Friday, November 20, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
One Sugar Cube of Ronda and a Secret Andalucian Village
Never have I wanted to return to a place so much as I want to return to Ronda. After only getting a small, teasing serving of the little town and a two-or-so-hour tour, I’m now dying to go back and watch more sunsets over the valley. Ronda is a relatively large village about an hour or so away from Malaga but it feels like a completely different world. As opposed to Malaga’s polluted air, Ronda has the freshest mountain-top air and barely any haze in the horizon due to pollution. It sits on top of a mountain with a winding path leading down all the way to a river and a valley down below. It’s relatively large for a village as it has a very European-looking shopping street with marble-lined streets and a couple of large squares with fountains. But the thing that sticks out most in my mind about Ronda is the light. Once darkness fell, the entire town was illuminated in this yellowish, fairytale like glow. The walls of the buildings reflected the light off in slightly different shades, and the streetlamps sparkled in the night, almost like candles. It may be one of the most romantic places I’ve been to, as it makes you yearn for your lover or gives you the nectar to want to fall in love on the spot. Imagine an entire town, candlelit and glowing, the night breeze blowing slightly as though it’s whispering secrets of the past in your ear.
The physical education teacher at our school, Agustin, offered to take me and my coworkers Elena and Jose Angle to Ronda and another nearby village for an afternoon of sightseeing and driving through the beautiful countryside. We left Alora after school and drove a couple of hours along winding, countryside roads. Eventually the roads became steeper and steeper and Agustin was proud to have shown us that Malaga does indeed have mountains. We were climbing higher and higher, the valley below shrank farther and farther away, and our stomachs became more and more knotted with each curve that he took in his little red sports car. We finally stopped at a little restaurant with a magnificent view of everything beneath and filled our stomachs with delicious and typical Spanish food. Of course that meant a couple of platters of meat – pork, beef and lamb – with greasy but exquisite French fries buried within. Then the waiter brought out a big plate of Manchego cheese, a very typical and sharp sheep cheese, and jamon Serrano, thin slices of cured beef. Who ever would have thought that this former-vegetarian would be drowning her palate with meat, and enjoying every moment of it? At last came a glass of local red wine and more cheese and finally a coffee and a sweet liquor shot.
With full stomachs and rosy wine-tinted cheeks, we got back into Agustin’s car to go to what he called “the most secret village in Andalucia.” It was a tiny, tiny, tiny little pueblo blanco, consisting of 200 residents, hidden on the side of a mountain named Benadalid. Agustin is building a house in the village so that he can escape the city life in the next few years. He would work at the one school that the village has, and he’d watch the sun rise every morning out of his big bedroom window that looks out over the valley. After a life of playing music, traveling the world, drinking, smoking, essentially partying and finally settling down to a stable career, he’s decided that he’d want nothing more than to settle into a quiet village life to reflect on the years past. We took a little walk around the village, saw only a couple of villagers and a little white, energetic dog and walked up along a chestnut-wooded path.
After the little tour of Benadalid, we drove back down towards Ronda, where Agustin dropped us off to explore while he settled things with his bank for the house. We walked along a huge bridge that towered over the valley below with the rock faces cascading down. It felt like we were standing at the edge of a cliff. The sky was turning pink, then orange, then deep red and then purple We walked along the edge of the cliff to the other side where a huge park bordered the towering cliffs. We watched more of the color-changing sky, mesmerized by the sounds, smells and paintings in the sky. After night fell, we walked to the city center, which was bustling with people and glowing in the yellow night light. We bought chestnuts and ate them in the main square, watching kids play with their grandparents and lovers walk by holding hands. After Agustin finished his business with the bank, he walked us around the historic part of the town and showed us the cobble-stoned paths that the villagers used to take on horseback many years ago. After a long, uphill walk back up to the town we went into a restaurant and got a refreshing drink and then got back in the car to wind all the way back to Malaga. Ronda now feels like a glimmering dream I had last week. A dream that’s becoming more and more abstract with each day that passes to separate me from it, but a dream whose glimmer I will never forget. Next time I want to linger longer, walk slower, and eat one too many chestnuts.
The physical education teacher at our school, Agustin, offered to take me and my coworkers Elena and Jose Angle to Ronda and another nearby village for an afternoon of sightseeing and driving through the beautiful countryside. We left Alora after school and drove a couple of hours along winding, countryside roads. Eventually the roads became steeper and steeper and Agustin was proud to have shown us that Malaga does indeed have mountains. We were climbing higher and higher, the valley below shrank farther and farther away, and our stomachs became more and more knotted with each curve that he took in his little red sports car. We finally stopped at a little restaurant with a magnificent view of everything beneath and filled our stomachs with delicious and typical Spanish food. Of course that meant a couple of platters of meat – pork, beef and lamb – with greasy but exquisite French fries buried within. Then the waiter brought out a big plate of Manchego cheese, a very typical and sharp sheep cheese, and jamon Serrano, thin slices of cured beef. Who ever would have thought that this former-vegetarian would be drowning her palate with meat, and enjoying every moment of it? At last came a glass of local red wine and more cheese and finally a coffee and a sweet liquor shot.
