Barcelona: Ya me despide de ti

I flip to the map of Barcelona in my worn Time Out guidebook. I run my finger down the wide streets I walked so many times – Passeig de Gracia, Portal del Angel, Avenida Diagonal. I think about all the people I passed on those streets, from Korean fashionistas to prostrate gypsies. I want to get lost again down one of the medieval alleys dripping with wet laundry off Carrer Princesa. Or to be looking up at the undulating rainbow roof on the Mercat de Santa Caterina. I sigh at the familiar metro purple symbols of my Reina Elisenda line. The green patches on my map are parks, and the red squares are cathedrals, museums, and palaces with memories attached.

Epiphany in Barcelona

I passed a googly-eyed teenage couple lying beside each other on a blanket in the Ciutadella Park. But I wasn’t grimacing at her Ronald McDonald dye job or his over-gelled, bleached curls. I didn’t even gag at their sloppy kisses. Later a beautiful blond woman and a dark and handsome man, both wearing pressed designer jeans and toting leather bags, exchanged whispered secrets and giggles in the seat in front of me on the metro. But I didn’t roll my eyes.

Destination: Christmas in Barcelona

Last December I bicycled down elegant shopping avenues draped in white lights and wandered through Christmas markets selling hand carved nativities and jamon serrano in cosmopolitan Barcelona. Yuletide festivities in the Catalan metropolis are less commercial than those stateside – no Santas, no sales, and far fewer carols and decorations. And no one’s dreaming of a white Christmas in a city located on the Mediterranean coast with an average December temperature of 54 degrees. During the holiday season it’s too cold to swim at the city’s (somewhat gritty) beaches but still warm enough to go exploring on the public bicycle sharing system Bicing or sip cava outside on a terraza. 

High fashion storefronts such as Caroline Herrera, Hermés, and Valentino along with chic cafes and tapas bars line posh Passeig de Gracia, the Champs-Élysées of Barcelona. Around Christmas the street turns positively magical at night, bustling with shoppers and decked out in colorful blinking snowflakes and swooped strands of lights. La Pedrera and Casa Batlló, two of renowned modernisme genius Gaudi’s whimsical mansions, have addresses on the grand avenue. 

I’d opt to walk the 30 minutes down this gorgeous street instead of taking the metro to the city center. The window-shopping is second only to the people watching -- Weekend afternoons are best. That’s when the beautiful residents go out for a stroll dressed to impress. The next street over, Rambla de Catalunya, was my second favorite evening stroll option for its inviting holiday window displays. 

Passeig de Gracia ends at Plaça Catalunya, where Barri Gotic, the gothic quarter, begins. Outside the La Seu cathedral is the Fira de Santa Llúcia Christmas market, which dates back to 1786. Vendors set up stalls for their artisanal nativities and ornaments as well as Christmas trees, mistletoe, poinsettias, and candies. Close by in the Plaça Sant Jaume children play around a life size nativity scene with palm trees. On the weekends I’d let myself get lost in the maze of this medieval neighborhood. When a street violinist plays “Oh Come all ye Faithful” under the gargoyles the setting turns ethereal.

Nearby off the infamous Las Ramblas is La Boqueria, Europe’s largest open-air food market, worth a visit any time of year. I’d occasionally stop in for a snack or just take lots of pictures of the artfully arranged heaps of nuts, vegetables, and fruits. I found the (slimy, sometimes shark-toothed, and often still wiggling) seafood selection in the back particularly exotic. 

Outside La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s unfinished masterpiece and Europe’s most fascinating building, is another Christmas market. And the adjacent Avenida de Gaudi is another atmospheric walk.

For more drama I’d head to Montjuic for the glamorous Font Magica fountain light show accompanied by Christmas music outside the Palau Nacional on Fridays and Saturdays from 7-9 p.m. Before or after the show I’d make time for a visit to the CaixaForum, the impressive cultural center in a converted modernista factory space. It hosts temporary exhibitions, serves sandwiches and desserts at a sleek rooftop café, and offers some of the city’s most generous visiting hours, staying open until 10 p.m. on Saturdays and 8 p.m. on Sundays.

