Sintra, City of Fairy-Tale Castles

SINTRA, PORTUGAL -- April 29, 2006

I may as well have visited Sintra yesterday -- I didn't feel much more rested after last night's late, late finale. I arrived in Sintra at 11:00 AM by train, with little sense of an agenda other than to explore the two palaces and a castle set amidst towering hills and fairytale-tall trees. As I walked into Sintra-Ville, bonsai gardens and vendors selling fresh flowers in every shape and size lined the walkways, and classical music lilted in the air as if raining down from the sky.

I poked my nose around the Palacio Nacional de Sintra, exploring this palace bedecked with Moorish, Gothic, and Manueline architecture, fine furnishings, and absolutely regal painted tiles. But, sandwiched between gobs of German tourists on holiday, I found myself growing impatient to reach the exit to the palace. I much more preferred to be wandering through this tiny little village, peering up at the castle walls clinging to a high precipice several kilometers away. I began to make the climb to this castle, and huffed and puffed for three kilometers up an incredibly steep road that climbed into the mountainside. The hairpin turns were a bit unnerving, as drivers and bikers would unsuspectingly turn the corner, and I'd be left to jump into the gutter to save my life :)

Finally, I found myself at the entrance to the Castelo dos Mouros, the ancient Moorish castle which towers over the city below. The views from the top, peering down over lush green foliage and charming villages clustered in the valleys below, were incredible. It was here that I met three American travelers, all students in a study-abroad program which laced together a Spanish study experience in Mexico, Argentina, and Spain. Amber, Becca, and Mary and I spent the remainder of the afternoon scaling castle walls, gasping at the magnificence on display in the Palacio de Pena, and wandering through the dense "jungle-like" forests of the adjacent Pena Gardens.

At one point, we became so lost in its winding trails that it seemed we were venturing into the heart of darkness. Luckily, we found a high cement wall with paved road on the other side, and like a team of army cadets, scaled over the top and dropped our bodies down a five-foot distance to the earth below. We wound our way eventually back to Sintra-Ville, and descended on tourist-trap heaven, where we picked over souvenirs of every shape and size. The most impressive were the hand-painted tiles depicting images of the fairy-tale Pena Palace, which truly has to be seen to be believed. Set high in the mountainside, it grabs your attention with its brightly painted turrets and towers. Pinks and yellows dominate the skyline above the trees, and with little imagination you can picture yourself painted into the pages of a children's fantasy book.

Our tired bodies wilted on the bus-and-train connection back to Lisbon. I said goodbye to my new friends, and headed back to Fred's, where I had a few hours to pack up, catch a bite to eat, and say goodbye before heading back to the train station for my overnight ride to Madrid. Oh, so little time here.... I had contemplated not even making the trip, since Lisbon stretched 8 hours both going and coming from my nearest connecting destinations. But now, three action-packed days later, I am looking back reminiscing over my explorations into the heart of Portugal, and my only regret is that I couldn't afford more time to enjoy this amazing place. As a parting gift, Fred offered me his corkscrew, which I know will come in quite handy as I continue my travels throughout Europe. My experience in Lisbon wouldn't have been nearly the same without the kindness, generosity, and fun-loving personality of my exceptional host, who allowed me to see Lisbon both as a first-time traveler and as a five-year veteran. Lisbon will long remain a bright jewel in my travel charm bracelet.

~Melanie

Beautiful Buildings, Tasty Pastries, and Crashing at the Beach!

BELEM & COSTA CAPARICO, PORTUGAL -- April 28, 2006

After willing myself to wake up this morning, I decided to scrap my original plan to visit Sintra, which I knew would entail a lot of walking, and instead take a more laidback approach to the city. I headed off via the metro for Praca de Figueira, near Praca Dom Pedro where I wandered yesterday. From here, I caught a clunking, ages-old tram car which shuttled me to the Belem district, a 6-km stretch west along the riverbank.

Belem is known as one of the few areas of the city which survived the land-leveling earthquake of 1755. The focal point of Belem is the Mosterio dos Jeronimos, an absolutely stunning white-marble monastery that towers toward the clouds. This is the place from which Vasco da Gama received his send-off when he began his first voyage to what is known today as India. Standing within its tranquil inner chambers, I find myself traveling back centuries, imagining the hum of excitement as shipmen made the final preparations to the vessel that would carry them across the great waters, imagining the regal costumes and ceremony which accompanied that occasion.

