Saturday, 11 August 2018

Day 38-39: Malaga to Madrid, Spain - Picasso, Fish Pies and Wine

Malaga to Madrid via Grenada, Spain
My first impression of Malaga was indifference after driving in from Tarifa and experiencing the long and hectic day in Tangiers. I took the wrong offramp, meaning that I had to suffer the long and slow drive through the centre of Malaga which was unusually chaotic for a Sunday evening before being able to circle around to the Ibis. I was denied entry into the underground parking garage because it was allegedly full and had to park the Benz some distance away at the Mercure. I was happy to abandon the hot car as the freon used to power the air conditioning had leaked out and I was over driving in general. Upon checking in, I was provided with the customary drink vouchers, however, I was more interested in a shower and washing the remains of the earlier ferry ride and the associated trip to Africa off of me which was personified in my very sweaty clothes.

It was as hot as hell in Malaga the next day. After the start of a busy work-week, we were keen to explore the city and visit the Picasso Museum which was about a ten-minute walk from the hotel via old streets. The queue to gain entry to the museum was thankfully short and we took to the various levels of the old building and casually inspected the 200+ paintings and sculptures that are either part of the permanent collection or on loan from elsewhere and the extended Picasso family. It was a great collection and with hesitation moved into the temporary exhibition - Andy Warhol, next. I just don't care for his work. Period. In my opinion, he morphed into what he originally criticised and is the definition of the term "sell-out." I literally can't stand his work, despite some of it being very colourful. I suppose with art, it is like having an arsehole, everyone has one.

We happened into an air-conditioned bodega for lunch. Jamon, raw tuna and cold soup were all quickly consumed along with a pitcher of sangria to take the edge off. After returning to my laptop after an extended lunch period, I put out some fires back in London and then took a nap. Travels were beginning to take a toll on me and my body was grateful for a bit of a sleep.

Not being in the mood to get dressed again only to sweat the night away in various tapas bars in this beautiful city, we found ourselves drinking pints in the hotel bar, actually using the voucher for free drinks for a change. I was pleased that I finished the final edit of one of the chapters of my book as the clock indicated that midnight had passed. Children continued to run around the lobby and babies screaming. Why weren't these children in bed sleeping? I learned that besides being the birthplace of Picasso, Malaga has quite the history and is considered one of the oldest proper cities in the world. Besides for its Phoenician beginnings, where old ruins can be explored in the basement of the Picasso Museum, to being one of the Republican hold-outs during the Spanish Civil War, there is a rich history associated with this city and I was sad that I had only booked two nights here and considered it a place to transit. I also enjoyed a walk around Picasso's house, which is not far from the Museum. Although it is a bit kitsch, it was a fun self-guided tour where the audio guide didn't tell you much.

After a morning consumed by meetings where I enjoyed the predictably cold air conditioning blasting on my near-naked body from above, I finished the last talk-fest at around 11:00 PM. We checked out and were sweating by the time we meandered to retrieve the Benz from its tomb. The back windows were lowered and we motored down the highway toward Granada. The sweat started to drip down my back again but I knew that it was a temporary inconvenience. Ninety minutes later we pulled into the Norauto. I presented myself to the staff and explained in broken Spanish that I have a freon leak and I needed the air conditioning recharged. Not a problem! We walked next door and hung out at the Burger King for an hour and returned only to have working air conditioning once again. I know that it will continue to leak freon but at least I know in three weeks that I can simply undergo this tedious process once again. After e-mailing various Mercedes dealerships in both France and Spain and getting absolutely no service, I was pleased to have this fixed again, even if it is a temporary solution.

The drive to Madrid was uneventful. I put my foot down and averaged 150km/hr along the highway and didn't live in fear of the coppers and featured on the front of the tabloid newspaper for being a "potential baby killer" like you would be if you dared travelled so quickly, yet safely, in Australia. After ditching the motorcar in the underground parking structure upon arriving in Madrid, we used the free vouchers for a few drinks in the hotel bar before finding a restaurant not far away. I indulged on the Jamon and red tuna as per usual however the quantity of wine must have got to me. At some point in the night after returning to the hotel, I woke up needing to spew. Some went on the hardwood floor and then me before I could get to the toilet and vacate my stomach. The twink slept through this inconvenient event and I begrudgingly cleaned up the mess that I made and then returned to the land of Nod. The next morning the twink mentioned that it was odd that we did not have any hand towels. I informed them that I used them to clean up the mess I made and threw them outside our neighbour's room in the hallway to be collected. He thought I was telling a lie as he couldn't believe he slept through my late night offering to the porcelain god, which in the end he was pleased that he missed out on. I blamed it on the old fish pie that I consumed the night prior but he insisted I spewed because of excessive alcohol intake, which I do not believe to this day!

