The South.

I have to say, if I were a Spaniard and I had to listen to everyone rave about Andalucia all the time, I would pull my hair out. After all, there are so many charming gems throughout Spain. But southern Spain really is the idyllic, whitewashed postcard you've seen on TV (or on a postcard?). It's one of those rare places that's actually as divine as advertised. I'm saying all of this only having been there twice...

Andalucia in purple

I felt a twinge of jealousy as we drove through Andalucia. You see, when I applied to teach English here, I listed Valencia as my preferred region, and I wanted Andalucia to be my second. But because the application wizards wisely group the most popular regions together so applicants can only choose one, I couldn't list Andalucia. So, I put Cataluña, home to Barcelona, as my second choice. I haphazardly selected Extremadura as my third option as a last resort. I was confident I wouldn't end up there. Funny how things change. I'm happy in Extremadura; I really do like it here, but seeing Andalucia in all its mountainous, beachy glory was heart-wrenching -- like seeing your ex with a supermodel.

Enough of that sappy stuff.

One of my roommates lived in Marbella, a resort city in Andalucia, for more than two years. Rachel (that's her name) went back to the States in December 2011, returned to Spain in September and had been itching to head south since we settled into Don Benito more than a month ago. The hang-up was that there's no direct bus from Don Benito to Marbella (there aren't many direct buses from Don Benito to anywhere outside of Extremadura, save Sevilla). A long, complicated bus trip can eat up a lot of valuable time when you've only got a weekend to visit. Rachel isn't comfortable driving a manual vehicle, and neither am I (I'm not 25 yet, either, so we'd have to pay a bloody fortune for me to drive anyway). Our British roommate does drive a manual, of course, but she's only 23.

That's where Boston saved the day. When I say "Boston," I mean a girl from Boston - a friend of a friend - who's also an auxiliar here in Extremadura. She and her friend, an auxiliar from New Zealand, were interested in a southern road trip. She was over 25, drove a manual and, as it turned out, she's awesome. What a score, right? On a Friday morning a couple of weeks ago, the five of us (an auxiliar from Texas was also part of the group) packed into a European compact and hit the autovía (highway). The plan was for each of us to pay 44 euros for the rental and for some gas that was already in the tank. I didn't think that was a terrible deal, although we'd thought we could get one cheaper. In the end, Boston's credit card ended up getting charged a whole bunch more because we didn't fill up the tank before returning the car - at some point, it seems, the pricing breakdown may have been lost in translation. Or we got ripped off. I'm somewhat inclined to favor the latter explanation...Oh well, what's another 19 euros anyway? (That's what I keep telling myself so that I don't panic every time I realize I'm blowing through money like it's Monopoly currency.)

Gosh, I sure have blabbed on for a while already without providing any real information about our trip.

Because Rachel knows southern Spain well, she recommended we make a pit stop in Ronda, a small town about 60 kilometers from the Costa del Sol, en route to Marbella. Literally the "Sun Coast," the Costa del Sol is the tourist-saturated, über popular stretch of beaches in the Andalucian province of Málaga. Ronda was more or less on our way, and it was too cold and rainy for a beach day anyway, so we decided to spend the afternoon there. SO glad we did.

The drive to Ronda was lovely - the landscape was in constant flux, a gradual evolution from plains, to hills to tree-covered mountains that slid into valleys. As we got closer to Ronda, the road became a sometimes frightening twist through the mountains; locals hugged the bends with ease, but their speed made me a bit nervous. Luckily, Boston was comfortable at the wheel.

We passed one of the "El Chorro" valley's beautiful turquoise lakes en route to Ronda.

If I say a place exudes Spain, do you get what I mean? Because Ronda does just that. The town of about 35,000 people has pre-Christ origins; it officially became a city during the reign of Julius Ceasar; and it was once ruled by Muslims but was then conquered by Catholics. Ronda's sloped cobblestone streets wind through rows of white stucco homes with small wrought-iron enclosed balconies extending from their second floors. Mountains and green, yellow and brown hills envelop the town. It's as picturesque as it gets, really.