I stop at an ages old pasticceria for one of Belem´s most well-known treasures, the pastry which bears its name, Pastel de Belem. After ordering at the counter, the young lady on the other side produces a warm, puffy delight on a white plate, and after checking with me, douses it with cinnamon and powdered sugar, so that I can try it in ¨traditional style.¨ I bite into its custard-filled center. It is absolutely delicious, like a creme-filled, just-out-of-the-oven donut... maybe it´s the atmosphere, but somehow it just tastes better than any donut I remember back home...

Just across the road, adjacent to the edge of the river, stands the impressive Torre de Belem, where you can climb to the top for a birds-eye perspective of the district. It is decorated with sculptures of da Gama's entourage in dynamic proportions. Inlaid in the concrete floor is a map of the world, pinpointing the many voyages of this intrepid explorer and the places he discovered.

Dragging with exhaustion, I opted to take a tram, then ferry, then bus to the nearest beach, Costa Caparica, where I intended to spend the remaining few hours of sunlight relaxing -- and hopefully napping -- with the sound of the waves breaking in the background. Caparica turned out to be a bit more populated than I had expected, with loads of windsurfers donned in wetsuits daytripping from nearby towns to enjoy a day of sand, sun, and fine waves. But the rhythmic rocking of the waves as they crashed into the rocky coast proved to be more than hypnotic, and I soon fell into a delicious sleep, basking in the afternoon light, where I shared beach space with other sunbathers. Waking from my nap, I dabbled into the water, which may as well have been a newly melted ice cube. It was no wonder those surfers, all appearing like skinny blue seals out at sea, were covered from head to toe in their rubbery wetsuits.

Getting back to Lisbon was a bit of an adventure, as my lack of Portuguese made for an interesting game of hide-and-seek with the bus that would take me back to Cacilhas, from where I would ferry again across the river to Lisbon.

Tonight's evening meal was no doubt traditional -- fried, salted cod with egg and roasted potatoes. I had caught a glimpse of the mountains of salted cod so well-known in Lisbon at a supermarket yesterday afternoon. They were literally completely encapsulated with crystal-white salt, the preservative that allowed fishermen to bring in their catch by the hundreds each day and still be good to serve a few days afterward. Aside from a few unsuspecting fish bones, the meal was delicious, albeit incredibly fishy... well, what else should I have expected??

Fred took me to a cafe just down the street, where I met a few close friends of his from his first days in Lisbon. Half the group was sipping a glass of the extremely full-bodied, sweet wine known as port, for which Portugal is so well-known. We finished off the night with a return to Bairro Alto, where we met up with Fred's sister Vanessa, who had also emigrated from Brazil, and a handful of her Portuguese and Italian friends. They took me to a quaint little "authentic" Portuguese bar, down a tiny, out-of-the-way alley in the Bairro.

Between the Portuguese and Italian that were rattling around the long table where we sat, I understood next to nothing. But the atmosphere was friendly, there were enough smiles to go around twice, and then some. The night stretched out into the wee hours of morning. 1:00 AM, the 2:00 AM rolled around, and still the evening was far from over. Over the din of chattering voices, the all-American classic, "Stand By Me" began playing over the speakers. And within seconds, the entire room began belting out the chorus in perfect English. It was one of those unexpected yet memorable moments that will be an anchor for some of my fondest memories in Lisbon -- here I was, with a group of strangers-turned-fast-friends, with a massive language barrier between us, and a catchy American tune from the 80's bridged this gap in a way few things couldn.

Around 3:30 AM, we finally called it a night. As luck would have it, I couldn't fall asleep, and spent the next two hours reading bits about Slovenia from Fred's Lonely Planet collection (I'm not the only one who has a shelf full of travel books!!)

~Melanie

Lisbon, Sea-Lover´s Delight

LISBON, PORTUGAL -- April 27, 2006

I scraped by on possibly two hours of sleep on my night bus from Sevilla to Lisbon. Arriving at 5:45 AM was beyond early. The city had not yet even begun to show signs of life. I managed to find my way to the home of my couchsurfing host for three days, Frederico Lopez, a Brazilian native who emigrated to Lisbon years ago and has never looked back. Over a breakfast of fresh fruits, bread, and cheese, Frederico and I swapped travel tales. I was incredibly grateful to be staying with someone who spoke English, as I knew not a word of Portuguese, and was getting nowhere with my poor attempts at pronunciation.

