Friday, July 15, 2011

Adventures in Spain



ADVENTURES IN SPAIN

     Several weeks ago, I left off writing with a promise to write about meeting with the young indignados protesting in Madrid’s central Plaza del Puerto del Sol.   
  
     I stopped writing completely while we did the beach bum thing on the south Spanish coast, in a little town off the beaten track, Mazzaron. Day after day of sun and swimming is not conducive to intellectual and verbal endeavor -- exactly what I needed: just to be on the trip and not write about it.

     Now we’re almost back to France again, a place we like so much that we would like to be there three different times – the Atlantic (done), the South and French Alps (next), and later Paris and the North. Today our camping spot is the village of Callella (cah-yay-ya) on the coast of Spain, north of Barcelona and perhaps an hour from the south of France.


Callella
     A delightful forest, hundreds of exactly-named umbrella pine trees, has replaced a few shade trees in the desert. A floor of pine needles is a pleasant upgrade from gravel. The water’s not quite warm, but it’s not cold. The beach has pine-covered rocky cliffs with cozy, sometimes-private sandy coves at the bottom.  We’re reminded of our own northern California Point Lobos and Big Sur. The big difference is: warmer water and hotter weather make the swimming fine.
    
     There’s a hiking trail that has to be the finest “trail” I’ve ever seen – it’s all fitted stone, including low walls to the Mediterranean side with many side paths down to the coves and out to viewpoints, well-spotted benches, and even tunnels through granite. The pines make it shady, and it goes on for miles! The pit stops are little seaside villages with mostly outdoor cafes. But I need to catch you up on the story.

Magical Coast north of Barcelona

What a sweet little beach!

ACROSS SPAIN       

     From San Sebastian on the French border, we drive a fairly direct route south across Spain to Madrid. We stop overnight in the Spanish wine country of La Rioja, big sky country with distant mountain ranges and red cliffs that reminds of Arizona or Wyoming, then a long mountainous road into Spain’s poorest and seemingly deserted state, the Extramadura, through wild gorges of pink granite and vast empty plains with an occasional gas station and bar to relieve the emptiness.


Northern New Mexico?

Let's see, it's Thursday, is this Arizona?

Is there anybody out there?
     When we get hungry, the man at the gas station says, “Food in twenty-five kilometers.” Fifteen miles later we pull up to a tiny place with Arab style strings of beads hanging in the door. I go in and find seven men drinking at a bar and one playing slots. It could be Nevada but it’s not. The only food is sausage tapas on the bar that looks like it was put out yesterday.

     There’s a sweet Muslim boy behind the bar. It doesn’t feel like a woman has been in here for years. When Amira comes in, the men are gone in a few minutes, except the guy at the slots, who starts winning. I tell him Amira is “buenas suerte,” good luck! He looks dubious and laughs, but you know how gamblers are: he seems to believe it, keeps playing, and keeps winning.

On and On and On the Road

Rainbow Colors

Seeing is believing

Poppies!

Ahhhhhhh . . . no words

Rainbows have been with us all the way, we'll take 'em over the pot of gold every time!
 
     Back on the road, approaching the high Guadarama Sierra north of Madrid, the grasslands and fields are covered with wild red poppies. When an amazing total double rainbow appears exactly over an ancient-looking town and church tower in the distance, we get crazy with our cameras.

Eventually a side road leads us to a little village in the Sierra foothills named Riaza that seems to have the only campground for many miles around. Folks are friendly; the woman who runs the little bakery re-opens it for her late arrival

     It’s a sweet place and we stay a couple days, enjoy a good walk.  Amira discovers her very own little chocolate truck, she wants to take it with us.  We stop at a little tapas bar in the village. We take cheese and vegetable pastries, accompanied by Spain’s ubiquitous ham, out to a sidewalk table. I add a glass of white wine to end the day. All is served up with flourishes by the proud woman who obviously owns this little corner spot.


    The next day we drive on to Segovia. Here mostly young people are gathering to talk about the election coming up the next day. In one place, where a rock concert is being set up, about sixty young people form a circle below the old Roman aqueduct. They pass a microphone around so each can be heard. We enjoy walking around looking at the cathedral and castle, interesting though not enchanting as advertised. Well, enchantment is in the heart of the beholder; we all have different triggers, and no doubt we’ve been too recently spoiled for this by Le-St.-Mont-Michel. Soon we drive on to Madrid.

Translation: Appetizing Everywhere

Ancient Roman Aqueduct, Segovia

Castle, Segovia

Looks like somebody's in big trouble!

