Andalucía in Autumn

A travelogue by J. E. Vidal

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I – The dilemma

II – Reservations

III – The bottom

IV – The tool

V – The hassle

VI – The inconvenient rendezvous

VII – Mucho gusto

Photo Album

Using equal parts Spanish and sign language, the ticket agent explained that the last train to Granada was sold out. I wondered if I understood correctly. Despite a rudimentary ability to speak his language, listening was never my forte in any tongue. Fortunately, that was my girlfriend’s specialty and she was now in the crossfire of a conversation that could have a catastrophic effect on our relationship. Our entire vacation was an intricate piece of machinery that depended on getting from Madrid to Granada that night. Failure on Day One would have repercussions for the subsequent seven. 

This contradicted what I had told her when we bought our airfare months before. It was easy to get around Spain, I said. A few years before, I winged my way across Iberia booking wheels and roofs at the last minute. However, my days as a solo traveler had come to an end. The dream of having a partner who was equal parts romantic and adventurous was now fulfilled as I gazed into her anxious eyes. 

If getting around Spain was so easy, then why did it become increasingly clear we were going to be stuck in Madrid? 

After being together for almost a year and a half, Katherine and I were overdue for a big trip overseas. We were seasoned international travelers. Over the course of several trips I had covered most of Western Europe, plus Morocco, Japan and a long stint in South Africa. Besides parts of Europe, Katherine also had Turkey under her belt, but her only experience as a solo traveler was in Scotland when she discovered the liberation and the loneliness. 

I loved traveling abroad on my own, but had long desired the chance to do it with a girlfriend. For all of its blissful benefits, it came with potential peril. If we proved to be incompatible while traveling, then there would be little future to our relationship. We were already entrenched in each other’s lives, linked to an apartment lease, furniture and mutual friends. If the Spain trip failed, the repercussions would be devastating. 

My life depended on this trip.

It was difficult to think clearly in the busy RENFE ticket office, full of anxious customers waiting for their number to be called. Our conversation with the ticket agent hadn’t ended, yet my mind was furiously arranging back-up plans. Do we rent a car? Do we scramble for a hotel? It was a multi-dimensional puzzle, logistics intertwined with language, frugality conflicting with reality.

There was another option, the agent tried to explain. One that I hadn’t even considered.

“Primera clase.”

I knew what that meant—a splurge. This would’ve been a minor issue had I not recently sabotaged my income source on a risky career gamble, a new job that cut my previous salary in half. Dollars that I once flippantly tossed around were now under tight scrutiny and yet every option at this point was going to blow our budget.

He showed us the price for a first class ticket. It was unexpectedly not much more than second.

Oh.

But we couldn’t sit together.

Hmm.

The seats were one row apart.

Ah, muy bien.

With time to spare until the evening train to Granada, Katherine and I idled in Atocha station, relieved by the tickets in hand. The disorientation of the overnight flight clouded our judgement, and still we managed to figure our way from the airport to the main train station, fumbling with the ticket machines and deciphering the foreign city subway system. Although daylight glowed through the station windows, we hadn’t actually been outside since we entered JFK, half a day ago.

Atocha’s lush atrium made up for our absence from the natural world. Artificial ponds filled with turtles and fish, surrounded by dense clusters of vegetation. Food court ham-and-cheese sandwiches kept us satiated, as did the beer that washed them down. Although it wasn’t technically a layover, we were trapped, trying to entertain our sleep-deprived minds as they grew foggier, anxiously watching the clock, eager to be in motion again.

Our first-class seats were barely separated, with one row and the aisle between us. Katherine sat in a comfy window-side single while I volunteered for the aisle seat in a booth of four, ready and willing to accept strangers into my orbit. Yet for all the possibilities who might have filled the three seats around me, I never imagined the mocha-robed nuns. They were adorably friendly, two of them in their fifties or sixties and a younger one around my age (it was hard to tell from their concealing habits). There was a joy in their mannerisms, an excitement to be out of the convent. Seeing nuns in Spain was like seeing geishas in Japan, the waning remnants of an old world. Using gestures and fragments of words, they asked more about me than I was able to ask about them. Katherine listened with clarity and waved when I introduced her. The sisters were on their way to some sort of gathering in or near Córdoba. Perhaps it was a pilgrimage, or one of the many saints’ feasts.  

The nuns were well-versed in human nature, specifically an innocent and playful view of the world. They weren’t cynical or judgmental. They weren’t reclusive or put off by strangers. I couldn’t claim the same for myself, but their positivity spread like pixie dust. This was the adventure—not so much the places, but the people along the way.

After the train set in motion and jet lag sunk its talons into my body, the nuns lowered their voices but not their giddy companionship. They sweetly gossiped amongst themselves. Katherine loved watching them whisper around me, until she too succumbed to slumber.

It was dark when I woke. There was an air of anticipation in the cabin, one of the perks of first class: meal service, complete with good silverware and cloth napkins. Only the sisters were served because their destination was closer, but they gave me two mini bottles of unconsecrated wine to share with my companion.

Half the train cleared out in Córdoba. The nuns departed with friendly farewells and opened space for Katherine to sit beside me. We had another hour to go, and enjoyed our own meal service in the almost-empty car. The world outside was no longer visible.

When the train terminated in Granada, we stepped onto a darkened platform, as if we arrived in the middle of the night. But the city was wide awake. A taxi brought us uphill until narrow streets forbade further passage. We had to continue on foot, packs mounted to our backs, navigating according to a guidebook map, passing bars and restaurants alive with merriment. It faded away as we continued down a quiet street closed off to anything with more than two wheels. 

If not for the address, the entrance to la Casa del Aljibe was inconspicuous and dormant, nestled between a long line of densely packed buildings. On the other side of the heavy old door, the hostess welcomed us, patiently awaiting our arrival. Monica spoke in fragments of English as she showed us to our little ground-side chamber, aside a courtyard too dark to observe. A bed, a table, a kitchenette and a tiny bathroom—a cozy space full of quirky character, more like a homestay than a hotel.

Our bodies collapsed in jet-lagged exhaustion, melting into the mattress.

We made it.

Of all the places in the world, we chose Spain. At the time, Madrid had the best airfare from New York, better than Lisbon, which was my preference. Getting around without a car was a factor; my heart desired a European road trip, but that would have to wait. Spain also had mystery and romance, an old country rich with history and flavor, a vernacular that was almost familiar, a modern infrastructure built around an agrarian past, ancient castles and fortresses populating villages of all sizes as well as the spaces in-between. There was no shortage of things to see and do, where even a lifetime of exploration one would never see it all. A square-shaped country, surrounded almost entirely by salt water, the onetime conqueror of the New World, the land of Catholic kings, Moorish occupations, inquisitions, and military despots. It was the land of romance, passion, flamenco, tapas, sangria, golden fields, green mountains, blue coasts, so of course it was an ideal place for a romantic getaway. Like me, my girlfriend didn’t want to sit around on a beach. She wanted to explore old cities, hike mountain trails, see fantastic scenery, indulge in unforgettable meals, imbibe and unwind, and be alone together, unburdened by jobs and chores, the entrapments and distractions of quotidian existence. 

