Chapter 3

Plaza Mentidero, Thursday evening. The small square’s eight terraces are gradually filling up, the noise level is rising.  It’s half past eight.  A little girl empties the remains of her crisps into the fountain while her smaller sister, following the example, chucks her packet into the water, too. The parents take notice, the red-faced father barks the words ‘in the rubbish bin’ at the girl and returns his attention back to his beer. The skinny granddad continues to feed cheese puffs to the pigeons, his eyes sparkle and his toothless mouth curls up into a pleased smile when a sparrow manages to grab its share. No one fishes the rubbish out of the water.

I’ve chosen the bar which has got cushions on its wooden chairs. The dog lies down next to his water bowl, tongue hanging out, panting. The cheerful chubby waitress has barely placed my little beer glass on the psychedelically colourful plastic table cloth in front of me and in no time I’m ready, craning my neck to catch her eye, to ask for another one. It has been a hot, hot day. After last night’s lock-in at the jam session in La Canela, although I was yearning for a cooling dip in the sea, I had no energy to walk to the beach. Tonight, like every Thursday, there will be a jazz concert in Cambalache. The Dog will stay at home and I will arm myself with the camera instead. Both are great ice breakers and excellent social crutches but as tonight’s Monk Experience (no robes, chanting or celibacy; just four blokes interpreting good old Thelonious) is likely to pack the place up to the rafters, I’m opting for the mechanical companion.

Photographing concerts has been a doorway into a vaguely budding social life. It combines four of my great loves; taking photos, drinking beer, listening to live music and meeting hot greying brown-eyed musicians. There are concerts happening almost every night of the week and most nights I have to choose between more than one. I usually go for jazz which is, more often than not, very good quality. And free. Although not in the ‘fire in the pet shop’ sense but in the way that releases more of my hard-earned cash to be deposited behind the bar.

Plaza Mina, La Galeria as usual. Saturday, close to midnight, two concerts later. I’m breathing in the heavy perfume of the dying flowers of the nearby trees as the Dog, by now used to being stuck to my side, patiently observes the world stroll by. At the moment there are several concerts in progress, as well as the small scale madness of the summer Carnaval.  I experienced the full version for the first time in March but am opting out this time. The entertainment factor is remarkable and it is a massively important part of living the Cadiz life but, as even people from other parts of Spain are sometimes left baffled by the complexity of the local lingo, I have no hope of fully enjoying the humour of the songs for a considerable amount of time.

Having blown the summer budget investing in the Dog’s health, I growled silently at the groups of people radiating excited expectancy whilst passing the concert venue where the Skatalites were preparing to begin their long-awaited spectacle. I paused for a moment to still calculate my options, carried on and ignoring my gut instinct, sat down at the next door terrace of La Canela to listen to a female singer-songwriter. She was undoubtedly talented but, unfortunately, also influenced by Tori Amos. As the Dog after a few short moments, enough for me to down a hasty beer, shamelessly reflected how I felt about the said music and started chewing off his own leg to escape the performance, we wondered off.

Here, I weigh the decisions I’ve made in the recent two months and although I could be out there weaving my social net, I don’t regret taking on the responsibility that pulls me away from it at times. The honest smile and the wagging tail won’t be around for too long, the Dog is old, but I might as well bloody enjoy it as long I can.

Cadiz. Sunday, Plaza Mina, around sunset time. I come here to drink cafe solos with ice, and to use the free Wi-Fi, usually during the quiet hours of day when most Gaditanos make a beeline for the beach or roll down their shutters and go to sleep. My timing today has its faults. On one hand, with the cool evening breeze I am no longer sweating profusely nor do my shorts stick to the chair. On the other hand, this is the prime time for the needlessly proud parents to cart their children out onto the square to scream in their pushchairs, kick pigeons, skateboard into small dogs and to do what toddlers do, to clumsily toddle about and smear ice cream handprints on the aforementioned shorts. Fair enough, the plazas are an extension of people’s living rooms, we just use them in varying ways. Tonight I am momentarily without the Dog but he is a couple of blocks away, waiting to be whisked out for a walk. The Owner’s daughter breezes past, with all the great charm and grace accumulated in her six years of confused existence, briefly stopping to marvel at the mysterious Nordic creature who speaks in a strange manner and does curious things to her father’s dog.