Segovia

Amira in Segovia

Cathedral, Segovia
MADRID

     At dusk we cross the Sierra on an “autovia” (big 4-6 lane high-speed highway with few exits) and realize that the directions we had been given to one of only two campgrounds north of the giant metropolis were well-intentioned but only work on another highway many miles to the east. It’s late and we just want to stop. A kindly gas station attendant motions us to park over in the corner of his lot for the night.


     The next day we find a shady campground and settle in. There’s a swimming pool and the weather’s warm, it’s the rest spot we need after three days of driving half way across Spain. There’s good free internet in the bar. I finally find time to finish up the first blog post. The rustic little town of El Escorial nearby provides a bit of distraction one evening. We walk around for a while, then settle on spaghetti and salad as the safest thing to order, burned out on tapas bars that are always cheese, bread, and ham.


     From our campground, we walk to the bus stop for downtown Madrid in about fifteen minutes. When we got to the stop, we find young Jonathan from Colorado stretched out across the waiting bench with a fine backpack. He is reading Tom Robbin’s Skinny Legs and All.


      We’re all hungry for English conversation, we talk and laugh the whole hour into Madrid on the bus. He had just quit a job and given himself six weeks in Europe. He was intrigued with our van approach, with SERVAS, and with the idea of staying longer. The only thing holding him at this point was a new hard-working girl friend back home. We exchange email addresses. At the metro station he heads for a youth hostel and we head for the art museums.

     We spend the afternoon at the Reina Sofia museum, chock full of modern and contemporary art, much of it – this is the place where Picasso’s famous Guernica lives – intensely political.



Pablo Picasso's Guerica (1937)
      We learn about how WWII really started as the Spanish Civil War in the thirties. It’s turns out to be essential historical context to understand the protests of the indignados now tent-camped at the very center of Madrid, in the Plaza Puerto del Sol.

One of Picasso's studies for Guernica
     In the art museum, in the room next to Guernica, a movie full of old black and white newsreels from that time tells the story that inspired Picasso’s famous painting. Here too are found all kinds of posters and lithographs from both sides in the struggle, patriotic mush from the fascists, socialist realism glorifying laborers from the communists.


     If you want to understand this more deeply – it is a key to what’s happening right now as Europe begins to respond to the “Arab Spring” with its own revolutionary spirit -- and also enjoy reading one of the all-time truth-tellers of modern literature, Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell is the book. He went to Barcelona as a journalist, but soon abandoned his typewriter and picked up a gun, realizing he could not stand on the side with a real revolution in full swing.


Perhaps George Orwell's best book
Homage to Catalonoia


     It was not a communist revolution – in fact the Stalin-directed communist party eventually succeeded in killing it – it was a revolution of workers and peasants against fascism, capitalism and the rule of money, inspired by the anarchist ideal that any concentrated central government eventually turns into the rule of the rich. It was a revolution in the name of financial justice, equality, genuine human connection, and individual, free self-determination.


Franco
     Orwell’s account of the Spanish Civil War in Homage to Catalonia shows the sources of the dread and sarcasm of his later famous novels, 1984 and Animal Farm, and yet also gives us a powerful counter-point of hope. According to Orwell, the story of the Spanish Civil War that the world got from the liberal press was of a war for “democracy against fascism.” The story from the right-wing press was of bloodthirsty “reds” being held off by Generalissimo Franco. Neither story was even close to the truth.


     The poor people of Spain, who in 1931 had finally succeeded in throwing off a feudal monarchy, were not interested in a “democratic” system that would still be run by capitalists and the Catholic Church. Most saw that as “nothing but a racket” (Orwell), as just another version of the power of wealth and class. No, they wanted genuine human revolution, which meant they would have to own the land and factories where they worked.


     I cannot resist giving you a taste of Orwell’s description of life in Barcelona, host to the largest anarchist movement in Europe's history at that time:



Woman member of the Confederación
 Nacional del Trabajo (CNT.)
Translation: National Confederation of Labour,
a Spanish confederation of anarchist workers


Smash Fascism
“It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists . . . Every shop and café had an inscription saying that it had been collectivized; even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared.

