My friend, Lyn, told me that Mijas was a wondrous place to see, but I had no idea... Once she started up the mountain from the coast and we rose towards the clouds, my brain kicked into overdrive. This village was filled with those casas blancos (white houses) to the sky. Originally, it was only the burros that was the transportation and some still surround the plazas. Shops, old churches, more shops, restaurants, plazas and gobs of cobblestones. The ayuntamiento (town hall) was beautiful and the woman at the desk was a bright light of welcoming Spanish sunshine (half Swedish and half Spanish) who told us about Cervantes and we studied every document and photo they displayed.
The houses were built on tiers on the mountain with the air fresh and clear. Flowers bloomed and flowed across the plazas, dripping from pots and terraced gardens. Spanish music floated through the village from guitar players near the church of the Virgin of la Pena to the smallest bullring in Spain and the church adjacent to the ring. Gardens surrounded the area with shops littering the small, narrow strips of lanes that criss-crossed through the town. And then she led me to the iglesia (church) near the "smallest" bullring in Spain... My head was swinging from side to side trying to take it in. I couldn't.
And an art museum... Since I am (possibly) distantly related to Pablo Ruiz Picasso, I paid my 2 euros (senior rates down from 3 euros) to enjoy the art work of Pablo Ruiz Picasso, Salvador Dali and Jaime Diaz Rittwagen. We studied the art, sculptures and ceramics minutely... This man looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders --- when I looked closer, I realized it was a self-sculpted version of Picasso... (all of him if you take a notice down south).
When it was lunch time, Lyn guided me down the narrow alleyways past shops filled with clothes, ditty bags and everything a tourist looks for. She was looking for something particular and I followed her like a little lamb. When she spied a menu bolted to the side of a small doorway, a Spanish woman with long, curling hair flying in every direction invited us in, telling us the restaurant, called La Reja, was once an 18th century home. One would never suspect what lay beyond the small doorway. Once we dipped our heads beneath the low door, a world of surprise opened up for me. We stepped down several rock-covered steps, up and over niches between the rooms and stared at walls covered in lopsided stones. Dark wooden beams were in the ceiling above me and more steps covered in azulejo tiles greeted us as we were led to a corner table.
Lyn had explained about the Menu de la dia. The special offered by some restaurants includes bread, salad, a main dish and dessert for one price. I chose bread with ajo (garlic) and aceitunas (olives), salad with cod (bacalao) and a main dish of bacalao and potatas pobres (poor man potatoes). I ordered the bacalao because my friend, Steven A. has talked about it for several years... It was all delicious and I told Lyn, "no dessert for me, even though it was included." I was stuffed and happy as a fish in water. However, when the waiter mentioned crema catalana with cafe con leche, I nodded YES. This Spanish food is adding a few pounds to my body, it is ambrosia.
Back onto the highway toward Almogia, I studied the road signs carefully in preparation for my trip solo. Did I mention that I've rented a car for a week...a manual, not an automatic? There are hills everywhere and crazy drivers but I will persevere (I talk to myself a lot about this)... I think I can find my way for the week to and from the airport... and manage the shifting vs my automatic that I'm used to. I will try to avoid slanted hills (smiling here because they litter the little towns).
And then it was time for my evening date with cousins back at La Corrita. This time, I wandered into the bar on my own, sat next to a Spaniard who had just managed to open a huge jar of giant olives and spilled the brine all over the counter. I tried not to laugh but the bartender caught my eye and shared a smile. I knew he was Paco, my cousin.
I began..."Mi llamo es Patricia. I am the daughter of...."
He grinned at me and shook his head, finishing my sentence for me "...Miguel Ruiz Silvan. Si."
I was surprised that he knew who I was...but in the small village, everyone probably knew who I was, why I was there and all about me. I ordered a glass of wine and carefully counted out my coins on the counter. He pushed them back into my hand, walked around the bar and hugged me with a Spanish kiss on each cheek.
"Vino es FREE," he said and kept grinning, clearly happy to see me...
Once I was at the patio table, Maria Angela arrived with her children (Adrian is 14 and Esther is 11) and we began to talk in my so-careful Spanish. And then a man pulled up a chair and reached toward me with more Spanish kisses.
"Antonio," he said.
Ah, Maria Angela and Paco's brother.
It was a real Spanish family reunion.
He spoke no English, but we managed little words...
Maria Angela and I managed to converse and she told me it was so nice I spoke more Spanish than I did in 2012 (thank you again, Janet R!). The children are delightful and both asked if they could email me in English to practice and learn the language. "Absolutamente," I agreed. And Esther promptly added me to her mothers WhatsAPP so we can text each other. The wonders of technology.
Antonio drove me back up the hill with Maria Angela and Esther because they refused to let me walk the three miles on the very narrow roads and across the very narrow bridge over that dry river bed.
Lyn had a glass of wine poured and waiting for me.
Tomorrow is a day of rest, laundry and lazing by the pool for us. The dogs will expect their morning walk on the dry riverbed and I'll be there. The walk is getting shorter. The hundred dogs barking are getting quieter. The orange trees continue to lure me into their scent and I am still a happy girl.
No comments:
Post a Comment