Part six: Melancholy and sweet

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel, Part two: A stolen sandwich and art, Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles, Part four: Tanneries and street food, and Part five: Friends and ferries

Melancholy and sweet. Those words describe the days following our return from North Africa. We knew our time together was winding down, and we were determined to make the most of it.

At the beach, we walked along the shore until we were among a scruff of bushes and leftover seaweed. We spread our towel in a promising spot, but then had to scramble back to avoid a soaking.

Next, we hiked a horse trail up the side of a cliff. The view of the town and the blue sea beyond was startling and we stopped to drink in the view… and let me catch my out-of-shape breath. From there, we joined a greenhouse tour with a group of German students. Some of them were in the eye-rolling stage and received lectures from our tour guide. J’s mind was brimming with questions, I could tell. But it wasn’t until we had munched our way through samples of tomatoes and cucumbers drizzled with olive oil that he was able to corner the guide and ask his questions.

The next morning, we toured Almería’s Alcazaba (Arab fortress) with two teammates.

On Saturday, we puttered around the center, cleaning and hanging out, then slipping over to my neighbor’s barber shop for J to get a trim.

That evening, my teammates hosted a “romantic date for two” in their living room. To dress up or not to dress up? Not to. That’s what we decided, knowing we would be most comfortable “as is.” So we arrived at the front door, barefoot and the day’s leftover sweat still clinging to our clothes.

A smoldering incense stick, music, games, discussion questions, and a massive charcuterie board. We took a few moments to orient ourselves.

“Message us when you’re ready for tea!” And then they closed the door and left us alone.

There were so many options that we hardly knew where to start. We sampled this and then that and then the other things. We paired foods, discussing the flavors and textures. Yes, for a long while our conversation revolved around food, but only because we were both enjoying the experience so much.

We played Dutch Blitz. I won, but he was such a good sport about it that it wasn’t even fun to gloat. We put a puzzle together and talked until we were yawning, or, in J’s case, until long after we were yawning. J managed to walk me home, even with drooping eyelids.

We spent Sunday morning walking around town and looking for murals and other interesting sights. J had the sermon for our team service. I don’t remember how we spent all of our time that day; I just was aware that it was passing too quickly.

Monday was our last day together. We took the bus up the mountain to the springs, spread our blanket, and sat on the thinly-covered knobby ground. We talked, played Qwirkle, and stuck our feet in the chilly stream. I managed to hike partway up the side of the mountain with him, but petered out and parked myself on a nice rock while he ran the rest of the way up. Yes, ran. When he returned, we meandered among the busy beehives we found there and managed not to get stung.

After a stroll through a sprawling Spanish town, we eventually caught the bus back to Mytown just in time to join teammates for a steaming plate of couscous that hit the spot exactly.

A few hours, a walk, and a couple of park benches later, we ate our last supper together and J washed the dishes for the very last time.

Then it was time to go.

We stood shivering in the chilly night air until the bus driver beckoned. It was over. For now.

But like J wrote the next day: “…we have accumulated some good memories and have many more to make.”

When in North Africa- Part 1

Last year, a fellow immigrant in Spain asked me to visit her when she went back to her country for the summer. I didn’t.

But this year I did. My roommate and I navigated buses, taxis, and even a pre-Eid ferry that made us stand in line for hours to get a simple passport stamp.

Just as our final taxi approached the place where we would meet my friend, we lunged over a pothole and I dumped my water bottle on myself. I was so soggy that when I got up, leftover water pooled in the leather seat.

From the backseat, I reached my suitcase and managed a swift and subtle change while the other passengers remained in blessed oblivion.

My friend, her husband, and her mother were waiting at the taxi stand.

“Gather yourselves.” My friend called her sister as we approached the sprawling countryside house that would be our home for the week.

My roommate and I had long since resigned ourselves to the possibility of a public sleeping area, a dirty squatty, and bucket showers. Instead, we were shown into a salon the size of our entire apartment. And the bathroom was bigger than my bedroom at home. Outside the kitchen door was a grape arbor heavy with weaving vine and plump grape clusters.