"WHOEVER THEY VOTE FOR,
WE ARE UNGOVERNABLE"
     Nobody said ‘Senor’ or ‘Don’ or even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ and ‘Thou,’ and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenas Dias.’ Tipping had been forbidden by law . . . almost my first experience was receiving a lecture from an hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor cars, they had all been commandeered, and all the trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere, flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, . . . [it was the appearance] of the crowds that was the queerest thing of all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small number of women and foreigners there were no ‘well-dressed’ people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class clothes, or blue overalls or some variant of the militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in it that I did not understand, in some ways I did not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also I believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers’ State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled, been killed, or voluntarily come over to the workers’ side. I did not realize that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois were simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.”

     I myself traveled to Nicaragua when revolution was still alive there. Almost overnight the people had medical care, guaranteed food to eat, and literacy – this last when the university students, in gratitude for their place of privilege, on their own decided to leave school and go throughout the country teaching reading and writing. The result of this was quickly a 90% reading rate from a very low number, and people everywhere writing poetry and song.


     I can understand why Orwell could not stand on the sidelines. The alignment of Nicaragua’s revolution with Soviet communism and Cuba was the beginning of the end of its deeper spirit; that only happened, though, as Nicaraguans desperately sought help against the Reagan-funded contras -- CIA-armed soldiers supported by the rich who had fled to Miami, sent to re-take the land from the peasants. It seems that genuine revolution is a real and tangible thing, but fragile. Both totalitarian communism and capitalism want to crush it immediately.



From July '36:
They Shall Not Pass
to July '37
We Shall Pass
     What happened in Nicaragua is very similar to what happened in Spain, where the alliance of the heartfelt revolutionaries with communists, getting arms from and directed by Stalin in Moscow, came only from desperation for survival against Franco’s fascism. In the end the communists crushed the revolutionaries before Franco could.

    Here in Callella we become friends with -- I'll call them Miguel and Rosa -- from Barcelona. They are so friendly! – Rosa knows little English, but her wonderful smile says all anyone needs to know. Miguel tells us of his grandfather, a Barcelona anarchist in 1937 at the time the revolution was suppressed by Stalin. His whole family had to flee to France to escape a vengeful Franco.

     There, camps separated men and women. His brother later wound up siding with the fascists, and the family was split. For Manel, violent struggle and civil war are unthinkable. He teaches philosophy to high school students, and sees teaching and education as the real key to social justice.


    Franco won in the end because the people were no longer inspired. They just wanted the war over. They had briefly seen real change, and now knew nothing was really going to change, whoever won.


Guernica
    Guernica pictures the terror and horror of the bombing of a town that was fully ready to fight to the death in a conventional battle with the fascist forces attacking it, but completely shocked and unready for bombs falling from Hitler’s planes high in the sky. The bombs indiscriminately killed men, women, children, and old people.


    Once when German police were rummaging through Picasso’s things in Paris, they found Guernica and asked Picasso, “Did you do this?”


He answered, “No. You did.”


     Bombing civilians became the norm in WWII, as both sides bombed everybody in a war of desperation. This genocidal terror started at Guernica. It is now (and was then) a war crime to attack or bomb civilians; yet, as we know, enforcement remains only a concept not a reality.

     At least the concept is out there, in the United Nations Declaration of Universal Human Rights: in this century, possibly for the first time in history, a few prosecutions and efforts at enforcement under planetary rule of law are happening.


     When Franco died in 1975, the Socialist party took power and formed a government at least sympathetic to the poor. The Socialists have been in power most of the time since then, and Spain, centuries under kings and then forty years of dictatorship finally has gained liberal democratic freedoms, though it is clear that the trauma to the Spanish character lives on, and that the deeper revolutionary spirit of these generous people remains suppressed.



New, open times!
Enrique Galvan,
"The Old Professor,"
Mayor of Madrid
after Franco
     After Franco, Madrid elected a socialist “old professor” as Mayor. Once, when he was asked what he would suggest for the youth, he said, “Get stoned, and do what’s cool.”
    
     In the heady years of release from Franco and the Church, Madrid had a continuous street party for three years, trying to make up for missing the liberating forces of the sixties.



Stephane Hessel and
You Be Indignant!
     After the museum we go to Puerto Del Sol to talk with the young people camping there. Some of them call themselves “Los Indignados.” Where did this name come from? A short 12-page pamphlet in French, Indignez Vous! (literally, You Be Indignant!) first appeared in French late last year. Written by a 93-year-old former French Resistance Fighter, a Jew who escaped from a concentration camp, it is having a Tom Paine-like revolutionary effect in Europe right now. It’s a hugely popular multi-million seller; the French gave it to one-another as stocking stuffers at Christmas.

