art and rain

They’ve been wanting rain and so I am happy for the people of Andalucía, because today, for the first time since we’ve come here (riding in on the tail end of 2011), it rained.

We have such a beautiful hotel room that truly, if we had to stay indoors all day and do our various works and tasks, we’d be happy. But, the desire to see and explore (so universal and so strong) pushes us out the door despite the threat of wetness.

(After a lovely breakfast in the protected courtyard of our hotel. We are, in this off off time, the only guests here.)






And in fact, it’s not raining. Yet. We walk, enchanted by the frequent pastry and sweets shops...


 


...over to the Alcazar, but before entering, we get terribly distracted by an art fair in its little courtyard.






Had Ed been Ed, there would have been a yawn and a tug on his part and we would have moved on. But, on this day Ed lets loose an otherwise well concealed Mediterranean undercurrent. He wants, for one thing, to look at art. (Later, he also wants to look inside a cathedral. And, as you’ll soon see, he nudges me to acquire something. Ed, today, is not fully himself.)






And so we admire some small pieces (a still life of figs) and some somewhat larger pieces (a landscape) and one larger piece is done by an extraordinarily charming woman (Marisol Martin Galisteo) who notices our interest and says emphatically – it’s very very cheap. Ed laughs like a true Andalucían - very uproariously.

Marisol is so contagiously charming that I truly believe that if I hang her painting back at the farmhouse it will be like throwing her personality on our walls. Still, her art, though cheap, is the price of dinner. Besides, I don’t acquire things anymore.






With a sigh, we leave.

At the other side of the Alcazar entrance, we notice that there is a Sunday flea market and now we’re really captivated...






Here, Ed is as I know him to be: interested in seeing other people make use of old stuff.


 



Except that this flea market also has a few artisans displaying their handcraft, including a gentleman from Cadiz (Ale Galdou) selling little handmade clay flutes (called the 'ocarina').






These tiny things look like not much of anything. Three holes on each side and one in the middle. But listen to him toot that little thing!






The woman at his side (his mother?) smiles proudly and even more so when she learns we are from across the ocean. Her son the clay ocarina maker married a Canadian but now here he is in Andalucía again, trying to make a go of it with his little clay pieces. (We purchase one as a little gift for Paul, our coffee guy back home.)






We leave the market now because really, we’re here to see the Alcazar. We circle the block in search of the entrance...


 



But just then the rain comes down. Ed asks – so are you getting the painting(s)?

We’re back at the art fair. Artists are scrambling to pack up and cart away paintings. The disappointment here is palpable. I’m standing in the rain, undecided. As she packs her work, Marisol tells us there is not much support for the artist in this town. Her husband is there, helping her...


 



– it’s been a bleak day even as she grins her lovely grin and throws out a friendly good bye.

She is so charming! Ed says. Ah, he’s been won over by the radiant Andalucían smile!
I call her back. We’ll buy it!






That grin again! She and her husband promise to wrap it up and bring it over to our hotel the next day.

As we leave the little square, Ed tells me – too bad you couldn’t get the one with the figs, too.
The man has been struck by a Mediterranean virus! Or Spanish virus, because he really does quite love being here.

And just as we finish arranging the final details of delivery and the rain drops are becoming quite pronounced, frequent and wet, a friendly greeting catches us from behind and we turn to see the 'fig man,' scurring with his paintings, including his lovely little fig still life, back to his car. That’s fate for you.

As he places his sweet little painting into a bag for us, I ask him if he supports himself from his art. He laughs. I work for an insurance company! He writes his name on the back of his company card – Domingo Diaz Barbera.  Zurich Agencia de Seguros. The life of an artist. The flutist with the proud mother, Marisol with a husband who most likely pays the bills, Domingo who sells insurance.

We walk back to the hotel. The Alcazar is better seen on a sunny day.

Initially, people hide from the rain under awnings and cafe umbrellas.







But soon, the streets of Jerez de la Frontera become completely empty. People here do not like being wet or cold.

We pause at the hotel in the hope that the rain will cease, but it doesn’t and so with the aid of two borrowed umbrellas, we set out for the great walk of Jerez – as determined by some tourist agent who had the fun task of figuring out which blocks should be seen by any visitor who would choose to pass through Jerez.

If Jerez isn’t really a tourist destination, we say that that's a shame. The town is lovely!






So who, if not tourists, comes to Jerez anyway? Is there a draw? Most definitely: people come here to do business with the sherry producers. Jerez de la Frontera is the capital of sherry making. If your sherry isn’t from Jerez, then it’s not the real deal.






We wont be visiting any of the bodegas that display and sell the fine sherries of Jerez. Even with the addition of the paintings, we have so little luggage that we’ll be carrying our bags on-board and so taking back bottles is out of the question. The city is, for us, the destination onto itself. And both Ed and I are liking it quite a bit. So much so, that the original idea of going back to Cadiz for the day has been pushed by the wayside.


At times it drizzles and at other times it pours and I can have no real complaints about either – we’d had such a good spell of fine weather, after all – except it really is awfully difficult to take photos and carry an umbrella all at the same time. Still, here’s a bit of our walk, through puddles and all.
























At the cathedral, Ed surprises me again by urging us to go inside, to explore the architectural detail. We’re a tad late for that – the guard is locking the door just as we show up. But he reconsiders and allows us a peak and it is both unusual and splendid.






Outside again, we watch the water pour out of the jaws of the gargoyles.






Around us, the squares and streets remain empty. You can listen to the rain hit the sidewalk. The city is otherwise quiet.   

