The Ten Spanish Drinking Commandments

There’s a knack to drinking in Spain; a certain manifesto that – given enough time – one generally becomes accustomed to. We Brits are used to a binge-drinking culture that for one reason or another didn’t go away after the Labour party brought in 24-hour licensing laws in 2005. The rationale was that it would instil more of a sophisticated, continental café-type drinking attitude. A legitimate proposal, you might argue, but doomed from the start really.

But this notion of a ‘café-drinking culture’ could only have sprung from countries like France, Belgium and indeed, Spain. Yet I often wonder how and why this is.

I can’t speak for France or Belgium but here in Spain, I’ve rarely felt sophisticated when knocking back the beers with amigos at the weekend. Not to say, of course, that civilised and responsible drinking doesn’t take place – this does happen, and is generally a daytime custom – but going out for a drink frequently means the same thing as it does in Britain: going out for a drink to get drunk. And when this happens, there are rules to follow. Thus, I doth bring you…

THE 10 SPANISH DRINKING COMMANDMENTS

One: Thou shalt choose wisely

As is the case anywhere in the world, getting to know foreign beverages duly involves many instances of trial and error. There are inevitably good ones and bad ones, which can usually be set apart judging by their respective price tags. In Spain, however, each beer, glass of wine or copa is often as cheap or costly as the next, and unless you’ve a Spanish friend on hand to help, you’ll end up having to sift your way through them all until you find a winner. Everyone has their preferences, but as a rule of thumb, don’t go for:

Cruz Campo: A Sevillana cerveza that is essentially Spain’s equivalent to Fosters, unless of course you are in Seville, where it is considered to be almost on par with holy water.

Sangría: Not only will this probably not be available, but it is a proper tourist drink that is usually made with the cheapest, nastiest wine and liquor that is too embarrassing to leave on the back bar – unless you’re at a fancy beach bar on the Costa del Sol.

Ron Negrita: A good choice if one’s sole intention is to become inebriated as quickly as possible – it’s strong, and cheap when bought from a supermarket, but be warned: the resaca is devastating.

Two: Thou shalt speak with proper tongue

In the UK we say ‘Cheers’, often not even excitedly, before we take that first, yearned-for sip. In Spain, you could probably write a book on the things to say and how to say them before getting stuck in. ‘Salud!’ is the direct translation – fair enough – but occasionally one is required to join in with longer, often rather puzzling verses, the learning of which is effectively a rite of passage for us guiris. ‘Pa arriba’, pa’ bajo, pa’ al centro, pa’ dentro!’ – ‘Up, down, to the centre, inside’ – is the most commonly used expression. Andalucíans can be crude though, as is exhibited through the use of: ‘Quien no apoya no folla, quien no recorre no se corre’ – He who doesn’t support doesn’t get laid, he who doesn’t ‘run along the surface’ doesn’t well, er, ‘finish the job’, so to speak. How British of me.

Three: Thou shalt not forget the proper traditions

As is customary to learn the local limericks and sayings, boorish as they may be, one must also respect the non-verbal rituals when out drinking in Spain. Rubbing the bottom of your glass in a circular motion on the bar or table and then banging it back down is one such example. Even today I haven’t a clue as to why we do it. I suppose it’s one of those little mysteries I enjoy being confounded by. It takes place in between saying ‘Salud!’ and taking that first swig, which is where the next practice comes in: eye contact. If you fail to make eye contact at that precise moment the first sip is taken, you are, effectively, condemning yourself to seven years of bad sex. Yes I know! I gulped too.

Here’s to some great sex!

Four: Thou shalt exercise caution

I’ve alluded to the importance of drinking stamina in Spain before, but it really is beyond doubt the single most fundamental commandment of the 10 Spanish drinking commandments. We go all night in Spain, and if you don’t pace yourself then you could be in for a sudden case of las naúseas later on down the line. Be clever and go slow.

The Finish Line at 8am

Five: Thou shalt drink at lunch time

Forget any pre-conceived idea of what society constitutes as ‘normal’ drinking hours. Any hour is a drinking hour in Spain. Some Spaniards even consider it unusual for somebody not to have a beer during a lunch break. ‘Why bother with coke?’ I was once asked. ‘It’s the same price as beer.’ Fair point really.

Six: Thou shalt not be vexed by la cuenta police

Most bars in Spain do not charge customers until they are ready to leave. This is fine, providing you are not part of a large group and have inadvertently become involved in a longwinded, tedious squabble over who’s had what and who owes who. As was touched on by Jess of HolaYessica! (in a post that I can no longer find) a few months ago, this can get very annoying. Personally, I am of the ‘let’s just split it evenly to keep it simple and painless’ sect; there’s no mood killer quite like somebody taking out their smartphone to work out how much more that person who was on the mojitos owes. However, this is often the case here in Spain and if you’re like me then you just have to learn to deal with it.

Seven: Thou shalt eat whenever possible

If there’s a tapa there, take it. As commandment four stipulates, pacing oneself is imperative if you are to make it safely to the finish line. Food is fuel and – if you’re in my neck of the woods – served free with every drink. When tapas are finished for the night (generally around midnight in most places) there’s always that tasty, irresistible-when-drunk-and-hungry alternative: el Shawarma. Best to keep an emergency pack of chewing gum about for when this happens though – don’t want to scare off that pretty Spanish girl now do we? Or boy – girls like shawarma too.

Eight: Thou shalt take a nap beforehand

A Spanish politician recently suggested that Spain do away with the siesta so as to help boost the country’s failing economy by having longer working hours. There was uproar. Siestas are fundamentally important here, whether meant as strategic pre-drinking snoozes or not. In any case, they can potentially determine the outcome of a night out: still up at dawn singing loudly, or in bed by 2am, snoring loudly.