On rainy or nippy weekends I’d take refuge in the Museu Picasso in a gothic palace deep in El Born district. The soft, warm lighting makes the medieval space downright cozy. When I was alone I’d put in my iPod earphones for a soundtrack to the hundreds of works illustrating Picasso’s lifetime of artistic development. I’d usually go on the first Sunday of the month when admission is free. Sometimes I’d stick around in the neighborhood to check out the trendy boutiques, bars, and restaurants or visit the Santa Maria del Mar cathedral.  

Other neighborhoods for holiday shopping and nightlife are Gracia and Raval. Above Avenida de Diagonal, Gracia has both a small town and bohemian feel, with butcher shops, bookstores, and bars. Even in December it’s often warm enough to opt for outdoor seating on the many terrazas. Down in the center is Raval, the gritty, arty, ethnic neighborhood with lots of vintage stores and two modern art museums. (Be on your guard at night.) 
 
Further uptown is Gaudi’s Park Güell, a fairytale architectural garden like no other with panoramic city-sea views. Even further up on a hill overlooking the city is Tibidabo, site of a landmark church and a theme park that’s much less crowded in the winter. The cable car and art deco funicular train ride up are worth it for  the ultimate the views of Barcelona and the surrounding mountains and ocean. 

Back in the city, the government hosts a New Year’s concert series in December and January. I saw the Parisian/Argentine electronic tango group GoTan Project in the stunning Palau de Musica concert hall. Visit www.barcelona.cat for current event listings and news. 

Last year I complained that Barcelona couldn’t compete with the constant soundtrack of carols, giant trees, and cheesy movies we have in the United States. Far away from home I couldn’t appreciate the city’s sophisticated, understated approach to the holidays. But now I realize a December visit to Barcelona offers breathing room from the masses of summer tourists along with a dash of Christmas spirit.

Serenity in Sacromonte

I trudge up the tortuously irregular streets and steps in Sacromonte, the cave neighborhood inhabited by gypsies set high in the Sierra Nevada mountains of Granada. I feel the blazing Andalusian sun browning my arms as I climb past rows of small green Seville Orange Trees heavy with sweet-smelling fruit.

I’d forgotten what summer felt like living in the melancholy of a wet and lonely Barcelona winter – the freedom of bare limbs. I’m warm, even sweaty, and can feel every stone jutting from the path through the thinning soles of my boots. My right shoulder throbs from carrying the overstuffed Zara bag that I’ve nearly worn out in only two months.

I don't seen anyone until a woman with waist-length hair and a flowing dress walks up the road. Suddenly I have the urge to buy a Moroccan cuff and dangly earrings. That’s how I feel – like air blowing in a skirt and naked toes, like gently tinkling jewelry and warmth on tanned skin.

The breeze blows the intense perfume of amethyst-colored wisteria hanging over whitewashed walls, bringing on a wave of nostalgia. The familiar smell takes me back to Charleston and my daily runs past the wrought-iron gates guarding the fragrant gardens and mansions thick with 19th-century Southern history.

Here in El Albaicín, this old Moorish quarter, blue-and-white ceramic squares name streets. Lush green plants spread over low bleached buildings. The occasional motorcycle or car zooms along the tight path, forcing me to press myself against the stone wall guarding the mountain’s edge. I hear recorded Flamenco music softly humming from the open door of an empty bar with fluorescent lights. Its vibrations blunt this quietness, this emptiness. I wish I could hear real Flamenco – spontaneous and passionate, deep from the basement of the soul.

The sense of joy and tranquility, of being completely content with the here and now of this moment, washes over me with every mild current of mountain air and aching step. I realize how far I am from the due dates and to-do lists that once constantly flowed through my mind, the endless cycle of exams and presentations. I’m free from all the anxieties that dominated my former academic life. Like the final mediation stage ending good yoga class, I want to capture this elated peace and live in it forever.

I’ve experienced this serenity before – in the San Cristobal province of the Dominican Republic, trekking through tropical forest led by a troop of barefoot children munching on the mangoes and sugar cane they always fed us; at the summit of a cactus garden in the Jujuy desert of northern Argentina, basking in the silence of the wind while gazing out at rainbow mountains; and 16,000 feet above sea level outside Cuzco, Peru, crammed on a bus against Quechuas in colorful woolen skirts with braided hair and babies on their backs as we wound up through the cloud-swirled Andes mountains.