     Perhaps the closest thing to Hessel in the United States is Michael Moore’s continuous sense of outrage. Both Moore and Hessel see non-violence as more powerful and effective than violence. Hessel is careful to say he understands the violence of the oppressed while arguing that non-violent protest has a far better chance of success. In this, he is a man after my own heart. Hessel says:

 
     “After 1945, after that horrific tragedy, the forces of the National Council of the Resistance achieved an ambitious resurrection for France. Let us remember that this is when the social safety net that the Resistance called for was created: ‘A comprehensive social security plan, to guarantee all citizens a means of livelihood in every case where they are unable to get it by working’: and ‘retirement that allows older workers to end their lives with dignity.’ Sources of energy – electricity, gas, and coal – were nationalized, along with the large banks, in accordance again with what the program advocated: ‘returning to the nation the means of production that have been monopolized, the fruits of common labor, the sources of energy, mineral riches, insurance companies, and big banks’; and ‘establishing a true social and economic democracy, which entails removing large scale economic and financial feudalism from the management of the economy.’ The general interest had to be given precedence over particular interests, and a fair division of the wealth created by the world of labor over the power of money.’ The Resistance proposed ‘a rational organization of the economy to guarantee that individual interests be subordinated to the public interest, one free of a dictatorship of established professionals in the image of the fascist state.’


Just a bit more, to really feel where Hessel is coming from:


“They have the nerve to tell us that the state can no longer cover the costs of these social programs. Yet how can the money needed to continue and extend these achievements, be lacking today, when the creation of wealth has grown so enormously since the Liberation, a time when Europe lay in ruins? It can only be because the power of money, which the Resistance fought so hard, has never been as great and selfish and shameless as it is now, with its servants in the very highest circles of government. The banks, now privatized, seem to care only about their dividends, and about the enormous salaries of their executives, not about the general good. The gap between richest and poorest has never been so large, competition and the circulation of capital never so encouraged.


The motivation that underlay the Resistance was outrage . . . we call on the younger generations to revive and carry forward the tradition of the Resistance . . .


We say to you: ‘Take over! Keep going! Get angry! . . . [Do not] give up or . . . be overwhelmed by the current international dictatorship of the financial markets, which is such a threat to peace and democracy.”


From Madrid's Indignados May 2011

     Hessel is a socialist, not an anarchist. Though he inspires the indignados of Spain, once again the Spanish protestors do not trust representative democracy, they want a deeper, more profound revolution. The young people here in the Puerto del Sol refuse to vote, arguing that the vote offers no way to choose real change.



The occupation of La Plaza
Puerto del Sol, Madrid


     They certainly have a point, and I would guess as many as half of Americans feel the same way about our two party choice: When socialist governments all over Europe, and Obama in America, cave into the “international dictatorship of the financial markets,” which insist on more privatization and cutting back of social programs that re-distribute wealth downwards, it seems these young people are right.



Fire! Love and Spirit
     Our own homegrown anarchist Thoreau has this to say about voting: “All voting is a sort of gaming, like checkers, or backgammon, a playing with right and wrong, its obligation never exceeds that of expediency. Even voting for the right thing is doing nothing for it. A wise man will not leave the right to the mercy of chance, nor wish it to prevail through the power of the majority.” (Quoted in Emma Goldman’s Anarchism and Other Essays)


     The socialist prime minister of Spain says he sympathizes with the indignados, but feels he has no choice but to give into the international bankers. As I write, the Greeks are poised to either accept or reject the terms of the IMF, which impose new taxes, more privatization, and deeper cuts in the social safety net as the price for help for an economy in trouble.


Plaza Puerto del Sol,
Madrid, May 2011
     From my point of view, it is the allowing of rules-free international speculation, entirely devoid of any democratic perspective or input, that controls what happens, that has put Greece, Ireland, Spain, Portugal, and many other countries in trouble. So much money is increasingly concentrated in a few private hands via the capitalist “system” (They call this a system?), in the hands of those who by wealth not democracy effectively make our social and political choices. “Democracy,” government by the consent of the governed, becomes a farce.


     In Madrid’s central plaza, we walk in among the tents, where we are instantly welcomed by kind and intelligent students and young workers. They are indeed indignant at what’s going on, and feel they must do whatever it takes (short of violence) to bring about change. They are so full of hope for a better future – well, at one level, any kind of reasonable future! Many are well-educated and without jobs – there is a 20% unemployment rate in Spain right now. Yet they tell us how much more than middle-class comfort they hope for: all around us we see what they are talking about.
Communication

Que Tal?  What's happening? We talked about it . . .

