and Flamenco in Málaga

With my sunny attitude in tow, Bruno and I stopped in Málaga, the largest city on the Costa del Sol, and the birthplace of Pablo Picasso.  It was indeed for the Picasso Museum that I had dragged Bruno into town at all.  I’d discovered, years ago in London, that I liked Picasso – that I “got” his work in a way I rarely manage to grasp with artists.  This museum boasts almost 300 works unseen anywhere else.

I soon learned why.  Almost all of them were donated to the museum by members of his family, and almost all are unsigned.  Picasso could do a sketch in a matter of minutes, and often paid for restaurant meals with a doodle.  That’s what most of the works in this museum seemed like – doodles, studies, or exercises created by the artist and stored away, never intended to see the light of day.

Uninspired, Bruno and I wandered the historical district of Málaga, a fairly large pedestrian-only chunk of town.  We looked at old decorated churches, wandered down small alleys, browsed restaurant and café menus, and window-shopped on wide boulevards.

The beautiful cathedral of Málaga.

The big shopping boulevard in the historical district.

In other words, we did what we always do as tourists visiting any city.  And it was getting old.  The truth is, unless you have time to stay longer and dig deeper, European cities kind of all look and feel the same.  You don’t really get much from the experience of wandering around for a day or two.  You get photos, sure, and you get to forevermore name-drop all the cool cities you’ve been to, but that’s more or less it.

At lunch that day, we sat at the large terrace of Málaga’s infamous El Pimpi Bodega and gazed out at the nearby Roman amphitheater as we munched on the tiniest meal that 25 euros has ever bought me before.  At least we’d always be able to say we’d eaten in the same restaurant as Antonio Banderas.

Lunch at El Pimpi’s, with the Roman Amphitheater in the background.

Antonia Banderas was here.

If there was any saving grace in Málaga, it was the flamenco performance we attended.  I’ve been fortunate to see flamenco several times on giant stages in North America because I’m a huge fan of the late Paco de Lucia.  But there’s something about witnessing this sensual dance on the land where it was born that feels even better.

There were no authentic flamenco performances until the weekend, but I found a tiny restaurant called Vino Mio that does a dinner performance every night.  There may not have been enough space for more than a single dancer, accompanied by one guitarist and one singer, and they were truly only an average group, but it was still really fun and I didn’t much care that I’d fallen into a tourist trap.  (I’d had just as much fun at the tourist-trap Fado performance in Lisbon).  The performance was enough to make my Negative Nancy goggles fall off and remember to enjoy whatever the Costa del Sol had to offer.  I was in Andalucía, after all, the most infamous region of Spain!

Flamenco dinner performance at Vino Mio restaurant in Málaga.

It might have been a tourist trap, but I still had a blast.

Olé!

The Pueblos Blancos of Andalucía

Andalucía’s pueblos blancos are villages of whitewashed walls and red tiled roofs.  From afar, these totally white towns, perched on green hills overlooking azure seas, look like they should be part of Khaleesi’s kingdom (from Game of Thrones).  Close-up, they are just as charming; in fact, Frigiliana, the pueblo blanco Bruno and I visited, was the first town in Spain (including my two months in Northern Spain last fall) that aesthetically wowed me.

Frigialiana was totally charming.  The small alleys were paved with carefully-placed stone mosaics, and as you weaved up the stairwells, you passed perfectly-restored old village homes.  They all had tasteful doors, pots of blossoming flowers, cute window shutters, and antique tools on decorative display.  And once you reached the top of the hill on which the village was placed, you had a view of the hills and sea that definitely inspired deep breaths full of whimsical reflection.

Frigiliana was also, however, totally touristy.  There were more shops and restaurants than private homes, and all of the shops sold artisanal chocolates, natural soaps, and hand-crafted artwork.  I found myself wanting to buy stuff, wanting to spend money, and I sensed that uncomfortable ball of dissatisfaction lodge itself in my gut when I realized I just couldn’t buy all that stuff.  Spending most of my time, as I do, in nature, this is a ball I’m fairly unfamiliar with, and I didn’t really appreciate its entrance-on-scene.  I’m glad I fought against my consumer desires, however, as I soon realized that all these “unique” artisan products could be found in every single tourist village along Andalucía’s coast.

Frigiliana, one of Andalucía’s pueblos blancos.

A panorama from the top of Frigiliana.

Totally charming, if totally touristy.

A few days later, when Bruno and I were driving through the Sierra Nevadas, we stumbled upon more pueblos blancos.  I’d dragged Bruno to these mountains – where night-time temperatures were still falling well below zero – for the simple reason that I’d loved a beer by the same name in college.  I hadn’t expected this mountain range to be so rocky and arid – an effect of its proximity to the Tabernas Desert – and I especially hadn’t expected to see more sparking white pueblos standing out in the dull, earth-toned landscape.

The best pueblos blancos that we encountered during our drive through the Sierra Nevadas were three mountain villages – Pampaneira, Bubión and Capileira – in an ascending line along the edge of the Poqueira Gorge.  With the snowy peak of Mt. Mulhacén behind, they make for a dramatic panorama.

I especially liked Pampaneira.  It was perched on the edge of the hill looking out onto the gorge and the mountain like seats in an amphitheater surround a stage.  In the center of the streets was a sort of open-air drain used to collect and direct the flow of water from the top of the village to the bottom.  On the rooftops were thin, tall chimneys that looked like an army of men wearing cowboy hats.  And to top it off, there was a tiny local market where I was able to buy fruit and vegetables.  Even though I couldn’t bargain for prices, it felt good to buy my produce in open – albeit chilly – air.

The triple towns of Pampaneira, Bubión and Capileira in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Open-air water drains.

Cowboy chimneys.

And a little local produce market! I love Pampaneira!

The Mediterranean Coast

As I mentioned before, the Costa del Sol, was incredibly built-up.  At times, all we seemed to drive past was hotels and apartments, resorts and holiday villas, bars, restaurants, and kitsch tourist shops.  This theme continued throughout almost all the Mediterranean Coast of Andalucía.  I read later that over 70% of tourists to Andalucía congregate around the coast, so despite being disheartening, the infrastructure makes sense.

The vast majority of the Mediterranean Coast of Andalucía is this built-up (or more).

Nonetheless, it was a pleasant surprise to occasionally find a few Parques Naturales along the coast.  The first we stumbled upon accidentally after our visit to Frigiliana.  The monstrous buildings of Nerja suddenly gave way to foliage and rugged cliffs, and a dirt track veered into a small parking area at the edge of a cliff.  A few camper vans were parked here, and we chatted for a while with an English couple that had a very cool vehicle and had been camping here for several days.  It turns out they knew Phil and Angie – what a small world is that of overlanders!