Nine: Thou shalt attend a ‘botellon’ at least once

The term ‘botellon’ is used loosely to refer to what we Brits simply call ‘pre-drinking’. It takes place either in somebody’s home before la hora de salir in order to attain a satisfactory and cost-effective level of drunkenness, or out on the streets among hundreds of other tipple-toting dipsomaniacs. The majority of these tend to be alarmingly young looking, often because they are in fact very, very young. The police let them get on with it, providing they all stay out of trouble, and here in Granada, there is even a large, designated area, known as el Botollodromo, where this shameless debauchery takes place. Ten years ago I would have loved it. These days, however, I’d rather go for option one in the comfort of a cozy home. You might like it though.

Botellon (Source)

Ten: Thou shalt learn these words

Here and there I’ve inserted some useful Spanish words and phrases that you may very well need when drinking in Spain. Here are their translations, along with a few others:

‘la hora de salir’ – time to leave

‘copa’ – spirit and mixer

‘llename’ – fill me up

‘un chupito’ – a shot

‘ponme otro’ – another one please

‘cuanto cuesta?’ – how much?

‘venga otro más’ – sod it give us one more

‘buenas noches’ – good night

‘resaca’ – hangover

‘las naúseas’ – the act of being repeatedly sick

Cidra y Perucci Martinis

Got any more to add to the list? Let’s hear them in the comments section below…

Five things not to forget when moving to Spain

So, you’ve taken the plunge and you’re doing it: you’re going to move to Spain. Firstly, congratulations – a wise decision indeed. Secondly, let me remind you: packing your life into a couple of suitcases is no easy task. Certain things are often mistakenly – sometimes even tragically – overlooked. As Janet Jackson (and probably somebody else far more noble before her) once noted, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone”. Them be wise words Janet; I know just what you mean. The first few weeks of my Spanish adventure were blighted through lack of homely goods. Of course I managed without – it’s all part of the process of moving away and an open mind is certainly something you don’t want to forget – but everyone gets cravings for home comforts from time to time. And when that time comes, you’ll be thanking me for this wee list here.

Current expats feel free to add your own examples 🙂

 

One: Chocolate

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Not saying that Spanish chocolate isn’t good, just not as good. Brands you’re likely already familiar with will cost more in Spain as they’re all imported, yet – for some reason I can’t put my finger on – they never seem to taste the same. Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, for instance, is nowhere near as satisfying, but maybe I’m being tiquismiquis (my favourite Spanish word). Milka, usually for a round €1 a bar, is your best bet in Spain.

Then there’s this obsession for nutty chocolate that I can’t wrap my head around either. Almonds and hazelnuts creep their way into far too many bars and they’re not even offset with raisins. Madness.

 

Two: Cheddar Cheese

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There’s a lot of love for cheese in Spain, which is great for obvious reasons, but there’s no cheddar, and that cheeses me off. Weirdly, they do have Lea & Perrins, which, to have without cheddar cheese, is a frightening thought and one I won’t dwell on any longer.

Manchego is the staple cheese in Spain, and can be found in virtually any bar across the country. It often comes served with green olives, a swimming pool of olive oil and slice of bread to mop up with. But it doesn’t melt on toast.

 

Three: Proper Tea

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Tea is a whole different bag in Spain. First off, it is and will forever remain secondary to coffee. Second, tea with milk is considered peculiar. Spanish friends of mine still can’t quite comprehend why we do it, just as I can’t comprehend how they (generally) don’t like it. Instead, it’s tea of the green, peppermint or fruity variety that hog the shelves in the likes of Día, Carrefour and the mighty Mercadona. To be fair, the latter does stock PG Tips – which will do – and I’m told Lidl do Tetley’s, but you’re barmy if you think you’ll find Yorkshire Tea anywhere in Spain. If you do find some though, shoot me a private message will you?

 

Four: Squash

Don’t get me wrong – proper fruit juice is undeniably better than squash (a concentrated, fruit-flavoured cordial to be diluted with water for anyone wondering), but when it’s water you need, it’s water you get in Spain. Contaminating it with this ‘squash’ stuff is a simply ludicrous idea that turns most Spanish stomachs. I grew up on the stuff. In fact I probably consumed a small ocean of Robinson’s Apple & Black Current over the course of my childhood, and there’s always a bottle of it waiting for me when I go home. Cheers mum.

It is seriously missed in Spain. One friend of mine actually drove from Cadiz to Gibraltar to get some in a fit of sweaty desperation. Well, perhaps that’s overstating it a bit but it was listed as one of the main reasons for making the trip. Completely understandable though.

 

Five: Custard Creams

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There’s a chance this one might be just ever so slightly self-indulgent but in the all-time biscuit rankings – if there is such a thing (and if there isn’t there ought to be) – the Custard Cream, alongside the McVitie’s Milk Chocolate and Caramel Digestive (credit where credit’s due), surely takes first place. Somehow, unfathomably, it has evaded Spain. I know, incredible, but true. You can probably cram three or four packets of these in your suitcase, and make them last until Christmas if you’re a disciplined rationer. It’s all Oreos and deeply unsatisfying Rich Tea in Spain I’m afraid.

Any other suggestions?

Pintxo hopping in San Sebastian, País Vasco

The only thing I could be sure of before heading to País Vasco was that I was going to eat well; anybody I spoke to who had been before would probably have testified to it in a court of law had they been given the chance.

“Dios mio que suerte! La comida alli es increíble!” they would more or less say.

“Me traigas un pintxo vale?”

Hmm. Bring you one back? Wouldn’t a fancy tapa along Calle Navas suffice instead?

They were joking of course, but when I arrived at Bar Txalupa – my first Pintxo bar in San Sebastián – cold, sodden and starving, I quickly realized that such a request – whether it had been a joke or not – wasn’t so unreasonable after all. The overflowing dishes of elaborately concocted pintxos looked fit for a king. Choosing which I was going to devour first was a tough decision to take. Eventually though, I settled for the elegant jamón and goat’s cheese salad tostada and sweet tuna mayo-stuffed, red pepper. Both of them were practically inhaled at the cost of €2.50 each (without a drink included). A budget lunch in San Sebastián, it seemed, was not an easy thing to come by.

