Fuimos a Ronda

TL;DR (Too long, don't read):  A lot of people were rude to us, but things are better now.  Ronda was beautiful and we are in Granada now.


Click here for more pictures.

Day three got off to a rough start, and later in the morning we would hit a low point in moral and self-confidence for this trip. 


First, a word of advice:  If you find yourself hard up for a quick snack while in Malaga, don't trust the vending machines.  I'm down nearly 3 euros (about $5) to these mechanical swindlers; and if the fist-smashed glass on one of the machines in the bus station has anything to tell,  apparently, I'm not the only victim.


When we arrived in Ronda, the weather was brisk and wet, but the few sprinkles here and there did nothing to ruin the morning.  However, the waitress at the breakfast cafe did everything she could to do so.  She was already in hectic state when we sat, and we're still not sure what we did to piss her off, but boy did we.  A lot of things went wrong during this brief and hostile encounter, but the tipping point of pure shock came we she deliberaetely threw a wadded-up used napkin on our table right in the middle of our meal. We didn't know what to say (mostly because our Spanish is terrible). Monica and I sat there, mouths open, staring at each other.  We had run into a string of rude, obnoxious, and caustic locals in the past 48 hours, but this woman could have sent them all home crying in their diapers.  


So the questions and sweeping generalizations began. Do the French have a bad rap? Is it instead the Spainards who are out-of-their-way rude?  And what was causing this reaction?  Was it our poor grasp of the language, their general disgust towards foreigners, or was it really what is most likely the case... just a few bad "manzanas."  In anycase, it felt like bad luck, and it was bringing us down.


According our travel book, Ronda is home to the oldest bull-fighting rings in Spain.  So, taking inspiration from the steadfast toros who have fallen to their fierce Spanish opponents in this town's past, we resolved keep to keep charging ahead on regardless of the outcome.

Ronda is actually a breathtakingly beautiful place, and is said to have once been home to both Hemingway and Orwell.  It's built on a vertigo inducing gourge with ancient and massive bridges connecting the barrios.

Like many towns and regions in Spain, Ronda was established by Muslims and later conquered by Catholics.  Many churches, like the one we visited here, are former mosques that were converted after Christians took control.  


This church had multiple towering altars and some spooky looking relics.  Monica says they freaked her out.  Before leaving, she took the chance to light a candle and say a prayer.   I'm not sure what she said, she can't tell and I know it wasn't self-serving, but whatever she said seems to have changed our luck.  Since then, we've run into plenty of more polite, cordial, and affable locals.  

A handful of them work at the Michelan starred (not the tire dude i'm told) Restaurante Pedro Romero. We had our best meal so far - the menu was more regional, seasonal, and butt-kicking fantastic.   Nothing like a good hearty feast to pick up your spirits.  Buen-freakin'-provecho, indeed.

Ox tail stew, almost forgot to take a pic before we ate it all. 

As of now we are in Granada.  We took the gorgeous bus ride here this morning on a perfectly paved highway.  Seriously, Cal-trans should come here to study how to make highways.  The rolling hills of olive orchards and secluded little towns along the way made for the most serene landscape I've ever seen.


More on Granada soon...

Grumblings of a recently become old man

Old Malaga is a bent labryth of alleyways and slightly wider, tiled more often then paved, "calles."  During the day, trinket shops and cafes welcome onslaughts of tour bus delivered seniors.   

At night, the city breeds a whole new generation of cohorts and hobnobbers. 

Nightlife in Malaga's vibrant central district is, as the kids say, crackin'.  And maybe that's because  the scene here is completely over-run by kids.  


The drinking age in Spain is, I believe, 18.  But it's clear that, even in public, the kids start much earlier.   Each cantina is packed with the newly privelidged, while the slim streets and alleyways collect the overflow of those who've had too much, and those who aren't quite old enough yet to belly up to the bar.  

On first glance, the Malaga is scene youthful, exciting, and everything the closet hipster trash inside me has desperately wanted participate in.   On a second, closer glance, it hits a level of douche-aucity that would give the asshats from Jersey Shore a run for their money.  The girls are overly made-upped, the boys are overly manicured.  Almost everyone acts like a bro.