Now I look out across Granada below in the valley to La Alhambra palace. Built on a hilltop and set against a backdrop of snow-covered peaks, the 11th century Muslim masterpiece is worthy of Ali Baba or Sinbad, its Generalife fountains and gardens rivaling one of the seven Koranic heavens.

This is the bliss explorers seek. Nearly seven months in Spain and it has finally climaxed – that overdue traveler’s rush – deep in an ancient Arabic corner of southern Spain, so far away from the mountains of Appalachia or the coasts of Carolina. Should I cancel my return flight to the States? Maybe I should move here, teach English, get an apartment. I belong here, wallowing in sunshine and inhaling wisteria high on a holy mountain under a canopy of blue sky.

Incense and beer: One hell of a Holy Week

Seville is Spain at its most intense, and during Semana Santa Seville is at its most intense. The city’s deeply religious and traditional yet hedonistic nature is on full display throughout Easter Week, in an idiosyncratic celebration of world-class proportions like only the Andalusians could put on. The Sevillians make their passion for the Virgin remarkably evident during these holy days, yet their sacred celebration is more frivolous than solemn. In truth the general mood is downright riotous.

Throughout the week, the brotherhoods representing the city’s numerous cathedrals each put on a procession. The individual parades begin in the neighborhood churches and snake their way to the main cathedral (arguably the largest in Christendom) in the city center. These pasos consist of hundreds of marching hooded penitents of all ages carrying crosses, banners, or giant candles. (Shaking the KKK and witch connotations can take a bit of time for us Americans.) Some dedicated souls walk barefoot. The penitents stride to the beat of stirring dirges and stimulating drumbeats performed by a marching band. The youngest participants pass out candy to children and march accompanied by parents, lending a trick-or-treat element to the proceedings.

The highlight of the pasos are the floats, elaborately adorned with flowers, candles, jewels, and 16th-century figures from the Passion and weighing in at up to two tons. Underneath the platforms a team of parishioners slowly carts the load on their shoulders, taking frequent pauses to regain their strength.

The city basically transforms for these seven days — officials block off the streets, security swarms about, and the chaotic masses reach out to touch the platforms and snap photos. A journey of a few blocks can take hours of navigation. Sometimes the combination of an especially inspiring float or musical elegy will prompt an impassioned disciple to spontaneously break out into a waling, flamenco-style ode to the Virgin, earning a spirited closing applause. The processions begin in the afternoon and march on late into the morning hours.

Day and night crowds pack the hundreds of bars that double as restaurants lining the streets, consuming infinite tray-loads of gourmet-looking tapas and bottles of beer. The heavy fragrance of incense blows through the air in visible puffs, mixing with the smell orange blossoms and the aroma of plates piled high with tapas, mostly mariscos (assorted seafood) delicately fried to Andalusian perfection. Some families even camp out on lawn chairs with coolers. Seated on the curbs, grandmothers reveal the edges of their circulation-cutting knee-high stockings. It’s a week-long parade party and a very familial affair. Most onlookers are extended household clans, with the occasional couple or motley group of teenagers thrown in. A lone individual lost in the crowd inevitably begins to feel invisible.

On Maundy Thursday many women dress in black, some crowned with high combs holding black lace veils that fall down behind their knees. Despite the intense heat, it’s a crowd of handsome, leathery skinned men in suits and slicked-back hair with that notoriously Spanish machisto strut and heavily made-up women in panty hose teetering the cobbled streets in pointed heels.

The action climaxes on Good Friday at midnight, with the arrival of the most important paso bearing La Macarena, the bullfighting patron saint of Seville. Seville’s dedication to the Virgin is almost cult-like, with burly grown men nearly breaking into tears at her appearance. The lively proceedings continue until dawn.

Surprisingly, it's a quiet, family-oriented Easter Sunday that culminates the week's excessive exhibition of socializing, dining, and worshipping that epitomizes the Andalusian spirit.

Down South

Seville, the pulsating capital of Andalusia, earned Spain its international reputation as a sunny land of daring bullfights and passionate flamenco. This is colonial Spain at its rawest and most extreme – I’d say Seville is to Spain what Naples is to Italy. A colorful city throbbing with theatrical energy, it spawned the operatic likes of Carmen, Don Juan, and Figaro.