Liberty, Equality, Fraternity . . .
especially the last is real here.

Plaza Puerto del Sol, Madrid, May 2011


     
Each can talk, be heard
     The encampment is anarchism on display. All the usual government functions are being handled – trash, self-policing, health, communication and information, etc., etc. It seems that everyone pitches in on the spot when there is a perceived need.

     Spontaneous generosity and responsibility make external government unnecessary. That is the anarchist view: if we govern ourselves, one individual at a time, we need not turn over our integrity and power to a distant political system. Here, there is no one charismatic leader; instead, there are decision-making groups which seek consensus. It is true democracy in action.


 

plazaSOLucion

     We join in, we go around to all the different “desks” at different booths, each chipping in a unique kind of help for all, we watch decisions being made in groups with the microphone passed around, we make some friends, take some pictures, and exchange email addresses. It’s profoundly inspiring, and reminds us of the spirit of the 60’s when we hoped for so much.





TO THE BEACH

   It’s after all this that we finally head for the beach. If you need a change of pace and a temporary vacation from political conflict, so do we! After driving right through Grenada we skip the famous Alhambra, Spain’s number one tourist attraction! I settle for reading a great book, Washington Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra, instead – it’s full of beautiful detail and mystery, whereas, I checked this out in a guide book, the tourist site doesn’t even have an Arabian carpet left! :) 



Pampaniera, on the ridge.
We parked over night here 
     We drive up an amazing winding mountain road about 5-15 miles per hour into some of the steepest crags we’ve ever seen. We thought we were going to do a bit of hiking before the beach. But this is way too steep and it has started to rain. This area, a series of mountain valleys called the Aljuparras is obviously beautiful and dramatic.

     We find probably the only nearly level spot in a tiny village of white-washed houses perched like a bird’s nest on a cliff, and park next to our little section of cliff. Amira doesn’t even want to look over the edge!:)


     Next day, the beach at last! It’s hot, but the wind blows all the time. We do not spot the hillsides covered with turbo-electric windmills until the next day. OK, outta there! In wandering mode, if you don’t like where you are, move on down the road!


     The map shows a little town that looks like it might be sheltered by a bay. It’s called Mazzaron. We drive a few hours and arrive there at sunset. We find a campground right across the street from the beach and settle in. It’s simple and cheap and even has an old spa now spruced up to a very warm swimming pool with hot healing mineral water for morning wake-up.

The beach at Mazzaron


     Right next to us is an older couple, Yan and Lennica, from Holland. They spend a lot of time on the road in Europe, except July and August, when things get crowded and they prefer to stay home. They’ve been on the road a month already. They’re skilled campers, keeping it simple, with a station wagon just big enough for their mattress, some tarps for shade and rain protection, and knowing where to track down the best fresh food daily (they have no refrigeration) to cook for themselves on a simple one-burner propane stove.

     Yan inspires us to try more “wild camping” off the campground circuit, and tells us how they do it. One night we stay up very late talking about everything and laughing a lot. We look forward to keeping in touch with these very sweet folks.



Our favorite walk in Mazzaron
     Mazzaron is humble enough to remind me of some less touristed parts of coastal Mexico, which is to say, it lacks the European sophistication of a tourist magnet such as San Miguel Allende. In some ways, once you leave the cities, much of Spain could just as well be Mexico or southern Colorado or northern New Mexico. Dry and wild and backward, one feels lost in big, wide spaces with big skies and big white clouds spilling into far distant mountain ranges.


     There’s cactus and high pink rock towers and amazing sudden high mountain ranges swooping up from the sea that nobody will ever make roads over. It’s the perfect setting for lawless nineteenth century shoot-em-ups, and it has a long history of plenty of just that kind of thing. The early 19th century writer Washington Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra begin with his preparations to travel through these “bad lands” – armed guards, extra cash for the inevitable banditos, plenty of wine, water, and food -- it was a “bring your own” situation re eating.


     Bring your own, on the food front, is still not a bad idea in rural Spain. When we got there, let’s tell the truth, we had just had our taste-buds re-awakened by the best food in the world – France completely spoiled us! Our disappointment with Spanish food is not at all fair to Spain. France will spoil you wherever you go next – you have to go out of your way to find mediocre food in France, in fact, it just doesn’t happen.


