Saludos everyone (or at least the 2 people reading this blog)! Even though it's only been about 6 days since my last update, it feels like a month. I have quite a bit to recount, so bear with me.
SANLUCAR (Continued)
When last we met, I was in a locutorio in the main plaza of Sanlucar de Barrameda, disappointed after an evening of failed attempts at visiting the sites I'd hoped to cross off my checklist and feeling a bit lonely after parting with my comrade in travel and cuddles. Many apologies for the dejected nature of my last post. After I logged off the public computer and tried to pay for my time, I was harrangued by the son of the owner, a Dominican fellow who comped my internet usage (which was pretty sweet) and then spent the next twenty minutes trying to get me to tell him where I was staying (which was a little more than creepy). I made some friendly chitchat before insisting my boyfriend was the jealous type, that he had many tatoos, and that he wouldn't take it too kindly if I went to the Dominican Republic with another man, no matter how beautiful the beaches supposedly are. Note to Kevin: you have to get some mad Jersey Shore tribal tatoos if you don't want to make a liar out of me. After escaping that painful but somewhat flattering situation, I headed over to a cafeteria on the plaza for a dinner of what else? Bocadillos de jamon (ham sandwich). Spain is a very diverse country, with many dialects spoken, different climates, and a discernably distinct feel to each city I've been to; but if there is one thing that serves as the grout to the myriad of mosaic tiles that is Spain, it's gotta be ham. They take it really seriously here. It is delicious and cheap. I'm not talking the grocery store ham that looks like the inside of a baby's cheek filled with strychnine, and a salty taupe-colored juice; I'm talking legit honest to god perfect strips of meat prepared in a pantheon of truly delicious ways. With homemade bread. And it's cheap. So yeah, I've been eating a lot of ham recently. Anyway, the waiter took pity on me for eating alone and bought me a couple of beers. Either that or I just look like some easy American tourist. My good friend Austin recently called me a rioja-slurping tart, and I can't say he's too far off. So maybe the tartiness vibe just can't be contained. Who knows? Back to Sanlucar: the next morning I went to the heavily restored 15th century castle and took a Spanish language tour from a nice lady named Carmen. When she found out I was from the American south, she gushed about how much she wanted to see the plantations (based on her tour, I could tell she was REAL into classist history) and we became fast friends and exchanged contact info should she ever find herself in good old New Orleans and looking for recommendations. Sanlucar is also the home of Manzanilla, a sherry-like wine that can literally only be produced in Sanlucar, due to its microclimate between the Guadalquivar river, the marshes of the National Park, and the Atlantic Ocean. Apparently even though English language tours are offered, nobody who speaks English ever shows up for them so I, yet again, joined a Spanish language tour of the facilities. It was pretty awesome to see the storage rooms (inside an old 18th century cathedral) and have a tasting at the end. I bought a bottle, which I am now sipping as I write. Don't judge me. It's delicious. Manzanilla is light of color, and pretty strong in taste. They age it in these giant casks, draining only part out of each cask and adding new Manzanilla to it when it's about 2/3 gone, so as to maintain some richness of the old flavor. After I finished with the formal tours, I walked around the town for a few hours (it really was quite beautiful and quiet during siesta time), then treated myself to a dinner at this restaurant overlooking the river. I had some local white wine (don't cry for that, Argentina), clams in a roasted garlic sauce, grilled monkfish with roasted vegetables, and a fruit torte. The food was wonderful and the view was superb. I could not have asked for a nicer final evening in Sanlucar. I got up at 6:00 the next morning and strolled across town to the bus station, taking two buses to arrive in...