In a perfect scenario, we would’ve been freely roaming the continent for weeks or months, having quit our jobs or put them on ice. However our whimsical twenties were halted by the sobriety of our thirties, with career plans and longterm savings goals pushing aside the desire for untethered travel. This was just a vacation, a short escape from monotony and stress, temporarily answering to ourselves instead of other people.

We woke to Andalusian sunshine and late summer air. There was no reason to rise early, no errands to run, no apartment demanding that we clean it or improve it, no social obligations, nor any trains to catch — just a midday reservation to see the mighty Alhambra. The biggest motivator was a craving for coffee.

The central core of Granada wasn’t overwhelmingly big. Katherine and I meandered downhill through the ancient Moorish quarter, Albayzín, and found a perfect place for breakfast on a pedestrian alley near a main plaza. We snapped photos of our café con leches, our food and each other, escalating a competition of who could take a more interesting shot of the same thing. We only did it for ourselves, unburdened by the compulsion (and technological ability) to share our images on a social network, fishing for approval from some distant audience, live-streaming our vacation instead of enjoying it.

Spain was real in the fresh morning atmosphere, with the promise of a hot October day. Although Madrid was our port of entry, we were really visiting Andalusia, the peninsula’s southernmost province. Granada was the last holdout of the Moorish occupation of Iberia, and although the people were finally pushed out during the reconquista of 1492, the legacy of islamic culture remains, most significantly in the monstrous Alhambra that dominates the city’s central mountain—a sprawling, seven-hundred-year-old palace built by the emirate.

Ascending the stronghold had the thrill of a risk-less adventure, following a wide cobblestone path that evolved into a stream-lined canyon. This wasn’t the way the guidebook recommended, but it was technically a route we could take. Ramparts soon towered above us, and it felt like we were sneaking into the castle. And with few people on the path, we were free from the pressure and irritation of other sightseers. That ended at the site’s garden entrance, where swarms of tourists waited for their allotted entry time, idling at outdoor tables, chasing restless children, shooting unremarkable photos.

It took hours to explore the old palace. Yes, it was amazing—an endless stream of impressive rooms and courtyards, magnificent islamic architecture, stone-etched arabic calligraphy, fountains and terraces. The timed entry made it possible to appreciate the space without being overcrowded. Its rich history was too vast to process at the time—the succession of royal dynasties, a mind-numbing series of emirates, sultans, kings and queens, plus the chronology of its construction, the artistic and architectural styles that were used—so many facts that it was easy to tune it all out. The Alhambra briefly became the seat of Los Reyes Catholicos (Isabella and Ferdinand) after pushing out the Moors, where they listened to a bold pitch from an ambitious Italian adventurer and finalized plans to banish Muslims and Jews from the newly unified Catholic kingdom. Eventually the Palacio Real relocated to Madrid while the Alhambra was abandoned, neglected, vandalized, partially destroyed, rediscovered and restored to be the tourist magnet that it is today.

Our photography competition escalated. I struggled with the limits of my pocket-sized digital camera while assisting Katherine with her own. This was the peril of point-and-shoot cameras: they were lightweight and inconspicuous but never took as great photos as a bulky film camera. The instant gratification of digital, plus the ability to overshoot everything was an easier way to hoard memories that would be tucked into a computer folder and eventually forgotten in favor of the latest and greatest. Yet for now, the act of photography was part of our fun. As for Katherine, who was fiercely competitive, it was a game she was determined to win.

After a brief beer siesta, we ascended the alcazaba, the citadel that fortified the plateau’s prominent corner, scaling the tourist-clogged ramparts to take in an unforgettable panorama of the city and the foothills of the Sierra Nevada coated in hazy afternoon sunlight. A large fire burned in the distance. In the dense cluster of buildings to the north, we spotted the distinct courtyard of our little pensión.

On the opposite side of the main palace stood a 14th century villa—the Generalife, an odd name that sounded like some new age Christian church or a dubious herbal pyramid scheme. Like its grand neighbor, this one featured beautiful gardens, courtyards and fountains, enhanced by the late afternoon light and thinning crowds. Katherine enjoyed the scenery while I struggled to fish a painful dust speck out of my contact.

On the way out, we discovered the beaten path we were supposed to take in—tree-lined and well-groomed unlike our rough and ragged entrance. The Alhambra was now closed, but that didn’t deter a bride from sneaking in the take photos in her wedding dress. Our inaugural journey down the main path was more magical in the waning glow of Andalusian sun, meandering with the leisurely tourists. Drained from the tour, we made a slow ascent through the Albayzín. Peering between the buildings, the now-familiar Alhambra was above us, coated in golden light. We got a little lost, easy to do when the entire hillside faced the elevated castle. I tried to use the GPS on my new iPhone but either the technology failed or my caution about data-roaming charges got in the way.

Night quickly fell as we refreshed at the hotel. Granada was now alive with evening vivacity. We were headed towards a restaurant recommended by Monica, but as we drew closer, the flashing lights of a plaza carnival made us worry. It felt touristic and crude, not cozy and romantic. Without hesitation, we returned to our breakfast alley where a lively bar lured us in, packed elbow to elbow with the happy hour crowd. We pushed through the chatty patrons and gained glasses of vino tinto, while eying the tapas consumed around us. If we were lucky a table would open up. 

Jostling elbows, we befriended our neighbors. They seemed to find joy in our joy. Despite the volume, Katherine and I tried to hold a conversation. Her voice was naturally quiet while I made risky presumptions about the things I misheard. At one point she referenced the cured pigs legs hanging from the rafters, and I, above the Spanish chatter, explained that “jamon” meant “ham.” She laughed at her boyfriend’s embarrassing over-explanation. The word today is “mansplaining,” yet for me, it will always be “jamon!”

Eventually we got a table and enjoyed a series of platas. “Mucho gusto!” I told the harried waiter in an effort to express our enjoyment of each little platter. It was exactly what we wanted: cozy, romantic, memorable. 

Mucho gusto indeed. 

We felt some regret in leaving our initial destination so soon, but we ran out of things to do and were excited for what lie ahead. For fear of disappointment, we returned to the same alleyway for breakfast, even if the first morning’s magic had worn off. All trips are this way: a first impression cannot be repeated, especially if it’s spectacular. Better to seek out new experiences than wear a good one down. After some last minute souvenir shopping and a farewell to Monica, we flagged a taxi that whisked us to the train station a little too fast.

There was no luxury on the 2nd class RENFE train out of Granada, not even a café car to soothe our appetites and thirst. The dramatic scenery made it tolerable and we tried to ignore the American hiker girls who tainted the atmosphere with their loud and vapid chatter. The joy of traveling abroad is always ruined when hearing a stranger speak one’s native tongue. Katherine and I pretended to be French for fear of drawing their attention. It was equal parts game and defensive measure. The last thing we wanted was for other Americans to infiltrate our private tour of Spain.