     In Spain, with rare exceptions, we came to realize we preferred our own vittles to Euro-zone overpriced food that just failed to make the grade. What’s more, it may surprise you to learn that Mexico trumps Spain 10 to 1 in the foodie section. Here, the ham (ham is king here!), potatoes, the endless bread gone wrong, the cheese (even McDonald’s imports their cheese from France!) – whatever you order -- needs spicing up badly. You’ll take a bite or two, ask for the Picante, and wait for it to be to rustled up in the back somewhere. You think: that should help get me though this!


     The Mexicans created their own tacos, enchiladas, tostadas, and chili rellenos -- you won’t find them in Spain! Not something the Spanish even seem to know about. The style is no style: leave the natural flavors of the food as they are. This can work well enough with great ingredients, otherwise it’s simply boring, and great ingredients are a lucky find.


     The deeply nutritious feeling of French food coming from thousands of small farms and green, green lands with rich soils and wide rivers is not found in Spain. Spain is Europe’s agro-farming heavy weight. Lots of sun, little water, a production line approach, the result: bland, tasteless food. Even the Chinese and Indian restaurants seem to be cooking for the Spanish palate.


     Amira says: “Indian food is my favorite food on the planet. In Spain, even if cooked by an Indian, the food is still fucked up.” I wish I could say this is comic exaggeration. Keeping in mind the very partial truth of generalizations, I cannot.


     Back to Mazzaron: the hot weather we’ve been looking for is here: it’s plenty hot here on this Costa Calida, the “hot coast.” It’s desert really, though plenty of palm trees and bougainvillea make it pretty enough.

     This town is not at all what anybody would expect. We haven’t seen a single Chinese restaurant in Europe so far, this place has ten of them. It’s in the old Muslim part of Spain, but the bazaars are bizarre – they’re all Chinese! The good news is, they sell everything at prices so low we expect a gold-rush from all over Europe at any minute. It doesn’t happen, and we have no idea why. Who’s keeping this secret?


     We had waited to outfit our camper with outdoor stove, tenting, clotheslines, good inside lighting, a fan for hot weather, kitchen stuff, towels, chairs, yoga mats, tarps, pillows, flashlights, swim fins, mosquito nets, you name it -- this is a home! We had expected marginally better prices in Spain than France, where a couple tent poles cost us eighty bucks. As Amira says, of what we start calling “the Chinese store,” “these prices are a gift from the shopping gods! This is a laughing Buddha bonanza!” We’re in there just about every day.


Flowers in Mazzaron
     Picture this: a warehouse absolutely crammed to the ceilings with a vast variety of stuff, stuff, stuff. There’s a big problem, though: the Chinese in the Chinese store speak Chinese, and we don’t. How to find anything in this tornado of Chinese imports? After an entirely unintelligible linguistic experience at the front of the store, including indecipherable drawings by us, the manager throws up his hands and calls out at the top of his voice, “Sonia!”


A lovely young Indian woman emerges from the tightly packed aisles with a smile. She speaks English, she’s very bright, and she knows exactly where every last S-hook, Velcro strip, and solar light in that store is located. She takes us to everything and finds it. She seems to know what we need more quickly than we do. It’s almost magical. The best part is, our inventory angel is a total sweetie, and we instantly become friends.

Sonia and Amira, Mazzaron


     We’re at the store so often, we work with Sonia finding things almost daily. After work, we go walking with her along the beach at night, we come over to her tiny room to have chai and chat, we go swimming together, she skillfully gives Amira the only good massage on this trip so far, she has a little health crisis and Michael straightens it out with acupuncture. She’s our friend in Mazzaron.


     Like so many of the folks we’ve met on the trip, she’s a world traveler. Born of Sikh Indian parents in Malaysia, she moved to Delhi when she was seven, she went to Italy to work and met her husband there. The two of them hope to settle in Spain. She’s just another example of how much smaller the world is becoming all the time, a citizen of the planet, open to new experiences and people.


Sonia, Violetta, ands Amira
in "The Chinese Store"





    We’re all near tears as we say good-bye to Sonia and her sweet friend Violetta. We’ve been in Mazzaron for seventeen days and it’s time to move on.


Taken from our Campground
Mazzaron, June 2011



NORTH ON THE MEDITERRANEAN COAST TO BARCELONA, CALLELLA

     We sadly leave Mazzaron on an old narrow desert road that winds through cactus and big cliffs. Once when we want to stop, we have to drive many miles to find a bit of shade, it’s too hot to stop in the broiling sun. We have to keep trying; at the rare, tiny shady spots, hordes of attack flies quickly drive us on, since the stunted trees and patches of shade are associated with cows. We’re close to the country where Hollywood used to shoot westerns, it feels ancient and deserted, reminds us of northern Mexico.


