Spain: Our Last Int'l Stage

3am. The bus was leaving Piazza Garibaldi in Colorno on Monday morning at 3am. We were assured that any other way, or any other flight, would have been chosen if it were possible, but apparently not,  as we quietly took our places on the bus in the dark, chilled night. I think it kinda set the mood for the rest of the trip. I don't think any of us caught up on our exhaustion. We slept-walked (sleep-walked?) through the Bergamo airport, onto the plane, until we stepped out into the warm Spanish sun in Malaga. Back on the bus. Our first destination: lunch - 2 hours away. We were off to La Duquesa to try the Andalusian specialty: rabo del toro. We started with bits of potatoes glowing florescent yellow in Spanish olive oil with colourful flecks of herbs and red onion.

We had plates of fleshy pink lomo smothered in thick lard as though they were slices of birthday cake coated in creamy layer of vanilla frosting. The lomo was a bit tough so the smoothness of the lard was quite complimentary - if you are able to get over the gleaming white paste staring back with caloric, pure-fat intensity.

Then there was a spring-green block of airy asparagus pate served with a dollop of mayonaise and a plate of roasted mushroom caps on a simple bed of shredded iceberg lettuce. Then came the bull tail. We each got a plate of two, with a pile of gravy-absorbing french fries on the side - and looking around, there must have been nearly 30 of us. That's a lot of bull tails. Bull tails honour the tradition of bull fighting in the region but there's no way we each had 2 bull tails. Maybe they were oxtails. Maybe the part that looked like the end of the tail was really a cartilage disc from different parts of the spine.

The meat was tender and fell easily off the bone, snuggled amongst gelatinous fat, as it was slow cooked it what seemed to be a sauce made of carrot coins, minced garlic, chopped onions, regional red wine and probably a meat broth. It was nice to try as a cultural and regional specialty, but it wasn't anything extraordinary. We didn't see a bull fight nor did we stay for dessert as we were off to our next destination: Aromasdemedina, an artisinal pastry company.

We tasted their handmade pastries - many made with almonds and, surprisingly, animal fat. We overlooked the production facility room where women were folding each of the pastries into paper wrap one by one with their hands. Talk about artisinal. It looked like a perpetual monotonous activity that it made me appreciate the value and effort encompassed in the term artisinal, but feeling almost sorry for the work of these women I wondered if it was better than machine processes.

Back on the bus through the arid waving brown hills patterned with avocado bushes, cotton fields, and olive oil trees. The stretches of wind-powered generators that extended into the cloudless horizon weren't a necessarily pleasant addition to the landscape's natural scenery but provoked an encouraging ecological promise to the future. It seemed as though we were in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the Iberian penninsula, but we arrived in Conil with promises of the sea side. As we walked to the beach, this contradiction continued as the desert land behind us opposed the bright blue sea in front of us, the lighthouse on the coast in the distant reminded me of New England and the town filled with clean white, square houses nestled on top of each other behind the beach looked like the postcards I've seen of the Greek Islands. Maybe my exhaustion was getting the best of me, but I felt all sorts of confused.

Greek Islands or souther Spanish coast?

Desert-like.

The sun set in front of us as some of the students swam in the salty sea and I tried in my best Spanish to ask and understand what the men on the shore were trying to catch with their nets. Razor clams was what I understood and I watched as they peered into the oncoming waves for the first sighting of the razor clams poking out of the crashing waves. Despite their lack of luck while we were there, Asher was sure he'd be back in the future with a camper parked on the beach and selling grilled razor clams to hungry beach-goers.

brave swimmers. too salty for my skin.

razor clams?

bonita. 

Naturally, it was time for some Spanish tapas and a cold Cruzcampo, or CruTHcampo. The beer, and wine, appropriately mirrored the size of the tradiational tapas: bite size and enough for a satisfying taste. Conil is a cute town, lined with little streets and tapas bars catering to the locals and the tourists. We passed some that lit the street from the halogen lighting, baring the sparsely decorated interiors filled with old men. adorable. We went to Los Hermanos, on a triangular corner like the Flat Iron Building, which was packed - always a good sign - and we shimmed our way to the back to place our order. 

We were adorned with plates of fried seafood, jamon y queso, and discs of tortilla camarone which tasted like the prawn crackers found at thai restaurants - except these were freshly hot and the little hairs of the shrimp sprouted out with each bite.

 Needing something more than fried food and some fresh air, we went to another place, La Gloria, where we had mushroom croquettes, mousaka, patatas bravas, patatas calabrales, and ricotta and spinach canneloni. It wasn't traditional Spanish food, but it was ok because if every tapas bar and restaurant served the same traditional dishes, it would get a bit boring. These were their versions and still within the concept of serving tapa-portions.

Needless to say, we effortless fell into a deep slumber that night.