The 15-17 year old crowd forms huddled subgroups withing the protection of store front thresholds.  They desperately suck down cheap wine and cigarettes, while the rest of us try not to miss a step on the slippery piss spotted street tiles. 


It all makes me feel older than the remains of the Phoenician civilization buried underneath my feet.


Today we embark to the ancient town of Ronda on a tour bus that's likely to be filled with the smell of Ben-gay and the sounds of rattling prescription bottles.  It's just the kind of reassuring-of-my-youth crowd I need to kick it with right now.

We finally made it.

Dude, the flight across the pond was the most uncomfortable ride I have ever endured.  Apparently, Air France doesn't believe in air conditioning, and prefers to seat the widest vegetarian Indian man in existence next to our aisle's only air vent.  Seriously, homeboy must be sneaking barrels full of double cheeseburgers out of public eye.

Despite my whining about this long, but temporary inconvienance, the personal on-demand entertainment system made the flight survivable.  I finally got to watch True Grit and The King's Speech.   Both great, but True Grit was especially bad-ass.

Our hotel in Malaga is a wacked-out, art deco meets post modern acid trip mashup.  There's even an aluminum slide that snakes from the 2nd floor to the lobby.  I suspect I will be taking this ride after a night of tapas and plenty of vino. Maybe I can surprise Monica and shove her down it!

There are all sorts crazy sacks and other lights hanging about.

Lunch today, provided us with our first taste of authentic Spanish tapas...

... and we saw a bunch of European looking stuff...

The highlight of the day was the Pablo Picasso Musuem.  He was born here in Malaga, but  boned out at the age of 19 and never returned.  However, the museum retains an impressive collection that spans almost all stages of his life. Sadly, they have a piss-poor policy against taking pictures, so visit the link above to see more art.

The most pleasant surprise of the tour goes to the temporary exhibition of one loony German named Martin Kippenberger.  Homeboy was a hilarious nut-case, and I highly suggest looking up his stuff.

Tomorrow we visit the town of Ronda....

A Pre-trip Trip

We took a pre-trip trip to see my buddy Reza and his smoochie-doop, Samar.


They were in Fremont this weekend visting his mother, Mahnaz.  A couple of years ago, she found a new husband named Claude.  Their wedding was on a boat, and it was lovely and fancy.  I know because I was invited and was told bad things would to me happen if I did not show.  

Well, seeing how Claude is a pilot and enjoys flying his wife around in his 4-bucket plane, they were out we when showed up.  Us four kids were left to our own in a strange town for lunch.

Luckily, Samar and Reza, who are an app and interwebs savvy techno-super-couple, came to the rescue by zeroing in what has to be the best sushi restaurants ever to exist in a strip-mall.  It was a small joint, adjacent to a massive seafood mega center.  Good things were ahead.


MORE PICTURES from the weekend.  


This place should be famous for what is dubbed the "Godzirra" roll, which magically tasted like a corn-dog.   Seriously.  


Bradley pup was left back at the house to play with the resident dogs, Princess and Jerry.   Jerry was so excited to Bradley when we first showed up, that he took a dump in the living room.  Classic Jerry.


Once Mahnaz and Claude finally arrived back in town, we ditched the doggies once again and went out for dinner at probably the classiest Chinese restaurant in Palo Alto.  


It was a memorable day packed full of delicous asian dining.  I was so full by the end of it, I was ready to pull a Jerry. 

Spain is one week away.

Things are getting pretty exciting...this is the biggest trip Monica and I will have ever embarked on together.  In a way, it sort of signifies that we are we grown ups, even though I am never going to grow up.

We got some Euros in the mail yesterday. They came on a secure bank card. It's a little underwhelming because I was looking forward to holding fistfuls of foreign cash.  I wanted to strap them around my body like an awesome secret agent or something, but on second thought, the e-Euros were a good choice. I already have enough problems with airport security.

Monica has been busy gathering up last minute items and mapping out the itinerary.  That mean stress for her and no fun for me or Bradley.  Oh well, she's such a great planner, so her worries usually end up in my gain.  Well, hers too I suppose.

Oh, and I got some more Kohls cash that seems to regenerating itself.  They're like little gremlin coupons that keep sucking you back into that the mind-numbing store.  I could use a new pair of walking shoes, though.