     In an hour or so we’re on the motorway to avoid the large coastal city of Cartagena. We’re passing up some history – it seems Julius Caesar first made a name for himself in Rome by winning an important battle for the empire here. After bypassing the large resort city that the British love, Torrevieja, we get back on two-lane road and mosey toward seaside campgrounds.


     There are only two choices on the map. One is a giant family place with a high price tag, and it’s a good little walk to the beach. Not for us. The other campground has lost out to the recession and no longer exists. But there’s a public parking lot and one car and trailer are already settled there for the night.


     We pull in and face for the first time, in the heat, that we must leave doors and windows open without the security of a campground. We park at just the right distance from the other folks to feel safer – if they weren’t here, we wouldn’t be either --put our open door out of sight of the nearby little road, and settle in for the night


     Before we turn in, a sweet sandy beach nearby makes for hot night cool wading on a stroll along the waves. In the morning, we find the one little bar/café around, built right up to the edge of the surf. We order iced coffee and use their bathrooms. (We have a porta-potty, but have only really needed to use it once so far. It’s still nice to have the option, it makes us feel more self-sufficient.)


     At the café, people are swimming, sunning, drinking, and reading the papers. Even here in this little out-of-the-way beach village, people-watching, as at all of Europe’s sidewalk and beach-front cafes, is also major occupation. It’s easy to start up conversations too.


      Soon we’re on the road again. We successfully thread our way through a maze of back-road turns and compliment ourselves for finding the right exit onto the motorway without getting lost. Michelin’s detailed Spanish map is better than our GPS.



Beniderm.  A passing shot.
     We bypass Alicante, but when traffic gets thick, decide to leave the motorway in Beniderm. I suppose it was interesting enough to see what a resort city is really like on this coast, just once, just for a few minutes. The great beaches are jam-packed with tourists, all of this backed by high-rises that hang on the cliffs.


     We just want to eat and move on. It’s the wrong time to eat (restaurants here close between 4:00 PM and 7:30 or 8:00) – so we decide to try a 24-hour McDonald’s for the first time for something more than coffee and internet. It’s surprisingly pricey! Yes, but the burger is the best so far in Spain, amazing to say! I read the box: it’s all about the high-quality meat and the imported Emmanthaler cheese from France.


     This burger had better be good, it costs six Euros, that’s a bit under nine bucks American. On the other hand, I can imagine this kind of quality going for $8.95 in the US. We sneak our own Coca-Cola Zero in and get out of there, with a dessert special, for a little over $20. Aside from ordering Sirloin, one of the few good bets on most menus, which goes for 15-20 Euros in Spain (we can only afford to split one meal!), McD’s (Surprise!) turns out to be the best we’ve found south of San Sebastian.


     We go around Valencia and head back to the beach just north of town. We negotiate 25%off the cost of camping by pointing out how little electricity we use, settle into a pretty wooded spot, and walk to the beach. Another surprise! The water here is warmer than Maui! If it weren’t for the oil refinery just up the beach, we would have been tempted to stay longer.


Sunset from Valencia Campground


     The next day we are not quite to Barcelona when we tire. We have no intention of trying to drive into a city like this, so we turn off to the little beach hamlet of Calafell. There are campgrounds, but they want too much for too little – crowded and noisy at the beginning of a holiday weekend. Finally we ask a farmer at the edge of town if we can park under some trees in the corner of his field, which fronts the beach. He very sweetly gives us an OK, and emphasizes how tranquilo the spot will be.


     We walk the beach and I go for a sunset swim. We will always remember this as “the night of fireworks.” It’s true, it would have been louder downtown, but it sounds like a war and it doesn’t let up until sunrise. It’s accompanied by the steady beat of disco bands. All-night partying is the norm in Spain; this country was suppressed for so long, its feels like their live-for-the-moment style is still a matter of making up for lost time.


     In the morning we head for the smartest restaurant on the beach and order iced coffee and use their bathrooms. We would have come back for a real meal later, but they’re fully booked. We still haven’t taken the time to figure out what “St. John’s Day” is all about. There are so many holidays in Spain, knowing what’s going on requires too much special study 


     We take the long route around Barcelona and camp at seaside Pineda del Mar, a spot with pine trees on the northern edge on the urban megalopolis. The next day we take the train into Barcelona, and get off smack in the city center, Plaza de Catalunya. We come up out of the station and see the tents of the indignados.