Pintxo de jamón y queso de cabra y pintxo de pimienta roja con atún. Divine.

Next, my couchsurfing host, Luis – author of ‘Aquel Año Erasmus’ – led me to his personal favourite, Bar Juantxo, where the pintxos were apparently a tad more agreeably priced and just as appetizing. We arrived and waded in through the jostling crowd. Beside the Spanish menu was one written in Euskera. ‘Time to flex my lingo skills’ I thought, ‘how hard can it be if it’s written in front of me?’ I gave it my best shot, and was met with first a smile, and then the translated version in Castellano. ‘Si’ I replied with a sigh. I’d managed my first proper Basque sentence but the fact that the barman had answered in Spanish irked me, just as it used to when Spanish people spoke to me in English when I was trying my hardest to spit out a sentence in Spanish. At least I knew I’d got it right.

Bocadillo de lomo y pimiento rojo

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The food was just as gratifying as Luis had promised, and notably cheaper, at just €2 a pintxo, and €3 for a larger bocadillo. I went for a pork and pepper baguette and another wedge of ham-topped tortilla. The highlight though, was hearing Euskera spoken properly for the first time. It came from a family sitting to our left, and largely involved a mother scolding her children for chasing each other around the room. I wouldn’t have known if Luis hadn’t pointed it out. When I tuned in, it honestly sounded as though it could have been any foreign language; I couldn’t relate in any way whatsoever, except for that it seemed to have the same rhythm as Castellano. That’s when it hit me that I could have already heard Euskera on numerous occasions in Bilbao but had simply failed to realise it.

Pintxod out, I spent the rest of the afternoon making hay while the sun still shone. Unfortunately, a broad layer of dreary, txirimiri (basque for ‘drizzle’) tipping clouds choked most of that sunshine out, leaving me somewhat underwhelmed by my environs. Next day, however, it opened up a bit, and in between yet more pintxos, I spent the afternoon wandering San Sebastián’s parte vieja and unhurriedly climbing the littoral, castle-topped Monte Urgull, which overlooks the city and offers sweeping views. The sky at the mount’s summit was still overcast, but inadvertently provided a brilliant, spooky sort of backdrop to the small island of Santa Clara, which lies just 700m from the curved Playa de la Concha.

La Parte Vieja (The Old Town) 

La Catedral

Iglesia de Santa María

The Door of Santa María

Views from Monte Urgull

San Sebastián

Statue of Jesus atop Monte Urgull

Isla de Santa Clara

More Pintxos

Casa Vergana, Calle Mayor

I enjoyed my time in San Sebastián, and could see why many people insist on the city being the highlight of the Basque region – there’s a certain ecclesiastical charm about the place that is lacking in neighbouring Bilbao – but things get rather quiet in the evening. Spain were playing France in a World Cup qualifier match one of the nights I was there, which in Andalucía would warrant jam-packed bars on every street corner, but you’d be forgiven for thinking there had been a recent outbreak of the plague in San Sebastián; it was dead, and those out for a drink seemed to be totally unconcerned about the football. In a way, it was a refreshing change, but a surprising one nonetheless.

Making music on Zurriola Bridge

San Sebastián, or Donostia, as it is called in Euskera, is definitely a daytime city, which revolves around its inimitable gastronomy scene. There’re plenty of tasty tapas elsewhere in Spain, but you’ll have to come here if you really want to sample Spanish cuisine at its absolute best. Take it from me, a newly converted pintxo aficionado who guzzled back no less than eleven of the toothsome treats in just under 48 hours. And for the record, I actually did attempt to bring a couple back to Granada, though they were accidentally eaten on the plane.

Surfers on Playa de Gros

Have you been to San Sebastián? What’s the best pintxo you’ve ever had?

Basque hunting in Bilbao, País Vasco

Casco Viejo

Easter week, in Spain, is known as ‘Semana Santa’. Much like at Christmas time, the emphasis veers away from the commercial side of things; there’re no eggs – chocolate or decorative, hard-boiled ones – and no kitschy shop-window displays of Easter bunnies who are supposed to have somehow laid them.

For most, it presents the opportunity to take part in or simply observe a historic and deep-rooted Spanish tradition that is as much a social ritual as an ancient religious practice. For others, it’s a week of going out, getting drunk and staying in bed. For me, it’s a time to travel. I’ve seen Semana Santa once before, and forty-five minute journeys on foot that ordinarily take just five become a little wearisome after the fifth or sixth time.

This year, I travelled north to País Vasco, an area of Spain I have long since wanted to explore, given its interminable tide of rave reviews and my unswerving curiosity for all things where peculiar languages are concerned.

My trip started in Bilbao, the largest and most densely populated city of the region, which, since the construction of the famous Guggenheim Museum in 1997, has seen itself go from a relatively uninteresting port city to a thriving, trendy and avant-garde tourist hub.

(Source)

Thanks to a couple of very informative posts from the likes of Young Adventuress and Liz en España, I was easily able to draw up a rough plan of what I was going to do keep me busy. Two nights seemed about right.

I arrived at the airport Saturday afternoon and boarded the Bizkaibus to the city centre. My ears were pricked, ready to ingest all those baffling Basque words, but everybody on the bus seemed to be speaking Castellano. ‘They’re just regular Spanish-speaking people on holiday’ I thought, ‘I’ll be drowning in it soon enough’. I turned my attention to what was happening outside the bus. The difference between what I was seeing and the Spain I was used to was incredible, in almost every sense. It wasn’t just the lush, green meadows filled with cows and sheep that struck me as different; it was the smell as well. I breathed in the pungent scent of freshly cut grass, more evocative of the peak district where I grew up in England, when my nostrils were abruptly hijacked by the equally as powerful aroma of freshly laid horse manure. I gagged loudly. Rough with the smooth and all that I suppose.