TARIFA
Tarifa is the southernmost point of continental Europe (probably...I think I read that somewhere but I could be making it up). Either way, it's really far south and you can see Africa across the Mediterranean Sea. When I arrived, the weather was actually cloudy with a threat of rain, and quite cooler than I expected for (probably) the southern tip of Spain. I had made reservations at this funky youth hostel, but when I arrived, they had no record of my reservation and were (of course) all booked up. I spent the next two hours wandering around with my backpack trying to find a hostel, pension, or even hotel that had a room for (at this point) less than 100 Euros a night. I was turned away like Joseph and Mary in Bethlehem at every corner. Yes, I do think that's an apt comparison. Finally, I stumbled into one of the last hostels on my list, and told the guy at reception my sob story (in Spanish). He winked at me, and told me (in English) that if I could wait a minute and could conduct the transaction in English, he could give me a "good price". Hoping this was not an invitation for prostitution, I agreed to wait, and after he dealt with a few other clients, he gave me a screaming deal of a double room with a private bathroom during high season for the price of a single room during low season, probably saving me at least 60 Euro. That guy will forever be my hero, and you will be happy to know that no prostitution was necessary. I spent the afternoon wandering around old town, specifically around the castle of Guzman El Bueno. During the Reconquista, his son was captured by the Moors, and when he was given the option of surrendering or having his son killed before the castle walls, he threw down his own dagger for the deed. Pretty fucked up, right? Anyway, the castle is right on the Mediterranean, and the whole of the old town is quite the tourist destination. Definitely picturesque. I went to the beach in the late afternoon to work on evening out my mis-shapen tanlines, helped a couple of French dudes jump a fence onto a private beach, and finished reading For Whom the Bell Tolls (excellently written by Ernest Hemingway). I sold out and bought an e-reader for this trip, a Barnes & Nobles "nook", and filled it with writings about Spain. There's a lot of Hemingway, and Don Quixote in both English and Spanish. Lately, I've been favoring the English version since I have proved myself a touch overly optimistic by thinking I could read 500 year-old Castillian without zoning out every now and then. That evening I showered and went out to a bar to watch the Brasil/Paraguay game of the Copa America. As a perpetual fan of the underdog, I was obviously rooting for Paraguay. Me and nobody else. This old dude sitting next to me struck up a conversation about if the team that everyone thinks is best should ACTUALLY win, and when Paraguay won (WOOOO!) I had convinced him to cheer with me. He happened to be an owner of another bar called Moskito (haha) and invited me over for a drink. Why not? Worst/Best decision ever. After the two beers and the scotch on the rocks I had at the sports bar, he bought no less than three rounds of shots, at which point I made good friends with two chicks from Barcelona. We bought each other several rounds of drinks (I lost count at 3) and hopped around various bars in Sanlucar SWEARING WE WERE BEST FRIENDS and eventually exchanging contact info, before I stumbled back to my hotel somewhere between 4 and 5 am. I awoke with a start at 10:15 am, which was a full hour later than I was supposed to show up for the ferry I booked for my day trip to Tangier, Morocco. The ferry left at 10:00, btw. Extremely hungover, I stumbled down to the tourist office to ask if I could belatedly use my reservation for the one that left at noon. Luckily, they are apparently quite accomodating of tourists who get drunk and miss their early ferries. It was no problem. That sets the stage for...
TANGIER, MOROCCO (day trip)
I arrived at the ferry terminal with a giant bottle of water and still pretty sure I was going to barf. The 35 minute ferry across the Mediterranean listed like it was in the middle of a hurricane, and I'm only slightly exaggerating. My plan - if anyone saw me throw up - was to blame it on morning sickness, pat my stomach lovingly and then sneak drinks throughout the day. Luckily, I did not vom. I met up with my tour group in Tangier. It was me, 3 elderly polish folks who did not speak a world of English or Spanish, and about 12 dudes from a young adult soccer team in Murcia (southern Spain). That left me as the only person on the tour who did not have a traveling buddy, which would not have bothered me if it didn't mean that the tour guide, a Moroccan fellow named "Al", walked/sat next to me the entire time and ushered me into shops to try to buy something. The tour guides work on comission for stuff tourists buy. When he tried to get me to take a private "English" tour in a carpet shop, when everyone else was getting the standard Spanish tour, I politely declined saying that Spanish was fine. I could see he was a little upset that I wouldn't have 5 Moroccan men pressuring me to buy something worth more than my car. I did buy a few scarves, using the Moroccan cultural norm of haggling. At this point we enter the part of the story where Erin thought she might be sold into white slavery. You see, as I was negotiating a price for the scarves, I was the only person intent on buying anything, as the Polish folks has no idea what was going on, and the young soccer player dudes had no mind to buy anything all day. So the group continued on without me. The tour guide said he would come back for me. When he did not, the store owner had his son