We spent a very lovely 24-hours in this parque watching the sunset, eating dinner with the view of the water from our back window, walking along the tiny secluded beach, and having a lunchtime picnic at the edge of the cliff.  We’d have stayed longer, but bush camping is apparently illegal in the Parques Naturales, and we were all photographed and shooed away with a warning by a park guard.

Enjoying the stunning location of our bush camp in a parque natural we stumbled upon.

The very nice English couple we met, and their very cool overland vehicle.

Not a bad spot for a wee lunch!

A few days later, we visited Cabo de Gata-Níjar Parque Natural, the largest coastal protected area in Andalucía.  The arid, hilly landscape reminded me a lot of Morocco, actually, and it was a wonderful breath of fresh air after endless kilometers of man-made scenery.  We would have loved to bush camp there, but after our warning at the previous parque, we opted for a campsite.  At least we got to take advantage of the coast with a nice long afternoon walk on a marked hiking trail departing from the campsite’s little private beach.

Cabo de Gata-Níjar Parque Natural.

Our hike along the marked trail. Landscapes looks like Morocco, eh?

Ok, not ALL of our hike was on the marked trail…

All Things Andalucían

Andalucía is reputedly one of Spain’s most interesting regions.  It has a complex history involving the Moors that shows itself even today in everything from its architecture to its name.  It is the source of such infamous Spanish symbols as flamenco and bullfighting.  And it encompasses cities like Seville and Granada, the highest mountain in Spain, and coastlines along two major bodies of water.

My experience of Andalucía was far from complete – I didn’t experience bullfighting in Seville or visit the mighty Alhambra in Granada; I didn’t sun myself topless along the Costa del Sol or visit the Mosque of Córdoba; I didn’t get to sample much tapas (more on that in a future post) or see first-rate authentic flamenco.  I didn’t even really learn much about the history, culture, or people of Andalucía.

What my experience in Andalucía was, however, was an apt and honest portrait of the great, average, and less-than-amazing moments that traveling full-time around the world involves.  Travel isn’t all breathtaking inspiration and dramatic mishaps – just like regular life, there are plenty of just average moments in between.  Our time in Andalucía was a mixed bag.  It might not make the best blog entry, but then again, at least it’s a true one.

Gibraltar’s entire aura was a world apart from the working-class, tapas bar-filled, Spanish-speaking town we’d cycled from.  As we followed the hordes of Spanish commuters across the border control and the airport runway, I sensed a strong military presence.  Classy convertibles zoomed along the narrow, pristine streets.  Petrol stations and duty-free shops advertised sales in British pounds.  And above it all, of course, loomed that giant mohawk-shaped rock.

From fishing boats to private yachts. We’re on our way to Gibraltar!

On the Rock of Gibraltar, the airport behind me. We crossed it by bicycle to get into the city!

Gibraltar has a big military presence, but it’s apparently been scaled back in recent years.

It was all very British, yet it wasn’t.  As we dismounted our bikes and began to explore the pedestrian-only Main Street, I heard English, of course, but also Spanish.  There were pubs on every corner, but they all had tons of outdoor seating because of the very un-English weather.  There were red telephone booths and red double-decker buses – but these iconic British sights seemed out of place in a town that boasted a harbor, a multi-million-dollar marina, and 300 days of sun a year.  Heck, the residents of Gibraltar even drove on the right side of the road!

Still, we planned to do very British things during our day in Gibraltar.  But first, I needed to get out of my sweaty cycling clothes.  I headed into the first pub, where, excited to speak English to the waiter, I blurted out, “Please may I use your restroom so I can change my pants?”  The moment the words were out of my mouth, I realized what I’d said.  The English use the word “trousers” to denote the clothes you wear on your legs; to them, “pants” mean “underwear”.  I’d just asked to use the toilet so I could change my underwear!  My first time in a country that speaks my mother tongue in months and I’d already put my foot in my mouth!  The waiter raised his eyebrows and sniggered as he showed me “the loo”.

Bruno and I wandered up and down Main Street, which, because of big English names – like Top Shop and Mark’s and Spencer’s – amid loads of duty-free shops, felt like an odd cocktail of of England and Andorra La Veilla.  When our appetite arrived, I brought Bruno into a proper English pub – with a proper English pub name – and introduced him to a full English breakfast.  For only a few quid, we feasted on eggs, toast with jam and butter, beans, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, and of course, English breakfast tea.   Later in the afternoon, we would sit at a different pub and down a pint of ale.  When in Britain, do like the British, right?

Gibraltar’s Main Street.

The pub where we ate our English breakfast.

Comfort food!

An afternoon pint. When in Rome, right?

Gibraltar has been a prized piece of rock for millennia.  The Phoenicians were the first people brave enough to cross it; thereafter, the landmark denoted the starting point of the Atlantic Ocean.  Later, the Romans conquered it, and then the Moors, led by Tarik ibn Ziyad.  The name Jebel Tarik, Arab for Tarik Mountain, even gave Gibraltar its current name.

For the past several hundred years, the greatest European powers have fought over Tarik’s Mountain.  It was taken by the Brits in 1704 and, though it was made official soon after through a series of treaties, sieges have been more common on this small chunk of rock than almost anywhere else in Europe.  Indeed, one historian noted that Gibraltar is “one of the most densely fortified and heavily fought-over places in Europe.”

It’s the strategic position of the peninsula that makes it so desirable.  It served as a key stopover point for British vessels en route to India via the Suez Canal; later, it was an all-important tactical element during WWII, as it essentially gave them control of the Mediterranean Sea.

There are an impressive amount of history- and war-related sights to visit as a tourist, especially up on the rock.  I’m guessing Gibraltar is a sort of pilgrimage for Brits interested in their own history.  I, however, was more interested in the naturalist (and, of course, the gastronomic) side of Gibraltar.  I wanted to visit the Rock!

Lots of war relics scattered around the town and rock.

At the tourist office, we learned that, to get to the top of the rock, we could take a tourist taxi, join a guided tour, or take a funicular.  But it was a gorgeous day, and we were wearing sneakers.  Couldn’t we walk up the rock, we asked.

We got the same kind of look you’d get if you’d asked an Englishman to use the restroom to change your pants.

Still, we persevered, and eventually found out that for 1EUR a person, you can walk up and around the Rock of Gibraltar on its many short walking trails.  So that is what we did.  And it was the highlight of the day.

We wandered up from Main Street past streets with adorable English names and even more adorable steep walkways.  We walked past beautiful cathedrals and old castles overlooking the Bay of Gibraltar, the Union Jack waving in the wind.  And we hiked all the way up that steep rock, stopping for views (and our breath) at the many viewpoints along the way.

A beautiful cathedral in Gibraltar.

Cool passages with cool names.

English pride! Art up the steps of an old passage.

An old castle looking down on the Bay of Gibraltar.