By mid-morning I found myself navigating the city with a map in hand, no real idea of which direction to wander. I meandered through the Baixa-Chaco area, with its gridlined streets which were rebuilt after Lisbon's massive earthquake many years ago. I oriented myself by the Rio Tejo which hugged its east bank, and headed northward along a well-worn path cluttered with shops and boutiques, to Praca Dom Pedro, a beautiful plaza with stunning buildings, statues, and fountains.

I managed to navigate myself through the Alfama, the salty sailor's quarter, and another one of those narrow, snakeline, cobblestone areas where, it is said, two people can shake hands from opposite sides of the street. I found this, actually, to be true. I walked into a small market where fresh oranges sat in crates on both sides of the doorway.

A woman inside was fixing a plate of sardines, and I had to laugh as a man -- probably the owner of the shop -- scolded his young daughter for curling up in one of the empty boxes strewn near the back door. I traded my 50 cent piece for an orange, and climbed back into the hills of the Alfama, towards the Castelo de San Jorge, supposedly one of the most scenic spots from which to look down over Lisbon's red rooftops to the valley and river below.

After a ruggedly steep climb to the entrance of the castle, I meandered along the high stone walls, climbing turrets and lookout towers, and peering from dozens of vantage points across the seven hills (sete collinas) of Lisboa to its sea of brightly colored houses clustered as far as the eye could see in either direction. Ahead, the land sloped sharply, and beyond, the Rio Tejo sparkled as fishing boats set out for the day's fresh catch. I stayed within the ramparts of the castle for a few hours, picnicking from a stony perch as the sun filtered through the deep blue sky and brought to life the rich colors of the town below. After exiting the castle, I followed a steep incline around the bend to another lookout point, Graca, before descending to Porta del Sol to watch the ships from a closer vantage point.

I ended my explorations with a visit to Lisbon's Parque Nacoes, built for the Expo '98. It's a nice enough place, a well-kept esplanade, looking out over the 18-mile bridge -- the longest in Portugal -- that curves across the Rio Tejo. A collection of flags from every nation wave gracefully from their high posts along the walkway to the riverfront. Here and there, a modern sculpture of epic proportions broke through the sky. I was disappointed to find that Parque Nacoes was more concrete than the tree-and-flower-lined boulevards I had imagined it to be. As the wind picked up speed along the river, I decided it was time to call it a day.

Back at Frederico's, he and his roomate Igor, a student of cinema at the nearby University in Lisbon, whipped me up a delicious dinner of pasta with freshly grated Parmesan, brought back from Italy as a gift from a friend. Fred and Igor shared with me some of their impressive professional accomplishments. Fred, a graphic designer, has stacks of magazines which he has designed, along with books detailing Portuguese gastronomy. Igor showed me an article he wrote months back which was published in Vogue magazine. Hats off to these two young guys, who are making quite a name for themselves here in Lisbon.

Finally, we set off for the Bairro Alto, famous nightlife district of Lisbon. I thought perhaps the Portuguese kept their nightlife a little tamer than the flambouyant, outrageous scene in Spain. Oh, was I ever wrong. Throngs of people peppered the streets, spilling out of bars and cafes, their voices mingling into a loud mix of jovial excitement. By 2:00 AM I was holding my eyes open with toothpicks and trying my best to be good company. But a day of wandering the city (I estimate I walked between 12-15 km) and a nearly sleepless night on my bus ride in were doing their worst. It was time -- finally! -- the plunge between the covers. I think I fell asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

~Melanie

Ramparts and Arabian Rhapsodies

ESSOUIRA, MOROCCO -- April 14, 2006

Essouira turned out to be a very enjoyable place to spend a few days. A small-ish port city on the Atlantic coast, its whitewashed medinas, salty air, rocky shore, and cannon-decorated ramparts give it an earthy, low-key feel.

Highlights include:

*On the drive north from Imsouane, passing goats climbing trees for their vegetarian lunch, as well as groves of the arghan tree, indigenous to this area. Farmers bottle the oil that comes from this tree, as it is well-loved for the health benefits it provides.

*Taking a camel trek along the shore with Ali, and exploring some ruins at the far end of the beach. Staring into the shadowy pockets of the rock, crusted with barnacles where the sun never reaches.

