SPAIN 8: Trains, Plates, and A-lot-o'-hills

‘I see my path, but I don’t know where it leads.  Not knowing where I’m going is what inspires me to travel it.’ ~Rosalia de Castro

I arrived at the train station in San Roque, walked into the train depot, and stood in line 15 minutes before my train was to arrive.  Five minutes passed, and then five more; no one had yet come to the window to sell us tickets.  I kept checking my watch, and concern started to creep in when still no one had appeared with only a few moments left. You could hear the train approaching when someone finally arrived, quickly stamped small, white pieces of paper, and hastily pushed them through the tiny slot in the glass with no questions asked.  I wasn’t even sure I was at the right train station; let alone which train I was supposed to catch.  I walked onto the platform with a piece of illegible paper in my hand, and in very broken Spanish I asked a woman nearby, “Para Ronda?” “Granada.” she replied.  Hmmm.  I don’t know geographically where Ronda is to Granada so I looked around for someone else that might have an idea.  Just then the train rolled up and the doors opened.  I started toward a heavier set woman wearing a traditional conductor’s outfit with a hat, vest, pocket watch and chain to boot!  She began to yell at me in Spanish; rapidly flailing her hands toward the train’s open doors.  I assumed that she was telling me to quickly get on, so I complied.  I knew my backpack was twice as big as the allotted size, and I half expected someone to ask me to get off.  I made my way toward the back of the train, trying to be conscious of not hitting everyone is the head as I passed by.  Eventually I found an empty seat and plopped down.  I asked the man in front of me if he spoke any English, and he just smiled and shook his head. The country side passed by, but I realized I was watching where we had been rather than where we were going.  My stomach wasn’t so keen on the idea, and I was happy when the man across from me, who had been kind enough to help me lay my pack down, got off two stops later.  I switched seats and enjoyed the rest of my ride.

Di and John, my new hosts, have been extraordinary, and their Moroccan style hotel 20 minutes outside of Ronda in the tiny, 100 person village of Cartajima is positively a dream.  Immediately I began my work.  The hotel was nearly full and duck was on the menu.  Di conducted the kitchen as though a maestro creating her masterpiece.  I was working on only two hours of sleep, and the fog of travel, but I did my best to be of use.  An appetizer of apricot wrapped bacon, two sauces, grilled endives and zucchini, roasted potatoes and duck, and mulberry pie from scratch with ice cream later, the end result was a mountain of dishes and a room full of immensely happy guests.  We finally had the opportunity to sit down to eat, and I could hardly wait.  

Each plate was beautifully presented.  The first course consisted of grilled endives, delicately arranged in a creamy white sauce, and garnished with chopped chives.  For the second course, five halved, roasted potatoes stacked atop each other, with the roasted duck leg balancing against them.  Six slices of zucchini grilled to perfection staggered, as though dominoes that had toppled over around the plate opposite the duck.  A port sauce drizzled over the duck made my mouth water.  A sprig of rosemary stood in the center as though a Christmas tree on display amongst the merriment.  I don’t know if I have ever had duck before, if I have it wasn’t memorable, but this I will remember for the rest of my life.  I haven’t eaten a lot of authentic Spanish food since I have been here, and what I have had hasn’t been enjoyable or memorable. The duck was moist and fell off the bone, the sauce was even better than it smelled, and the vegetables were grilled to perfection.  It was the perfect combination of TACT (Taste, Aroma, Color, Texture).  Even though we ate at a table in the back of the kitchen, the atmosphere was warm, full of love, and of course, wine! The evening carried on, I conquered the mountain of dishes, and then sat down with the guests.  Jazz played in the background, everyone laughed and told stories of their adventures, and my eyes threatened to give me away.  The guests here are fascinating and their stories stirred up confirmation that you can live the life you dream; however, the sandman was calling and I must heed his calls. . .

The next morning, Di’s family arrived.  Mom Jo, Dad Simon, and two kids, twelve year old Finbar or Fin, and ten year old Lochlann; an ‘eccentric’ family of whom I have come to adore.  They travel around Europe, and many other places, putting on street performances at festivals.  Inspired by Buster Keaton, slap-stick comedy, and a love for black and white films; they have discovered they can travel anywhere and perform without worrying about the division of language.  Laughter is universal as I have discovered, and breaks through many cultural barriers.  

The kids are brilliant, and I feel as though I am in Narnia whenever they speak.  Jo and Simon are wonderful as well, and immediately took me in as part of the family inviting me on a ‘walk’ with them.  Little did I know what was in store for me! After a few miles of walking up and down hills, Jo and the two boys turned back.  My adventure antenna was starting to tingle as Simon talked about continuing onto the next village, and I couldn’t resist the offer to accompany him.  We ran up and down the country side,  forged a river, hung onto a wire fence while crossing a cliff above the river, climbed over fences, dredged through tall foliage, scrambled up crumbling rocks, unintentionally chased a pig down the path, and got utterly lost! We ran on and on, uphill, downhill, and for many miles until I just couldn’t run any longer.  Simon asked for directions in very broken Spanish, and the people looked very surprised that we were so far from our destination.  The implied distance to return home couldn’t wipe the smiles off of our faces.  We were simply having too much fun getting lost.  Often some of the best adventures come from getting lost, and today was no exception.  Eventually we did find our way to the neighboring village of Juzcar, and after a quick stop to rest and enjoy a cold cerveza we walked another 45 minutes home.  Hands down the best adventure I have had in Spain. Thanks to you Simon for your fantastic sense of direction, and for getting us lost!

Hotel Where I am Staying: http://www.loscastanos.com/
Port Duck Recipe: http://www.post-gazette.com/food/19990311duck1a.asp
Bash Street Theatre Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_WQBNKp9kU
Map of the Villages: http://maps.google.es/maps?hl=es&q=Cartajima+Spain&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=Cartajima&gl=es&ei=FcqsTe-4DoSt8gOwi8HLDA&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=image&resnum=1&ved=0CCEQ8gEwAA