During our final haul in Morocco, we’d driven into the High Atlas Mountains and caught a very quick glimpse of the Barbary macaques, an endangered species endemic to the Maghreb region of Africa.  As it turns out, those very same macaques live a very cushy life on the Rock of Gibraltar.  They most likely came to the Iberian Peninsula with the Moors as their pets; now, their population is thriving more than those that still live in North Africa!  That’s probably because they’re fed daily by local staff, and because they are the biggest tourist attraction in a country that sees almost 10 million tourists a year!

Or maybe it’s because of local legend, which states that as long as the Barbary macaques exist on Gibraltar, the territory will remain under British rule.

Bruno and I really enjoyed getting to see the apes close-up, especially as we had been disappointed not to see more of them in Morocco.  We watched them at the Apes’ Den, then crossed the Queen’s Gate and climbed the 662 steps up the old Charles V Wall, watching the apes all the while.  I was a bit nervous on the steps, as there were signs saying the macaques could become aggressive on the narrow wall if they felt trapped.  Sure enough, one giant macaque stood in the center of the steps, blocking my view, and it took me a good 10 minutes to muster up enough courage to pass him by.

Barbary macaques in Gibraltar!

Apes will be apes.

662 steps from the Apes’ Den to the top of the rock.

More apes huddled at the top of the steps.

The tourists at the top of the steps didn’t show the same caution.  They were with a tour leader who was illegally feeding the apes so as to attract them onto their shoulders for photo ops.  Bruno and I, angered by this irresponsible behavior, took photos of the guide and then found a security officer who was very grateful to receive the photos in order to prosecute and fine the tour guide (apparently tourists rarely react the way we did, go figure).  Feeding the apes has already caused them to forget their social structure and become dependent on humans for their food; it had led them to forage down in the city, destroying property in the process; and it has caused more than one unfortunate run-in with tourists.  When will tourists – and their guides – learn to view animals responsibly?

The views from the top of the Rock of Gibraltar were indeed beautiful.  On one side, we could see the city of Gibraltar, its bay, and the port of Algeciras, where our ferry from Morocco had arrived.  You could even see Morocco, which made me slightly nostalgic.  On the other side, we could look far out into the Mediterranean Sea, where several tankers were bobbing at a distance.  The Rock on this side was steep, rugged, and mostly undeveloped, apart from a single road and two little beaches.  I stood at the top of the Rock feeling very much alive and very thankful for our wonderful day.

The Rock of Gibraltar, looking out to the Mediterranean Sea.

The view over the “other” side of the Rock.

I feel so alive!!

I hadn’t planned Gibraltar to impress me; in fact, I hadn’t even planned to visit.  I’d been vaguely curious about this tiny British enclave, but it was more opportunity (opportunity being a quiet and cheap campsite nearby with a coastal bike path leading right to Gibraltar!) than desire that had brought us to the Rock that day.

I’m learning, more and more, that it’s those unplanned, unexpected moments of travel that are often the best.  The surprises that come in between our planned destinations often become the highlights of our time.  Our day in Gibraltar was no exception.

I’m not quite sure why – masochism or redemption, perhaps? – but I googled the Rota Vicentina immediately.  The well-designed website described its two routes – the inland historical way, encompassing some of the old Grand Route (GR), and the coastal fishermen’s trail – along with topographical descriptions, accommodation information, and Google Earth tracking.  My interest was piqued.

The truth is that, despite the challenges of our Camino, somewhere along the way I’d learned that I liked long-distance walks.  In fact, I was already cross-referencing other interesting trails I’d heard about with our long-term travel plans to see where a few more hikes might fit in.

When I learned that the Rota Vicentina ran along our planned route south, I knew this was an opportunity I couldn’t miss.  True, we wouldn’t have time to walk all 400km of it – our transit south had to take us well into Morocco in a couple short weeks – and I still wasn’t mentally ready to sleep in any other bed than my own, anyway.  But Bruno and I could at least sample the Rota Vicentina, right?

Why not sample the Rota Vicentina, a new network of walking trails in south-west Portugal?

The Rota Vicentina? Looks right up our alley!

We chose the Fishermen’s trail because we love coastal views and because the trail cuts through a big natural park, the Parque Natural de Sudoeste Alatenjano e Costa Vicentina (which I gather is where the name of the trail network comes from).  We based ourselves in Vila Nova de Milfontes, the second village along the Fisherman’s trail, because it had a decent campsite.  We popped into the tourist office, which seemed to cater primarily to Rota hikers, and were pointed toward the blue and green trail markers that would guide our way out of Milfontes.

And that was that – the next morning, we were off toward Almograve.  It was a pretty simple pre-departure organization, compared to our Camino preparation, as we just needed to pack day bags containing enough food and water for a 16km walk.  One point for day hikes.

The Fishermen’s Trail, named after all its fishermen.

The blue and green trail markings of the Rota Vicentina.

Leaving Vila Nova de Milfontes and its tiny port.

I wasn’t just comparing day hikes to long-distance hikes as we walked the Rota, however.  I couldn’t help but compare this walk to the Camino de Santiago.  And when I did, the Rota Vicentina came up short in almost all respects: it didn’t have an aura of excitement surrounding it, its coastal cliffs were less high and dramatic; the scenery of the park wasn’t as varied.  The biggest drawback of the Rota, in my opinion, is that the trails don’t pass through any villages between the day’s start and end points (at least on the Fishermen’s Trail).  This meant that there was much less cultural interest, that you had to lug all the food and water you’d need for the day, and that you couldn’t make your day’s walk longer or shorter unless you bush-camped or doubled-up sections.

There was one thing I liked better about the Rota Vicentina, though: there was hardly any asphalt-walking.  The trail was almost always dirt, rock, or sand, meaning that your knees and feet take less of a beating.  (Indeed, I could still feel the places on my toes that had barely-healed blisters from the Camino and its nightmarish tar trails).  Walking the Rota was more physically-demanding because the trail was about 70% soft sand and we had to ford and river once (thankfully the water wasn’t deep), but at least I knew I wasn’t doing my body long-term damage.

Ok, the coast line IS pretty.

The Fisherman’s trail is composed of about 70% sand trails – hard on the heart, but soft on the knees.

Just finished fording the river. Ok, it was a creek, but still…

After a quick jaunt around the very small fishing village of Almograve, we hitchhiked back to Milfontes so we could sleep in our own bed that night.  A twice-daily bus travels between the two towns, but we didn’t want to wait, and the locals were very obliging.  It was my first time hitchhiking, so don’t worry mom.

The next morning we walked in the opposite direction, north toward Porto Covo (the first town on the Fishermen’s trail).  We preferred this day’s walk to our previous, both because we were walking north (which meant the sun wasn’t in our face but at our backs) and because the trail hugged the coastline more often.  We walked on sand through an astounding variety of shrubs, sturdy plants that must deal with an onslaught of hot sun, salty wind, and dry soil in their attempt to prevent the sand dunes from falling down the cliffs into the Atlantic Ocean.  We passed several fishermen parked on the edge of rocky cliffs, caught site of sandy coves and inaccessible beaches, tiny rock islands that fell away from the coast, and even and even a few birds’ nests big enough for me to sit in.