The house was surrounded on three sides by peanut and melon crops. The fourth side led down a steep hill to the ruggedly beautiful beach. Rolling land of green fields tuned my farm girl soul. I stood on the roof and drank in the fresh air.

“The air is still new,” my friend pointed to the chilly sea.

We began to meet the family. The house was alive with adult children and a handful of grandchildren. Most of the family resided within the walls of the family home. But there seemed space enough. Faces began to blur as the night wore on and we grew sleepier.

Our hosts spread a table with tea and all of its accompaniments. When we had filled to the brim, someone asked when we wanted dinner. Given that it was 11 p.m., we sat with widened eyes until I worked up the polite courage to ask, “What time do you usually eat?”

My friend laughed. “We don’t usually eat another meal,” she admitted and laughed again when we noticeably relaxed.

They sent us to bed, still chuckling about the ominous beef and prune tagine.

Take a hike

I was bustling down the quiet morning street toward the bus stop when it hit me. Today was Saturday. And I had looked at the weekday bus schedule. The Dalías bus had gone ½ hour ago.

At 10:30, the day was already looking bleak.

My roommate joined me and we hopped on the next bus. We would make the most of the extra hour and a half by exploring a town that was halfway in between Immigrantville and Dalías. The next bus came close to 13:00. I browsed my map and we found a green spot labeled “Parque forestal.”

“Ooo. Let’s go there!”

So we set off like disgruntled tramps in our hiking clothes. The sun was intense. The map was deceptive. There was a park all right: a dry field of puny trees, dead grass, and greenhouses. There wasn’t even any shade. Of course.

It was 11:30 and the day was only getting bleaker. But at this point, we began to chuckle. And we chuckled our way into El Corte Inglés, past the prim and proper salespeople, to the café on the tippity top floor.

(This was after we did a diligent search and ended up at the downward bound escalator. “Of course,” Roomie said. But we chuckled.)

We feigned confidence as we took our seats in the classy café. The server poured my Aquarius into a goblet as I subtly tried to air out the sweat stain on the back of my grungy T-shirt.

We made it to our bus on time and carefully selected our seat. Then we looked up. “Of course,” said Roomie. And we chuckled. We had carefully selected the seat with a missing “stop” button.

But finally, we were on our way to Dalías!

We didn’t have much experience with taking the bus there and arrived long before we thought we should. Roomie noticed that businesses were starting to mention the town name. I checked my trusty map and lunged forward to push the “stop” button on the seat ahead of us.

We strolled around Dalías, trying to not look too out of place. But as we wandered down a skinny street with a hand’s breadth of sidewalk, I leaned into a window grate to accommodate a passing car. It was probably the only jagged window grate in the entire town.

Rip. And my sleeve was left with a gaping hole. After the initial surprise, we chuckled. “Of course.”

We found the hiking trail on my trusty map and our casual wandering soon turned into panting and rolling sweat. Uphill we went, winding through greenhouses and barking dogs and the thick scent of livestock. (Who goes hiking in Spanish July anyway?)

rolling Spanish agricultural countryside

Although it was hot, the scenery was beautiful. And somewhere beyond all of that, there was a restaurant. At least we hoped so. Partway through the hike, as we stared at a dead end, Roomie asked, “How old were the reviews for this restaurant?” She was picturing one of the crumbling buildings along the side of the trail to be the former “Restaurante el Arroyo.”

Despite our pessimism, we made it. Even without dying of sunstroke, being devoured by rabid dogs, or falling down a ravine. We sat across the table from each other, laughing at each others’ red faces.

“Water please. Cold!”

“You know, there’s air conditioning up there.” The server pointed to an upper room. We dashed upstairs without a second thought as he went to retrieve cold water for the red-faced Americans.

After lunch, I parked myself under the perfect tree beside a cool spring of water and pulled out my Kindle. This was the “of course” that I had planned the day around. The other “of course”s were just there to make this one sweeter.