Katherine was already exhausted. In the middle of the night, she was woken by voices. It took her a moment to make sense of them, disoriented by a dark, unfamiliar place, no longer restrained by first-day travel fatigue. Then she remembered the courtyard. The pensión’s invisible guests were idling the late hours outside. Their quiet voices permeated our adjacent room. All that separated us from the outside world was a wall, and so her mind fixated on a nocturnal fear of bugs entering the room. Unable to see anything in the darkness, she populated the space with imaginary critters, spiders or worse, crawling on the walls, the ceiling, under the bed, across the sheets. It made for a sleepless night.

The Ronda train station ejected us into an unimpressive little city. Mounted by our backpacks, we took what looked like a short walk on the map, heading down nearly barren streets. It felt like a ghost town, something out of a Western, a few old timers sitting by storefronts, watching two drifters stroll precariously into town. With steeply lowered expectations, my girlfriend and I ducked into a bland little bar for something to eat. It was the height of siesta and we were felt lucky to relieve our thirst with cerveza so we could carry on a little further. The bar soon shuttered up and forced us back onto the street.

This place was not what we expected.

One idea for our Spain trip was to enjoy something other than urban tourist hotspots, like a national park or small towns off the beaten path. Ronda sounded interesting, but it wasn’t until I looked it up on Google Earth and shifted the perspective from 2D to 3D that I saw the magnificent terrain unfold—a deep gorge cutting through a massive slab of rock, then dropping sharply into a valley. The town was built on top of the chasm with a short bridge straddling the mouth. Although it had been inhabited before the fifth century BCE, and repeatedly invaded since post-war Spain shifted to a tourism economy, Ronda felt like our own personal discovery. Yet soon after we arrived, it felt like we made a mistake. 

Continuing towards the center of town, we discovered that if we had gone a bit further we would’ve found a more bustling thoroughfare lined with bars and restaurants. The end of siesta may have played a factor, or the daily ritual was defied to favor the tourists. A no-frills pizza lunch was enough to energize us for the final stretch. 

With the golden afternoon in its prime and beer coursing through our veins, our arrival at the picturesque heart of Ronda was a sensory experience. El Tajo canyon was nearly invisible as we crossed the stocky but long-legged Puente Nuevo, teeming with pedestrians and a narrow line of slow moving cars, but the world around it—cliffside buildings and a panoramic valley to the west—assured us we were atop something magnificent. Terraces populated every available ridge before the gorge made a steep descent, 120 meters down to the nearly invisible Guadalevín River that for ages had been cutting through the rocks. How quickly we wanted to shed our packs and return to savor the scenery.

The Hotel San Gabriel was a luxurious splurge. Weeks before our trip, I accepted a new job in an industry I wanted to break into, and took a steep pay cut to get a foot in the door. Katherine and I didn’t want my newfound austerity to damper the our desire for a restful vacation. Compared to the pleasant simplicity of our accommodations in Granada, the Hotel San Gabriel had a bigger feeling of hospitality, from the grand staircase of its sky-lit lobby to our comfortable little room with moorish woodwork and sky-blue walls. More than anything, it felt grown up, with the modest luxury I avoided in my twenties.

We quickly returned to the gorge before the perfect light faded. It was equally as breathtaking without the enhancement of an alcoholic buzz, especially as the sun set over the sierras. For dinner, we scored a canyon-side table at one of the many cliff-clinging restaurants, dining on the local specialty of oxtail stew and relishing the cool evening air amongst likeminded out-of-towners. This too felt grown-up, a quiet place where one could hear his companion’s voice and read the menu without holding it up to a candle.

“Mucho gusto,” I said without needing to shout.

Determined to reach the bottom of El Tajo, Katherine and I made it our primary quest. The San Gabriel had a guest library stocked with regional guidebooks and Katherine found one of the only trail guides written in English. We flipped through it over breakfast at a slow-service outdoor café. While it never answered our most pressing question, the book listed several day-hikes we could take from the city. One in particular would bring us to the valley below on a not-too-strenuous loop lasting no more than a few hours. 

Our minds were set. We stepped into a cozy little market and designed sandwiches to go: bocadillas with sliced sausage and cheese on soft baguette, plus bottles of water to keep us hydrated on a hot October day. The burly shopkeeper kindly fulfilled our requests, adding local flavor to our impending adventure.

The descent was easy. A cliffside park had a stairway that led down to a dirt path that zigzagged further below. We watched as the Puente Nuevo, and all of Ronda, rose above us. One path veered back toward the gorge but we didn’t want to risk taking it. Instead, we sallied forth beneath the intensifying sun towards rolling fields of green and gold. A dirt road appeared before us, so, presuming this was our desired route, we took it.

Despite being in English, the trail guide was written by someone who lacked full command of the language. Its clumsy instructions were more poetic than descriptive. I wish I had captured the strange wording, but it instead of saying something clear like “after 50 meters, cross the creek bed and turn left”, the book would be more abstract, “time will pass until a trickling waterway moves you away from the mountains.” The hand drawn maps were equally enigmatic. We presumed we were headed the right way.

Early on, we passed an older couple who seemed to know what they were doing. A cordial exchange of “buenos dias” mutually outed us as English-speakers, so we showed them the guidebook. They were a May-December Swiss couple, friendly and naturally abrupt. We named them Simon and Brigitte.

They squinted at the book for a moment. “You have to go up!” said Simon. 

“That is correct,” said Brigitte, drawing her own conclusions.

We thanked them and continued on our way. The earthen path led us through groves of olive and walnut trees. The trail’s intention was to loop through the valley and eventually end back at the gorge. A troupe of bicyclists passed us, heading towards who-knew-where. Near a cluster of buildings, the road forked and misled us towards a small power station. Correcting the dead end caused us to encounter the Swiss couple again. We blamed the complementary guidebook.

“You get what you pay for,” Simon smiled dryly.

The book mentioned some sort of inn or hotel, so we felt relieved when we came across a small compound roasting in the midday sun: La Hacienda Puerto de las Muelas, a pleasant secluded getaway for those fortunate to have a car. In another life, this might’ve been our destination on an Iberian road trip. Instead, it was a turning point that would bring us back towards Ronda. 

Under the blazing sun, there was no shade on the new road. A river bed added another complication to the journey. A wide stream of water cut across the road, deep enough to soak our shoes if not for a scattering of stones. Precariously, we hopped across without slipping or stumbling. Now that we forded a river, it was finally feeling like an adventure.

Shade continued to elude us as we searched for a place to picnic. The best we could find was at the foot of some strange cubic silo on the side of the road. The bocadillas tasted extraordinary and we had an unobstructed view of the gorge and the stone bridge that connected its ridges. It would’ve been perfect if not for the bees who also found our sandwiches appealing. They kept us moving, returning to Ronda far faster than it took to get away, ascending another cliffside trail and emerging in an undiscovered part of town. 