Cool shrubs, one of the many varieties of hearty plants along this chunk of coastline.

It’s the fishermen doing what they do every day that created this imprints in the earth for this walking trail in the first place.

Check out that massive bird’s nest on the top of the rock island there.

There’s a close-up, in case you couldn’t spot the bird’s nest. Anyone know what bird made this? It’s certainly not the seagulls that are sitting inside! :)

I’d have loved to drive a bit further south, park our vehicle at the intersection of the Fishermen’s trail and the Historical Way, and sample more of the Rota Vicentina.  I couldn’t deny that the almost-empty trail and the warm midday sun was doing my body and spirit a lot of good.  But, as a sign not far from Milfontes showed us, we still had over 1200km to Agadir, the approximate Moroccan meet-up point for our forthcoming family reunion.

1200km to Agadir, so we better get going!

I’ve spent three months touring around Europe this year, and one of the things that has most struck me is its sheer quantity of hiking trails.  We’ve stumbled upon them everywhere – in Bosnia, Slovenia, Switzerland, France, and Spain – always well-signposted and carrying a few well-equipped hikers from one lovely point to another.  I’ve learned about the GR, or Grandes Randonées, a network of long-distance footpaths across Europe (in France alone, there are 60,000km of GR trails).  I’ve learned about the Via Ferrata (or “Iron Road” in Italian), climbing routes covered with steel cables and other climbing aids scattered across the mountain ranges of Europe.

I hadn’t equated Europe with walking trails, but now I do.  It may be the thing I’m most excited to take advantage of when Bruno and I come back in our old(er) age.

I’ve been working to expand the list of interesting long-distance walks I’d like to do over the coming years.  I can tell you, for sure, that the Rota Vicentina – and a boat-load of other European trails – is now on that list.  Are there any others, anywhere in the world, on your radar that you can enlighten us with?

Should we carry quickly on south, or tempt fate by slowing our transit down once we reach the Portuguese coast?  That was the question I left you with in my last post, when I described our southern migration toward warmer skies.

Bruno would have carried on straight south, but we were passing so close to cities that hold such sway in my imagination that I couldn’t help but tempt fate (I told you in my last post that I’m unable to transit with my eyes closed!).  And so, we thought-up a compromise – we would slow down just enough to give me a quick taste of Porto and Lisbon, and then resume our transit south.

Below is thus a tale of two pit-stops in the most tantalizing of Portuguese cities.

A Tale of Porto: Beaches, Ribeira Riverfront, and Wine-Tasting

I couldn’t jump out of the car fast enough when we arrived in Porto.  Actually, we were camped south of town, on the other side of the infamous Douro River.  But here, on this sunny Sunday, the city was fully alive.

Here was a coastline stretching as far as the eye could see, and along it, both a bike path and a boardwalk.  The sun was out, the locals were out, and I wanted – nay, needed! – to be out too.  At this time of year, you have to take full advantage of good weather, especially in notoriously rainy Porto.

Bruno and I spent most of that first day cycling along the bike path and walking over the dunes on the boardwalk.  We biked in one direction, past beach cafés, to a small white hexagonal-shaped chapel on a bed of rocks at the very edge of the water.  In the other direction we rode past the estuary bordering the city proper, and caught our first sight of the six bridges to Porto.

The “Miracle Chapel”, or Chapel of the Lord of Stone, on the beach south of Porto.

Nice boardwalk along the coast, with Porto in the distance.

Porto is a majestic-looking city.  Sat at the point where the Douro River throws itself into the Atlantic Ocean, its riverfront buildings are long and narrow, with an abundance of windows.  The pastel paint and bright orange roofs face south and sparkle in the sun all day, their hues changing with the strength and angle of the sun.

It was along this riverfront – Ribeira, it’s called – that Bruno and I spent our next day.  We donned our walking shoes because we’d planned to walk up the hill to explore the entire city.  We wanted to see the São Francisco Church, the Stock Exchange Palace, and the Mercado de Bolhão.  But every alley we turned onto seemed to lead us back to the river.  Eventually, we decided just to go with it.

The charming and colorful Ribeira Riverfront in Porto.

Some other parts of downtown Porto.

But all roads lead back to Ribeira.

On our side of the River, in Vila Nova de Gaia, we took part in the quintessential Porto experience – a port wine tour.  Porto not only gave its name to Portugal, but also to a sweet fortified wine called vinho de Porto.  This delectable wine is barrelled and bottled in Porto, and you can still see boats with wooden barrels bobbing in the water on the riverfront.  The grapes, which are grown 100km away – in the Douro River Valley – used to be transported to Porto this way, but now the boats are merely nostalgic, albeit charming, nods to the past.

We’d driven through the Douro River Valley to reach Porto because it’s considered by some to be the best drive in the world.  It was, indeed, both beautiful and fascinating.  The river meandered through the hills, where villages of whitewashed homes with orange roofs popped out around each bend.  On the hills between the villages was vineyard after vineyard, each announcing its company name with a giant sign in the center of the hill.  It reminded me quite a lot of the hillside vineyards of western Switzerland, minus the signs.

Me posing on the south side of Porto’s stretch of the Douro River, with Ribeira and port-barrel-loaded boats in the backdrop.

Having a picnic lunch at the top of the Douro River Valley before driving along the best road in the world.

It is the microclimate and special soil of the Douro River Valley that makes the perfect port wine grapes.  We didn’t know this at the time, though – we learned this at the Ferreira Wines processing facility, one of many plants along Porto’s piece of the Douro River.  For a few euros, we were given a guided tour of the facilities followed by a port wine tasting.

To make port, the grapes’ fermentation process is halted after a few days by adding clear, flavorless brandy.  This fortifies the wine, of course, but also allows some of the grapes’ sweetness to be retained.  Port wine is thus a perfect aperitif or dessert wine, best drunk in the Portuguese way – with chocolate, cheese, or nuts, but never with one’s meal.

Our tasting of port involved one of each of the three main types – a white (always served as an aperitif), a tawny (reddish brown because it’s aged in small wooden barrels; can be drunk before or after a meal), and ruby (deep red because it’s aged in giant vats so has less contact with the barrel and the air; is always drunk as a dessert wine).  As a tawny, we were given a 10-year old bottle, which is a blend of many different ages of port that average out to ten years and give the port a consistent Ferreira flavour.  And the ruby we tried was a 2011 vintage special harvest, which is made from a single grape harvest deemed to be exceptional.  This last wine is only made occasionally because not every year’s harvest fulfils the criteria needed to make an unblended port.  (According to a quick internet research, 2011 was widely declared the best vintage year in 20 years, making my port tasting even more special!)