Tapas time? I ask. Ed says he’s not hungry, but at the Bar Juanito they have an artichoke hearts that won the best tapas award at some national tapas competition...


 








...and as long as we order one thing, we may as well add to it (each tapas is 2 Euros) and so we order a shrimp and wild mushroom dish that, too, is quite delicious.






Okay, I get it. The people of Jerez are alive and well, eating, drinking, warming their insides with all the good stuff that this region has to offer.






The light isn’t fading just yet, but a good snack and a glass of wine are enough to push us back home, yes, home, today’s home, where we can lie down, doze off for a bit and watch the rain come down behind any of the five windows in our seven-sided room.



In the evening, there’s not even the pretense of weighing dinner options. We go back to last night’s restaurant because it is so good, so rickety chair casual that there’s no reason to go elsewhere.

The waiter tries to talk me into some of the heartier meat options, but I stay with the mushrooms with bits of Iberian ham. It is a completely satisfying meal, finished by a delicious dessert of cheese and something or other.






We walk back along wet streets in the golden glow of street lamps and oranges.

memory

Saturday. A day of travel. Walk to the ferry. Take the ferry back to Tarifa. From there, a bus to Cadiz and finally a train to Jerez de la Frontera.


A time to allow for memories to take shape. For instance, in leaving Tanger, as we walk through the very quiet morning streets and alleys, I take note of the cats of Tanger. Alley cats. They get lost in the crowds that fill the streets later in the day. But now, they’re prominent.






I have to think, too,  that the image of men in cafés will remain a fixed one.






Perhaps women would find no pleasure in sitting in smoke filled places and yet their absence there is, to me, memorable.

Tanger images. Of turquoise taxis. Of a medina sitting on a hill, but really on several hills, as the alleys go up and down and then up again.






The ferry ride. This is the smoothest set of waters I’m ever likely to see here, on the Straits that separate Europe from Africa, the Atlantic from the Mediterranean.






So, is there no wind in Tarifa? As we pull into the old familiar port, everything appears very calm. Here's the lighthouse at the tip of the causeway. Atlantic there, Mediterranean here.






And now we are almost at the ferry port...






...okay, we're docked. We step out.  The fishing boats, the fortified walls, the cluster of shore-front houses...







Ah, but there is wind. A little lighter than before, but it requires that I pull back my hair unless I want to work out the tangles later.






But, the people of Tarifa are used to it. They go about their business, despite the gusts and breezes.






We walk along the beach, but not for long. An hour maybe. We have our packs and they seem a tad heavier. Or maybe that it's carrying them on our backs on sandy shores of the Atlantic that makes them appear more of a burden. One should be free to romp on a beach. Like this guy.











Still, even for us slow pokes with the packs and bags, it's just so beautiful here! The colors -- unforgettable colors!






Will I remember that looking toward Africa, I saw the rain cloud pass by and what with the gusts of wind and cloud, a mini tornado formed?






The rain never touched Tarifa.

We return to sit at our favorite café and I order a salad and I remember the very first such salad that I had in Granada (and many since then). They’re all the same. And they’re all delicious.






People watching here. A handful of girls sit at a table, practicing the art of café life. I take note. It's hard not to make comparisons.






And now it’s time to leave – we have a 14:45 bus to catch. So, a final glance at the entrance to the old quarter...






... and we return to the bus station, where a trio is also waiting. I note the heels again and I note that these women all have long hair and none of it is tied back against the wind.





The bus ride is 80 minutes. Time to think. About how as I get older, my memory is more fickle. For instance, somewhere in Granada, I lost 100 Euros. I have no idea how it happened. I zip up all purses and guard against theft in any number of ways. It must have dropped out as I was pulling out coins. But I just do not remember. Perhaps it's not a matter of memory, but rather carelessness. But here’s a true memory issue: in Ronda, I left behind, at the hotel, my cosmetics case. Amazing how little one needs one’s 'cosmetics' – I’ve managed fine without them. Still, I now know that I cannot rush to post something and scoot out the door at the last minute. In decades of travel, this is the first time that I left behind something that large and that obvious.


We pull into Cadiz. Pronounced variously. It’s beautiful enough (this, gleaned from our walk through part of the old town, but again, encumbered with packs, so it hadn’t the value of a real stroll) that we’re likely to return. So just one photo for now.






Okay, maybe a second. We were there for an hour after all.






It’s close to Jerez de la Frontera – our final Andalusian destination. You hop on a commuter train there (and back). We’re now heading to Jerez, the two passengers here are on a train heading back to Cadiz.






I’ll well remember the train rides – they were all 100% wonderful.

In Jerez, we arrive at our hotel, the beautiful Casagrande, only to find it locked. We ring the bell -- nothing. We walk to a local café, ask about it, but no one knows. Shrugs. We go back, ring again. I’ll probably forget that it took a half hour’s effort to finally get someone to answer the door. (They’d been on the rooftop, repotting plants and they didn’t hear the door.)

But I’ll remember the grand room with windows on thee sides.





(And maybe even the price – 85 Euros with a full, cooked breakfast included.)

We ask for dinner recommendations – not touristy please. Something local, simple. The hotel person laughs. There’s nothing touristy about any of the places. Jerez is not a tourist destination!

We eat at La Cruz Blanca – a terrific place with the best wild mushroom salad ever. Will I remember it? Maybe, maybe not. But I’ll remember that when we ordered shrimp with garlic, we got these, the ever familiar pel pels.






And I'll probably remember that in every place on this trip we've gone into a bakery for a small handful of cookies. Often with nuts or pine nuts, like these.






Funny how some things stay in your head. And others do not.