Plaza de Miguel de Unamuno

Not long afterwards I was looking out onto Plaza de Miguel de Unamuno, instantly enamored with the place. Luckily, I had managed to secure accommodation in this old part of town, El Casco Viejo, via couchsurfing, so everything I wanted to see was right on my doorstep. Before finding my host’s apartment, I went out in search of some Euskara (the official term for the Basque language) as I still hadn’t heard any, and was at a loss as to why. I decided to home in on old people. Surely they would speak it, proud as they are of their roots and regional identity. Two old ladies approached on my left flank. I slowed my pace, and listened intently…

Nothing. NADA. Why on earth was nobody speaking this mysterious language? Weren’t they proud to be able to speak it? Was I actually in Bilbao?

Plaza Nueva

I soon found my host’s apartment, where my questions were duly answered. Apparently, people tend not to speak Euskera in the cities of País Vasco, and a surprising amount of Basque-born natives speak relatively little of the language, knowing only useful words and phrases for the rare times they should ever need them. If you want to hear Euskera spoken fluently and liberally, you have to head out to the smaller towns in between the three main cities, Bilbao, San Sebastián and Vitoria-Gasteiz. This came as a surprise to me. Clearly, I hadn’t read Liz’s post on ‘5 Things You Need To Know When Visiting Basque Country’ closely enough. I inevitably began to draw comparisons with Catalan, a language that is spoken anywhere and everywhere in all of Catalonia, in cities big or small. Why wasn’t it the same here?

I spent the rest of the day wandering the elegant Casco Viejo, which exuded a perfectly balanced mingling of things both old and new. I was completely sold.

Catedral de Bilbao

Space Invader!

Casco Viejo

Always love a bit of street art…

Later that evening, I met my host’s housemate, Tania, who, although not a native herself, offered me her thoughts on why Euskera is less common to hear in País Vasco than Catalan in Catalonia. I was shocked. According to Tania, many Basque natives choose not to speak Euskera as abundantly as they could do for fear of being associated with the now abdicated ETA terrorist organization. This explanation seemed a little radical to me, but I could see some sense in what she was saying.

Understandably, it’s still a very touchy subject, ETA. While few supporters of the organization remain, there is still a well-backed call for the transfer of all Basque prisoners, currently serving life sentences for acts of terrorism, to Basque prisons, where their families would be able to visit them without the cost of travelling elsewhere in Spain. Earlier this year thousands of people marched in downtown Bilbao to give voice to the cause, and each week, family members stand outside the city council in silent protest. The movement for complete separation from the state is still a very much alive in Bilbao. Spain’s World Cup win in 2010, for instance, triggered a number of street fights, after those that openly celebrated the victory were set upon by separatists out looking to make a point.

The following day, I visited El Mercado de Ribera, explored more of the old town and went to the Guggenheim. Here is what I saw:

Mercado de Ribera

Carne

Mercado de Ribera

Fruta, Mercado de Ribera

The Guggenheim

The Guggenheim Spider

The Guggenheim Dog

Elevator inside the Guggenheim

Metalic flowers, The Guggenheim

‘The Matter Of Time’ room, The Guggenheim (didn’t realise that I wasn’t allowed to take this one but still got away with it…)

Balls, The Guggenheim

That evening, I had my first pinxto tour. I started with a aubergine and goat’s cheese topped tostada, then went on to a jamon and breadcrumbed chicken baguette and finished with a colossal helping of tortilla:

Pintxo de bernjena y queso de cabra

More pintxos

Humungous tortilla

They were all delicious, but not a scratch on what I was about to discover in my next port of call – San Sebastián.

I didn’t hear one single conversation in Euskera whilst in Bilbao, but I did pick up and attempt to learn one or two phrases from the people I met. Here are some of them:

Kaixo  – Hello

Zer moduz – How are you?

Garargado bat – One beer

Bi garagardo – Two beers

Mezedez – Please

Eskerrik asko  – Thank you (incredible, I know)

Ez dago zergaitik – You’re welcome (even more incredible)

Agur – Goodbye (unsurprisingly easier)

Despite the disappointing realization that there wasn’t much Euskera to be heard in Bilbao, I still loved my time there, and certainly hadn’t predicted that I’d be so mesmerized by the city. I ended up staying three nights it was that good.

Euskera

Have you been to Bilbao before? What did you think of it? Would you go back?

Top 10 Tapas Bars in Granada

Shawarma de Pollo y Papa Yunnani, Om Kalsoum

If you’ve ever been to Granada, or you are thinking of visiting someday, then you’ll almost certainly know that its thriving tapas scene is reason enough for making the trip.

Firstly, it all comes for free with any beer, vino or soft drink. Secondly, the culturally diverse nature of Granada as a city is palpably reflected in its array of forward-thinking gastronomy. Whether its traditional Spanish, exotic Moroccan, tongue-tingling oriental style or an inconceivable fusion of all of the above, Granada has it all.

El pollo es salsa Thailandés (Thai Chicken Curry) and El Bacalhau á Gomes de Sá (Portuguese style salt cod), Poë

Recently, I entered into Expats Blog’s ‘Top Lists’ writing contest with an entry showcasing what in my opinion are the top ten tapas bars in Granada. I do hope you have a spare five minutes to click the link and have a read through. If you like what you see then maybe you’d even be so kind as to comment on the post and share via Facebook or Twitter!

That would help me lots.

Gracias a todos! J

Spanish Breakfast

A Spanish Breakfast (my version anyway)

This is what I make for breakfast most mornings. It looks time-consuming but after four or five gos you get surprisingly good at it. These days it takes me about fifteen minutes to have it all laid out and ready to eat on my terrace. It’s delicious:

Grated tomato, garlic and oil, with bakery-fresh bread and manchego cheese for dipping, and fresh fruit and freshly squeezed orange juice to boot.

I’m not entirely sure what constitutes the classic Spanish breakfast but I’m guessing this comes pretty close.