Approaching the Ferreira Port processing facility for our port tour and tasting.

Barrels of port aging.

My trio of port.

Bring it on!

I may have walked out of Ferreira Wines a bit tipsy, but at least the buzz came with newfound knowledge of both port wine and the essence of what makes Porto tick.

A Tale of Lisbon: Pastries, Fado, and Ceramic Tiles

When faced with only two full days in a European capital city, what is the most efficient way to start?  A walking tour, of course.  Though I don’t join them often, I have a thing for free city walking tours.  They help to make sense of the history behind all the big, beautiful buildings that, admittedly, can begin to look alike after enough sight-seeing in Europe.  And they give me a connection to a local person that I would otherwise need time to foster.

I joined Discover Walks Lisbon, and ended up being the only one (Bruno had had his dose of city in Porto).  My private tour with Pedro in Lisbon’s west end, Belém, revolved mainly around Portugal’s Age of Discovery.  We saw statues of Portugal’s famous explorers, enumerated Portugal’s many old colonies while stepping over the world map mural donated by South Africa, and discussed Portugal’s legacy around the world as we walked past a Thai temple.

A Statue of explorer Afonso de Albuquerque in front of Lisbon’s presidential palace.

This Thai temple in the middle of Belém isn’t so random when you think of Portugal’s exploratory legacy around the world.

33 Portuguese explorers are immortalized in the Monument to the Discoveries.

I sensed Pedro’s pride in his country’s history.  There was a theme to his narrative – the Portuguese were the first to do a lot of things, but were never recognized for them, never made famous for their contributions.  Pedro seemed to feel that his country was small but mighty, that they’d influenced more than their fair share of world history, and that he was proud to be Portuguese.  I found this insight even more interesting than the facts Pedro shot off.

After the tour, I wandered around Belém, photographing the ceramic tiles that are so often on the façades of Portuguese homes.  It turns out that, in the 18^th century, Portuguese people often kept ceramic tiles of saints in their homes for good luck.  After the terrible 1755 Lisbon earthquake, many homes, being made principally of wood, were burnt to the ground.  Only the ceramic tiles remained.  Thereafter, covering one’s façade with ceramic tiles became popular as a way to prevent fire from burning down one’s house.

If you’d asked Lisboans thirty years ago what they thought of the ceramic façades so common in their country, most would have scoffed and dubbed them old-fashioned peasant adornment.  Nowadays, though, most locals nostalgically gush over the bright-colored patterns of the ceramic façades.  I agree, so much so that I opted to eat my lunch with a bunch of locals at a cafeteria covered in ceramic tiles.

Typical ceramic tiles on the façades of Portuguese homes.

Artsier ceramic tiling.

My local cafeteria lunch.

The fog had lifted after lunch, so I walked along the water to properly look at the bridges and the Monument to the Discoveries.  I popped into the massive Jerónimos Monastery and then waltzed next door, to the Pastéis de Belém.  The pasteleria dates back to 1837, when the cash-strapped monks next door started a pastry business.  Pastéis de Nata, small flaky tarts filled with custard cream, have been famous around Portugal ever since.  I brought some home to Bruno and we bit into them together.  One word: delicious.

The Jerónimos Monastery takes up a huge chunk of prime real estate near Belem’s waterfront.

Maybe that’s why the monks needed to open the Pastéis de Belém.

He likes them.

Maybe it was the pastries, but the following day I was able to convince Bruno to come into Lisbon with me.  We wandered up downtown Baixa’s main pedestrian street, which was filled with buskers, Christmas decorations, and stir on this sunny Saturday afternoon.  We ate, of course, more Portuguese pastries.  Then we walked past the São Jorge Castle into Alfama, the old Moorish part of Lisbon.  By this point it was evening, leaving us wandering up and down narrow alleys in the dark.

It’s so rare these days that I visit a city after dusk, but there was a reason I’d managed to convince Bruno to – I wanted to witness a fado performance.  Fado is a style of traditional Portuguese music that originates in Alfama.  The slow, nostalgic music generally involves a male guitarist (playing a Portuguese guitar, which is rounder and double-stringed) and a female vocalist.  Nowadays, fado is performed most often as dinner accompaniment in small tourist restaurants.  Even though it’s a tourist cliché to see fado in Alfama (like the port-tasting in Porto, perhaps?), it was one I wanted to partake in.

Lots of action on the main pedestrian street of Baixa.

He’s happy to see these pastries.

The Moorish alleys of Alfama after dark.

Walk in the lower alleyways of Alfama around dusk and you will see loads of restaurants advertising fado performances that evening.  It’s a challenge to pick a restaurant – you can never be sure whether the group performing will actually be good, or just there to lure in tourists – so we chose based on an early start time and the availability of vegetarian food.  And we actually lucked out – Fatima Moura’s five-person group at São Miguel Restaurant was great (at least to my untrained ear).  Thank goodness we got lucky, because the food was expensive (albeit yummy) and the drinks ridiculous ($5 for a small bottle of water?).

There were three guitarists, one of them on the Portuguese guitar, and another who sang sometimes; and of course, two alternating female singers.  Fado music is centered on the melody of the singer, who generally has a deep, strong alto voice.  It’s nostalgic music, full of longing, broken hearts, and hard times, but it’s not always slow.  I found similarities to traditional Greek music and Eastern European gypsy music, but that might just be because of the stringing techniques and the foreign language.

It’s all about the Fado in Alfama.

The Fado performance we witnessed in Lisbon’s Alfama district.

That there on the left is the Portuguese guitar, a crucial element of fado music.

I loved getting to see live Fado, but in retrospect, I’d have preferred a different venue.  The place was pretty empty, except for tourists that would wander in, eat, and be out in an hour.  The band would play 3-5 songs and then take a break that felt endless in a restaurant where it was too expensive for us to draw out our meal.  After 3 hours and only fifteen songs, we were the last in the place so decided to call it a night.  I’d love to see Fado again, but in a serious venue where people are there for the music, if that’s possible to find.

It was the Best of Times, it was the Worst of Times

With less than a week spent between Portugal’s two largest cities, it’s little wonder my tales come down to a few visual impressions, trivial facts, and clichéd tourist experiences.  The truth is I’ve been struggling with the pace of our travel in Europe.  There is so much history to experience in each square inch of European space that I perpetually feel as though I’m merely skimming the surface.  What often results from my visits is a feeling of dissatisfaction and frustration buried underneath my enthusiasm.

As a slow traveler and amateur writer, I’ve come to expect a certain depth or uniqueness of experience from myself when I visit a place and then write about it.  I want to share some inimitable inkling of a place with you; I want to experience something beyond the typical tourist-package.  I want to dig deeper, to gain some glimmer of understanding.

But that’s hard in Europe, especially when you’re in transit.