take me to the next stop on your group tour. I hesitantly agreed, making a mental map of where I was in relation to the main plaza. He led me through the labrynthine streets of Tangier, and right before every turn I thought to myself "ok, if I don't see my group soon, I'm going to run for it"...but thankfully I did not have to hire Liam Neeson to find me. I ended up at the old-school pharmacy that sold ointments and creams to assuage common ailments. I ended up buying a tin of rose cream because it smelled like my grandmother used to when she hugged me tight when I was young. I put a little on every day. It reminds me of home. After that, we took a bus to this weird place on the side of the road where you could ride a camel for 1 Euro. Hell yes I did it. It was really weird. Kind of bumpy and the camel owner screamed directions at the camel the whole time, which was a little disconcerting. I don't think camel will ever be my preferred method of transport, btw. We also stopped by this local park that has an amazing view of where the Atlantic and Mediterranean meet. I couldn't take a picture that captured how beautiful it was to see the aquamarine meet the deep blue. All in all, I'd say I don't know if I would take a guided tour of Tangier again, since most of the time I was just ushered into shops filled with jewelry or carpets I couldn't afford, and I just felt guilty. One last cool note about Morocco: I ended up buying a few small handcarved toys from this kid on the street (all in Spanish) and when he asked where I was from and I responded with the United States, his face lit up and he said "Obama! I like Obama and I like America! Good voyage, lady!" It was actually kind of cool to hear that. It is quite a bit different when I travelled abroad during the Bush administration and everytime I admitted my nationality, I was met with a subtle eye roll and almost felt like I should apologize. Anyway, after returning to Tarifa that evening, I was exhausted and still pretty hungover, so I found a supermarket and bought some chips, local cheese, freshmade bread, and -- what else -- Iberico ham. I had myself a lovely little picnic in bead, watched Apocalyto with Spanish subtitles, and called it an early night.
CUENCA
I had thought about spending another few days in the south of Spain, but remembering that I had spent so much time in just one province (if you can believe it) decided it was best to head north. I spent nearly a full day in transit, finally arriving in the town of Cuenca, in Sevilla-La Mancha, a UNESCO World Heritage Site due to it's nearly perfect medieval preservation and unique situation between two gorges of the rivers Huecar and Jucar. The cliffs that arise between the rivers show the beauty of the "casas colgadas" or hanging houses, that jut up from the cliffs as if they were a natural extension of the rock, fashioned by a rennaisance god. I arrived at this windy area of La Mancha, and made my way to my hostel, a medieval building called Pension Posada de San Jose. The door to my room was clearly well over 200 years old, as it took a good deal of coaxing and appropriate pressure for the door to alow me to secure it with the locking mechanism. I confess I felt a bit at this point like a medeival knight begging for his lady to surrender entrance to that which is most sacred: the comfort of a bed. I spent the evening wandering around Cuenca's old town, seeing the unfortunate medieval cum 20th century restoration that is its cathedral, before wandering into the new town, which is at least a kilometer away from old town down quite a steep hill, and took a few pictures of the casas colgadas from the Puente de San Pablo, the bridge connecting old town to the mountains across the Huecar River. The next morning, I visited the Museo de Cuenca, a wonderful little museum detailing the pre-Roman, Roman, and post-Roman eras of the city (yes, most everything is best viewed from a Roman context). Afterwards, I visited the Museo del Arte Abstracto de Espana (the Abstract Art Museum of Spain). This museum houses probably the greatest conglomeration of abstract Spanish art from the 1950s and 1960s, and I cannot say enough good things about how refreshingly real all of it seems set against the background of the medieval topogrophy and after the gothic/renaissance museums of other great cities in Spain. I headed down to the new city at about 2 to check out the Plaza de Espana, and found that literally nothing would be open before 9 pm. I headed back up to the old town through a fairly rigorous hike up the hillside, later following a sendero (walking path) up to the very top of the old town. The views were amazing, and I look forward to posting pictures of the beauties of Spain that were revealed to me in these few hours. I had dinner at the restaurant in my hostel, the viewing patio of which overlooked the Rio Huecar, and I saw the sunset over a lush and beautiful landscape. I woke up this morning to travel to Zarragoza, which I will relate in my next post. Needless to say, I love it. It's an amazing city that voices its history in every turn; and I have met quite a few English-speaking tourists to speak with since my arrival, which has been a great comfort for my lonliness.
I'm not gonna lie, I have had quite enough of the delicious Spanish ham that seems to unite the country. Last night, my choice of pork loin marinated in cider served involunatarily with fried potatoes has quite put me over the realm of my ability to cope with meat-only meals. Now I only crave salads, apples, mangoes, strawberries, and the lightest amount of grilled chicken. Alas, it is usually not meant to be.
I hope you are all well, and that you continue to enjoy life to its fullest.