With full stomachs and rosy wine-tinted cheeks, we got back into Agustin’s car to go to what he called “the most secret village in Andalucia.” It was a tiny, tiny, tiny little pueblo blanco, consisting of 200 residents, hidden on the side of a mountain named Benadalid. Agustin is building a house in the village so that he can escape the city life in the next few years. He would work at the one school that the village has, and he’d watch the sun rise every morning out of his big bedroom window that looks out over the valley. After a life of playing music, traveling the world, drinking, smoking, essentially partying and finally settling down to a stable career, he’s decided that he’d want nothing more than to settle into a quiet village life to reflect on the years past. We took a little walk around the village, saw only a couple of villagers and a little white, energetic dog and walked up along a chestnut-wooded path.
After the little tour of Benadalid, we drove back down towards Ronda, where Agustin dropped us off to explore while he settled things with his bank for the house. We walked along a huge bridge that towered over the valley below with the rock faces cascading down. It felt like we were standing at the edge of a cliff. The sky was turning pink, then orange, then deep red and then purple We walked along the edge of the cliff to the other side where a huge park bordered the towering cliffs. We watched more of the color-changing sky, mesmerized by the sounds, smells and paintings in the sky. After night fell, we walked to the city center, which was bustling with people and glowing in the yellow night light. We bought chestnuts and ate them in the main square, watching kids play with their grandparents and lovers walk by holding hands. After Agustin finished his business with the bank, he walked us around the historic part of the town and showed us the cobble-stoned paths that the villagers used to take on horseback many years ago. After a long, uphill walk back up to the town we went into a restaurant and got a refreshing drink and then got back in the car to wind all the way back to Malaga. Ronda now feels like a glimmering dream I had last week. A dream that’s becoming more and more abstract with each day that passes to separate me from it, but a dream whose glimmer I will never forget. Next time I want to linger longer, walk slower, and eat one too many chestnuts.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Thursdays with Myself
Thursdays have become the day with which I mark time, the day of the week around which the rest of the days revolve. Every Thursday I find myself thinking about the days before and the days to come, the past and the future, it’s the board from which I spring into the rest of the days of the week. Thursday is the first day I have off of work after three days in a row and it’s also the day on which I have the most time to myself. Thursdays in Spain have taught me how to spend my free time, how to make an endless amount of time and space into a fulfilling and personal one. On most Thursdays I sleep in a little bit, though sleeping in for me means waking up at 8 as opposed to 6:30. I make myself a strong cup of coffee in my little silver percolator and I sit on the balcony next to my blooming basil plant and I look out across the ocean outside my window while the seagulls call above me. My slow cup of coffee accompanies other lazy morning activities like letter writing, reading (right now “The Picture of Dorian Gray” in English and “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” in Spanish, and Spanish learning.
After my cup of coffee I usually go to the center to meet my two new friends, Cristina and Silvia. Silvia answered my “intercambio” ad at the School of Languages and we started meeting to exchange conversation practice in our respective languages. They’re both older than me, but I’ve had a wonderful time passing a few morning hours with them each week talking about many different subjects. Silvia is in her thirties and is dark skinned, with big brown eyes and short brown hair. She laughs often and is quite shy with her English. When she starts a sentence in English she stirs in her chair as though she’s getting ready to jump of a bridge. She teaches salsa classes for a living and is an incredible cook. She has two kids named Victor and Lucia, and she even invited me to come live with her in her house, with no rental fee, to practice English with her kids. Cristina is also in her thirties and is Silvia’s cousin. She’s very fair-skinned, has a million little freckles on her face, and has big and interested blue eyes and blonde hair. She studied pedagogy and now works at a language institute teaching teachers how to be good at their jobs. We spend a few lazy hours that pass quickly sitting at a café and talking about politics, love, careers, and cultural practices. I’ve really come to appreciate having friends who are a little bit older than me and being able to talk with them as though we’re equals. The perspectives that they give and the advice that they bestow is incredibly wise.
After my intercambio date, I usually go for a long, explorative walk around a new part of the city. The nice thing about Malaga is that it’s so big that I think I’ll continue to get lost until the day that I leave. But getting lost and then finding my way again has become my favorite pastime.
After my meandering stroll I go to the public library, which is also the cultural epicenter of Malaga, and I find a new book on the shelves and sit at one of the brown wooden tables by a big window and read for a few hours. My mind craves another coffee around this time so I make my way to Plaza de Merced, where Picasso did most of his musings, and I go to a little coffee shop and tea house called El Pintor. I order a caffe con leche and sit in the sun watching the people pass by, writing in my journal as my mind is fed with inspiration.