The city boasts more pleasant park grounds and Old-World bars than seems feasible. In the historic Santa Cruz quarter, the lovely patios of the mansions teem with all types of ceramics and flora. Terrace-bars serving piles of tapas (think succulent jamón ibérico with green olives and dry sherry) spill out into the plazas.

I napped in the sprawling Maria Luisa Park, gawked at the grandiose Plaza de España, admired the angelic Murillos in the Museum of Fine Arts, and strolled by the Gualdaquivir river. Across the bridge I explored the earthier Triana neighborhood. Known for ceramics and flamenco, it emits a bit of a gypsy vibe. Like the wrong-side-of-the-river neighborhoods I visited in Italy, such as Trastevere in Rome and El Arno in Florence, the gritty charm of Triana won me over.

Sun-drenched Sevilla is the most Spanish city in Spain -- the ruffled flamenco dresses, the orange trees, the suppressive heat, the melodramatic conversation, and the over-the-top Gothic cathedral complete with an original Moorish tower. (Although honestly I preferred the lush gardens and Moroccan architecture of the Alcazar, the court complex of the former Spanish-Moorish Empire, to the gloomy interior of the gargantuan cathedral.)

After my visit I have a new understanding of why Catalans want independence from Spain – coming from the northeastern coast I really felt I’d crossed the border into a different country. The almost incomprehensible Andalusian accent and the dramatically sociable manners caught me off guard. Even the style of self-grooming and the clothing choices were distinct. The women made more of an effort with make-up, panty hose, and cleavage, and the men wore longer, gelled hair and had an almost pompous air about them.

I think it was a nice transition from Barcelona, where the majority of residents seemed to be slim, chic, and understated in appearance (at least in my uptown neighborhood) and brusque and reserved in behavior. Seeing some meatier and curvier bodies, noting more fashion faux pas, and mixing with a more welcoming and flamboyant social scene in southern Spain would help ease my culture shock when I returned to the southeastern United States the next week.

In light of the northern and southern Spanish cultural differences I suppose one could make a comparison with the north and south of the United States, or even with the Naples versus Milan contrast in Italy. Why are southern people friendlier? Why do the women wear more cosmetics? Why don’t we enunciate our words better? Why don't our economic and educational scores meet the national mark?

I can’t help what wonder what it is that differentiates these northern and southern cultures so similarly -- and so deeply.

An Andalusian Paradise

Some argue that Granada is Spain’s one must-visit city.

On one of its surrounding hilltops sits a remarkably preserved medieval Arabic quarter, El Albaicín, its white buildings draped in amethyst-colored wisteria that leave the mountain air heavy with their scent. Gitano (gypsy) men from the adjacent Sacramonte cave quarter speed through the narrow alleyways on motorcycles while simultaneously waling flamenco ballads. (Some of the gypsy population still does live in the caves -- the few grottoes that haven’t been converted into flamenco dinner-theatres and flashy watering holes.)

In the city’s sun-drenched squares masses of dread-locked hippies congregate to sell their hemp handicrafts. Crowds enjoy tapas and sangria out on terraces in the city’s lively, flower-filled plazas lined with lush with green orange trees. A walk down into the colorful Little Morocco district leads to on-trend Middle-Eastern style tea rooms and hookah bars beside small North African shops overflowing with dangling earrings and leather satchels.

But the soul of Granada is deeper than its atmospheric charm and sunshine. Atop the hilltop across from El Albaicín lies essence of the city, La Alhambra palace-fortress. Built under Moorish rule, it could possibly be hailed sensuous building in all of Europe. Set against a dramatic backdrop of snow-capped Sierra Nevada Mountains, this is a palace of harems and poetry, of sultans and battles. Its flourishing Generalife gardens evoke comparisons to paradise, while its intricate Islamic architecture and serene fountains could serve as a set for a scene from One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.

Indeed, Granada’s allure induced the most content moment of my seven-month stay in Spain. While sitting at a sunny outdoor table at a Lebanese restaurant in a corner of Little Morocco, dipping hunks of pita into red-pepper and crushed walnut m’hamara and yogurt cucumber tzatziki in between bites of rice wrapped in grape-vine leaves and stuffed eggplant, I sighed, "Why can’t every day in Spain be like this?"