I’m working on accepting that.  To appreciate the fact that I’ve stepped foot into cities that, a few years ago, I wasn’t sure I’d even get the chance to visit at all.  To feel grateful and lucky for my experiences, however brief, superficial, or formulaic they may be.  And to tell myself that I’m doing some sort of reconnaissance mission for our better, longer, slower trip to Europe one day.  That’ll be the trip that will do the likes of Porto and Lisbon, two cities worthy of a wonderful tale, justice.

Happy in Lisbon at sunset… do I really need anything more?

It’d be really nice here in the summer.  This is a phrase I’ve uttered all-too-often over the last few days, as we whizz past fortified cities, national parks, and monasteries.  I’d really like to spend more time here, if only it were warmer.

We’re in transit right now, which means we’re driving a large chunk of road to get from one destination – northern Spain – to another destination – coastal Portugal – in a short period of time.  We’ve been told by local friends that we’ve been incredibly lucky with the weather these past few weeks – our pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago was almost rain-free, our time with Josu and Ana was spent in t-shirts – but that our luck will run out soon.  The good weather simply cannot last.

So we’re cashing in our chips and hitting the road toward balmier climates.  Yep, the time has come for us to head south for the winter.

We’re heading south for the winter! It’s after 12pm and that fog is just lifting now. Soon, those red and white bars on the side of the road will serve to show the depth of snow fallen on the roadside.

Bruno and I have done transits a few times before – notably through Saudi Arabia and between Turkey and France – but we try to limit them.  For Bruno, transits are really tiring.  For me, they are a test of will-power.  I really struggle with transits because I always want to stop everywhere and see everything; I haven’t quite learned to drive with my eyes closed, you see.

But I don’t want to push our luck.  I know what it’s like to travel by camping car when it’s freezing cold out.  I got a recent taste of that when we walked in the Pyrenees Mountains with our friends, Frank and Sharon.  You try wearing every layer of clothing you have, but it’s not enough to keep out the biting outdoor chill.  So you end up spending a lot of time inside, sitting on the bed because there’s nowhere else to sit.  You bang your head on the low part of the ceiling when manoeuvring past the other person who lives in the two-meter-square space with you.  If the shower isn’t hot enough – that is, if there is a shower, at all – you give yourself a three-day cold.  And forget about cooking outside, or cooking at all, really.  So you just go to sleep – there are less than ten hours of sunlight now, anyway.

Wearing everything we own, yet still frozen with Frank and Sharon in the Pyrenees.

Look how cold Bruno looks – and this is in the middle of our day hike!

The cold weather already propelled us quickly forward once in Spain.  See, after our walk in the Pyrenees, we drove down to lower altitude thinking it would solve our temperature problem – and we spent the next week traveling through rain and sub-zero temperatures.  In Ainsa, a medieval town of great importance in the ancient kingdom of Aragon, we wandered through the clean, tastefully-renovated streets, but the ominous clouds pushed us on by lunchtime.  In Jaca, we visited a sports store, instead of the historical center of town, so I could buy thermal leggings.  And at the Monastery of Leyre – the ancient royal pantheon of the early Basque monarchs and center of spiritual, political, and cultural life of Navarra province – we poked around for an hour before driving down from its windy perch.

At last, we arrived in Pamplona, capital of Navarra and a supposedly really cool (as in awesome, not cold) place.  We planned to stay several days; we managed two nights.  On the first night, we caught up with Frank and Sharon again and tried having tapas and drinks outside.  That lasted an hour before all of us were racing for the refuge of our heated camper vans.  The following morning, we visited Pamplona, ate some pintxos (which I promise to write about another time!), saw the bright and funky facades, and moved on.

It was the same pattern in Estella.  The town had only been a hamlet before the Camino de Santiago started passing through its streets in the 11^th century.  We spent a pleasant afternoon wandering down its alleys, soaking up the tiny bit of available sun in its central square, and excitedly counting pelegrinos in preparation for our own upcoming pilgrimage.  But, the cold got to us in Estella too, and we left almost as quickly as we arrived.  And don’t even get me started on the weather in coastal Basque Country.

A quick wander through medieval Ainsa before rain clouds force us on.

The beautiful locale of the Monastery of Leyre was way too windy to stay for the night.

Colorful and funky Pamplona was absolutely freezing, and therefore a challenge to enjoy.

We soaked up as much sun as possible in chilly Estella before heading on.

Both Bruno and I found it rather challenging to be forced on by the cold weather.  It wasn’t the travel rhythm we were used to – nor the temperatures, of course.  There were times that we wondered if we shouldn’t just head south then and there.  Images of Mediterranean beaches lined with bronzed near-naked bodies, of arid deserts teeming with migrating birds, of Andalucian mosques and sunny Sevilla filled our minds.

I’m glad we persevered north and west.  We got to walk the Camino, and we got to meet up with Josu and Ana.  But now it’s time.  Time to head south.

Over the past few days, we’ve breezed past a bunch of really interesting places.  There was the Picos de Europa, a national park of very high repute.  But we’re not masochistic enough to go mountain-climbing in November.  There was Potes, an exceedingly cute town built of old rock, with a river running through it, old granaries, and tons of cafés offering cider and artisanal cheese.

And there was the Monastery of Saint Toribio, containing the largest piece of the True Cross and the fourth most-important pilgrimage for a Christian (indeed, we had even seen signs for the Camino de Santo Toribio while walking the Camino del Norte).

There was Léon, which we passed right through, missing its famous cathedral.  There was Puebla de Sanabria, with its lovely hilltop citadel and riverside walking path.  There was the Parque Nacional Montesinha, where Phil and Angie had spotted wolves last fall – but we couldn’t expect to encounter one in the two hours we spent driving through the park on the way to the Portuguese border.

A view of the majestic Picos de Europa.

Pure charm is Potes.

The Monastery of Santo Toribio, at the top of another windy hill.

Puebla de Sanabria and its photo-friendly citadel.

Sporting my new – and already much-beloved – thermal leggings in the Parque Nacional Montesinha.

And there was Bragança, our first town in Portugal.  Another citadel sat overlooking the modern town.  I spent an afternoon walking around its fortified wall, looking at the white houses with orange Roman-tiled roofs, and listening to the nasal, sing-songy Portuguese of the locals.  It was warmer in the daytime here, but we still needed our winter duvet at night, so the next morning, we left Bragança, too.

I keep telling myself that I’ll get to properly visit all these places one day.  That Bruno and I will be able to experience this part of Europe in better weather.  Or at least with a more well-equipped camping car (Europe has always been Bruno’s retirement plan, you see).  I tell myself how lucky I am to get to visit Europe at all, to get to be a full-time nomad, to get to taste so many places, even if my thirst isn’t always quenched.

And I tell myself that this is the gamble you make when you travel in Europe at this time of year, or when you travel anywhere, anytime, really.  You might be able to book plane tickets and hotel rooms, but you can’t book good weather.

