SPAIN: Ronda - Sevilla

SPAIN: Ronda
La Ciudad Soñada is a lovely little city straddling an ENORMOUS gorge (El Tajo), with stunning views that mysteriously eats huge chunks of space on camera memory sticks. Houses and hotels and fortress walls perch at (or extend over) the very edge of sheer dropoffs.

My hotel room was ready when I arrived at 10am, so I set myself up and did some laundry, taking advantage of having my very own bathroom. I contemplated a nap, but of course couldn’t waste time on mere sleep when there was stuff to see, so out I went. I was tired from the trekking and the lack of sleep, and Ronda is small, so after some churros y chocolate (with smoke) I made my way lazily from sight to sight, window shopping (I even found some Geox sport sandals on end-of-season sale) and gaping at the scenery at all the viewpoints.

I wandered to la Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Socorro, Plaza de Toros’ ring and the museum, the Plaza de España, and Puente Nuevo, then was ready for some real food. I had some unremarkable Valencian paella (where they brought me bread and charged me for it) in a pretty square with la Iglesia de Santa Maria La Mayor, which fueled me for the hike down into the gorge from Plaza Maria Auxiliadora and back. The Palacio de Mondragon, containing the city museum, was lovely and interesting, and I chatted with some Americans whose son was about to pursue acting in LA.

I walked south from the city center to the outer fortress walls, then along the eastern wall to the Arab baths and Puente Viejo. Iglesia de Nuestro Padre Jesus was the last church I visited, then I strolled through town in search of a souvenir, as mom had not been to Ronda, and dinner ideas. Most of the tourist shops in Spain seem to have the same ceramics, except for the different towns’ names, but I bought a little vase for our Spanish collection anyway. No menus were calling my name, and I was fading fast, so I bought some gelato and walked to the western walls to see the sun set over the surrounding valley. I found a grocery store near my hotel and bought a little prepackaged salad and a bag of plain mixed greens to add to it, as I was craving some serious greenery. Alas, they had no cold drinks, so I bought a mini bottle of red wine, which turned out to be pretty bad. But the combo in my hotel room, while organizing my stuff and thoughts with a Spanish telenovela on TV before bed, was perfect.

I had hoped to go for a run around the valley surrounding town the next morning, but clearly needed the sleep and my legs were still pooped from the hiking. I took a bus to Sevilla (which was sitting in the station but left 20 minutes late; nobody was in a rush), and I was the only non-locally-dropped-off passenger for the first hour (I’d contemplated going to the Costa del Sol for the day, but the transportation schedules sucked and it seemed like it would be more hassle than it was worth).

We passed the stunning Plaza de España before pulling into the station, and I got off the bus into the beautiful sunshine (it’s always sunny here!!!), crossing my fingers that I’d find a place to stay easily, as calling around the day before had gotten me nowhere. I found some 20Euro rooms pretty quickly, but they weren’t very well attended and were easily accessible, and I wanted a little more security, so I kept moving on. The cheap places recommended in my book were full, but one sent me to La Gloria, where they gave me a double (barely) for 25Euros, with a shower and sink but no toilet (?). Manolo (the first of three who worked there), was a father hen figure who gave me a map and marked out the best places for cheap bocadillos, nightlife and museums, and implored me to be careful with my bag while sightseeing. He was very happy that I spoke Spanish, as was everyone there during my stay; I don’t think we ever used English.

I was starving at this point, and finally settled on lunch at La Habanita, where I had gazpacho and then pork in sauce with raisins and bacon. On the walk over, I’d passed through Plaza Nueva and Plaza de San Francisco, both of which were under construction—as most of the city, I soon discovered, was (Granada had been, too, but not as pervasively). Bummer.

After lunch I went to see la Catedral, which is on the glorious end of the cathedral spectrum, including a beautiful coro, capilla mayor, Patio de los Naranjos, and views from la Giralda (tower). Unfortunately, my photos came out crappy, and it closed much earlier than I’d realized, so I mis-paced myself and didn’t get to see everything. Across the Plaza del Triunfo, however, the Alcazar was open much later, so I took in the huge complex of rooms and patios and beautiful gardens.