Catching my breath in Ronda

In the 6:30 a.m. darkness, I climbed the steep, cobbled streets that wind through Granada’s old Moorish quarter. I walked the 30 minutes to the train station serenaded by a concert of morning bird calls. I was determined to catch the only train to Ronda, which left at 7:15 a.m.

At the station I gulped down a café con leche from a small glass before boarding. The tracks curved through wild, spectacularly scenic landscapes on the journey to Ronda, the most famous of the pueblos blancos — the series of brilliantly bleached settlements dotting the Andalusian countryside.

Ronda sits on an edge of isolated sierra that juts high over an expansive natural landscape. A gaping gorge divides the town, connected by the 18th-century Puento Nuevo bridge built over the heart-stopping 130-meter plunge.

I suffered spouts of vertigo-induced nausea as I peered down over the edges of the look-out points, intent on photographing the sheer natural drama of my surroundings. Vocal, semi-exotic birds swooped down and out of the deep gorge. I contemplated the rows of buildings perilously perched on the gaping edge of the cliff as classical guitar music floated from one of the panoramic cafés.

I took a gentle hike through the valley of surrounding neatly plowed, storybook-quality farmland. While wandering past herds of sheep and olive groves, I wondered if I really preferred the urban lifestyle. Maybe bird songs and green hills suited me more than blaring horns and metro tunnels, I thought.

After my walk, I passed a few hours exploring the town’s historic quarter, snapping pictures of cats napping under orange trees and barred windows accented with colorful flower boxes, periodically pausing to inhale the scent of the wisteria that draped the white adobe walls.

With two hours left before my return train, I set off for another hike, this time down into the gorge to look up at the striking Puento Nuevo from below. I descended far beyond the lookout point, bracing myself during the steep descent. After admiring the fabulous cliffs above, I anxiously wondered if I could make the steep climb back up. With the afternoon sun hot on my back, I spent nearly an hour trudging back up the path that spiraled up the mountain.

The next few mornings I woke with stiff knees, and after an initial groan, I would recall my glorious day getting in touch with my natural side in Ronda.

En la Catalonia profunda

Nearly two hours outside Barcelona, our little car curved around staggering green mountains capped with bizarre rock formations. My Catalan friend Laia had invited me to a calçotada, a gastronomical event typical to the region held at the end of winter based upon the en masse consumption of barbecued calçots, an elongated onion type plant. We tried to contain our nausea as we delved deeper into the valley, taking sharp turns around the mountainside spiraled with shallow brick vineyard walls. We were deep in Catalonian wine country, far off any tourist map.

Just when we feared ourselves lost we arrived to the tiny, remote village of La Vilelle Baixa, Catalan for low valley, nestled deep among the astounding mountains. I regretted not bringing my camera because I felt like I was in the middle of a travel magazine photo spread. The Catalan flag flew high. Laia warned her cinematographer boyfriend and me that here our Spanish would get us nowhere.

On the edge of the town we found the public picnic-type site where a team had been assembling hundreds of bundles of still-grubby calçots and piling vines to be used for kindle on the steel barbecues since 7 a.m. Vine smoke clouded the air and the fire crackled. Big dogs wandered around as a couple of mothers played with their toddlers and nursed their babies. The crowd was dressed in hoodies and sneakers. Googly-eyed young couples embraced among friends who laughed at good-natured taunts. A group sat in a circle on the ground playing guitar in the afternoon sun. I felt a world away from chic Barcelona.

As the calçots weren’t quite ready we set off to explore the maze of streets in the village. It had a population of about 100 with the nearest city more than an hour away, according to Laia's veterinarian friend who worked nearby inoculating sheep. Barcelona-born Laia shuddered, explaining that she would be terrified living in such isolation without neighbors above and below. Thinking of my West Virginia roots I jokingly dubbed her a true urbanita.

The village residents must have thighs of steel; We struggled up the nearly vertical streets to get a view of the cathedral, near the sole plaza good-humoredly named New York City. We only came across one little boy playing in the streets as it was the siesta hour.

We returned to find the calçot-team removing the roasted packets from the embers and wrapping them in newspaper to be steamed. We all worked together to dish out the obligatory pounded salvitxada sauce for dipping the mild scallions. They’d bought the largest round loaf of bread any of us had ever seen, made especially for the occasion by a local baker and weighing in at 5 kilos. We cut off chunky slices and then rubbed on tomatoes and olive oil.