We collapsed beneath the umbrellas of a white-walled outdoor café, and guzzled the most refreshing of beers, intrigued by the fact that the bar appeared to be staffed by children.

After cleaning up at the hotel, we set out to explore more of Ronda’s nooks and crannies, more determined to find a way to the bottom of the gorge. We could see occasional bodies moving far below, but how did they get there? Supposedly there was an old bathhouse-turned-museum that connected to the ravine but our inability to find it forced us to surrender. Instead we had a little photography competition while we searched for a hidden staircase. Katherine was constantly taking inventive textural shots with shallow depth of field while I, despite my deeper photographic experience, was embarrassed by my failure to top her images. She was clever and inspired. I mostly documented our journey, more editorial than anything artistic. 

Over late afternoon drinks we contemplated the mystery of El Tajo, sitting across from the cliffside park where we began our morning journey, la Plaza de María Auxiliadora. It was another perfect sun-soaked afternoon, sitting in the breezy shade, the air a perfect temperature, our heads gently humming, wishing moments like this could last forever. Condensation formed on our golden glasses (another photo op) and we pecked at the little dish of complementary olives. Horse-drawn carriages repeatedly galloped around the corner to the surprise of unsuspecting pedestrians.

“Uno mas,” I said to the waiter, guessing that this was the proper way to order another round. One was never enough.

Katherine and I recalled that the stairway down eventually split in two directions; the route we didn’t take must lead to the bottom of the gorge. There was only one way to find out, but it would have to wait until morning.

After sunset, we had a mediocre meal on Ronda’s main plaza. The evening chill made us regret sitting outside, especially as our uninspired pasta dishes quickly turned cold. A romantic stroll through town made up for it, along an illuminated footpath that ran along the dramatic cliffs, invisible in the darkness except for the tiny lights of the few structures far below. The path took us past the bullfighting ring, said to be one of the finest in Spain, but we paid it little notice in part to avoid thoughts of its purpose. Katherine had fierce feelings about animal cruelty and while I found interest in the national sport, I also detested its pointless brutality. 

An outdoor café near the Puente Nuevo allowed us another round of drinks, savoring the evening air as salamanders crawled on globe-sized streetlights. Pleasantly tipsy, we crossed the massive crevice, down empty, narrow streets which had the magic of after-hours Paris, feeling we had the whole place to ourselves.

Katherine’s determination had us up early. Our time in Ronda was quickly coming to an end and if we left without reaching the bottom of El Tajo, it would forever be a failure. Her instinct led us back to the park with the descending staircase, but instead of turning left when the stone steps came to an end, we went right towards the canyon, passing a little crumbling shanty that might have been occupied. 

The Puente Nuevo towered above us as we passed between its thick, two-hundred-year-old pylons, following the rushing waters upstream. We may have been the only ones down there, but there was a beaten path leading around the pool of algae-green water, past what was either a little filtration plant or a pumping station. Far above we spied tiny heads peering over edge, probably contemplating the same question we had the day before. 

Legend said that the chasm was used as a dumping ground for political enemies during the Spanish Civil War. Any remnants of such a bleak way to go had long been erased. It was serene and perfectly illuminated in the early morning shadows and a slice of the clear Andalusian sky. Eventually the gorge narrowed, the path ended, and we turned around, proud of our accomplishment. 

We reached the bottom.

Triumphs never last long. Hours later, we were on the sun-bleached coast, kicking ourselves for getting off at the wrong bus stop. Everything about the day had been pleasant so far: a hot shower and filling breakfast at the plush Hotel San Gabriel, souvenir scouting on the walk to the Ronda train station, foraging for snacks at a sprawling supermarket, a scenic mountain train ride, and arrival in perhaps the most memorable harbor on earth.

Katherine had no reason to be impressed with Algeciras—it was a sprawling industrial port. Only when the bus set in motion could I point out the spectacle: the gigantic tooth of Gibraltar protruding above an otherwise flat land, its cloud-covered peak generating British climate for the British outpost. The sight was hard to appreciate amongst the trafficked causeways and towering port cranes, but the scenery improved as we continued west along coastal foothills dotted with massive white windmills and big billboards advertising boat trips across the Mediterranean. I kept watching the vast expanse, waiting for it to appear—and there it was, I exclaimed to my companion: the breathtaking panorama of the North African coast, fourteen kilometers away.

Tarifa was the southern tip of Spain, a little old seaside town with two major bus stops. How were we to know which one was right? We had no choice but to walk. Fortunately, our energy was fresh and the walk tolerable in the heat of the day. An arched passageway told us we were getting close as we passed through the antiquated city wall and into a labyrinth. The narrow streets protected us from the sun as we located Hostal Africa, a colorful, no-frills hotel popular with sunburned backpackers.

Siesta time slowed down our ability to explore the city beyond its intricate old passageways, where an occasional stray dog was more visible than people. This peninsular point was one of the original Muslim conquests during the eighth century, led by a Berber general named Tarif (his commander earned a more prominent namesake: Jabal Tariq – “Tariq’s Mountain,” which evolved into “Gibraltar”) Today Tarifa is popular with windsurfers, although I chose it for the same reason as General Tarif: its proximity to Morocco.

There was little to do while the city took its afternoon slumber. We sat in the breezy shade outside a café with beers to reward our 100 kilometer journey from Ronda. A friendly old man in a white tank top sat beside us and didn’t hesitate to strike up conversation, with his very limited English to match our equally limited Spanish. Rudimentary hand gestures were his best language, often repeating certain words and statements. His name was Pepe and we offered to buy him a drink, so he enjoyed a glass of milk on us. 

Pepe sounded like he had once traveled the world. Or maybe he had always lived in Andalusia. It was difficult to tell—his tongue was hampered by age. We listened initially out of politeness and eventually out of hope that fascinating tales would emerge from a primary palette of colors. Sadly nothing did. Whatever grand tales the old man truly had to tell were lost in translation and the sun-bleached passage of time. Frequently he claimed he was “fuerte como Presidente Kennedy,” flexing his right bicep as a show of his unwavering strength. I never thought of Kennedy as the epitome of muscular strength; then again I wasn’t around during his prime. His influence was enough to inspire this Spaniard for fifty years.

Tarifa eventually reawakened. Our first mission was to source ferry tickets to Morocco. I wanted to take Katherine to Tangier, the closest taste of Africa I could give her during our limited time in Iberia. This was partly to impress her and partly to revisit the intense time I had spent in Morocco, traveling alone. She had heard some of my stories, enough to be suspicious of my trustworthiness as a traveling companion. I had made some “friends” during my adventure and was invited to see sides of the North African country that were not part of a standard itinerary.

Tangier would only be a day trip—what tales could come out of that?