With all my warmest regards,
A-bear
SANLUCAR (Continued)
When last we met, I was in a locutorio in the main plaza of Sanlucar de Barrameda, disappointed after an evening of failed attempts at visiting the sites I'd hoped to cross off my checklist and feeling a bit lonely after parting with my comrade in travel and cuddles. Many apologies for the dejected nature of my last post. After I logged off the public computer and tried to pay for my time, I was harrangued by the son of the owner, a Dominican fellow who comped my internet usage (which was pretty sweet) and then spent the next twenty minutes trying to get me to tell him where I was staying (which was a little more than creepy). I made some friendly chitchat before insisting my boyfriend was the jealous type, that he had many tatoos, and that he wouldn't take it too kindly if I went to the Dominican Republic with another man, no matter how beautiful the beaches supposedly are. Note to Kevin: you have to get some mad Jersey Shore tribal tatoos if you don't want to make a liar out of me. After escaping that painful but somewhat flattering situation, I headed over to a cafeteria on the plaza for a dinner of what else? Bocadillos de jamon (ham sandwich). Spain is a very diverse country, with many dialects spoken, different climates, and a discernably distinct feel to each city I've been to; but if there is one thing that serves as the grout to the myriad of mosaic tiles that is Spain, it's gotta be ham. They take it really seriously here. It is delicious and cheap. I'm not talking the grocery store ham that looks like the inside of a baby's cheek filled with strychnine, and a salty taupe-colored juice; I'm talking legit honest to god perfect strips of meat prepared in a pantheon of truly delicious ways. With homemade bread. And it's cheap. So yeah, I've been eating a lot of ham recently. Anyway, the waiter took pity on me for eating alone and bought me a couple of beers. Either that or I just look like some easy American tourist. My good friend Austin recently called me a rioja-slurping tart, and I can't say he's too far off. So maybe the tartiness vibe just can't be contained. Who knows? Back to Sanlucar: the next morning I went to the heavily restored 15th century castle and took a Spanish language tour from a nice lady named Carmen. When she found out I was from the American south, she gushed about how much she wanted to see the plantations (based on her tour, I could tell she was REAL into classist history) and we became fast friends and exchanged contact info should she ever find herself in good old New Orleans and looking for recommendations. Sanlucar is also the home of Manzanilla, a sherry-like wine that can literally only be produced in Sanlucar, due to its microclimate between the Guadalquivar river, the marshes of the National Park, and the Atlantic Ocean. Apparently even though English language tours are offered, nobody who speaks English ever shows up for them so I, yet again, joined a Spanish language tour of the facilities. It was pretty awesome to see the storage rooms (inside an old 18th century cathedral) and have a tasting at the end. I bought a bottle, which I am now sipping as I write. Don't judge me. It's delicious. Manzanilla is light of color, and pretty strong in taste. They age it in these giant casks, draining only part out of each cask and adding new Manzanilla to it when it's about 2/3 gone, so as to maintain some richness of the old flavor. After I finished with the formal tours, I walked around the town for a few hours (it really was quite beautiful and quiet during siesta time), then treated myself to a dinner at this restaurant overlooking the river. I had some local white wine (don't cry for that, Argentina), clams in a roasted garlic sauce, grilled monkfish with roasted vegetables, and a fruit torte. The food was wonderful and the view was superb. I could not have asked for a nicer final evening in Sanlucar. I got up at 6:00 the next morning and strolled across town to the bus station, taking two buses to arrive in...