Bragança, our first Portuguese stop.

View of our campsite for the night from Bragança’s hilltop citadel.

It was warm enough here in the middle of the day, but by nightfall we were ready to race south.

We’re almost at the end of this six-day transit.  We’ll be on the coast of Portugal soon.  The sun has continued to follow us on our southern migration, but we have many more kilometers to go before we reach our final wintering spot in southern Morocco.

So the question is: should we carry quickly on south, or tempt fate by slowing our transit down once we reach the Portuguese coast?

To mark our special day, Bruno and I took our bikes out past the whitewashed buildings of the town, over the Roman bridge, and into the marshy salt flats at the outskirts.  Then, we happened upon a ferry boat going to the Ilha de Tavira and decided to hop on.  We ate a picnic lunch I’d packed then wandered along the beach of the 11km-long island, our toes dipped into the Atlantic Ocean.

In the evening, we went out for dinner at a tiny, brightly-decorated Portuguese restaurant in an alley off one of Tavira’s many churches.  We feasted on a seafood platter and a vegetable risotto, both amply dressed in olive oil, as is the Portuguese custom.  A glass of porto, a dessert of flan, and a moonlit walk home completed what was a perfect – and best of all, unplanned – second anniversary.

In honor of our recent celebration, we’re doing something a little different here at Wandering Footsteps.  Since we’re all about sharing our love of travel, we’ve organized a giveaway contest so that you, dear reader, can do a bit of traveling of your own!

We’ve partnered with GPSmycity, a company that offers appsfor Ipad and Iphone of self-guided walks in almost 500 cities around the world (check out the extensive list here).  Ordinarily, the full-version app for each city costs $4.99, but today, 20 lucky readers will win a promo code to download the full version of one city’s self-guided walks FOR FREE!  Your new City Walk app will include a detailed, fully functional city map that works offline (important when traveling) and several carefully selected self-guided city walks to all the must-see sights and several lesser-known locales.

All you have to do for a chance to win a promo code is to like Wandering Footsteps’ Facebook page!  20 randomly-selected people from our new Facebook fans will win a free app to the city of their choice!  (If you already like us on Facebook, why not convince a friend or relative to Like Us and join them on their upcoming trip?)

Don’t waste any time – this competition is open from now until December 11^th December 14th (11:59pm GMT).  So log onto Facebook and Like us now!  (And spread the word – we want as many clicks as possible!)  Winners will be contacted via Facebook for their city choice shortly after December 14^th.

Exciting, isn’t it?  Happy 2^nd wedding anniversary, indeed!

I often wish for this.  And, for a couple of November days in Northern Spain, I got my wish.

We’re with Josu and Ana in Castro Urdiales, a small town at the edge of Cantabria province.  We’re parked on green hills along the coast just in front of the town’s old cemetery.  A muddy path leads to the center of Castro, with its long city beach, striking Gothic church, and alleyways jam-packed with weekenders from Bilbao munching on pinchos and sipping on sunny afternoon glasses of cider.

Castro’s lovely church over its equally lovely port.

The back alleys of Castro are simply bustling today!

Not bad for a free campsite, eh?

Yay, it’s Josu and Ana! (Gotta have some food to accompany our conversation!)

We’re catching up with our overlander friends.  Since we last saw them (at the beginning of the year in Sudan), Josu and Ana have been busy.  They drove through Saudi Arabia, visited Jordan and Israel, took a boat to Italy, left their vehicle in Spain, backpacked on the Trans-Siberian railroad, and cycled over 3,000km in South Korea and Japan.  There’s obviously a lot of news to exchange.

Before meeting Josu and Ana last year, Bruno had told me a lot of stories about them.  One of the first and most frequent ones goes like this: Josu and Ana are Basque.  They are so Basque that when they cross an international border and the immigration official asks them their nationality, they say Basque.  The immigration official looks at their passport and replies, You’re Spanish, and Josu returns, No, we’re Basque.

Well, we spent a few days visiting Spain’s Basque Country before walking the Camino de Santiago, and I have a lot of questions about my experiences.  Josu and Ana are the perfect private tour guides to unlock for me the complex and mysterious world of the Basques.

I first started noticing signs of Basque presence in Pamplona, the capital of Spain’s Navarra province.  Street signs were written in Spanish and Basque – a language filled with uncommon English letters like X and Z.  Tapas wasn’t tapas (or even pinchos) here – it was pintxos.  And, when I listened carefully to the chatter around me, I could decipher sounds that are definitely not part of the Spanish language.  It turns out I was hearing Euskara, one of the oldest languages in the world, and not part of the Roman language system.  I don’t even know how to begin pronouncing the sound “tx.”

We’re in Pamplona, yippee!

Signs are in Spanish AND Basque in Pamplona.

Locals munching away at pintxos, the Basque version of tapas.

Try THIS Basque mouthful!

It turns out that Basque country extends far outside the Spanish limits of the province named Basque Country.  For Basques, Basque Country – or Euskal Herria – is composed of seven provinces – the three officially recognized by Spain, three in France, and Navarra.

The reasons the world doesn’t recognize Basque Country in the same way Basque people do are complex, and their root causes date back centuries.  They are mostly beyond the scope of my understanding, so let’s just say that, as in many other regions of the world, history is a lot messier than the clear-cut nature of borders implies.  It should be no surprise that I’m experiencing my first traces of Basqueness outside official Basque Country.

It was a surprise, though, that when we arrived in Bilbao, Basque Country’s largest city, I heard more Spanish than Euskara.  Bruno and I spent a morning walking around Bilbao’s shopping district – wide boulevards with elegant top brand-name shops – before crossing over a wide river into the city’s historical district.  I came expecting to find Basqueness all over the place, but all I saw were shops selling full body-parts of jamón and the same pintxos bars I experienced in Pamplona.

Jamón is all over Spain.

A tiny alley in historical Bilbao.

It’s no shock to Josu and Ana that I heard so much Spanish in their unofficial capital (the official capital is Vitoria-Gasteiz, Gasteiz being the Basque name for the city).  Basque Country is a great place to live, and many Spaniards want to make their home here.  At first I assumed this was typical Basque pride talking, but then I learned that it actually comes down to politics: Basque Country is actually an autonomous community of Spain, something that was agreed upon in the 1970s.

Basically, unlike the other provinces of Spain, Basque Country manages their own public finances and has their own police corps.  In practice, this means that Basque Country gets to use their tax money as needed before sending their leftovers to Madrid.  (Other provinces must do the reverse – send their tax money to Madrid and wait for the capital to redistribute the funds across the country as they see fit.)  This means that Basque Country’s services and infrastructure are better than a lot of the rest of Spain, drawing many Spaniards to the province.

