We arrive.
A couple of hours on a train in Spain and you find yourself
longing for train travel everywhere, all the time. So much less stressful than
flying, you sit and watch the scenery go by, maybe you see the occasional
castle, maybe a Stork or two. And then you’re there and wading into an argument
between two taxi drivers that almost comes to blows over whose fare you
actually are.
This is the first time in this apartment and there’s lots to
talk about. First of all, I told the driver “Carretas” and he said “Que?” and
so I showed him the printout and he said “Oh, Carretas” and off we went. Second
there is the story of the rental agent who was supposed to meet us. I braved my
well-known telephobia and called well in advance from the phone. He said he’d
meet us at the front door. Well, as I stepped out of the cab my phone rang
again and he told me that he was going to be late and asked if I could see the
children’s clothes store to the right of the apartment entrance. “Go in there”
he said, “The woman at the cash register has your keys.” I did and she did,
only surrendering them when I correctly answered “Como se llama?”
When you rent apartments, it’s a bit of a crapshoot. We’ve
never had a bad one per se, but we’ve had a lot of near misses. Our place in
Valencia was on a nice quiet square that turned into a stage for drunken opera
performers each night at 4AM. The first rental in Sevilla required a 10 meter
extension cord to plug in the microwave. And it had a single bolster pillow
which meant nighttime pillow coexistence and every night the AC would pull in
the most delightful smell of sewer. The first time we stayed at our now
favorite place in Sevilla, the owner, who also owns a perfume shop, doused the
place so heavily that I went into allergic shock for the entire time I was
there. The apartment in Granada had the most amazing set of life-threatening
marble stairs and a washing machine tucked into a small cabinet under the roof
joists. This place though, has turned out to be special.
Built into the attic of a 17th century building,
every room except for the main living area varies in height from about 3 feet
to perhaps 7 feet. To walk from one end of the kitchen requires bending in half
and getting a tangerine out of the fridge means doing so on your knees. It’s
clean, it’s a safe building and in a great location relative to what we like to
do, but it’s designed for people who come up to a bit less than 5 feet with a
fully straight spine. The bathroom is another story altogether, but as of this
writing we’ve not yet challenged ourselves to make it work. Maybe more on that
tomorrow.
After doing a quick shopping at Corte Ingles we took off
down Arenal to our very favorite restaurant of all, El Mandela. When we arrived
Jose, our favorite Spanish waiter, was there to greet us, and happy to have us
walk in the door. He told us the story of our kids visiting last summer, even
showing us the table where they sat. It’s such a nice thing to have these kinds
of simple little relationships, born of repetition and good will. Before
leaving home several weeks ago, we’d had the idea to bring them a gift, finally
settling on a nice handmade ceramic tile of a chile ristra. When the chef came
out to say hello, I handed it to him and explained the chiles and what we were
thinking, telling him that they are popular in our state and in his cooking.He
was very grateful and came back 2 minutes later with another man and asked to
have a photo taken of the three of us and the tile. The photographer made some
comment about lighting and the chef replied, “Dos blancos y uno negro”- do the
best you can.
Churros last night, Ponche tonight. We’re finally getting
the swing of this vacation.
Comments