Where are you in the world and what’s your country’s typical morning meal? Maybe you’d like to post your own picture to your blog and link back to this post? Just a thought… J

Ronda on a whim

Of all the Puente weekends we Spain-residing workers are fortuitously bestowed, February’s is, in my opinion, the most prized of them all. While in most other parts of the world two working months without respite may not exactly seem difficult to endure, here in Spain, such a lengthy Puente-less period, once accustomed to, can prove rather arduous. So when this year’s finally came around, I intended to fully make the most of it.

Where to go and what to do? So many places unchecked on my list. Salamanca? One glance at the sorry-looking weather forecast and my decision was made for me. Valencia, perhaps? Nope. A €110 return bus fare pre-payday was out of the question. I faffed and ruminated for several days, before eventually deciding that I would go to Ronda ­– somewhere that had been on my radar for some time, yet had remained unexplored due to that omnipresent ‘I’ll save it for another time’ sort of approach. Well it would remain unexplored no longer! It was Wednesday, and I would leave the following morning. I booked a hostel for two nights, met with some friends and embarked on a night of unreserved binge drinking, pleased with my decision and looking forward to hitting the road, or train-track, as was the case in point.

“Ronda es una cuidad colgada del cielo sobre una montaña partida en dos por obra de los dioses”

– Walter Starkie (1894-1976)

Morning came, and despite the truly horrendous hangover I awoke to, I quickly packed a bag and left – on time. Half an hour later, I arrived at the train station to discover a hulking queue tailing back into the lobby. There were fifteen minutes to spare. Not enough, as it turned out. I heard the train whir away from the platform as I stood, helplessly, in third place. Bollocks. First night at hostel squandered and hangover for nothing. I bought a ticket for the next afternoon, trudged back home along the snow-covered streets (yes, snow in Granada!), and spent the day reeling in disappointment and physical pain.

A Ronda backstreet

Socorro Church, Plaza SocorroHercules and his chirpy companion

I’ll get on with it now. Next day I caught my train and successfully navigated my way to Ronda, feeling a damn sight chirpier about it. A ten-minute saunter down a dusty backstreet and I found myself leaning over a railing 750m above sea level, overlooking the capacious countryside in front of me. It was spectacular to say the least. I’ve climbed Machu Picchu, gazed out onto the Rocky Mountain peninsular and even been up the Sheffield Ferris Wheel at Christmas, and this vista was right up there with them. I hadn’t even got to Puente Nuevo yet and I was already falling for it. Twenty long, camera clacking minutes later and that’s exactly where I was, eyes fixed and jaw suitably limp. The stone bridge, completed in 1793 after taking 42 years to build and claiming 50 lives in the process, towers 120m above the El Tajo Gorge. It is a feast for the eyes, and almost impossible to turn away from.

My hostel, which, despite having charged me for my first night’s stay (my fault, mustn’t grumble), was in the most idyllic of locations. It faced the bridge, offering a view that others could only have drooled over, as they saw me clacking away from the balcony. Checked in and all that, I explored further afield in order to view the bridge from every possible angle, though not until after the shadow of a mountain somewhere in the distance had crept up the face of the giant edifice as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Had I known better, I’d have hiked to the facing lookout point to catch the perfect snapshot. Unfortunately, I was too slow off the mark and missed it. Still, can’t complain with snaps like these:

Puente NuevoPuente Nuevo sobre El Trajo gorgeAt dusk

That night, random Indian guy from hostel and self headed out for dinner and drinks. Nobody else had wanted to come, despite the hostel being full.

“Ronda is a quiet place. No parties happen here, especially at this time of year”, explained the receptionist.

She was absolutely right. The place was dead when we left the hostel at 10pm. I wasn’t after a party anyway, just a wedge of a pizza and perhaps a couple of large jars to wash it down with. My wishes were fulfilled by way of an enormous bbq chicken pizza and (shoot me I’m a guiri) three litre-sized Weissbiers in a local Irish pub. God they were good. And the music was bloody good too! Live music, I might add, and the only sign of it along the cricket abounding promenade.

The third of our beers and a round of tequila slammers were proffered to us by the most affable of fellows: one Jack Boris Rodriguez García. The man’s driving license had to be seen to be believed. That really was his name – among the best I’d ever heard. Apparently his first name was given to him in owing to a long-standing family tradition (his father, grandfather and great grandfather had also been called Jack) that had started due to an American of the same name saving his great, great grandfather from execution during the Peruvian War of Independence in the early 19^th century. Boris was the name of his mother’s father, who was Russian. He now works in the military and plans to spend the rest of his life in Andalucía. Smart guy. I was enthralled by his story. Well the first bit anyway. But as much as it pained me to bid Jack Boris Rodriguez García good night, I eventually forced myself to do so, for the next day was the only day I planned to spend in Ronda, and there was yet much to be done!

View of the hostel from Puente NuevoView of Puente Nuevo from the hostelAt night

Breakfasted and showered, I headed straight to the tourism office to enquire about day excursions to some nearby Roman ruins I’d heard about. I was dressed too, in case you were wondering. Unfortunately there were no such excursions to speak of upon my arrival. I could have jumped in a taxi and paid the man to take me there but that was obviously not going to happen. Instead, I plumped for a leisurely stroll in and around the city’s Plaza de Toro, famed for being counted amongst the country’s oldest of bullrings.

I’m against bullfighting, but I’m not against learning about it. Until this trip I had never actually learnt the historical significance of the sport and how it came to be. I won’t get into the nitty-gritty, as I don’t want this post to turn my blog into a debate forum, but a good half an hour spent reading plaques and brittle newspaper clippings proved incredibly educational. The bullring itself was equally as absorbing, though the added element of bull-imitating French exchange-students took the gloss off a bit. When they eventually disappeared, I was, for just a moment, completely alone inside the eerie dome, sort of feeling like Spartacus or a chained lion might jump out at any moment and chop me up into bits. I seized the moment to take my favourite (bridge excluding) photo of the weekend:

Plaza de Toros

After that, I wandered down to the lookout point for the second time, for a thoroughly good read. I’d say I picked a rather nice spot. Wouldn’t you agree?