We go out for pintxos with Josu and Ana one afternoon in Castro.  As we sit at the bar sipping our cider, the bartender tells Josu in Spanish about his desire to move to Bilbao.  Yet another Spanish-speaker in Bilbao, perhaps?  At least they immigrate freely now, says Josu.  In the Franco years, the influx of Spaniards in Basque Country (officially there as manpower for a growing industrialist economy) often served to spy on the Basque Nationalists and dilute Basque culture.

On our way to pinchos in Castro with Josu and Ana.

At the pinchos bar. The guy pouring the cider is the one who wants to live in Bilbao.

Indeed, the Franco years were a difficult time for the Basques.  Among other things, Franco forbade them from speaking their language.  An entire generation of Basques were raised unable to learn Euskara.  Ana learned as an adult – in fact, it was through a Basque-only group trip that she met Josu! – but it wasn’t an easy language to learn, and she admits to not speaking as well as the generations older and younger than her.  Javi, Phil and Angie’s friend that we had met a few weeks before, is also Basque, but he doesn’t much speak Euskara at all because he had felt forced into learning it after Franco, so rebelled.

It seems the newer generations – people my age and younger – are embracing, rather than rebelling against, their Basque heritage.  On our drive to Bilbao I noticed a town called Durango on the map.  “Durango” is the family name of my brother’s long-time Ecuadorian girlfriend, Ara.  I wanted to stop there – just for a minute – to tell Ara I’d been to her family’s Spanish town.

Without knowing it, we’d party-crashed on Durango’s yearly patron saint celebration, and we found ourselves in the middle of a Basque celebration like no other.  An all-men choir sand traditional Basque songs.  Little kids dressed in traditional clothing, old men wore Basque berets, and young adults sported t-shirts displaying the True Basque Country map – all seven provinces of it.  Best of all, there was a big strength and endurance competition underway, the infamous Basque Herri Kirolak.

Little girls in traditional outfits.

The True map of Basque Country, according to Basques.

Basques sports are rooted in their old rural lifestyle.  They involve things like chopping and sawing wood, or dragging, lifting and tossing heavy things (bales of hay, sacks of vegetables, stones, hoes).  The name of each game is indecipherable to a non-Basque, as the amount of “tx” and “tz” sounds is astounding.

In Durango, we witnessed the lifting of various weights, the carrying of heavy sacks, and the throwing of bales of hay over very high poles.  My favorite games involved wood.  In one, a man climbed a makeshift tree by cutting V-shapes into the trunk then placing wooden poles up the sides so that he could chop the top tip off the tree.  In another, two teams of two cutters chopped series of tree trunks arranged on the ground.  They had to stand on the trunk and hack down in V-shapes from both sides.   This game went on for over twenty minutes, and had the crowd watching enrapt throughout.

I didn’t understand the exact purpose of each game, and the MC’s play-by-play in Euskara didn’t help.  Still, I couldn’t believe my good fortune.  In the little town of Durango, we’d inadvertently stumbled into the heart of Basque Country and saw that Basqueness is, indeed, alive and well.

The big games in Durango.

That’s a bale of hay up there.

My favorite game.

My other favorite.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  The Basques have been around for a very long time, and they’ve always managed to bounce back after hard times.  According to the book I’m reading now, The Basque History of the World (lent to me by none other than Josu and Ana):

When Basques first began appearing on the stage of recorded history, even before there was a name for them, they were observed acting like Basques, playing out the same roles that they have been playing ever since: defending their land and culture, making complex choices about the degree of independence that was needed to preserve their way of life, while looking to the rest of the world for commercial opportunities to ensure their prosperity.

I’m only 80 pages into the book, but, so far, the author, Mark Kurlansky, credits the Basque people with a lot of things – the best boat-makers, the first and most prolific whalers, the first to salt (and therefore preserve) cod, and the first to arrive in the Americas (Newfoundland, to be exact).

It seems the Basques weren’t only farmers, but fishermen too.  In Lekeitio, a small fishing village near Bilbao that we visited on Javi and Jasmine’s recommendation (it’s where they met), Bruno and I saw this firsthand.  Lekeitio has a long history of whaling – the town’s seal even includes an image of a whale.  We were there only briefly (rainy, cold weather), but we spent an afternoon along the charming port.

Lequeitio, or Lekeitio in Basque.

Lekeitio’s lovely port.

At a café in Lekeitio, we befriended some French-speakers who turned out to be from the French Pays Basque.  When we told them about our worldwide travels, they asked if we’d been to Bayonne, the capital of their Basque region.  You wouldn’t believe the shock on their faces when we replied that we hadn’t been there yet.  But it’s the best place in the world, they cried.

At dawn at our campsite near Castro Urdiales, Bruno and I watch the sun rise over breakfast with Josu and Ana.  From our viewpoint, we can see the port of Bilbao and the big hill behind which is their beloved Basque city.  The sun rises just beyond that hill.

“Hey look,” we say to Josu and Ana, “the sun is rising over Bilbao!”

“Of course,” they shrug, not at all surprised.  “Bilbao is the center of the world!”  The statement is a joke, of course, but the pride associated with that statement is not.  Josu and Ana, Javi, and the French Basques in Lekeitio all share two things – they are Basque, and they are proud of it.  If Mr. Kurlansky is correct, they have good reason to be.

Breakfast with Josu and Ana.

When the sun rose a few hours ago, it rose over Bilbao, off in the distance.

In recent years, the Basques have made international headlines for the negative, rather than the good, however.  Sabino Arana, the creator of Basque Nationalism, was xenophobic and violent, and some of that violence has lasted until today, in the armed separatist group, ETA.  The group wants independence from Spain and France, and, though they are currently negotiating peace, they’ve been known to break cease-fires in the past.

Josu and Ana don’t want independence, necessarily.  They just want to be recognized as separate from the Spanish.  They feel Basque first, and they want Spain to recognize that they are a distinct ethnic group within the whole.  Josu’s declarations at border controls illustrate that, but so do his wishes for us to visit him in his country one day, as though us camping with him on the beaches of Castro Urdiales doesn’t count.

The tide is beginning to shift in Spain in ways that may have deep implications for the Basques.  For the first time, Basque interests are at the head in Navarra province because the small Basque factions finally united and carried the election.  In the Spanish constitution is a clause whereby if Navarra wants to become part of Basque Country, it can (though Josu thinks Madrid will try to change that constitutional clause now).  And, with Catalonia gaining so much sway in their bid for independence, the Basques are watching carefully.  Whatever Europe determines regarding the Catalonia question will impact the direction the Basque government takes with its own independence quest.

Whatever happens, I have a feeling that Josu, Ana, and their fellow Basques will continue to be as smart as they have for centuries – defending their land and culture while making complex choices about the degree of independence that is needed to preserve their way of life, a way of life I’ve come just a little closer to understanding after a few days with my own private tour guides.

Thank you for being such great tour guides (and friends), Josu and Ana.