Feria de abril

I imagine Sevilla's "Feria de abril" might be like the Texas State Fair or any traditional event celebrating the southern U.S. If you're from there, such festivities are cultural gems. If you're not, they're an excuse for southern pride to puke all over the place. The southern U.S. and southern Spain are alike in that they have subcultures that are very much alive, deeply ingrained and wildly celebrated. Both "souths" have customs that are exclusive, esoteric and shall we say slightly obnoxious?

You could say Sevilla's April fair is obnoxious, exclusive and esoteric, but in the most awesome way possible. There are lots of fancy, expensive flamenco dresses, overdone makeup, guys getting drunk on horseback, fried food and booze. Lots of booze -- including the traditional drink, rebujito, made of white wine and Sprite. A network of more than 1,000 casetas, which are individual bar/reception areas set up exclusively for the event, fill the fairgrounds. To get into all but the handful of public ones, you have to know someone inside. The fair is loud and hot and a bit circus-like. The bathrooms are as close as it gets to urge-reversing, and you have to weave through piles of horse poop in the streets.

On the other hand, it's alive, vibrant, merry and good ol' fun. Relatively cheap drinks, colorful characters and ridiculously beautiful people abound (the beautiful people part was kind of sickening, actually.) The dance floors are full of immaculate women twirling and stomping the Sevillana, the region's typical folk dance.

I'd love to go back next year. I had a blast (and I love Sevilla anyway). But next time I'm going to dress as a Sevillana, and I'll come equipped with a dance move or two.

Un saludo,
Teresa

Entrance to the fair

General debauchery

Entrance to one of the casetas

One of the casetas

Way too adorable

Caseta

Just the police taking pictures of each other

My roommate and I with one of the horsemen

Some Sevillanos took us for a ride through the fair (and then the police told them to drop us off because guiris who aren't dressed in typical attire aren't allowed on horseback).

Where in the world was Teresa Lostroh?

It's been a while since I've penned a travel dispatch. I'm trying to move away from the whole chronological "this is where I went, this is what I did" formula, but in case you're asking, "Where in the world was Teresa Lostroh?"....Stick with me. I promise there's an entertaining line or two.

1.) Tenerife, Canary Islands, Spain.
Went there for Los Carnavales, a Mardi Gras-esque liquor-fueled free-for-all. Was a tourist by day and a martian/some sort of Asian by night (we dressed up for Carnaval, in accordance with the custom). Felt like I landed on the moon when I visited the Teide Volcano, the world's third largest. Declared my panoramic shot of Los Gigantes (massive rock formations) the most epic ever. Ate three times my stomach's capacity at a typical Canarian eatery - and enjoyed every second of it. Got two Spanish friends to ask for a take-home food box for the first time in their lives. Broke my camera during an ill-advised self-timer attempt, therefore losing my beloved "vivid" setting forever.

Lunar landing?

The "Los Gigantes" panoramic

2). Mallorca (Majorca), Balearic Islands, Spain.
Was hoping for a glorious, snafu-less return trip to my favorite place on Earth. Went to the Cap de Fomentor peninsula on the island's northeastern tip, where I captured more epic panoramics and several Awkward Family Photo shots with my roommate. Also went to Sa Calobra, a remote cove reached by a mess of winding mountain roads. Went out, got my iPhone 4S and wallet stolen, effectively losing all photo evidence of the trip. So much for snafu-less. Thank goodness for memories. Ate fresh oranges from my friend's orange tree. I think the saying goes something like, "Once you go fresh oranges, you never go back." Let Mallorquin food win my heart even more (snails, bread, squid, vegetables, frito mallorquin, etc.) Spent Sunday in the obnoxiously Anglo neighborhood of Magaluf, where Spanish is a foreign language, Brits run amok shirtless and sunburned and Happy Hour starts at sunrise. Dipped into a bar at 7 p.m. that was packed with hammered middle-aged Brits reliving Spring Break. Jammed to lots of oldies and continued jamming even after the Brits' bedtime struck at 9:30.

Cap de Fomentor, Source

Magaluf, Source

3). Cordoba, Spain.
Split my heart in sixteenths as I fell in love with yet another colorful Spanish town. Got my mind blown by the Mezquita's wondrous mix of Christian and Muslim architecture. The place is huge. Went to a flamenco show in a nondescript basement on some Cordobese side street. Ate oxtail and flamenquin, a traditional dish of pork loin wrapped in ham, breaded and fried. Both dishes filled my belly but didn't change my life. Decided I must return when the city's ubiquitous residential courtyards are flush with May flowers.

Mezquita

Mezquita

4). Sevilla, Ronda, Trujillo, Granada, Malaga, and Nerja, Spain
Parents came to get a taste of la vida espanola. Cried when I met them at the train station in Sevilla (hey, it'd been five months). Launched a 10-day tourist blitz on this fine country. Did a generally terrible job of sharing with them the delights of Spanish cuisine (the best meal they had was at the hotel restaurant, without me). Made the mistake of ordering a fried seafood platter at a restaurant in the interior of the country. Acted as translator at a Case International implement dealer in Don Benito for my dad, who has an insatiable curiosity about agriculture no matter where he is. Took parents to Sevilla and Ronda, two places I'd already been. Forced my parents to be in more pictures together than they've been in over the past 35 years combined. That's not hyperbole. I'm serious. Went to a flamenco show in a kitschy tourist haunt in Sevilla. Enjoyed it despite its kitschy-ness. Fell in love with yet another pair of Spanish coastal towns, Malaga and Nerja. Pretty sure my parents are still talking about Malaga's marble sidewalks. Despite my love for Malaga and Nerja, thought both towns would be infinitely better if we could expel at least 70 percent of the northern Europeans and make the towns more authentically Spanish. Dad drove through snow - in southern Spain, of all places - to get to Granada, where that damned white powder covered the city for the first time in 25 years. Mom about lost her feet to frostbite while we tried (kind of in vain) to enjoy the Alhambra in the cold. Most importantly, was reminded of how awesomely loving, generous, fun and supportive my family is.

Plaza de Espana, Sevilla

Snowy Granada

Alhambra in Granada

Malaga from the fortress

5.) Toledo and Guadalupe, Spain
Have to wonder if my superlatives lose their weight when I overuse them: favorite, prettiest, most Spanish. But each trip manages to equal or top the previous. Loved Toledo's sublimely medieval core, which is on a hill reached by arched stone bridges. Toledo doesn't have the bright-colored buildings (much of the city is sandy stone) or the it-feels-like-this-entire-city-is-smiling vibe of Cordoba, but it's as genuinely Spanish. Guadalupe is what every small town should be: quaint, walkable, endearing, enchanting. It's all of those things despite the omnipresent tourist shops and carbon-copy signs hawking Guadalupe's typical blood sausage. Must admit the blood sausage is worthily hawk-able, though. Town's massive monastery has perhaps the loveliest courtyard I've seen yet. There I go with the superlatives again...

Toledo

Toledo

Guadalupe monastery

Guadalupe

Toledo

 That's the quick-and-dirty version of my life as of late.

Un saludo,
Teresa

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