Despite the crush of tourists (there were a TON the day we were there, despite the intermittent downpours), Ronda still feels tucked away, overshadowed by the sand and sun of the Costa del Sol. But Ronda is no secret. Ernest Hemingway wrote from there. For the part in "For Whom the Bell Tolls" when the townspeople toss Fascists to their deaths, he allegedly used historical events in Ronda as inspiration (during the Spanish Civil War, lots of people in Ronda were slaughtered, and some are said to have been thrown off the bridge into the canyon).

An adorable tourist shop hawking Spanish ceramics. It was so hard to resist buying them.

Ronda is known for two things: the massive gorge that slices the town in half and its bullring, which is heralded as one of the most beautiful and historic in Spain. We didn't see the bullring, but the canyon was amazing -- "gorge"-ous, to be punny. Luckily, the rain had stopped and the sun was peaking through the clouds by the time we started sightseeing after a long lunch (we each ordered the "menu del dia" - menu of the day - which is usually two or three courses and dessert for between 7 and 10 euros, generally. Every restaurant in Spain is required to offer one, I'm told. My first course was spaghetti; second was white fish and fries and I had coffee for dessert.)

The "Puente Nuevo," or "New Bridge," spans the gorge in striking fashion. It's amazing how bridges can be so beautiful, isn't it? Calling it "new" seems like a bit of a misnomer, considering construction began in 1751 and finished in 1793, but it's named that because it replaced its predecessor, which collapsed and killed about 50 people. The bridge is made of stone taken from the canyon below and stretches about 320 feet from top to bottom.

Good thing I didn't fall backward off the ledge, eh?

I couldn't fathom living on the edge of the gorge, especially if I had children. It made me nervous enough just looking at the water below from a secure lookout ledge.

I don't feel like it's that crazy to think a storm could wipe these buildings right off the edge.

After getting our fill of Ronda, we hopped in the car and headed toward Marbella, which is about 45 minutes from the city of Málaga, where my little sister will be studying Spanish in the spring. As we descended through the mountains and got a view of the coast, I couldn't help feeling envious of my sister's placement in a large city with great shopping and, most importantly, the beach. But I really do mean it when I say I'm happy here in Extremadura.

Marbella is the epitome of a resort city. High-rise apartments line the beach, it's easier to find a tourist than a local and the nightlife rages into the morning. Even so, I liked it. It felt alive with that electricity that cities have and towns lack. Don Benito is a lovely place to live, but it doesn't have that there's-always-something-going-on excitement. Marbella does.

We didn't do anything notable in Marbella. We walked a lot and sat at the beach, and that was quite fulfilling. We tested the infamous nightlife on Friday. It was fun, but because it's not the high season, there weren't all that many people out. Still, we didn't make it home until around 5 a.m. You see, Spaniards have a strange way of doing things: They go out at 2 in the morning or later, stay out all night and then sleep the next day. I have boldly claimed I'm going to start a revolution to get them to go out earlier, but I'm not sure how to organize such an uprising. Wouldn't it be better for everyone?

Marbella has an incredible Casco Antiquo (old town) that oozes charm, so we strolled through there on Saturday evening. It's an adorably romantic area with lots of small restaurants and fashionable shops. The romantic aspect didn't serve me well considering I was there with other girls, but it was cute nonetheless.  

Couldn't quite capture the "cute factor" with my iPhone.

After a few hours spent lounging on chairs at the beach (it was too cold to swim) Sunday, we hopped in the car and headed back to Extremadura. On the journey home, we stopped at a gas station, and Rachel bought some gummy, stringy candies covered in that sour sugar stuff. You know what I'm talking about, right? Anyway, ever since then I've been addicted. I can't pinpoint why. I've bought three packs in a span of a couple of weeks. I actually had to put them down earlier so I could finish this blog. Ugh.

Well, that's all folks. Next up, tales of Lisbon! As a teaser, I'll tell you Lisbon was weird.

Buenas tardes, 
Teresa