TARIFA
Tarifa is the southernmost point of continental Europe (probably...I think I read that somewhere but I could be making it up). Either way, it's really far south and you can see Africa across the Mediterranean Sea. When I arrived, the weather was actually cloudy with a threat of rain, and quite cooler than I expected for (probably) the southern tip of Spain. I had made reservations at this funky youth hostel, but when I arrived, they had no record of my reservation and were (of course) all booked up. I spent the next two hours wandering around with my backpack trying to find a hostel, pension, or even hotel that had a room for (at this point) less than 100 Euros a night. I was turned away like Joseph and Mary in Bethlehem at every corner. Yes, I do think that's an apt comparison. Finally, I stumbled into one of the last hostels on my list, and told the guy at reception my sob story (in Spanish). He winked at me, and told me (in English) that if I could wait a minute and could conduct the transaction in English, he could give me a "good price". Hoping this was not an invitation for prostitution, I agreed to wait, and after he dealt with a few other clients, he gave me a screaming deal of a double room with a private bathroom during high season for the price of a single room during low season, probably saving me at least 60 Euro. That guy will forever be my hero, and you will be happy to know that no prostitution was necessary. I spent the afternoon wandering around old town, specifically around the castle of Guzman El Bueno. During the Reconquista, his son was captured by the Moors, and when he was given the option of surrendering or having his son killed before the castle walls, he threw down his own dagger for the deed. Pretty fucked up, right? Anyway, the castle is right on the Mediterranean, and the whole of the old town is quite the tourist destination. Definitely picturesque. I went to the beach in the late afternoon to work on evening out my mis-shapen tanlines, helped a couple of French dudes jump a fence onto a private beach, and finished reading For Whom the Bell Tolls (excellently written by Ernest Hemingway). I sold out and bought an e-reader for this trip, a Barnes & Nobles "nook", and filled it with writings about Spain. There's a lot of Hemingway, and Don Quixote in both English and Spanish. Lately, I've been favoring the English version since I have proved myself a touch overly optimistic by thinking I could read 500 year-old Castillian without zoning out every now and then. That evening I showered and went out to a bar to watch the Brasil/Paraguay game of the Copa America. As a perpetual fan of the underdog, I was obviously rooting for Paraguay. Me and nobody else. This old dude sitting next to me struck up a conversation about if the team that everyone thinks is best should ACTUALLY win, and when Paraguay won (WOOOO!) I had convinced him to cheer with me. He happened to be an owner of another bar called Moskito (haha) and invited me over for a drink. Why not? Worst/Best decision ever. After the two beers and the scotch on the rocks I had at the sports bar, he bought no less than three rounds of shots, at which point I made good friends with two chicks from Barcelona. We bought each other several rounds of drinks (I lost count at 3) and hopped around various bars in Sanlucar SWEARING WE WERE BEST FRIENDS and eventually exchanging contact info, before I stumbled back to my hotel somewhere between 4 and 5 am. I awoke with a start at 10:15 am, which was a full hour later than I was supposed to show up for the ferry I booked for my day trip to Tangier, Morocco. The ferry left at 10:00, btw. Extremely hungover, I stumbled down to the tourist office to ask if I could belatedly use my reservation for the one that left at noon. Luckily, they are apparently quite accomodating of tourists who get drunk and miss their early ferries. It was no problem. That sets the stage for...
TANGIER, MOROCCO (day trip)
I arrived at the ferry terminal with a giant bottle of water and still pretty sure I was going to barf. The 35 minute ferry across the Mediterranean listed like it was in the middle of a hurricane, and I'm only slightly exaggerating. My plan - if anyone saw me throw up - was to blame it on morning sickness, pat my stomach lovingly and then sneak drinks throughout the day. Luckily, I did not vom. I met up with my tour group in Tangier. It was me, 3 elderly polish folks who did not speak a world of English or Spanish, and about 12 dudes from a young adult soccer team in Murcia (southern Spain). That left me as the only person on the tour who did not have a traveling buddy, which would not have bothered me if it didn't mean that the tour guide, a Moroccan fellow named "Al", walked/sat next to me the entire time and ushered me into shops to try to buy something. The tour guides work on comission for stuff tourists buy. When he tried to get me to take a private "English" tour in a carpet shop, when everyone else was getting the standard Spanish tour, I politely declined saying that Spanish was fine. I could see he was a little upset that I wouldn't have 5 Moroccan men pressuring me to buy something worth more than my car. I did buy a few scarves, using the Moroccan cultural norm of haggling. At this point we enter the part of the story where Erin thought she might be sold into white slavery. You see, as I was negotiating a price for the scarves, I was the only person intent on buying anything, as the Polish folks has no idea what was going on, and the young soccer player dudes had no mind to buy anything all day. So the group continued on without me. The tour guide said he would come back for me. When he did not, the store owner had his son take me to the next stop on your group tour. I hesitantly agreed, making a mental map of where I was in relation to the main plaza. He led me through the labrynthine streets of Tangier, and right before every turn I thought to myself "ok, if I don't see my group soon, I'm going to run for it"...but thankfully I did not have to hire Liam Neeson to find me. I ended up at the old-school pharmacy that sold ointments and creams to assuage common ailments. I ended up buying a tin of rose cream because it smelled like my grandmother used to when she hugged me tight when I was young. I put a little on every day. It reminds me of home. After that, we took a bus to this weird place on the side of the road where you could ride a camel for 1 Euro. Hell yes I did it. It was really weird. Kind of bumpy and the camel owner screamed directions at the camel the whole time, which was a little disconcerting. I don't think camel will ever be my preferred method of transport, btw. We also stopped by this local park that has an amazing view of where the Atlantic and Mediterranean meet. I couldn't take a picture that captured how beautiful it was to see the aquamarine meet the deep blue. All in all, I'd say I don't know if I would take a guided tour of Tangier again, since most of the time I was just ushered into shops filled with jewelry or carpets I couldn't afford, and I just felt guilty. One last cool note about Morocco: I ended up buying a few small handcarved toys from this kid on the street (all in Spanish) and when he asked where I was from and I responded with the United States, his face lit up and he said "Obama! I like Obama and I like America! Good voyage, lady!" It was actually kind of cool to hear that. It is quite a bit different when I travelled abroad during the Bush administration and everytime I admitted my nationality, I was met with a subtle eye roll and almost felt like I should apologize. Anyway, after returning to Tarifa that evening, I was exhausted and still pretty hungover, so I found a supermarket and bought some chips, local cheese, freshmade bread, and -- what else -- Iberico ham. I had myself a lovely little picnic in bead, watched Apocalyto with Spanish subtitles, and called it an early night.