Having had a proper dose of architecture and landscaping, I went to the barrio de Santa Cruz for tapas, where I finally had a true tapas experience. I bellied up to the bar, ordered a caña (small glass of beer) and asked what I should try, which prompted an immediate answer, so that’s what I had. A ham-n-cheesy mini-sandwich deal, which was very good. This approach served me well most of the time; only once did I have a server who didn’t want to deal with making a recommendation. Otherwise, when they see that you’ll take them up on whatever they suggest, they have fun, and it doesn’t cost them any time during rush hour. They keep your tab in chalk on the barspace in front of you and tally it up when you’re ready to go. Several times, since I was alone and hearing other people’s conversations, I ended up helping tourists with little or no Spanish to order drinks and food, which led to a few fun conversations. I also got a useful review of a flamenco performance.

After a few tapas, I went off to find a club where there was supposedly regular and free flamenco dancing, but at 10:30 it was still EMPTY, and I wasn’t going to wait around for hours for the action to begin, so I went home via another tapas place (meat o’clock is always in effect when dealing with tapas, although I did have one of chick peas and spinach). While there is plenty of nightlife and lots of tourists in Sevilla, the late stuff happens in concentrated areas, some tucked away, and the trip back to the hotel involved walking through areas that were pedestrian-only and safe but not very well trafficked, so I didn’t go out late-night. When I got back to the hotel, Jose, who was of the same mold as Manolo #1, was on duty and so very happy to meet me and find out what I’d done that day. Hilarious.

I slept in (Wednesday) and then went on a longish run (1:15) across and down the river Guadalquivir, then back through the park de Maria Luisa…and only got a little lost making my way back home (On the way out, I met Maonolo #2, who observed that I was off to do something sporty and pointed out the black-and-white photos of him in his former pole-vaulting glory days on the wall). I had a huge bocadillo at a ridiculously non-Spanish hour in the late morning, then went to the Museo de las Bellas Artes, which was well worth the trip for paintings by many a Spanish master in a former convent.

I walked down the city-side of the river, picking up some transportation info (and a carnation) at a tourist office, past the bullring and Torre del Oro, then crossed town (construction, construction, construction) to Plaza de España. On the way back, I stopped to listen to a guy playing some amazing guitar along the Alcazar wall, and bought his CD. I sat at an outdoor restaurant table for a glass of fino (sherry), which wasn’t really to my taste, then had some tapas and summer wine at Patio San Eloy before going to the late flamenco show where I’d made a reservation (another crappy seat!). The show was, again, brief, but still enjoyable. The style here was much different than in Granada: much more formal, technical, and severe, and the costumes were all black and more modern. The singer had a ridiculous tenor range but with HUGE vocal tension that made me wonder how long he’d have that voice.

I went back to the hotel, where I was greeted by Jose, who was “SO GLAD!” to see me and solemnly offered me these words of wisdom: “Sleep a lot, eat well, and don’t walk too fast.” OKAY, Jose. I wrote a few postcards on the (bleak) rooftop terrace before bed.

On Thursday, I went to the Thursday flea market, but it didn’t seem to be happening, as only a small, seemingly daily market was going on. I checked out the nearby Macarena Basilica, which was tacky, then took a bus to Santiponce to see Italica, the eerie and weird site of the first Roman town in Spain (206 BC), which included ruins of houses and a huge amphitheater. The nearby monastery was closed, so I took a bus back to Sevilla and walked through La Triana, a neighborhood noted for ceramics (still siesta time, though, so everything was closed).

The hospice Caridad was a bit of a waste, since the main feature, the sculptured altar, was covered. There were some pretty tiles and a few Murillo paintings, though. I made up for it with gelato, then went to the post office for postcard stamps, checked my email at Western Union, had a glass of wine on the Plaza de San Francisco, shopped around and bought a bunch of jewelry at a fun (and BUSY) store, investigated transferring some photos onto a CD, and went out for…tapas. At my first stop, within half a beer, a boisterous Irish guy was chatting me up: he’d lost his cellphone and rental car’s keys, and couldn’t get in touch with the friend with whom he was staying (part-time girlfriend and mother of his son) or find a cab. He claimed to be a psychiatrist with homes in Lima, Huelva, Phuket and Brooklyn, and good-naturedly labeled himself a “prick”, “asshole,” and “bastard” at various points in the conversation, during which he kept ordering beers and close-talking me so that we slowly migrated six feet down the bar. People. Takes all kinds. The bartenders and I were entertained by the situation (This guy did explain that this was Spain’s year for getting allocated EU money, which was why everything was under construction all over the country). I let him leave WITHOUT me, then went to another spot for a taste before calling it a night. Manolo #3 was greatly disappointed that I’d missed the magnificent flea market.