Monday, Alameda, Bar Colonial, close to midnight. The Moody Basque has put on what sounds like his ‘funky gospel’ playlist and appears to be in a good mood. The bar is quiet, there are only a handful of customers on the terrace in the park across the road and the Young Cute One ferries drinks out to them. Tonight I sit inside sucking on a Rioja. The Dog, less distracted in here than outside, has parked himself just in front of the fan. He is acting suitably mellow after fast-forwarding me around the city’s streets and parks for the third time today. This is yet another one of those days when the Owner has completely blanked him and this, finally, leaves me quite content at the end of the day. Instead of feeling constantly annoyed and worried about the dog’s wellbeing, as I have done for the couple of months I’ve shared the flat with these creatures, I’m gradually starting to go with the flow and make the most of the days when I can be sure the animal has had a sufficient amount of outings and food. I’m keeping my beady eye on the prostate problem likely to reoccur and fending off any pesky fleas that are lying in wait lusting after his blood.

Most socially, or, more than just socially active people residing in Cadiz Old Town know each other in one way or another. Here your one-night stands drink in the same bars as you or at least will eventually greet you in the local vegetable shop. The following week they will sleep with your friend and you, quite likely, with one of theirs. I am starting to loosen up my thoughts about the casual recycling that has to take place in a small town.

The Other Basque sways in, arm in arm with a Tall Intriguing friend I haven’t met before. They appear to have had the afternoon free to down copious Cubatas. The Dog gets on well with the Tall Intriguing but due to my sobriety it’s only when he readies himself to leave, I make a mental note to look out for his occasional appearances. The Other Basque takes the opportunity to make his blatant move, suggesting that as I smell so nice and am apparently clever, I should sleep in his house. I can’t return his compliment and keep diverting the conversation towards dogs, daughters and cats. Suddenly the Owner, who also unsuccessfully tried his luck in unravelling my pants, walks in. He and the Other Basque both have a colourful history with the Argentinean woman. I’ve heard both men affirm they want nothing to do with each other but nevertheless, a verbal cockfight ensues. I observe for a moment, get bored, pay for my drinks, say my farewells and am led home by the best kind of dog. One with four legs.

Cádiz. Underneath the dusty skin of the beautiful city, enchanting music pulses through its veins. There are eight kilometres of beach where, under the relentless afternoon sun, skin damage can be easily acquired. I recline in a hammock on the rooftop terrace of hostel Casa Caracol, the Snail’s Home. The faded charms of the travellers’ haven reflect those of its surroundings and the name very accurately refers to the pace of life you adopt when you come to stay. I have been enjoying my layabout existence here for longer than I dare to mention but I must be behaving myself as the management are making an exception by letting me stay for an extended period of time. Normally people aren’t allowed to become long term guests.

To my own surprise I’ve learned to sleep comfortably in a hammock and at the moment actually prefer it to a normal hostel bed. My neck and knees are starting to express their concerns about the nest-like conditions but I am still enjoying the fresh night air and the slightly adventurous feeling I get when opening my eyes to see a blue morning sky. As well as slowing down the inevitable slide into a financial disaster, a hammock provides a certain amount of privacy. Same can’t be said about the floor which I have also slept on, only to wake up at an ungodly hour to find a hairy manface staring at me from a distance slightly too short to be ignored.

Closely sharing one’s living space with thirty or forty people has taken some getting used to and at times, especially when woken up from a pleasant siesta slumber by some barely post-adolescent boys talking shit at an inappropriate volume in German, controlling oneself and refraining from hurling a torrent of abuse can  become a major effort. The perks still outrun the disadvantages; there is always someone around to have a chat (well, a drink) with and late night live music is often provided by some intrepid returning travellers. And there are plenty of trim, tanned, semi-naked male bodies to perv at.

It is interesting to observe the ebb and flow of the visiting characters, which keeps constantly changing the atmosphere of the hostel. For a few days it is infested by groups of Italian teenage princesses all simultaneously fussing over a boiling pan of pasta, then in the course of one night it morphs into a hippie camp and just when you’ve got used to the crusties, a bunch of quiet confused blonde Swedes comes through the door. The mood in the living area is different every morning when I go downstairs to have breakfast. I have figured out that it largely depends on how much gin and marijuana the staff members consumed the night before, how drunk the guests still are and what time the fiesta eventually finished.