CUENCA
I had thought about spending another few days in the south of Spain, but remembering that I had spent so much time in just one province (if you can believe it) decided it was best to head north. I spent nearly a full day in transit, finally arriving in the town of Cuenca, in Sevilla-La Mancha, a UNESCO World Heritage Site due to it's nearly perfect medieval preservation and unique situation between two gorges of the rivers Huecar and Jucar. The cliffs that arise between the rivers show the beauty of the "casas colgadas" or hanging houses, that jut up from the cliffs as if they were a natural extension of the rock, fashioned by a rennaisance god. I arrived at this windy area of La Mancha, and made my way to my hostel, a medieval building called Pension Posada de San Jose. The door to my room was clearly well over 200 years old, as it took a good deal of coaxing and appropriate pressure for the door to alow me to secure it with the locking mechanism. I confess I felt a bit at this point like a medeival knight begging for his lady to surrender entrance to that which is most sacred: the comfort of a bed. I spent the evening wandering around Cuenca's old town, seeing the unfortunate medieval cum 20th century restoration that is its cathedral, before wandering into the new town, which is at least a kilometer away from old town down quite a steep hill, and took a few pictures of the casas colgadas from the Puente de San Pablo, the bridge connecting old town to the mountains across the Huecar River. The next morning, I visited the Museo de Cuenca, a wonderful little museum detailing the pre-Roman, Roman, and post-Roman eras of the city (yes, most everything is best viewed from a Roman context). Afterwards, I visited the Museo del Arte Abstracto de Espana (the Abstract Art Museum of Spain). This museum houses probably the greatest conglomeration of abstract Spanish art from the 1950s and 1960s, and I cannot say enough good things about how refreshingly real all of it seems set against the background of the medieval topogrophy and after the gothic/renaissance museums of other great cities in Spain. I headed down to the new city at about 2 to check out the Plaza de Espana, and found that literally nothing would be open before 9 pm. I headed back up to the old town through a fairly rigorous hike up the hillside, later following a sendero (walking path) up to the very top of the old town. The views were amazing, and I look forward to posting pictures of the beauties of Spain that were revealed to me in these few hours. I had dinner at the restaurant in my hostel, the viewing patio of which overlooked the Rio Huecar, and I saw the sunset over a lush and beautiful landscape. I woke up this morning to travel to Zarragoza, which I will relate in my next post. Needless to say, I love it. It's an amazing city that voices its history in every turn; and I have met quite a few English-speaking tourists to speak with since my arrival, which has been a great comfort for my lonliness.
I'm not gonna lie, I have had quite enough of the delicious Spanish ham that seems to unite the country. Last night, my choice of pork loin marinated in cider served involunatarily with fried potatoes has quite put me over the realm of my ability to cope with meat-only meals. Now I only crave salads, apples, mangoes, strawberries, and the lightest amount of grilled chicken. Alas, it is usually not meant to be.
I hope you are all well, and that you continue to enjoy life to its fullest.
With all my warmest regards,
A-bear
As one of the two people reading this blog, I find it quite entertaining. Call me if you are lonesome, I'd love to hear from you. <3
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