My stomach starts growling and I look at my watch to see that it’s already almost two o’clock, when most of the stores and markets close for the daily siesta. I ask for my check, pay my smiling waiter, and head towards the Mercado Ataranzas to buy fruits and vegetables to make lunch. The market is huge and crowded at this time, as everyone is scrambling to buy before the start closing down the stands. There’s everything from fresh fish, to buckets of olives, to avocadoes, grapes and amazing cheese. I buy a kilogram of red and white grapes, a few avocadoes, tomatoes and cucumbers and a bag of Aloran olives, made with rosemary and garlic. Finally I go to a cheese stand and buy local manchego cheese and a baguette. My stroll home takes about half an hour and I arrive to my apartment just as my roommate is getting back from work. We make lunch together and sit at our little dining room table, catching up on our days.
After an afternoon siesta, during which I never do actually sleep, I put on my running shoes and go out by the water to run along the Paseo Maritimo, which spans the entire length of the Malagan coast. I run alongside hundreds of other runners, bikers, rollerbladers and walkers as the sun is setting in the horizon. After a long stretch and a warm shower, we make dinner together – usually a big salad with all kinds of vegetables, a tortilla de patate and grilled vegetables – and we dine with a glass of red wine. Some nights we go out into the city after dinner and seek the nightlife, other nights we settle for a movie in Spanish or a quiet reading before bed. Whatever it is that ends each Thursday passes quickly, and ticks the Thursdays away like leaves falling from trees.
After my cup of coffee I usually go to the center to meet my two new friends, Cristina and Silvia. Silvia answered my “intercambio” ad at the School of Languages and we started meeting to exchange conversation practice in our respective languages. They’re both older than me, but I’ve had a wonderful time passing a few morning hours with them each week talking about many different subjects. Silvia is in her thirties and is dark skinned, with big brown eyes and short brown hair. She laughs often and is quite shy with her English. When she starts a sentence in English she stirs in her chair as though she’s getting ready to jump of a bridge. She teaches salsa classes for a living and is an incredible cook. She has two kids named Victor and Lucia, and she even invited me to come live with her in her house, with no rental fee, to practice English with her kids. Cristina is also in her thirties and is Silvia’s cousin. She’s very fair-skinned, has a million little freckles on her face, and has big and interested blue eyes and blonde hair. She studied pedagogy and now works at a language institute teaching teachers how to be good at their jobs. We spend a few lazy hours that pass quickly sitting at a café and talking about politics, love, careers, and cultural practices. I’ve really come to appreciate having friends who are a little bit older than me and being able to talk with them as though we’re equals. The perspectives that they give and the advice that they bestow is incredibly wise.
After my intercambio date, I usually go for a long, explorative walk around a new part of the city. The nice thing about Malaga is that it’s so big that I think I’ll continue to get lost until the day that I leave. But getting lost and then finding my way again has become my favorite pastime.
After my meandering stroll I go to the public library, which is also the cultural epicenter of Malaga, and I find a new book on the shelves and sit at one of the brown wooden tables by a big window and read for a few hours. My mind craves another coffee around this time so I make my way to Plaza de Merced, where Picasso did most of his musings, and I go to a little coffee shop and tea house called El Pintor. I order a caffe con leche and sit in the sun watching the people pass by, writing in my journal as my mind is fed with inspiration.
My stomach starts growling and I look at my watch to see that it’s already almost two o’clock, when most of the stores and markets close for the daily siesta. I ask for my check, pay my smiling waiter, and head towards the Mercado Ataranzas to buy fruits and vegetables to make lunch. The market is huge and crowded at this time, as everyone is scrambling to buy before the start closing down the stands. There’s everything from fresh fish, to buckets of olives, to avocadoes, grapes and amazing cheese. I buy a kilogram of red and white grapes, a few avocadoes, tomatoes and cucumbers and a bag of Aloran olives, made with rosemary and garlic. Finally I go to a cheese stand and buy local manchego cheese and a baguette. My stroll home takes about half an hour and I arrive to my apartment just as my roommate is getting back from work. We make lunch together and sit at our little dining room table, catching up on our days.
After an afternoon siesta, during which I never do actually sleep, I put on my running shoes and go out by the water to run along the Paseo Maritimo, which spans the entire length of the Malagan coast. I run alongside hundreds of other runners, bikers, rollerbladers and walkers as the sun is setting in the horizon. After a long stretch and a warm shower, we make dinner together – usually a big salad with all kinds of vegetables, a tortilla de patate and grilled vegetables – and we dine with a glass of red wine. Some nights we go out into the city after dinner and seek the nightlife, other nights we settle for a movie in Spanish or a quiet reading before bed. Whatever it is that ends each Thursday passes quickly, and ticks the Thursdays away like leaves falling from trees.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
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