MRSPKR's Expat Wonderland #1 - "I can't believe you're blaming Lupe!"

I'm going to talk about a little adventure we had in Granada, Spain. The adventure took about 3 minutes but, as you'll read, felt like a lifetime.

To begin with, Granada is a beautiful town full of tapas bars and tiny lanes that amble up steep, built-up hills, all under the commanding gaze of the ancient Alhambra. (I won't go on about the Alhambra. It's beautiful so go there and check it out.) The spirit of the Moorish past and ancient village life is palpable and you can just hear the gypsy flamenco echoing through the tight corridors. Literally. There's gangs of economics students roaming the tourist bars serenading the public whether they like it or not. There's always one guy who can't play an instrument who provides the claps. Proto-drummers perhaps?

view of the Alhambra from the streets of Granada

Now. Our hostel explicitly advised not to drive to the hostel and instead park your car in a parking lot somewhere. But when you've just entered a new city and have no idea where anything is, you automatically head to the only location you have for the satnav. So we did. We drove to the hostel, or as far as we could before we realized you literally can't reach it by car. So, plan B - park the car somewhere. We waited for a vespa to move out of the way, backed out and punched in co-ordinates for a parking garage. Turns out Lupe (the name we gave the satnav voice - as in, "I can't believe you're blaming Lupe!" - George Costanza) didn't get the memo about driving in Granada and sent us on a course that was to age us all several years.

The "roads" were particularly unforgiving in both size and direction and we soon found ourselves committed to a loooooong, barely driveable, cobblestone lane flanked by front doors and white-washed walls with under a metre clearance each side. No shoulders, no side streets, no return.

And then..

The lane halved in width. Instantly.

In an urban development strategy I can only imagine was either designed to channel hoards of attacking Moors into single file combat or, most likely, designed with no design at all, Granada had fucked us.

We deliberated for a moment and then attempted our first approach, and I'm not kidding - there was one centimeter each side in it. Plus our car had this eco-mechanism that shut off the engine if the car was running low RPM. So I couldn't even go slowly if I wanted to.

I backed out. A vespa drove up beside us as if waiting for us. This was not the encouragement I needed. So my brother-in-law and driving partner, Tommy, jumped out and with the help of the vespa driver attempted to guide me through. With hand movements twitching a flurry of minute directions like a meercat stuck to the end of a human arm they guided me inch by inch through this feat of automotive precision. And then

Crackcrackscreeeeek......

I'd hit the wall. And as anyone who has run afoul of an object in a car would know, the worst thing is the thought of the inevitable damage you'll do when undoing your mistake. At that moment a young jerk with his girlfriend on a vespa drove aggressively up behind and started yelling something in jerk language. This did not help. Nor did the Ford transit that drove up behind them, crushing any dreams of a reverse exit. (Editor's note: it never occurred to me how the van was going to fit through if I couldn't). Luckily Tommy told him to shut up and I suppose the jerk also agreed that yelling at me wouldn't get him to his jerk meeting at the jerk centre any quicker.

I revved up and Crackcrackscreeeeekcrack! Shitshitshitshitshit

And again I reversed to a further and horrid symphony of grinding metal. If I wasn't so stressed the sound artist in me would have done it again and recorded the sweet crunchy sounds. Next time.

Now all panic seemed to have gone. I was in a dream like state of total concentration. The intense stress had formed a rigid chainmail under my skin and I WAS the car. I WAS Tommy. I WAS the street. Every tiny movement was pure energy. I could see the past, present and future simultaneously. And with an iron grip on the wheel, eyes firmly fixed on Tommy's twitching, epileptic fingers, the car jolted slowly one more time through that most malicious of spaces.

.....and we were clear.

Vowing never again to return to Spain, we found a park, got out, and got a motherf**kin' beer.

The bastard lane where I left my dignity and 3 years of my life. Moments after the photo was taken a 4WD drove through at speed. Not a scratch. I don't get it....

After a few days we left Granada with our memories a mix of anguish and delight and drove south to the seaside town of Nerja.

Costa Tropical, like most of the Spanish coastline, is awash with the pruned, browned, grey-haired bodies of English retirees, flopped and draped all over deck chairs or pressed into the gravelly sand like kindergarten clay sculptures. And the urban development tends to mimic the aesthetic desires of an English taste - drab.

But not so much in Nerja which has retained an old town feel and a large Andalusian demographic. Sure, it's got three Irish bars (no complaints, and for quality control I checked all of their whiskys personally) but it also has amazing ultra-local Spanish tapas bars and restaurants. One of which, called Rodundo, had a mesmerizing array of tapas from anchovies to morcilla to pork ribs to prawns. It was nuts! And it was free! Coming from the pay-per-everything of Australia I just couldn't fathom their costing strategy. It even crossed my mind that the Spanish recession could be due to no one paying for food. Ever. Beer hardly makes up the difference at 1EU a pop. And the Spanish don't even seem to drink much...

Rooftops of Nerja, Costa Tropical

Pretty shit view....

From Nerja we traveled west by bus to Castell De Ferro, a lack lustre beach "resort" that doubled as a place where fishing industries go to die. There, after some confronting toilet experiences, we waited for our wwoofing host-to-be, Ralf, to pick us up.

But that, my friends, is a story for next time.

Adios

MRSPKR x