The intense winds of the strait blasted us as we walked along the beach, what was once the edge of the known world, the gateway to the vast Atlantic Ocean. The ancients referred to it as the Pillars of Hercules. What the mythological strongman did to earn the title is up to interpretation (did he pull the two landmasses together?), however one pillar is the standout protrusion of Gibraltar and the other is any one of the peaks the North African side. From the beach it looked like any other coastline, but knowing its historic significance, glimpsing the other world across the waters, made it a profound experience. 

The wind carved interesting patterns out of sand and pelted our ankles as the grains did its bidding. We watched brave windsurfers attempt to harness the elements, amongst big bursts of sea spray backlit by the afternoon sun. Faint freighter ships glided in the distant haze. 

The bottle of wine we bought in Ronda wasn’t going to open itself. Since our accommodations weren’t premium enough to offer in-room corkscrews, Katherine and I set off to find what should be a common tool in a land where wine was as plentiful as water. However this was a sleepy, barebones outpost on an ancient sea. The sole wineshop in old town didn’t sell the essential device, but the shopkeeper knew where we could find one.

“Chino! Chino!” she said, pointing to the road.

Presumably there was a well-known man named Chino who sold such devices. Maybe he wore khaki pants. Perhaps he looked like Al Pacino.

The streets were almost desolate. Certainly we were headed in the direction she pointed—there was only one shop-lined street to take.

Sure enough, we came upon a moderately-sized home goods store, actively open for business, its aisles densely packed with every imaginable need. As we searched for a corkscrew, we noticed that the staff was of asian descent.

“Chino!” we quietly exclaimed to each other, adding a new word to our limited vocabulary.

Coming from the melting pot of America, it was always strange to observe foreigners in other countries. Not that I was surprised to see immigrants in Spain, but that it never entered my mind. In Spain, you expect to see Spaniards, forgetting that this empire once circled (and enslaved) the globe, not considering that it is also, for many, an attractive land of opportunity. What drew these Chinese immigrants to Tarifa? Knowing the hardships and successes such immigrants had had in the US, how was the experience for them in Spain? Were they treated as second-class residents, with suspicion and racism? Or were they warmly welcomed into a community that attracted visitors from all over the world? These were the deeper mysteries of travel, details that were always overlooked during a brief visit. Pepe had much more to say, but we had neither the time nor the language comprehension to hear it. “Los chinos” had tales too, but they were too diligent for idle chat. In a split second, a young shopkeeper found what we needed. Seconds later, a cashier took our money and said, “Gracias.”

Tarifa’s main plaza had a row of open air restaurants where we dined as the seaside air turned chilly. Katherine and I shared a big pot of steaming seafood stew as stray dogs made their rounds, begging at every table, charming despite their tired eyes and scruffy fur. Katherine tossed them bits of bread.

“I want to adopt a dog,” she said. “A rescue.”

I knew this already and was onboard, even if an animal was more responsibility than I was ready to accept. To Katherine, it was a dream she’d had for years. She sometimes walked rescue dogs at a shelter in Brooklyn. The heart she had for all those animals was tremendous. 

The strays were a diverse lot. They worked the tables independently but seemed to be part of the same pack. Self-sufficient and successful. No one seemed to mind their presence. Occasionally a waiter shoed one away if it got too daring, but otherwise they were an accepted part of life in Tarifa.

At Hostal Africa, the bottle of wine was opened. We carried our nightcap to the roof in clear plastic cups, toasting Señor Chino and searching the blackness for the twinkling stars of Morocco. Tomorrow, we would be there.

It started as soon as we exited the ferry terminal. 

Do you need a taxi? A guide? A hotel?

“La,” I said to swat them away.

“La means nothing here, my friend.”

He was right but I was insistent. This was Morocco—or rather, Tangier—a sensory overload of old world hustling and often the first and only part of Morocco ever seen by curious tourists from Spain. To see the real Morocco, you have to get away from Tangier. The country was rich with majestic scenery, vibrant culture and ancient relics. This busy coastal city had more in common with New York City: Tangier was a lovable dump. 

Sunrise seemed like a foolish hour to begin our journey, but we wanted to make the most of the day trip. A big red ferry awaited us in the harbor, designed like a giant speedboat. The vessel was populated with a variety of characters—tourists like us, day-trippers and long-haulers, plus a handful of shady businessmen. The weather was perfect. Never did it feel like we were crossing continents, just an uneventful ninety-minute voyage until the wide coast transformed into a sprawl of low white buildings interspersed with minarets. It seemed so pristine from afar; only as we drifted closer did the grunge appear.

The sensory shock refreshed my memory, especially during the first assault of belligerent voices and bodies. I grabbed my girlfriend’s hand and pulled her away from the crowd. “La” (“no”) had zero effect. We had push through.

“Act like a New Yorker,” I said. “Don’t make eye contact or they’ll approach you.” She had no problem ignoring them. If there was one thing I hated, it was being pestered by strangers.

It’s not that these guys were dangerous or crazy; they just wanted to make money. And as a Westerner, they see you as a potential sale, even if it’s a dirham or two. One hustler after another. They’re often pushy, insistent and exhausting. Polite dismissals aren’t enough. You have to walk away, to shoo them like flies if necessary. This wasn’t rude; it was their way of life.

Once we got away from the terminal, the hassle died down. We felt free to think and explore, walking down claustrophobic old streets that seemed not to house anything of everyday practicality, passing young school boys in big backpacks, who innocently shouted “hola” to the obvious foreigners as they ran. Children seemed to be perpetually on their way to school regardless of age, no set start time, just off they went.

The old town was strangely quiet. There were people but the shops had yet to open. That’s when I realized it was eight-thirty. Despite being fourteen kilometers from Spain, Moroccan clocks were two hours behind. We arrived too early.

The system made no sense. An hour, maybe. But two?

Determined not to lose momentum, I led Katherine to the top of the medina, a steady slope that we enjoyed in the absence of people. In the weeks before our trip, I envisioned bringing her here, to the old castle that overlooked the strait. I remembered its beauty on a clear day, Spain in the distance, and thought it would be a perfect place to pull out a ring.

We stood on the edge of the mount, the kasbah walls behind us. I didn’t have any jewelry in my pocket and perhaps it was just as well—the slope beneath was littered with a mosaic of garbage, an unregulated dump down to the sea. What was I thinking? There were more memorable locations out there and besides, I had to do some homework first. There was also the lingering chance this trip could still ruin everything between us.

The kasbah museum was open so we went inside to kill time. It was an interesting place to meander, deciphering signs in French and looking at ancient artifacts that meant little to the average passerby. Like the Alhambra, it was a former royal fortress, but lacked the majesty and upkeep of its cousin to the north.

Katherine wasn’t feeling great. Maybe it was the sea crossing or the culture shock, so I tried to take things easy. We didn't need to see anything and everything in Tangier. The downside was we didn't have a hotel room to retreat to. We were locked in until our afternoon ferry. All or nothing.