Moorish gate that can be seen from the bridge

Eventually I had to be going, but not before I stopped off at Daver bakery to sample one of the city’s local sweet-tooth specialties. It was a grueling decision to have to make – almost as tough as the other one I’m currently faced with – but in the end, I went for La Miloja Chantilli. It was delicious. So delicious in fact, that I forgot to take a picture of it. This is what Google image search came up with, but it honestly doesn’t do the delectable treat justice.

Tarta de Miloja (Source)

I’ll be back to Ronda for sure. It is without doubt one of the most stunningly beautiful places I have visited since moving to Spain, though next time I’ll take a car. There’s much to see within the city if like me, you don’t stay for longer than a night, but if you’re intent on visiting Roman ruins or off-the-beaten-path hiking trails then renting a car is by far the best way to go. It’s also a rather couply place, so be warned if you are easily annoyed by overexuberant canoodling and/or are going through/have just gone through a painful break up. Especially depressed/brokenhearted people and readily accessible, 120m tall bridges is perhaps not the most sensible of combinations.

Have you been to Ronda?

Cordóba: A Few Highlights

I moved to Granada in September 2011 and I am wholeheartedly ashamed to admit that it took me a whopping six months to visit the neighbouring Moorish city of Cordóba. I attribute this to three reasons:

1. The trip was just too easy to put off, considering it could be reached so easily via a 2-hour bus ride. Very bad excuse, I know.
2. Granada isn’t a place you want to leave in a hurry, and I won’t deny that I may have got a little bit too caught up in the magic of it all.
3. With a deep-seated snowboarding addiction like mine, the lure of the even closer Sierra Nevada was often too compelling, so almost all of my long Puente weekends during the winter months were spent here instead.

With spring in full swing, however, I eventually got my act together and booked myself onto that bus. I was going to Cordóba at last! Fortunately, I was lucky enough to have a friend to stay with for the weekend, thus, research carried out beforehand had been pretty minimal, based on the assumption that there would be a perfect itinerary waiting for me when I arrived (this was naïve and sloppy of me and I learnt my lesson). All I did know was that there was a massive mosque, a bloody great big bridge and that it was the climatic equivalent of a vat of boiling oil. Still relatively dazed by the sheer magnetism of Granada, I honestly hadn’t banked on seeing much else to write home about.

Me standing in front of La Puerta del puente romano, Córdoba

Well, I did, and I did actually write home about it. Now, I’m jazzing that letter up and writing to you about it, though after reading this smashing, beautifully photo-illustrated post on the city by Liz over at Young Adventuress I hardly feel I’ll be able to say it better, so I’ll try and keep it brief. (328 words and counting…)

La Mezquita

The gold and red arches inside La Mezquita. Click here for a waay better picture!

For those of you unfamiliar with Cordóba’s most alluring tourist magnet, or indeed with the Spanish translation of the word, this is that massive mosque I alluded to earlier. We’ve all seen mosques before – there are at least three in every major city back in Britain – but this one’s an architectural cut above the rest.

The history of La Mezquita is a complex one. It began life as a Catholic Christian church around the year 600 but was converted into an Islamic temple of prayer in 784 after the Muslims sieged the city. A number of drastic, mosque-befitting modifications were made over the next 200 years or so before the ancient edifice was finally completed in 987. Years later, in 1236, Cordóba was liberated of Islamic rule by King Ferdinand III of Castile following La Reconquista (the recapturing) of the city, paving the way for another era of change. Three Catholic chapels were added, a new nave symbolic of the renaissance erected, and the minaret at the heart of the structure was transformed into a Bell Tower*.

The Bell Tower that once was the minaret

So, La Mezquita is in fact a Catholic Christian Cathedral, where Muslims are not officially permitted to pray. In 2010, a group of young Austrian Muslims on an organized tour caused a stir by kneeling down to pray inside the tourist-packed Cathedral and then attacking and subsequently hospitalizing two security guards after they were asked to stop.

Anyway, take one look at La Mezquita and you’ll see what all the fuss is about. I said I’d keep it brief, and I’m not doing such a great job of that so far. Let’s move on.

Ceiling of La Mezquita

The Alcázar Palace and Gardens

(© Gina Edens)

These Moorish grounds were built in 1328 by Alfonso XI following La Reconquista and have also undergone periods of radical change, though at no point has the untold beauty of them ever been affected. When Springtime comes, the contrast in colour is quite extraordinary; plush green trees and blossoming pink flowers combined with the sandstone palace walls and the deep blue sky backdrop is sure to have any photographer salivating behind their lens.

(© Gina Edens)

The palace was once home to Ferdinand, the aforementioned King, and his Queen, Isabella, who has her own effigy sitting pretty atop a marble fountain in the centre of Granada. A lazy walk through this multihued maze is a must on anybody’s itinerary.

(© Gina Edens)

Hookah Bars

In keeping with the Moorish theme, you may or may not want to spend half an hour or so huffing away on an ornate hookah pipe in one of Cordóba’s numerous Hookah Bars (or ‘Shisha Bars’ as we Brits say). Many of these foggy enterprises boast menus longer than a cut-price Chinese takeaway’s, and some of the tea and tobacco available when I visited were odd to say the least; ‘Dragonfly’, as I recall, was the most intriguing. Or perhaps it was ‘Dragonfruit’. Should have written it down. In any case I opted for the safe route, and went with the blueberry tobacco and a cup of vanilla tea. How bold of me.

Moorish Tea

Puffing on ma shish pipe

Food

Southern Spain has long been a hub for exquisite traditional eats and Cordóba is no exception. In fact, many will argue that Cordóba has produced a great deal of the region’s finest gastronomy. Churrasco Cordóbes (Grilled Iberian Pork fillet served with green and red Arabic sauces) and Estofado de Rabo de Toro (Bull’s tail stew) are two particularly noteworthy examples. I tried the latter during my visit and loved it. Chewy, but tasty and wholesome. Very wholesome.