Downtown Barcelona

Barcelona's Artsiest Cake!


     Once again we’re in a place where the language is new: it’s Catalonian, which is why “Catalonia” has become “Catalunya,” and every other word is different too. It was hard enough to understand Spanish, never mind Catalonian. The good news is that this place gently leans toward the sophistication of France, only an hour up the road. It has often fought for independence, and has gained a lot of autonomy since Franco tried to abolish their language and saved his harshest revenge for Catalunya, hotbed of revolution.


     Our first order of business is the midday meal, and we head down Las Ramblas, the broad tree-lined central street of the city, thronged with people, shops, bars, sidewalk sellers, musicians, and folks doing street theatre. The food is some of the best since San Sebastian.


     Picasso grew up in Barcelona, he went to art school here. After our meal and bit of wandering on Las Ramblas, we head to the Picasso Museum. We spend several hours looking at an exhibition of his whole artistic development, from childhood to death at 87.


     Pablo Picasso was incredibly prolific – paint and canvas, metal sculpture, ceramics, many new techniques in many mediums, and fascinating collaborations to achieve things that are truly one-of-a-kind. Art, only slightly interrupted by a series of troubled relationships with women, was his life, and he never stopped until the end.


Photo of Pablo Picasso at
Barcelona's Picasso Museum


     I don’t know how to talk about Picasso. He could paint with great beauty, but that’s not what he’s about. He’s about seeing form and color almost entirely for their own sake, in his own unique way. I started to say “entirely independent of tradition.” Yet the most fascinating part of the show was a movie that clarified Picasso’s remarkable studies of a famous painting by the great 18th-century Spanish painter Valasquez.

     Perhaps Picasso is the great anarchist of art. Whatever one can say, he does not disappoint. Picasso put on one of the greatest shows on earth. And it’s still showing! Bravo!



Plaza de Catalunya,
Barcelona late June 2011

Plaza de Catalunya,
Barcelona late June 2011


Plaza de Catalunya,
Barcelona late June 2011


Plaza de Catalunya,
Barcelona late June 2011


Plaza de Catalunya,
Barcelona late June 2011


Plaza de Catalunya,
Barcelona late June 2011

     Later, we are surprised and disappointed to discover that almost all the protestors, five-hundred strong, leaving a small group behind, have set out on foot for Madrid to continue their protest. We look for folks to hang out with, and spot a sweet smiling man who turns out to be from Gambia. He invites us for a visit and passes around an unusual type of tea with his girlfriend by their tent.


     In Madrid, the protestors voted to take down all but one information tent not long ago. In Barcelona, where the police attacked the encampment in force in early June, injuring many, some seriously, and taking down all the tents and taking people’s possessions away, things have shaken down this way: there are still about thirty tents that have been put back up – public opinion was very much against the police and minister who ordered the attack – and the protestors do not want to take them down until some sort of justice is obtained over what happened. The trip to Madrid is specifically a plea for justice over the police brutality.


     The next day we drive one of the most dramatic coasts in the world. (Keep in mind the person writing this lives near Big Sur!) My best bet is simply to tell you this is very similar: dramatic wooded cliffs, a tortured winding road, sandy coves and turquoise sea breaking on the rocks so far below.


CALLELLA (CAH-YAY-YAH)


     At the end of the day we pull into a lovely campground called La Siesta. That’s exactly what we’re looking for, a nap! I wrote about Callella earlier. We’re headed into France again in the next day or two. By the time that happens, we will have been here three weeks, that’s how much we’ve loved living in a quiet spot under these umbrella pines by a beautiful rocky coast with great beaches.

Callella by Night

Bougainvillea and Arch

Beach at Callella

This was a favorite spot!

Great little coves for sweimming!







Hello!
      Here are a few closing shots for this section of the trip.  This place truly captured our hearts. 
    
     As one of our Mexican friends wrote in response to the blog: "Ahhhhh . . . Spain!  Land of my father.  It's full places where you feel life you could spend lifetimes!


Turquoise and blue waters!

An Umbrella Pine Tree, our friends!


Fre Flow the Van did not move from this spot for three weeks!


Yes, yes, time for a nap in the hot afternoon after a swim!


A Peaceful Hasta La Vista, Mis Amigos


COMING SOON! SOUTHERN FRANCE, PROVENCE, AND THE ALPS!








 



 

















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