Downhill, a little plaza in the heart of the medina, the Petit Socco, was still in morning shadows. At the Grand Café Central, Katherine and I drank sweet mint tea and watched the world go by, tourists mainly, staring at guidebooks and maps, getting hassled, stumbling around. A blind man made his way through the open space, seeking scraps of money to sustain his difficult existence. Meanwhile, we were protected. Cafés were a respected neutral zone. If a hustler or beggar crossed the line, the waiters were ready to sweep them away.

Eager to escape the medina, I led Katherine beyond its walls to Ville Nouvelle, Tangier’s organized modern district. The French no longer ruled Morocco but their infrastructure and sense of order remained, as did their language. During the first half of the twentieth century, the coveted port city was an “international zone” governed by multiple European powers. Only in 1956 was it allowed to rejoin Morocco, however the foreign influences kept Tangier unlike the rest of the country.

I followed my memories to retrace steps to the hotel where I stayed four years earlier. It was shocking to see that the crumbled roads and sidewalks had since been repaired. An influx of money, or the decision to spend it, had been done to some significance. This didn't surprise me, having seen the latest “Jason Bourne” movie, which included what was possibly the most geographically accurate chase sequence ever filmed. Matt Damon races towards the medina across cluttered rooftops, cutting through compact residences and dense crowds, and after ten heart-pounding moments, finally triumphs over his assailant. That the director didn’t turn the location into an illogical mishmash made it all the more thrilling.

Katherine was humored by my detour, but it was difficult for me to reminisce aloud when she had no connection to the memory. However, she appreciated the change of scenery.

Now that we had our bearings, we went back to the medina to shop. There were endless stalls selling Moroccan trinkets—scarves, lanterns, wooden boxes, jellabas, slippers—plus others hawking perfumes, spices, kitchenware, and so on. A designer handbag caught Katherine’s eye, a knock-off of something she’d seen in NYC. We entered the tiny shop and browsed the dense array of bags. As the shopkeeper engaged, I whispered to Katherine about the process: she would have to negotiate the price. It was mandatory. 

The shopkeeper asked what she wanted to pay. She stammered out a number. He countered. She seemed fine with what was already a reasonable price, but he patiently waited for a new number. 

“It’s our tradition here,” he said warmly. 

I coached her quietly (neither negotiations nor soft tones were my specialty) until finally everyone was satisfied with the terms. The vendor tried to offer additional bags into the transaction, but Katherine just wanted the one. She was pleased and felt like she got something for next to nothing. It seemed like a carnival game, a cheap prize. She probably paid too much, but she was happy.

A rooftop restaurant on the outer walls of the medina was an escape from the suffocating grime. The bustling roundabout of the Grand Socco looked harmless from the sun-soaked terrace, three stories up and yet an entire world away. As the ocean breeze freshened the air, we indulged in the prix fixe French-Moroccan menu. My aubergine pasta dish was satisfying but nothing compared to Katherine’s amazing squid ink spaghetti. While we dined, the sudden roar of a motorbike crescendoed into the magnificent call to prayer, reverberating from every minaret, marking the sun’s zenith. Coming from a world where church bells no longer mark the hours, it was thrilling to hear this longstanding form of time-keeping.

We gave the labyrinth a final tour, trying to unlock unfamiliar streets in hopes of new discoveries, only to find claustrophobia and our feet trying to avoid whatever disgusting organic matter littered the ground. We finally had enough of Tangier.

There was an earlier ferry but also a delay. Although it was a pristine day, the seas had grown rough in the wind. After idling in the bright, mundane terminal, we were back on the high seas, returning to familiar territory. Some loud-mouthed Texans tainted the cabin air with their ugly Americanisms. They were jovial, but their high-decibel chattiness was grating. “Oooh, Ireland!” they cooed at some fellow travelers who fell into their folksy trap.

Katherine and I sought refuge on the stern—this ship had fewer decks than our morning vessel. It was windy, the sun blasting bright, and the seas indeed rough. The crewmen shepherded everyone back inside before someone got bounced overboard. 

The inside air was stifling. The boat rocked so much that sitting was necessary. The seats were aligned like that of an airplane, confining us between rows, difficult to see the horizon through the windows. 

Then it started. One by one, dominoes fell and lunches were lost.

Katherine was next. I grabbed a paper bag from the seat pocket and out came the squid ink pasta. She was embarrassed but powerless. I had no problem helping her through it—was love not being able to endure your partner in sickness?

The ferry rocked erratically. I fought to keep myself composed. But ultimately I fell victim to the tumultuous seas.

Solid ground did little to soothe our shaken systems. The afternoon sun was still in its prime but we had to surrender the two hours we gained. This was a good thing: we wanted the day to end, for our bodies to return to normal. Siesta helped. A little beer to revive our stomachs, then a desire for something more. Katherine caught her eye on a Tex-Mex restaurant, her favorite cuisine. My skepticism was proven right when it proved to be more Italian than anything American. But she was happy to have starchy comfort food. So was I. 

Morocco left a bitter aftertaste. I could still smell it, an unpleasant scent stuck to the sole of my boots. Rinsing it in the shower made no difference. A walk to the ATM helped scrape it off. We were out of cash, having exchanged too many euros into dirham. A payphone near the old city wall allowed Katherine to call her parents and let them know that she was alive. 

We collapsed early, exhausted from the adventure and anxious for a new one at dawn.

My girlfriend didn’t like the fact that I made plans with a friend during our exclusive couple’s trip. But I couldn’t pass through Andalusia without seeing Ronaldo. I tried to describe him to her. He was unlike anyone I’ve ever known. More than just a former co-worker, he was a father figure, a cool uncle, a wise elder with a youthful heart. The five years since we worked together felt like an eternity ago. It was an intense experience known as moviemaking. He was the line producer, essentially the linchpin to the entire production. I was the associate producer, a vague title for my role as the director’s left-hand man. We were part of the small team of international crew members who traveled from New York to Paris to Cape Town to Prague on a substantially large independent film.

Like many Londoners, Ronaldo adopted the south of Spain as his regular vacation destination. He happened to be on holiday near Málaga, so I insisted to Katherine that we align the planets. 

“You’re going to love him.”

For the third day in a row, we rose with the sun. From an inconspicuous bus stop in Tarifa, our trek began along the coast. In Algeciras, we had an hour to kill until our next bus, so we wandered into town and found a diner where we could grab breakfast. Eager to completely cleanse ourselves of Morocco, I left Katherine in the restaurant while I tried to exchange our surplus of dirham in the big ferry terminal, predicting that the further we got from the strait, the harder it would be to exchange. Without my backpack, I was light on my feet but after searching the entire structure, I failed in my mission and raced back.

Katherine waited nervously, rightfully afraid that if we missed the bus, it would derail our plans for the day. She didn’t want our early morning to be for nothing. The plan was to meet Ronaldo for lunch before catching a train to Madrid. As long as everything stuck to the schedule, the inconvenient rendezvous was feasible.