Rabo de Toro  (Source)

My friend was also kind enough to take me to the alleged birthplace of tortilla, Bar Santos, by the cathedral. I was skeptical of this claim to say the least but birthplace or not, this tortilla, after a mere nibble, was on my life the best I’ve ever had- not to mention the largest. I’m no food critic but I’ll throw some words out there to give you an idea of what it was like: enormous, warm, buttery and flocculent yet sturdy… How’s that?

The Tortillanic

Cordóba is also where I first tried Churros and Chocolate– a gastronomical near orgasmic experience that I will never forget, though I believe this sweet-tooth indulging dish can be sampled just about anywhere in Spain.

Heavenly churros and chocolate

The Zoo

At first I just didn’t believe the pamphlet. “What’s a zoo doing in Cordóba?” I asked my friend. She shrugged. She didn’t know there was one either. It did seem a little out of place all things considered, but after two and a half days of exploring nothing but ancient mosques and palaces, the thought of ogling a few swinging orangutans was rather appealing. And I love the zoo anyway! So off we went, and I have to say it was bloody great fun. There was a tiger and everything. Polar Bear didn’t look too happy though**.

Tres monos

Elefante

Hipo

Don’t know this one in Spanish

There is, of course, a whole load of other things to see and do in this unique and gorgeous city, but I did say I would be brief. Fail. Perhaps you’d like to fill in the blanks. What else is worth seeing in Cordóba?

*All info was taken from Wikipedia at the time of publishing

**joking (as in there aren’t any Polar Bears, not that he/she was happy to be there)

 

Practical Info

La Mezquita

Opening times:

10.00h – 19.00h Monday-Saturday

08.30h – 10.30h and 14.00h -19.00h Sundays and National Holidays

Entrance:

Adults- €8

Children between 10 and 14 years- €4

Children under 10 years- Free

Best to visit as early as possible to beat the queues and get the best photos.

The Alcázar Palace and Gardens

Opening Times:

May and June- 10.00h -14.00h & 17.30-18.30h

July and August- 08.30h -14.30h

September to 14th October- 10.00h – 14.00h & 17.30h -18.30h

15th Oct to 30th April: 10.00h – 14.00h and 16.30-18.30h

Mondays Closed

Entrance:

€1.87
Fridays Free

Cordóba Zoo

Opening Times:

November – February: 10.00h – 18.00h

March, Sept, Oct: 10.00h – 19.00h

April – June: 10.00h – 20.00h

July – Aug: 09.00h – 14.00h

Entrance:

Adults: €4.50

Children between 5 and 15 years: €2.00

Students & Seniors: €2.00

Children under 5 years: Free

The Great Spanish Cheap Supermarket Wine Face-off! (Part One)

It’s a common conundrum. There’s just so many. Which one to go for? Garish label with classic Castellano-style font hovering above arty wine barrel sketch, or label with chic, elegant stencil-style font with unpretentious white backdrop? Or neither? After all, any respectable bottle of wine shouldn’t cost anything less then €3 surely?

You’d be wrong. In fact, some of these €3 and under vinos rank among Spain’s tastiest, according to my wine-worn palate. And best of all, they can all be procured from just about any local supermarket! Licking your lips yet?

The top end stuff generally sells for around €6 or €7 but its hardly worth splurging on when there are so many just as agreeable options for half the price. That said, there are a few bad eggs to watch out for, but don’t worry, because that’s where I come in.

I, along with a carefully selected team of similarly self-assuming supermarket wine connoisseurs, will drink all that nasty stuff on your behalf (It’s ok – you’re totally welcome) in the hope of eventually being able to set the good eggs apart from the bad eggs, which in turn should yield a fastidious and highly reliable supermarket wine hierarchy (thoughts will be written down at the time of tasting so as to ensure that nothing is forgotten in the drunken state we are likely to find ourselves in).

But if we’re going to do it, we’re going to do it properly, and with a healthy dose of impartial interest. Therefore, I am asking YOU to nominate the candidates in the comments section below. I already have a few in mind, but am nevertheless willing to leave most of the decision-making to my small but good-sporting (you know you are) band of followers (please leave a suggestion or I shall feel most dejected). Such a grave event deserves the utmost respect and consideration, so I thought it only proper to have some ground rules in place. So here they are…

The Ground Rules

1. Each candidate must be red. Sorry, I just can’t stand white in any shape or form so if I were to drink any then my opinion would be null and void. This standpoint also goes for at least two other participants (I think).

2. Each candidate must be under €3. Any more expensive and it would not be considered cheap, relatively speaking.

3. Each candidate must be available from any of the following supermarkets:

• Mercadona
• Supersol
• Día
• Carrefour
• Dani
• Coviran

There aren’t any others within walking distance of my house, nor can I think of any more.

4. Only two wines per supermarket. This is a fair,  unbiased contest (although Mercadona is clearly the best).

5. All those taking part must not be drunk prior to the face-off. This shouldn’t be a problem on a week night but one can never be too sure with English teachers post-work parched expatriates.

And that’s it really. A date has not yet been set as it largely depends on how many suggestions are offered, but it will definitely take place this week.

So, dear, obliging followers, let the nominating commence!

Madrid (in rainy season)

Grey, sunless skies, spewing forth sheets of torrential rain onto its miserable-looking inhabitants- I had hoped for a much brighter first impression of Madrid. This was far from it. Of course I’d known what all but certainly lay in store for me, after consulting my phone for countless weather updates, but I had remained cautiously optimistic up until our arrival. Now, I could see I had been foolish.

As this was my first time in La Capital, my list of things to see and do couldn’t have been longer. Getting through all of it in just two days was out of the question, so after some painful but necessary crossing-out I managed to whittle it down to just four things: seeing the Royal Palace and its gardens; El Bernabeu; El Museo del Prado, and watching the world go by in Madrid’s multicultural zone of Lavapiés.