Then the frenzy of a feast commenced. A jug of red wine began flowing into our small plastic cups. While standing, we peeled the still-grubby, char-grilled skins off the onion spears, tossing the blackened remainders in a pile on the newspaper. We tilted our heads back to drop the long, gangly strings in our mouths like baby birds with worms.

Soon our hands were black with charcoal and soil from the freshly harvested leek-type plants. Everyone joked that this all must seem so primitive to a foreigner like me. I must consider Catalans barbarians, they said. But I just smiled, dangling another calçot above my head and downing it with as much gusto as the rest of them.

An Introduction to Madrid

I arrived in Madrid at 7:30 a.m. after a tortuous all-night bus ride, instantly comprehending my surroundings to be a throbbing metropolis. I exited the terminal linking the bus station to the metro and almost froze when I found myself facing a fierce stampede of peak-hour commuters. I stood my ground and wheeled my suitcase against the ocean of traffic, surviving untrammeled.

Suddenly my Barcelona home seemed like a serene village. I spent a good portion of my day in the Spanish capital underground, sitting through 40-minute metro rides and walking thousands of meters through terminals. I shook my head at the realization that a bicycle often serves as my principal form of transportation in Barcelona. I wonder if I’m ready for a true metropolitan lifestyle.

I recovered from my initial city shock with my friend Leah, who took me to a café with pastel decor that could have been one of the trendy sweet shops in Charleston, S.C. We ordered Italian-style cappuccinos in memory of our Christmas in Rome.

Madrid is a city of massive highways, palatial buildings, and modern sky scrapers. Even the intensity of the nightlife confounded me. The center swarmed with hundreds of people sitting on terraces, congregating in plazas, and marching through the streets into the balmy morning hours. Crowds donning clubwear even shoved into the metros at 1 a.m.

Many critics discount Madrid as a capital with about as much flavor and mystique as Atlanta or Charlotte. Surely a 24-hour stop-over isn’t enough for a proper assessment, but, in the center at least, I found the regal buildings, landscaped parks, and narrow streets lined with all oddities of continental-style shops enchanting.

We set up an afternoon picnic in a corner of El Retiro, a manicured city-of-a-park with gardens, lawns, and even a lake. We spent the pre-siesta hours wandering past the extravagant landmarks in the Sol quarter. After sunset we took a bus ride past the city’s trademark fountains in all their illuminated splendor. The day ended in a medieval street corner, on the terraza of Chocolatería San Ginés, est. 1894. There we ordered the city’s most famous chocolate and churros, a traditional Spanish breakfast (or more commonly pre-dawn snack) that’s a combination of thick drinking chocolate and fried dough (murder on the arteries, thighs, and the digestive system and not to be repeated).

With sprawling parks, striking architecture, and dark chocolate — my one day as a madrileña was pretty perfect.

Getting all academic in Salamanca

Salamanca made it on my must-see cities in Spain list mostly because I liked the name. Don’t you think it’s a rhythmically pleasing combination of syllables with a distinctly Spanish tone? That and all the guidebook descriptions consistently starting with declarations like “Spain’s most graceful city” and “perhaps the most gorgeous town in Spain” solidified my inclination toward the Castilian destination.

Salamanca is to Spain what Oxford is to England and Bologna is to Italy. It’s home to some of the world’s (once) most prestigious universities, circa 1200 and financed by the likes of Ferdinand and Isabel. The small city also offers some of Spain’s most notable architecture, which reminded me overwhelmingly of intellectual Oxford. Disappointingly, the chilly, dark weekend weather with the occasional gusty sleet outburst seemed to hamper any student life. The town seemed devoid of any undergraduate energy. We only encountered a trace of the supposed hordes of young Americans attracted by the legions of language schools. (Although we did come across a couple sleazy bachelorette party parades.)

However, the intricately ornate academic buildings towering in golden sandstone could not disappoint. The town also boasts a magnificent Gothic cathedral and impressive palaces and solemn convents, all harmonious with its revered institutions of higher learning and many with stately courtyards. But perhaps Salamanca’s most prominent architectural feature is its expansive, quadratic Plaza Mayor, reputedly the most elegant in Spain and a former bullfighting venue.