From Algeciras, another bus carried us northeast along a gorgeous stretch of Mediterranean coastline overbuilt with holiday high rises that for decades had attracted Europeans from sun-deprived nations, specifically the United Kingdom. I used my new iPhone to track our progress and update my friend on our arrival, a marvelous new technology that didn’t exist during my previous travels abroad.

An hour later, the bus stopped in the center of Fuengirola, one of the many swollen towns on the Spanish Riviera. In the dense crowd that assembled outside the vehicle, I spotted a familiar muscular frame and shaved head. It was funny to see someone after five long years, fearing that we might not recognize one another. But we did. Ronaldo was with his partner David, a tall, cheerful Englishman. Conversation was rapid-fire as new faces acquainted with one another. They walked us to a picturesque plaza nearby and sat down at an outdoor café, with no break in the dialogue, while our patient waiter nearly went unnoticed. Katherine’s bright smile was fully illuminated as Ronaldo and David charmed her with an endless buffet of tales, anecdotes and thoughtful questions. I was happy to be in the moment. The intensity of filmmaking forges special bonds with co-workers—for weeks and months you toil, fraternize, combat, and then, when it all ends, everyone moves on to new productions where the old friendships are forced out by the new. The fact that Ronaldo, with his impressive resume of notable films, was more than happy to reunite after five years, felt remarkable.

Ronaldo and David had been together for decades, a partnership formed at a time when it was taboo for two men to be together. They scoffed when we spoke of our trip to Tangier. “We never go to Morocco,” Ronaldo said as if to ensure that country could hear. They spoke of their one and only visit decades ago, ruined by an unpleasant encounter with the police. The recollection was endearing, an ordeal softened by time, a bedrock experience in their long relationship.

More harrowing was hearing David explain how he recently broke his back. He was alone in their Fuengirola apartment, handling some common household task as carelessly as possible. He slipped and fell hard enough to immobilize his spine. No one could hear his cries for help. In agony, he struggled to reach his mobile phone then had to crawl onto the balcony to get a signal. It was excruciating to hear the details, yet he described it all in good spirits, with the proof that he was back to normal. 

We laughed and ate and wished this could carry on all afternoon, but regretfully had to watch the clock. There was a light rail connecting Fuengirola to Málaga. Our hosts led us into the metro station, squeezing final bits of joy out of our time together. With an exchange of hugs, we parted through the turnstiles down to the tracks deep below.

Katherine’s smile turned to dread. The platform was empty. Did we miss the train? I looked at my watch—we did. I scanned the timetable and crunched the numbers in my head. The next train was in twenty minutes, but its leisurely crawl would force us to miss our train to Madrid, the last one of the day.

Her face was pale. This was why she didn’t want to meet up with friends, to shoehorn an obstacle into a time-sensitive travel day. It was a bad idea and we were about to suffer for it.

She was right. I uttered a stream of useless apologies when I heard our names.

“Come with us!” shouted Ronaldo and David from the escalator.

Katherine and I looked at each other. Trust them.

We returned to the surface. David flagged down a taxi. We all got in.

“You didn’t have to come with us,” I said.

“You cannot miss your train,” said Ronaldo.

It was cozy inside the taxi. The autopista elevated us across the sprawl of paved paradise, propelling us faster than the local train. The ride gave us more time to talk, to hear them spin their tales, to see Katherine’s face light up again. 

I caught her eyes. We’re going to make it.

The taxi descended into Central Málaga, bringing us to the train station with time to spare. This allowed us to make up for our rushed and inadequate Spanish lunch at a café inside the modern depot, shiny and new from a recent facelift. Now in overtime, our hosts told us behind-the-scenes movie gossip of difficult actors and visionary directors. One had made recently a harrowing documentary, a re-enactment of a death-defying mountain climbing accident that made David’s broken back seem like a paper cut.

Our time was finally up. Katherine and I posed for photos with our remarkable hosts, then parted for the platform. As we settled into our seats, I could see the glow on Katherine’s face—yes, the detour was worth it, despite the rush. She fell in love with Ronaldo and David. 

The afternoon sun glazed the pristine cabin in gold as the vast and varied terrain of Andalusia and Castilla-La Mancha passed outside. Katherine was lulled to sleep. I stared out at the rolling terrain and ragged little mountains, spotting an occasional crumbled castle atop a low-altitude peak. The ancient land seemed no more populated now than in centuries before, as arid and magical as the days of knights-errant.

In all my world travels, of all the trains I had taken (the original French TGV, the Eurostar beneath the English Channel, and their predecessor: the Shinkansen of Japan) I was seated in what remains the nicest, fastest, smoothest high-speed train I have ever ridden. The link between Málaga to Madrid was completed in 2007, traveling over 500 kilometers at a peak speed of 300 km per hour. No pops of air pressure, little rocking back and forth. 

Suddenly we were back in the iron and glass atrium of la Estación de Atocha. It might have been the same platform where we sat with nuns, an eternity ago. 

We completed the circle but not the trip. 

The big city apathetically welcomed us back as we navigated around Madrid’s bustling subway system. The dense capital was dark in the early October light. Bits of sunlight cut through the buildings and a chill filled the shadows. The contrast made it hard to believe that we woke in Mediterranean warmth.

Our pensión was in Chueca, a chic neighborhood favorable with the LGBTQ community and reputedly the heart of Madrid’s nightlife. The proprietor was as inhospitable as the city, with little patience for my stammering Spanish. The room was modern and clean, cozy like anything in New York. Spain’s urban pensions and hostals typically occupied the single floor of a building, feeling like a grand apartment rather than a hotel.

The main plaza in Chueca teemed with restaurants, bars, and people coming from all directions. Katherine and I drank mojitos at an outdoor café, a tropical pleasantry incongruous with our cold surroundings. 

The fragrance of Tangier still clung to my boots. I stepped in every available puddle in futile attempts to wash it away. Strangely, we still felt a little seasick and suspected that the train, as smooth as it was, was responsible for the revival.

We had no plan for dinner, so we walked and explored, circling certain blocks and stumbling into a romantic place called In Situ. The service was friendly, the food was amazing, the setting was unforgettable—a table for two by the window, reminiscent of our candlelit dates in Brooklyn and Manhattan.

The waitress asked how I liked my meal.

“Mucho gusto!” I exclaimed.

She laughed. “That means ‘nice to meet you.’”

The physical cost of a go-go-go vacation caught up to us. While it was nice to cram in as much as possible into a short window, a truly restful vacation required more downtime than we’d been willing to allow. Madrid, despite its multitude of things to see and do, was our first chance to sleep in since Granada, sedated by the ambitious journey from the coast. 

Laundry was inevitable. There was a lavanderia near the pensión on Calle de Hortaleza. The place was a puzzle, requiring a decryption of language and hieroglyphics. Soap was easy to get from the vending machine, but the simple act of starting the washer was baffling until a customer showed us the central machine that controlled everything. Punch in the machine number and drop in some change. But that was the next problem—we needed more coins. 