The latter was to be the first box ticked off the list, owing to our fortune in securing free accommodation for the night via the services of Couch Surfing. Our host lived there. However, after our arrival and a subsequent phone call, it transpired that our host hadn’t realized that there were two of us, despite as much being made absolutely clear in the request sent three days earlier. As a result, we now found ourselves without a roof over our heads on the Friday of Puente weekend, and it was forecast to piss it down all night.

We nevertheless enjoyed a lunch that we both agreed, despite its shortcomings, had probably been just about the most traditionally Spanish plato of our time here. Paella for starters, pollo asado con patatas bravas for mains and an entire bottle of vino tinto that would make Aldi’s cheapest wine seem like a vintage Don Perignon in comparison.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent aimlessly wandering the enchanting barrio, as planned, where all races and ethnic principles fuse brilliantly into one great big multi-cultural melting pot. I could quite happily have spent the rest of my day there, but that niggling issue of having nowhere to sleep just wouldn’t stop niggling, and the longer we left it the less likely finding somewhere with space for us would be.

So, we begrudgingly headed for the swarming city centre aboard the impressive metro-link system. What followed was possibly the most wretched and unfruitful four hours of any trip ever had by either of us. Not a single hostel we asked at had beds for the night- our worst fears were fast becoming a reality. All we could do was just keep trying, and eventually, a receptionist advised us that if we were to find a room at such short notice, the best place to look was in Lavapiés…

At least I’d now get to spend the rest of my day there, I thought. Back we plodded, desperately hoping the receptionist had been right, and as luck would have it, we finally found a grubby little one-star hostel a couple of km away from the area’s metro link. We were overjoyed. Checked-in and at last feeling able to relax, we set out in search of one of the barrio’s much-hyped curry houses.

It didn’t take long to find what we were looking for. Suddenly, we found ourselves promenading Madrid’s very own curry mile, along which there were countless Indian Restaurants, each boasting jaw-droppingly good deals; what’s that? Six beers for €5!? And six ‘curry tapas’ for another €5? We’d hit the jackpot. Two hours later, after an exceedingly generous helping of either indulgence, we waddled/staggered back to our musty abode to rest our sleepy heads. There was much to be done the following day!

Naturally, we overslept, and were awoken by the noise of our door being pounded on rather angrily. The one doing the pounding was the hostel owner, who had made it quite clear the night before, through his eyes-on-the-floor/‘I’ll growl instead of speak’ approach, that hospitality wasn’t really his thing, and he was now discernibly irked. We paid and left, without saying a word. No love lost.

Fortunately, we’d had the foresight to book a bed for the following night in a more centrally located hostel the previous afternoon, and fancied getting there pretty quick. We found our way, checked in again and set about exploring the city for the day, despite the continued downpour.

First up on the agenda was The Royal Palace, which we did eventually see, but not before coming across a most welcome distraction: El Mercado de San Miguel. The food on sale here was amazing. There were enough bocadillos, fresh-fish tapas and paella to keep you nibbling all day long, though watch your spending- we somehow managed to spend €10 just on olives. But by God were they worth it.

After tearing ourselves away we hurried along to the Palace. The rain had waned slightly, but the skies were still a thick canvas of grey. We felt the exterior of the Palace blended in quite nicely. It was big, and worthy of a spot on the to-see list, but not a smudge on the architectural treats of Barcelona, Seville or Granada. Guess we’re pretty spoilt down here.

At this point it occurred to us that we were in actual fact only a few minutes’ walking distance from El Templo de Debod- an ancient Egyptian temple donated to the city by its constructors in 1968, after Spain helped save the country’s doomed temples of Abu Simbel following the construction of a massive hydroelectric dam. Three stone-built pylon gateways stand in a line in front of the temple, creating a superb mirror-image with the still water surrounding the monument.

The day was wearing on and we were forced to concede that it would now be impossible to see both the Prado Museum and The Bernabeu. No contest. Off we went to the stadium of the so-called Galacticos, unaware that there was in fact a game to be played that very night. We arrived and the realization of what may have been about to happen quickly dawned on us.

“How much?” we inquired.

“€55” replied the cashier.

Ballbags. Not what we had budgeted for, but this was Real Madrid we were talking about. Would I ever have the opportunity to see them play again? Yes, I would, I decided. I know that this blog post would probably have been far more exciting had I let folly prevail over sense, but on this occasion, I kept my moneys in my pocket. I had already bought a ticket to the Granada CF game the next day anyway, so that was enough justification, right? Whatever. We walked briskly away from the stadium before folly mounted a counter-attack.

That night, we signed ourselves up for one of those pub-crawls designed for tourists who want to make friends. The €10 participation fee was a tall order, but we figured it would be worth it. Nope. Not even the slightest bit. Our ‘pub’ crawl started in a cramped, sweaty disco-bar which was playing music of the makes-you-want-to-sew-your-ears-shut variety. We had our ‘free’ listerine-flavoured shot and then faced one of three options; 1) Buy a €6 drink, remain inside and wait for our ears to throw up. 2) Go outside and stand in the pissing rain for an hour while we wait for those who opted for the ‘€20 with free-bar in first bar’ fee to consume as much alcohol as humanly possible, or 3) Fuck off.

So off we fucked to an Irish Bar, where we spent the rest of the night berating the ‘Madride Pubcrawl’ and watching some pretty woeful live music. Better than options one and two though, we agreed.

Next day, our bus pulled away from Madrid Station at 11am. The rain had now reached the point of beyond ridiculous. Five hours, that bus journey was supposed to take. A burst riverbank along the motorway ensured that it took just over seven instead. But it wasn’t Madrid’s fault. In truth, one requires a great deal more than just two days in order to explore the city properly so I’ll be back… on a considerably dryer day I hope.