Completely out of step with all the scholarly medieval architecture is the Museo Art Nouveau y Art Deco. I must say my delightful Wisconsin friend Leah and I fully appreciated (low brow or not) the partially stained glass turn-of-the-century mansion adorned with delicately molded roses and all the belle époque statuettes and chic Parisian perfume bottles it housed.

We took refuge from the nippy conditions of the Castile Leon province in the cafés and restaurants cramming Salamanca’s pleasant pedestrianized streets in the Casco Histórico. Leah and I each enjoyed a to-die-for-sweet bombon, a three-layer espresso with liqueur and condensed milk, in a happening café/bar with wooden rafters and exposed brick. Later we had a more-posh-than-expected dinner in a hip (albeit not effortlessly so) restaurant. The general customer service we received in the town was characteristically Spanish, meaning the customer isn’t always right and rolling one’s eyes at a client is acceptable. I don’t rush to admit it, but sometimes I miss the United States.

Our lodging experience was a different matter. We were thrilled have upgraded to a real hotel (notwithstanding the two-star rating and paper-thin walls), sharing a room in a well-located historic building by the Casa de las Conchas, a much-photographed mansion with a sea shell façade from the 1500s, for the price we usually pay for a hostel dormitory. Sunday morning the indulgence continued as I ordered a deluxe Spanish breakfast. Rather than the typical diminutive croissant and coffee, I had a zumo, (fresh-squeezed orange juice), a Napolitan (a substantial pastry), and Cola Cao (a ubiquitous Spanish brand of powdered chocolate).

Our weekend ended on a lower note. We’d been warned that Salamanca had a one-hour time difference from Madrid, but upon arrival to the bus station we noted no time change and discounted the warning as misinformed. But somehow when we punctually arrived to catch our departure bus we found that all the clocks suddenly read an hour later. We had missed our bus, forcing us to buy new tickets. It wasn’t until that night that we found an explanation for the oddity. We hadn’t slipped into a twilight zone; Our trip had fallen on daylight saving weekend.

The ride home provided a glimpse of the fabulously diverse landscapes of the Iberian Peninsula. Within minutes, the views shifted from boulder-strewn pampas to rolling green plains of farmland before winding into hilly groves of olive trees. In between naps I spotted a medieval-walled village and a ruined tower atop a rocky cliff.

Not bad for a country larger than California but smaller than Texas.

On Spain's Wild Coast

The only road leading to the seaside village of Cadáques perilously spirals a majestic green mountain range, gradually revealing glimpses of dramatic rugged coastline and startlingly blue waters. Eventually, the bleach-white village comes into view from a jarringly deep drop. Near the French border on the Costa Brava, Spain’s wild coast, the small resort town emits a sense of remoteness.

Its whitewashed buildings and picturesque Santa Maria cathedral sit tucked between two long arms of rugged, mountainous coastline that jut into a shimmering blue sea dotted with boats. A walk along one of the craggy limbs leads to rocky coves adorned with patches of fluorescent green moss and tufts of lilac wildflowers that give way to translucent multicolored waters in shades of navy, teal, and turquoise rivaling an impressionist painting. Small, pebbled beaches with colorful parked fishing boats and seagulls (and a topless sunbather or two) appear tucked along the cliffs and Monet-esque waters of the active fishing port.

Since the early 1900s the peaceful town has attracted and inspired a slew of talented artists, most notably Picasso and Dali, who considered it a sort of muse. Cadáques still draws artistic bohemian souls, as all the dreadlocks, ethnic-inspired jewelry, and art galleries indicate.

In the old town, the winding, steep, and painfully cobbled streets lead to art venues and trendy gift shops. Bright blue shutters and clay pots with green plants trim the barred windows of the white houses. Ivy drapes, bicycles lean and cats nap against the stark walls, which occasionally boast medieval-style wooden doors with peeling pastel paint and metal knockers. Along with modernist buildings, an impressive line-up of seafood restaurants and cafes line the main promenade by the bay. On Sundays locals set up a small market akin to an American garage sale in a sandy plaza.

By the beach, conversations in Catalan and French blend with the gentle splash of incoming waves. Chatting friends, laughing families, and kissing couples bask in the blinding sun, claiming the promise of spring despite the chilly breeze.