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Location: Madrid, Spain

Thursday, 9 August 2018

Day 34-37: Gibraltar to Tangiers, Morocco to Malaga Spain - The Trifecta

Gibraltar to Tarifa, Spain to Tangiers, Morocco back to Tarifa, Spain
and then to Malaga, Spain
After arriving at The Rock Hotel within the British overseas territory of Gibraltar, I felt let down. It was a weird feeling after being in countries where English was not the primary language to be confronted by the mother tongue by default. The word "gibberish" was devised in Gibraltar I would quickly learn as the majority of the people living on this small mass of land are bilingual in both English and Spanish but will use both languages in a sentence by default, thus the meaning of the word gibberish. I discovered that it wasn't that some people didn't understand either one of the languages natively, but it was just an extension of the poor service levels that I learned to live within England combined with the adoption of whatever language suits to meet the needs of the service industry. Case in point on the first night in the hotel bar, after a few expensive pints of Peroni, I placed an order for Jamon Iberico, however, two hamburgers were delivered. One order of Jamon resulted in two hamburgers. We were demonised with a dirty look and it was insinuated that we were in the wrong as because with British-oriented service, the customer is never right. After spending 34 days in Spain and France where I can speak the native language enough to get by, no order was ever messed up. In Portugal where I can speak two words of the local language, nothing was ever screwed up. It only took an hour for all hell to break loose in Gibraltar. After vanquishing the supply of Peroni and not wanting to drink the only other alternative, 1664 (A French beer which I detest, which had a 700% markup anyway) it was time to retire after a long day of dealing with the hangover from Cadiz, eating a wonderful meal in Zahara and of course driving in the Benz after the air conditioning failed yet again in the 40c heat.

 Friday I sadly had to spend the entire day glued to my laptop and organising a change. When the clock struck 6:00 PM, I was able to shout out loud that the work was not a fool's errand and that it would be executed on Monday first thing as planned. We retired to the hotel bar again and took on the same service professional that would persist in giving the twink the evil eye as the result of the wrong food order that was delivered the previous day. A few rounds were quickly consumed. Loud British tourists came down with their louder children not long after. When the obese leader of the group decided to play episodes of Mrs Browns Boys on his phone and laugh at the level that the sound was being played for all to hear, I decided to get the hell out of there. The twink wondered why I was walking to the motorcar after having enjoyed three beverages. I said it was time to actually drive around Gibraltar.

 Around the Rock, we drove. From various small beaches to the lighthouse and finally to the small village that was built by Germans on the more remote side of the territory, we circumnavigated the area in about thirty minutes. We continued on the path again to one of the beaches that we previously passed near an industrial estate and had a look around. Nothing too exciting was happening and I was surprised that more beachfront or waterfront establishments had not been built. We drove back to the centre of the actual city and upon spotting a curry house, I pulled in. It wasn't long until I was bending my elbow and tilting my head back with a glass of Rose in my hand followed by a very potent chicken vindaloo. We dined outside in the balmy evening and reflected that neither one of us had had any spice since being in Manchester some time ago and our general bemusement with Gibraltar.

 I woke up on Saturday experiencing the ring of fire from the chicken vindaloo. I love eating spicy food but I hate it when it comes out of me the next day. After multiple visits to the toilet, I was able to toddle down to the lobby with some confidence that I would not need to sit on the throne for the sixth time as I got my hair cut. What a lively place this salon was. The locals were happy to chat and give me all the tips as to where to go and what to see on Gibraltar since we only technically had one full day left. It wasn't long after getting my hair chopped by the man that trained under Vidal Sasson that the twink and I were on the chairlift going to the top of the Rock. We were greeted by "Dracula" who is the Barbary Macaque Ape that is infamous for stealing bags from the unsuspecting tourists. He was eating from a can of Pringles that he just had stolen and proceeded to poop and pee off the side of the viewing platform. We had leftover curry from the previous night that I wanted to bring to the top of the mountain knowing that if an ape stole it, it would learn a horrific lesson but the twink ate it for breakfast sadly. As it was midday, we went into the restaurant at the top of the Rock. The clouds were hanging low which did not provide for picture-perfect postcard-like views, but it made for a nice locale to have a long and relaxing Saturday lunch. Three bottles of Rose were enjoyed along with the local flavours and I was happy that I only had to walk down the Rock after such an indulgence. We came across many more apes languishing on the walking trails as the flies circled them. We happened into the St Michael Caves where were not only cold but awesome to sit around in and listen to music. There is an amphitheatre erected in these caves and I reckon a concert would sound great in there. We hung out in the cave for an hour just chilling as I had previously sweat all the wine out and was feeling rather fatigued. After walking down the Rock, we found ourselves at the hotel bar once again after a cold shower enjoying Peroni's and it turned out to be a relaxed night around other British tourists who were not nearly as annoying as those who frequented the bar the previous night.

 On Sunday, an early departure was scheduled to get the hell off the Rock. A fast check-out then took me to a local service station where I topped up the tank of diesel for a mere £0.99p/L. It would cost about £1.50/L in England and it would be more expensive in Spain so I couldn't pass up the chance to save a few quid. We then drove over the border back into Spain without being stopped. I had factored in an hour to cross the border but we were just able to drive across the frontier without stopping. Unlike when Franco closed the border in 1969 and wouldn't open again for 16 years, I felt robbed that I didn't have to go through the process to enter the European Union's Schengen Area again (Gibraltar, like the United Kingdom, is outside of the Schengen Area) but was happy knowing that I would have time to enjoy breakfast in Tarifa before travelling to Africa for the day.