Even at the best of times the conditions aren’t too hygienic and I’m fairly sure that to an outsider, despite my best efforts to scrub myself clean every day, I smell of guinea pigs and cattle feed. This state is not about to change in the immediate future either as I’m planning to go camping next week. Hurrah to failing deodorant and pesky free-range body hair!

Malaga. Two weeks ago the city didn’t want to let me to go and today, when I returned to gather the rest of my belongings, seemed like it didn’t want me to get any further than the front door of the bus station. I walked into a suffocating hot wall of the summer that had arrived while I was away and I was immediately grateful for the knowledge that I would be leaving again tomorrow. I am determined to make a slightly more stylish exit this time; I won’t leave the flat too late, nor will I take a “shortcut”, get hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of construction sites around the bus station, miss my bus and have to pay for another ticket. As well as sweating off about five kilos of water weight, flustered semi-panic often results to important lessons being learned. If you’re stupid enough to buy a bus ticket in advance, make sure you follow the route you memorised the day before when you went to purchase the damn thing.

I am no longer counting days. In the last two weeks that I have spent in Cádiz, where in the botanical gardens you can stumble into fibreglass dinosaurs, time has started to resemble a piece of melting chewing gum thoughtlessly spat onto sweltering hot pavement. It sticks to the seven mile boots that I’m wearing on my feet and expands, contracts and snaps while I, blindfolded, take my random leaps into the unknown while trying to figure out some kind of a direction to head towards. While falling haplessly in love with the smiling city I have been at times desperate for a breath with my head deep under water and then suddenly swept into safety of the shore by the gentle giant waves. I have been insecure and terrified, grasping around the outlines of a reality fabricated by my own imagination, felt a tap on my shoulder and been nudged towards daylight. Without the safety net that routine provides and the blinkers which normality harnesses you with, you are stripped bare and sensitive as everything is hugely magnified and extremely intense. It takes some time in any new situation to work out the size and the correct proportions of your own personality compared to those around you. Misjudgements need correcting frequently.

The city is a kindly brutal lover. Over two weeks of couchsurfing and living in a hammock on the rooftop of a hostel have left me battered, bitten, sleep-deprived and itchy. I’m starting to get used to the heat, and the constantly shared living space is honing my patience and social skills. The job hunt hasn’t yet resulted to anything concrete I have been hoping for but I do have a private class booked into my diary for Monday. My Spanish is coming along slowly but surely. My feet are still lost but I’m slowly starting to think I might find them one day.

Day 29, Málaga.  Soon I will travel back in time to Granada where I spent three days before arriving here. But for now, in Málaga we are.

Parts of the city have had a facelift in the last couple of years and in the very centre, in the immediate surroundings of Plaza de Constitución, the results make it an attractive and pleasant area to wander around in. They’ve done a lovely job buffing up the pretty faces of the old buildings. They’ve laid marble down on the pedestrian streets and somehow squeezed in a good amount of expensive shops without making it feel too tacky or, weird enough, overly commercial. Can’t believe I just said that. I guess I find some comfort in the familiar European feel of it as I’m struggling to get used to the South. Also, it still feels very local. In the vicinity of the one-armed cathedral there are more tourist shops than people who would want to visit them. In other parts of the historical centre, the necessary work still continues to restore the facades and it’s hard to see the history for the tarpaulins and scaffoldings.  That is, if you manage to look up without falling into one of the many gaping excavations which are left unfenced and wide open for the general public to stroll into while the workmen are repairing the streets. Coming from a nanny state I love the fact that the people here are not only allowed, but actually expected to use some common sense.

Once outside the oldest part of the town, the contrast will unexpectedly slap you across the chops. The rest of the town is a hasty collection of the ugliest architecture of every decade of the last century. Aiming towards the sea you’ll arrive at what could have been, or should be a pleasant beach front promenade. Instead of that, you’ll find yourself in a tangle of dual carriageways and a massive roundabout lined with high-rise blocks and garish shop fronts offering cheap goods which are imported into the monstrous dock nearby.