*Wandering through the port, staring out at all the fishing boats that were docked and reeked of fish

*Walking along the labyrythine alleys and streets of Essouira's medina, a thousand and one shops and twice as many vendors ready and willing to make a good price for you.

*Stopping to buy some peanut candy for a roadside stand, and enjoying its sticky-sweet taste as I continued on.

*Being pulled into a small Moroccan musical instrument shop by a young guy ready to pledge his undying love after falling in love with me (or was it just my eyes?) when he saw me walk by. Enjoying a very authentic, private concert with the three musicians who ran the shop. A bit weird... but these are the moments that make Morocco like nowhere else I've ever been.

*Standing on the ramparts in Essouira at 4:00AM (my first time here, after arriving in the middle of the night with Ali and Adir)... the absolute stillness of the place as we peered out across the midnight-blue Atlantic waters and the stars twinkling brilliantly overhead.

*Meeting Said, a Moroccan guy my age, on holiday in Essouria. We later had tea and couscous with chicken for lunch with his very tall friend Wahaid.... and this is the beginning yet another adventure...

~Melanie

Cordoba: Home of the Candy-Cane Cathedral

CORDOBA, SPAIN -- April 25, 2006

Castillian Spanish takes a bit of getting used to. For those who have studied "classic" Spanish (i.e. the grand U.S. high school educational system), it sounds like nearly everyone talking is missing a front tooth. "Ess" sounds becomes "eth" -- kind of like the song, "All I want for Christmath ith my two front teeth..." Sevilla becomes "Thevilla." Gracias becomes "Grathiath." And I'm not traveling through Andalucia, it's "Andaluthia."

On top of that strange adjustment, my brain is still switching gears from Morocco, where I picked up a bit of Arabic. I keep wanting to say "shukran" instead of "thank you," or "salamu a'lekkum" instead of "hello."

It's a weird thing, but I noticed this same language phenomenon when I moved to Taiwan several years ago. At that time, the only other bit of a second language I knew was Spanish. I would meet these people that knew no English, and automatically I'd begin talking to them as if they were from Costa Rica instead of Taiwan.

I've met many study-abroad students, and I envy them for the experience they are gaining of experiencing another culture and absolutely immersing themselves in a second language. That's the way to go... the only hope for me if I were to actually learn to decently speak a language other than my native one.

As for Cordoba -- John and I took a day-trip from Sevilla (only 1.5 hours north-east by train) to visit this charming city, on the banks of the Guadalquivir. It is home to one of the most impressive Islamic mosques in the world. Cordoba actually became the most important Moorish city in Spain back in the 8th century.

The Mesquita itself was dramatic on the interior. Huge candy-cane striped stretch across an obscenely wide distance. The alternating red marble and white granite gave an earthy, yet unusual feel to this cavernous house of worship. As with the Catedral in Sevilla, the interior of the Mesquita was incredibly dim. It took a few minutes to adjust to the space before the striking colors came into focus.

While the Mesquita was amazing, the highlight for me was simply a picnic lunch in a small park on the other sie of the river, looking out over the historic area of town beyond a cluster of palm trees, and basking in the warmth of a beautiful day. John and I swapped life stories and it was a fabulous thing to be so far away from home, yet feel somehow so plugged in to the life of another person. Travel is teaching me that the differences between people are fewer than we think, and that most of the boundaries we believe exist are in our minds, which becomes our reality. Travel is about learning to break down those walls, to find the similarities and appreciate the differences, and to expand your present level of understanding by opening yourself up to new experiences, new people, new ideas. Travel is both education and liberation, and I must warn you -- it is highly addictive. But from where I stand, I cannot imagine my life without it.

We capped off the night with a free scoop of Ben & Jerry's from an ice cream shop down the street from the hostel, and omelets with garlic, onion, and red pepper that John and I whipped up in the hostel's kitchen. A bottle of red wine later, the night wound down to a slow finish. Another perfect day in Andalucia.

~Melanie

The Alhambra and Andalusian Ambience

GRANADA, SPAIN -- April 21, 2006

I woke at 6:30 AM to the sounds of noise around me, but I was grateful. I had overslept my alarm by 30 minutes. If I had any hopes of seeing the Alhambra, I needed to be IN the ticket line that had already begun forming since the wee hours of the morning.