While our clothes sloshed in soapy water, I set out to kill two birds with one stone: breaking bills at a take-away breakfast spot. Along the way, I rubbed my eye and out popped my contact. I was one of those few stubborn people who wore rigid lenses. Irreplaceable rigid lenses. Frozen in place, with one eye out of focus, I searched for the lens, having done this a dozen times before, often beneath restaurant tables. Unable to find it on my body, I crouched down, scouring the city sidewalk with my good eye, hunting for the glimmer of clear plastic. It couldn’t had fallen far—it had to be somewhere near my feet. Pedestrians paraded past my insane pursuit, but I paid little attention to them. I had to find this contact. Otherwise, I’d be stuck wearing my old glasses for the rest of the trip.

An unusual glint came from the concrete. I moved closer and there it was: a tiny translucent lens.

Katherine grimaced when I told her what happened. On one of our early dates she was introduced to my vision-related predicaments, questioning my instance on not wearing replaceable soft lenses. When a spec of dust got trapped under a hard lens, it hurt, but I could use water to rinse it and hand soap to wash it. Soft lenses were wasteful, costly and required special solution. But they didn’t come with pain and occasional search and rescue missions. 

The filthy lens was delicately tucked inside my jacket pocket. We dropped coins into the drier and ate pastries while it tumbled. The TV played some hidden camera show, “La Mañana,” featuring silly pranks on unsuspecting passersby. Back home I would’ve scoffed at such lowbrow humor, but abroad it felt like cultural engagement. 

Madrid was massive and dense like Paris—narrow streets intertwined with broad boulevards, plazas and parks, and no building taller than six or seven stories. We found ourselves outside the Museo Nacional del Prado but hesitated to go in. This was the last full day of our trip and an art museum could devour precious hours, especially Spain’s answer to the Louvre. Instead we wandered further, in search of souvenirs and something to satisfy our growing appetites. At a tent-covered café on the grand Plaza Santa Ana, we slopped gazpacho on a pristine white tablecloth to thank our acidic and sluggish waiter for his atrocious service. Our magnificent discovery of the Mercado de San Miguel came too late: a sun-lit iron pavilion designed by Gustave Eiffel and housing countless stands of picturesque foods. Eventually, on the outer edge of old Madrid, we reached the Palacio Real, another investment we didn’t care to make. Instead, at possibly the oldest café in the city, where tourist-filled tables were clustered in the waning October sunlight, we were served cafés con leche that were all milk, no coffee. I knew my Spanish wasn’t that bad and had to fight for the harried waiter’s attention just to set things right. Meanwhile, the bathroom downstairs had no locks on the door, no soap and the timed lights shut off too quickly. This soured our moods when a second siesta should have done otherwise. 

Katherine wanted to shop for gifts and souvenirs, but the little shops of Madrid failed to reveal anything worthwhile. The massive department store, El Corte Ingles, was also a bust. As the sky darkened, the search turned desperate as we unsure what to get or why to get it. I had given up when Katherine ultimately settled at a clothing boutique, where she found nice pieces of contemporary Spanish fashion to bring home. By now it was dark, and even the diligent shopper was exhausted. 

After a quick rest, we set off for another round of restaurant roulette. It was our last dinner of the trip and we wanted to make it special. Unable to decide on the places we passed, hunger forced us to settle at a recommended vegetarian place near the Bilbao subway station. Darkly lit with giant plants dominating the space, the ambience was romantic and the meal was fine. Afterward, we escaped the chilly autumn air at a pub near Chueca plaza, drinking pints and taking goofy photos of each other.

The neighborhood was alive with nightlife, but our energy was depleted. Rather than push ourselves for a last hurrah, Katherine and I retired to the pensión. Outside the merriment went late into the night, while we tossed and turned, disturbed by the endless laughter and joy.

The day came too soon. The instant coffee sleeves that came with the room helped us enjoy a comfy morning in bed before packing up our things. 

We asked the pensión manager if we could leave our bags after checking out.

“Yes,” he said joylessly. “I mean no.” We took advantage of his confusion and persuaded him to stick with his original answer.

Prado guilt loomed over us, Katherine more than me. It was one of the largest art museums in the world, she reasoned, and it would be a mistake not to see it. Over an amazingly simple breakfast of café con leche and toast, we agreed to see what we could in an hour—it was all we could spare. 

And so we made our assault on the Prado, using the complementary map as a battle plan. Katherine wanted to see the dark and striking works of Velasquez and El Greco, plus Hieronymus Bosch’s gleefully grim triptych, The Garden of Earthly Delights. While it was interesting to see it in person, I had to confess its details were easier to admire in a book. 

We walked fast, nudging past dense packs of lethargic tourists, and made the most of a limited window of time. It some ways, it was the perfect way to see such a massive gallery, a tour in fast-forward, yet with no time to linger, there was no chance to allow the many pieces of art to sink into my subconscious. 

There was, however, enough time to walk back to Chueca, strolling the tree-lined Paseo amidst the booksellers, reminiscent of the bouquanistes of Paris along the Seine. The weather was perfect. I wanted another day, but we had to say “hasta luego” to Madrid. The vacation was ending. The inevitable return was upon us, to our homes, to our jobs, to reality. 

The airport cafeteria was sunny, but we were not. The unpleasantries of air travel frustrated me and Katherine for different reasons, and the toxicity of our moods leeched into the other’s, resulting in a miserable lunch, our final meal in Spain.

Getting to the airport was quick, but the long tunnel that connected the subway to our terminal was enormous. Katherine was inexplicably forced to check her carry-on, so we scrambled to move her valuables into mine. Her mood further soured at security when she unnecessarily took off her shoes. The reactionary nonsense of American security procedures inexplicably only applied to flights out of the country, not in.

The black cloud grew at the gate. A long but organized line formed for those wanting to board the plane, snaking around the terminal wing until a bossy attendant ordered everyone to disperse. The thrill of travel had expired. Going home was miserable. 

As suspected, we were seated at the last row of the plane, in the middle, far from the windows. That meant our seats didn’t recline. But they were comfy and we didn’t expect to sleep on the six hour flight, instead watching movies on our private screens as an almost endless buffet of food and wine kept coming our way. This relieved all the misfortunes at the airport. Near the end of the flight, a male attendant came down the aisle with a carafe, exclaiming, pleading “tea please!” Katherine and I were amused. Mucho gusto, I thought.

JFK, or any airport, is always disappointing to return to at the end of any trip, as was the somewhat complicated journey back to our apartment in Brooklyn, confounded by weekend subway work that forced us onto a shuttle bus. We didn’t get home until dark, but it didn’t matter. We had nothing to rush home to, plus another day off for decompression.

Stepping into our apartment, we greeted our invisible dog, agreeing that we would soon find a real warm-bodied creature to bring Katherine’s canine dream to life. Despite a few forgivable skirmishes, we survived the trip, survived each other, and eventually would embark on more international adventures together.

Until then, I had to start thinking seriously about a ring. 

[Click here for more photos]