Days 44 and 45: Lisbon

Me being me, I felt it necessary to complete preparations for the trip home, even though I had a couple days to do so.  I had managed to store the bike and most of my baggage last night at the airport, so I wouldn't, have to schlep it back to the airport (the bus station being near the airport but 5 km from downtown), which did involve me unpacking it, riding it from the station with all the gear, only to have to repack it to store it when at the airport for the same idiotic rule the bus company has. 

  So I headed out first thing in the morning with the empty bike box (retrieved from the wonderful hostel) literally in tow, rumbling over the cobblestone streets for about a mile to the subway, then through the subway (drawing the by-now familiar raised eyebrows and clucking tongues of the elderly), and to the airport.  Actually, this went smoother than I expected, and before too long, i  had the bike all packed and stowed for the flight home, and stored at the airport so I didn't have to think about how astoundingly and unnecessarily difficult the US and Europe make it to transport a damned bicycle. 

Anyway, out near the airport was a genuine Lisbon attraction- the fairgrounds of the '98 Expo (World's Fair).   In some ways, this is a little depressing, in that the 15 years have taken a bit of a toll on all the sweeping modern architecture, futuristic fountains, and rows of flags from every nation.  Certainly the flashiness and optimism stands in stark contrast to the post-austerity grittiness of the rest of Lisbon.  Or perhaps it just had the same problem seemingly every former World's Fair ground has had in every city- where no one seems to have put much thought into what to do with it once the fair is over. 

Be this as it may, one legacy that remains is a truly excellent aquarium, and I have always been a sucker for them.  So despite it being a bit expensive, I very happily whiled away a few hours there, and then walked around the pleasant gardens and marina in the area.  By that time it was getting into the afternoon, and I made my way back into town to relax a bit at the hostel.

With all my baggage squared away and ready for travel, and a full day left, I had no reason not to accept an invitation, then, for a night on the town.  I think I have mentioned this is a night owl culture, and generally people go out around 11, after eating the only substantial meal of the day around 9. People stay out until 4 or later as a matter of course, and heretofore that has not worked well with my bike touring schedule.

This is a particularly well-run hostel, and a satellite group of semi-employees is generally always around to offer guests lots of activities, so long as none of them are early.  Tonight's offering was to go see fado music at a tiny bar that is a local favorite, and, having not seen this in person yet, I was very excited to do so.  I was not at all disappointed, as we arrived right on time, and miraculously had a table reserved for us in the very limited space.  Sipping small glasses of port, we enjoyed a series of singers, some apparently professionals and some talented amateurs.  They were accompanied by a guitar and something somewhat like a mandolin, and the music lived up to its richly haunting and melancholy reputation.  It seems to be roughly equivalent to the blues in America, and apparently was the de facto soundtrack to decades of dictatorship and poverty.
It seemed to me hardly a dead medium though, as people around us would often sing along, apparently very familiar with most of the songs. 

Portugal is unfortunately bereft of a tradition of late night munchies, though we did find a place known only as "the illegal bakery" where you put a couple euros through a window and they give you a shifty glance and chocolate filled crossaint. 

Woke up relatively late the next day and a little groggy, and frankly a bit tired by now of all the constant need to make every minute count, but the excellent breakfasts this hostel makes (soooo welcome after more than a month straight of little more than toast and perhaps cereal for breakfast, but usually only toast), a rallied and got on the move. 

I returned to the Belem area, which I felt I gave short shrift at the beginning of the trip.  Particularly the fantastic maritime museum, which needs a few hours to appreciate, as opposed to the paltry half hour or so I gave it near closing time last time.  So I did that, then went to the adjoining and mildly interesting Archeological Museum next door (it's disappointingly small, very little is in English, and I am pretty burnt out on Archeological Museums at this point).  I then went to the Famous Place You Have To Go To, which every city seems to have( for example Cafe DuMond in New Orleans) , in this case the Pastelrilla De Belem, for the little custard tarts and coffee.  Like all such attractions, it's good, sure, but you can get equal quality at much lower price and no line at the other place two doors down. 

Last stop was the wonderful (and free!) Museum of Electricity, which is housed in an early 20th century coal-fired power plant.  If you ever wondered EXACTLY how a power plant worked in the heyday of coal, this is the place to go, with lots of high-tech displays explaining the fine detail of centrifugal gas-excluding water pumps, the merits of various types of coal dust recycler systems, and the history of closed-sysem coolant arrays.  There are also fun interactive exhibits bout electricity in general, and of course you can climb up in the huge cool  machinery and pretend you are in the final setpiece of Terminator 2.

Since I had to leave for the airport at an ungodly early hour the next morning, I took it a lot easier than last night, but it still was pleasant, since the hostel staff was throwing a Christmas potluck.  The addition of sangria to Christmas seems in general a positive one, and all were happy and festive. 

The escape from Lisbon was similarly stressful and trying as the one from Seville, and I wish in retrospect I had showed up even earlier than that nearly 2 hours I had allotted before checkout.  The most challenging moment arose from a difference in the rules about how much the bike box can weigh from the 100 lbs (around 45 kg) on the way out to 32 kg now on the way back.  I had 10 minutes to frantically tear apart the carefully packed box and shove everything  not a bike into my big pack (thank goodness I brought it- it just stayed stored in the hostel all trip) and a rear-pannier-cum-carryon bag.  But I freaking did it, and that's why Americans are awesome. 

I write this now from a connection layover in Zurich, which has an airport that is a cartoon parody of you would imagine a Swiss airport to be: spotless,  efficient, sleek, expensive, and kind of terrifying because it's like walking around in a dystopian future world- where maybe all of the beautiful employees there are robot clones or the building is heated with puppy blood or something. 