John, a fellow traveler from the US, and I snaked our way up the steep Calle Gomerez to the ticket office, where we took our places at the end of an already-too-long line. 3,000 tickets would be given out this morning to those who arrived first.

Unfortunately, there were no guarantees, as each person was allowed to purchase up to 5. Today would be my only opportunity to see the Alhambra. My hopes were high. John and I shared salami sandwiches and swappped stories for two hours, while we shivered in the cold morning air and waited for the line to start moving. Finally, after a long wait, we were able to secure ourselves entry to the Palace, later that afternoon.

I spent the rest of my morning wandering again through the Albaicin, exploring nooks and crannies left undisturbed yesterday. I managed to located another scenic lookout point, the Mirador de San Cristobal, but found it a disappointment after the unparalleled views enjoyed from San Nicholas.

I passed a fresh produce marked in one of the plazas tucked between narrow streets. There were no tourists in sight as I queued for a closer look at the fresh fruit on offer. My Spanish is so rudimentary that I find I have to be a little creative. So, when I reached the head of the line, I held out 2 Euro to the woman behind the scale, and told her I wanted strawberries, please. She empied a carton of these small fruits, bursting with red color into a bag. My grand prize was an entire kilo of strawberries, which I happily munched as I meandered my way back to San Nicholas.

Sitting on the wall of this impressive lookout, swallowing down the sweet pulp of garden-fresh strawberries, I couldn´t help but smile widely as a foursome of locals began an impromptu performance in true Andalusian style. Guitars strumming, one voice belted out a melody so colorful and explosive, that it evoked images of matadors, women with ebony hair and swirling flamenco skirts. All of this, plus a million dollar view right before my eyes.

John and I explored the Alhambra for nearly three hours, passing from one corridor to another, mouths agape with nearly every turn. The Palace Real was magnificent -- so intricate, ornate, exceptionally beautiful. There were arches, columns, water flowing everywhere from fountains. The gardens were immaculate, ranging from Alice-in-Wonderland style manicured hedges to rows of blooming flowers in every color imaginable. Reflecting pools created perfect mirror images of already-perfect architectural gems, and windows peeked out at impressive views across to the Albaicin and mountains beyond the valley in which Granad rests.
After all of this walking, we relaxed on the rooftop terrace of the hostel, sipping sangrias and chatting with other travelers. Afterward, I enjoyed my first Spanish dinner at a charming little hole-in-the-wall place with brick walls and green & white checkered tablecloths. First course was paella, colored deep yellow with saffron, and served with two whole shrimp (eyes, antennae, and all), an oyster, and bits of beef and chicken. Second course was pork cutlets served with fried potato (french fries... which I´m learning is pretty typical fare here). All this with pan (bread), a glass of vino (wine), and a small bowl of helado (ice cream) to top things off. Not bad for 10 Euro!

Today Granada impressed me beyond words. My love affair with Morocco has come to a close, and my arms are wide open to the wonders of this beautiful country. What wonders await me in Ronda? I can scarcely wait to find out!

~Melanie

Seville: City with Serious Spanish Soul

SEVILLE, SPAIN -- April 24, 2006

Ah, Seville. City of flamenco and bullfights, the world's third largest cathedral, and some very elegant architecture... all encompassed by a city sprawling over the southeast corner of the country. Seville is big-city, make no mistake about it. I had a bit of a difficult time adjusting after enjoying the rustic spendor and natural panoramas within a few minutes' walk in Ronda. But Seville grows on you. That Spanish guitar gets in your blood, and you start craving the taste of those tapas (small appetizer-like dishes sold in dozens of varieties at nearly every bar and cafe in town).

I arrived at the brand-new hostel Oasis Backpackers (only 5 weeks since its grand opening -- for those heading to Seville, check them out -- they were incredible!). While getting there was a bit of a hassle, as soon as I arrived, this hostel began feeling like home. John, a traveler from the States whom I met in Granada, had arrived the day before me, and had been waiting for my arrival. We set out into the city to the bullring, where we bought tickets to the bullfight taking place later that evening. I didn't know quite what to expect from a bullfight, but I figured at the very least I could chalk it up to one hell of a Spanish cultural experience.