Apparently in Murcia there is a village so ugly that the locals say not even dust wants to settle there. I found out where the dust has decided to settle instead. On Malaga beach. Along with cigarette butts, drinks cans, plastic bags, bottles and containers, condoms, food waste and piles of other garbage of unidentifiable origin that the freezing waves carry in from the sea. I suppose if they attempted to clean up the mess using whatever the normal beach cleaning machinery may be, the beach itself would fly away with the hot wind. So they just leave it. As they seem to do in the surrounding areas as well. The otherwise attractive paths around Alcazaba, the ancient Roman palace, are strewn with broken glass, litter and stick-thin kittens and the pavements are streaked with dog shit. On Plaza Merced the heroin addicts stoop on the benches in front of the sad forgotten corpse of an old movie theatre.

Once you get past the uncharming filthy exterior and restrain yourself from going out too early (1am should be sufficient), you will find hordes of the edgy southern people fuelled by sweet local wine, enjoying themselves in the countless bars until the sunrise around 6.30am. Spirits are especially high when Spain wins a football match. Last night I was one with the crowds cheering for our heroes, most of the time even at the correct moment.

Level of Spanish: disgraceful. The accent is impenetrable and I get disheartened very quickly. English takes a lot of head space as I’ve finally started applying for work. Another course is needed to switch the poor frazzled brain into the correct mode. Going outside might help, too. I have a common language with my new friend though. Like me, she is called Rubia. Unlike me, she is very very small and ugly as sin, has four legs and a waggy tail. Unfortunately she is rather neglected and spends most of her time bored and lonely on the balcony next door. Fortunately, the balconies have a minidog-sized hole which she crawls through several times a day and we keep each other company while I struggle with my applications. I finally have some of the canine company I’ve been longing for since Bilbao.

Quizás nosotros también podamos aprovechar una migración de pájaros silvestres para evadirnos.

(The Murcia quote was kindly provided by Pauline Loriggio. Thank you.)

Day 21, Córdoba. On Saturday I travelled 924 kilometres into a new unfamiliar world. The train took me through cloudy mountain tops and my old reliable travelling companion, the monstrous hangover, kept me good company for the best part of the journey. The landscape flattened but the clouds didn’t part until I got to down to Andalucía. I am spending a short while in a town which, sheltering from the heat,  looks in on itself and doesn’t easily reveal its secrets to a stranger. Looking the outside the houses of the old Jewish quarter appear impenetrable but if you´re lucky enough to be invited inside, you will find not only amazingly intoxicating wine but also intricately tiled beautiful patios, or inner courtyards, with a large orange tree in the middle, creating a natural shade against the elements. Which do get rather harsh here. They call it the frying pan of Spain for a reason. My Nordic physique isn´t used to it yet, so after some quick morning ventures outside, I have been spending the middle part of the day semi-horizontally positioned on the roof terrace of my hostel, semi-conscious, chatting with other travellers and drinking copious amounts of water and tea made from freshly picked mint while watching the heat rise from the rooftops. I have no idea what the Andalucians are like.

After several years of spending the majority of my time living and socialising mainly with men, I have been finding the recent couple of weeks of continuous female company interesting, even challenging. Sharing a flat with the firecracker of a lady in San Sebastian, and talking about very personal subjects with a stranger until the early hours of the morning was enlightening, safe and comfortable. Going to an incredible tacky Latin dance lesson and afterwards getting drunk with four other women was a new and an enjoyable experience. Sitting on the beach watching the sunset with this grown-up group of strong individuals, I realised that I had been missing that kind of contact. After coming to Córdoba and sleeping in the same room with four other females, while booking my accommodation for the next city, I made a firm decision to pay that little bit more to have my privacy back again. The communal salad we made was random and interesting and so were the experiences we shared. And surely I will have to the dorm thing again but for now, while I’m still quite far away from hitting the overdraft, I want to sleep when I want to sleep and most importantly, on my own.

Level of Spanish: revision and practice are in high demand. Once I separate myself from the English-speaking travellers, I plan to put into action what I’ve learned in these three weeks. Getting used to the accent in this part of the country will also take some time.  The northern sound became familiar and after a quick poll outside a bar on my last night in San Sebastian, I can state as a fact that 66 percent of Basque men think that slugs have tongues. Small ones, but tongues nevertheless.