 My Spanish breakfast in Tarifa was basic but I felt required (I normally do not eat breakfast) as I thought I needed fuel to take on Morocco. We abandoned the Benz in a parking lot that was monitored - which was a requirement for me because two of our bags were in view sitting on the back seat whilst the rest were locked in the boot. It was an easy amble to the port but it was filled with people planning to travel to Africa. The inside of the port where you check-in was very claustrophobic, hot and filled with luggage at a 10:1 ratio of people. We were able to check-in for the ferry that was earmarked to leave at 10:15 AM and happily retreated outside to the slips and waited before taking on the port yet again to pass EU border control. It took thirty minutes to get my passport stamped as security was screening the many bags other happy travellers were taking with them across the Mediterranean sea. Upon boarding the ferry we were told to fill out and present a boarding card to immigration, which had a little office on the ferry. Not having a pen, we located one in the kiosk and filled out the cards. By then the queue to get your passport stamped on the ferry had grown in length. We took our seat and waited for things to calm down.

 The ferry didn't leave on time and the queue for getting the passport stamped grew exponentially. The ferry left 90 minutes late and we continued to hang out and watch Spain grow to be a distant memory in the background. The ferry ride is only supposed to take 45 minutes and despite still being a queue, we got in it. When someone announced in Arabic that the ferry would be presumably docking shortly, there was a mad rush to the doors which caused all sorts of strife for those that were left to get our passports stamped. It was chaos and an uncomfortable event that I do not want to repeat again.

 As we were part of an organised tour, we found the company representative after thankfully disembarking the ferry into the calm port of Tangiers. We were ushered to a shady area along with mainly Spanish tourists and then loaded into an air-conditioned bus. We were driven along the coast which was very calm, and I was first to comment as the area being "organised" and very green as grass was planted along the route. We passed some very impressive residential buildings and then the Royal Palace. My first impression is that it reminded me a bit of Irvine in California, which is a planned community with Moorish architecture.

 We were dropped off at an overlook where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic for ten minutes. People took selfies with the sign and then we were herded back into the bus for a short trip to another beach. This time camels were waiting. For 2€ you could pay to ride one for two minutes, really in a circle. A woman fell off her camel into both camel shit and rocks which validated my not wanting to ride one in the first place and I am happy that I didn't. Fortunately, she didn't hurt herself too badly and with assistance, she made it back into the bus. The next stop was a system of caves where legend has it that Hercules hung out and used his strength to separate Africa from Europe for whatever reason. These caves were man-made, had a few vendors selling their wares and when compared to the St Michael Caves on Gibraltar which we enjoyed just the day before were very disappointing.

 The final stop was the Kasbah (I am thinking now of The Clash) for a wander around the city. It was all very calm and my next comment was "sanitised" before visiting a small museum before the group was taken to a late lunch at the "best restaurant in Tangiers" which made me laugh when the comment was uttered. The twink and I were the only ones that were keen to indulge upon the set menu; soup, stewed chicken with couscous, sheesh-kebab and a honey-based dessert. We knocked back two local beers each that cost more than beer in Spain and were generally disappointed by the bland food. The other tourists were afraid to eat the lunch which was included with this tour for some strange reason. Watching people react to the food amused me greatly as they grasped their water bottles.

 We were then led into the Medina to go "shopping" for 45 minutes. We followed the guide and watched a demonstration in a shop where they spruiked spices and later oils. I bought a fair amount of Morrocon spices (I wish I had them earlier to supplement my lunch) before we were taken to some other shop that sold trinkets, rugs and fake bags. This was about the time the local peddlers figured out that a tour bus was in town with stupid tourists and we had to take on the gaggle of men selling everything and everything. Junk you could not possibly want even just to throw away. The women in the group were hassled the most however it was an overwhelming experience for one and all where these vendors would not take "No" or the Arabic form of "La!" for an answer. You certainly would not want to spend many days in a hotel in the medina as there would be no concept of having just a quiet stroll around town or having a cup of coffee as you would get hassled and made the British tourists at The Rock preferable in comparison. About the time we were being ushered out of the medina back to the bus, the loudspeakers erupted with the Muslim call to prayer. That didn't stop the hawkers and I couldn't help but laugh at the chaos around me as I thrust my sweaty body back into the air-conditioned bus for the five-minute journey back to the wharf.

 Thankfully, the process to leave Morocco was much easier than to get in. The ferry left on time and after running off the ferry to be the first in the queue to pass immigration in Spain, it was only a matter of minutes before we were motoring down the highway in the warm Benz toward Malaga, which was a two-hour drive away.

 What a day! I am pleased that I went to Tangiers and very happy that it was just a day trip. I am certainly in rush to return!
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Location: Málaga, Spain
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