Next we wandered along the Rio Guadalquivir and through the sprawling city until we found the Catedral. Seville's Catedral is the third largest in the world, outsized only by St. Paul's Cathedral in London, and St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. The dimensions from the outside were surreal. It was actually built on top of the mosque which dominated Seville back during the reign of the Moors, and the adjoining tower, La Giralda, which served as the mosque's minaret, still stands and provides spectacular views from the top floor.

Walking through its interior was an interesting experience. A small treasury room held antique metalwork (an intricate crucifix) and paintings depicting religious events (the beheading of John the Baptist). The cathedral itself was dark, despite the large stained-glass windows which decorated its top quarter. I couldn't help but begin to feel lost inside this great cathedral, staring up at a ceiling so high that the tallest of men would feel dwarfed in comparison. If I remember correctly from my college days, this was an intentional architectural decision, made to reflect the humility of man and his dependence on God. This cathedral houses the remains of Christopher Columbus (although supposedly there is a rumor that the tomb is empty and his remains are actually located somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean).

After a walk through the beautiful Parque de Maria Luisa, we enjoyed a picnic-style lunch in the shade of some immensely tall trees. Everything in Seville seems to be tall! As luck would have it, a flying pigeon paid both of us a visit. That was a first. We continued on to the Plaza de Espana, a gorgeous plaza with fountains and beautiful red-brick buildings forming a crescent. If you're a Star Wars fan, you'd recognize this spot from a scene in Attack of the Clones. Horse carriages clip-clop along the cobblestone streets, and vendors selling toddler-size flamenco dresses and a hefty sampling of trinkets fan out from the street entrance to the fountains.

The day was capped off with a very authentic bullfight at the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza. The warm yellow and bright red tones of this circular edifice mirrored the excitement stirring in the air as hundreds of onlookers -- most of them Spanish -- began filing through the entrance doors to find their seat, a small patch on a hard bench in full sunlight. The buzz of voices rose and rose until finally, the first of the night's performers entered the ring on horseback. I thought it quite hilarious that throughout the event, whenever the volume of voices rose a little too high, a very audible "shoosh" would emanate from the mouths of nearly every spectator, as if they had their own crowd-and-volume control built right into the ring.

I hesitate to give too much graphic detail of the fight itself. I actually watched six of these bullfights, and realized all too quickly that this "sport" was much more gruesome than I had imagined. If it were truly a match between the bull and the matador, things would be different. But from the moment that strong, proud bull enters the ring, he is doomed. Despite his strength, he is no match for the 6-10 men who begin the drawn-out torture that eventually drains him of all energy. After a short-lived dance of red capes which aggravate the bull, a man with a long sword prances into the ring on a decorated horse, and buries the tip of the sword deep into the back of the bull. Blood flows from this fresh wound, and the bull charges at the horse in defense. Another thrust and twist of the sword leaves the bull disoriented. Then three men approach the horse, with a small dagger/sword in each hand, and plunge the steel points into the gaping hole in the bull's back. It is only after the bull has been subjected to such torment that the matador appears.

No doubt about it, the matador is truly a decorated artist, capable of drawing in the crowd with his fluid, masculine movements. It is almost like a dance between him and the bull. But the matador is in control, eking out any remaining energy the bull is clinging onto, before the bull himself falls over in exhaustion and the final blow of the sword is struck. Yet while I have no plans to attend another bullfight, I am not altogether sorry for the experience. Sorry for the bull, yes. Angered that he is put at such an unfair disadvantage, yes. Puzzled by the Spanish obsessions with this odd sport, absolutely. But I wouldn't take it back. It is now a piece of my mental mosaic of what this country is about.

~Melanie

Winding Down in Cadiz

CADIZ, SPAIN -- April 23, 2006

Unfortunately, a horrendous rainstorm sets in overnight, and my visit to Ronda and beyond (Arcos de la Frontera was to be my next stop) is cut short. I move on to the port city of Cadiz, and spend the day relaxing in the company of an American medical student I met on my bus ride from Ronda. He is traveling through Spain and Ireland for a few weeks before moving on to begin his residency. It is enjoyable to be in good company.

We stop in a cafe here, a heladeria there, and talk about life, relationships, work, religion. For once, it is a nice change of pace to have no agenda. Beyond greasy food and a few greasy characters, the highlight is a stunning glimpse of Cadiz's plazas lit up at night. Not all days have to be chock full of action.

~Melanie