And that's about it, blog fans.  I may post a few musings later, but next stop is San Francisco and then home home home!  I hope everyone has enjoyed my adventure with me, and thank you all so much for all of you kind comments. 

Days 43 and 44: Cordoba and The Great Escape Therefrom

Day 43: Cordoba

Yesterday's clouds and rains completely fled, and today dawned bright, clear, and sunny, as things should be in a city that is one of Europe's very sunniest.  Cordoba was also quite welcoming in its people, with very friendly hostel hosts, and nice people everywhere I went.  They say the most beautiful women in Spain are in Cordoba, and though I don't really know about that, people were typically laid back and Andalucian as any I had seen so far.  In Granada, I learned a new verb: "tapiar"- which apparently is "to eat tapas". Here, that transformation of noun into verb entirely makes sense. 

Anyway, I tried to squeak in some logistics before a walking tour I wanted to take by going to the bus station and getting tickets and unfortunately was kind of rebuffed at the bus station and train station, who seemed to have either a ban on transporting bikes (the latter) or lots of weird restrictions that my high schoolSpanish was not up to comprehending in the time I had.  

So I shelved that for the day, and took a very informative walking tour of the historic district that laid a good background of the city's rich history and pointedout several sites I wanted to see later.  The main tour was in Spanish, but a new tour guide in training was nice enough to do an English version for me and a Dutch fellow who was staying at my hostel.  

We got along well, this fellow and I, and had much the same feelings about maximizing our sightseeing for the afternoon, so we saw the Alcazar castle, made a point to have lunch at the famous "tortilla" place ( which here means a gigantic potato quiche-like dish, except you wash it down with beer), and of course toured the wonderful Mesquita mosque.  

This complex is especially excellent because you can plainly see the various additions and alterations various successive conquerers made to it.  Glass panels in the floor reveal mosiacs from the Roman basilica that used to stand here, and the columns of the place were apparently borrowed from both the Romans and the later Visigoths.  The bulk of the vast building (and mp by most accounts, the best), is the work of the Moors, who constructed the distinctive double arches made of alternating brick and stone that make the interior so striking, not to mention some exquisite carved wood ceilings. Though the Catholics who reconquered the area in the 1300's restrained themselves friom major renovations for a few centuries, they eventually could not resist building a very flashy rennessance cathedral smack in the middle of the mosque, a move even King Phillip later regarded as a mistake.  Be that as it may, this arecetectual hodge-podge makes for fascinating visiting, and I think might be my favorite of the major monuments I saw in Andalucia.  We saw a couple other notable churches after that, just to slam dunk the sightseeing day, and then relaxed over some wine and tapas.  

Before dinner, I tried again at the bus station, but most of the windows were closed, and my bright idea to rent a car instead was shot down because you can't drop a car in a different country than you rented it, apparently.  I bowed to fate, and went with some hostel people to grab a couple drinks and food, which was pleasant, though I was a little worried about how the heck I was going to get out of town with my time running out.  Got to bed at a relatively recently hour, and enjoyed my de facto private room. 

 

Day 44: The Great Escape (from Cordoba).

Imagine, if you will, my mental state via a via travel logistics yesterday as Bill Paxton's character from "Aliens"- you know, the guy who fell to pieces when things looked grim, shouting "Game over, man"?  Well, after my Plan D fell through last night, I am happy to say I felt an unconscious mental shift this morning to a different set of movie military characters.  I visualized them as a group of WWII-era British POWs in my brain, casually brushing aside the panicked space marine and calmly but firmly taking charge.

(Cue theme from The Great Escape)

"So this is a spot of bother, then.  There seems no way to exit bloody Cordoba."
"Oh dear.  Well, chaps, let us think.  Wait just a moment, didn't that woman at the hostel tell us we should seek advice from that chap at the bicycle store?"
"Capital thinking, Lt. Memory!  Let's go!"
"Bloody hell. This fellow only speaks Spanish.  Corporal High School Spanish, give it a go.  There's a good chap."
"Yes sir.  Hmm... I can't make out all of it sir, but it seems we need this scrap cardboard he is giving us, plus a lot of celo wrap and gaffer tape!"
"So it wasn't a box we needed at all!  Great Scott, we've cracked the code!  Where can we get such things on a Sunday?"
"He's drawing us a map, sir.  It's close."
"Excellent, now that we have the supplies, it's back to the bus station.  Corporal, we need you again, I'm afraid."
"Right-o, sir.  Well, they seem satisfied with our large supply of cello wrap.  Again, they are giving me a lot of instructions I don't understand, but they are printing out tickets...."
"Fine work, Corporal.  Blast! This bus leaves in an hour and our bags are back in the hostel!  Can we ride there and back, disassemble and pack the bicycle in that time?"
"Sure we can."
"Why it's Captain Legs!  The plucky American they could never break!"
"The very same.  You know, I've been pretty hard after it for the last six weeks and I reckon I can just pull it off."
"Top drawer, Captain!  You HAVE pulled it off!  Privates Gitter and Dunn!  Dismantle this bike and cover it with cardboard, wrap, and tape!  Quick's the word and sharp's the action!  You have fifteen minutes!"
"It won't be pretty, sir, but we can manage it."
"Ye gads! that is horrific, but it will serve, now to get it past the surly driver..."
"Sir!  We've done it!  We're on the bus and leaving Cordoba!"
"Of course we are, lads.  Never doubted it for a moment." 

Days 41 and 42: The Road to Cordoba

Day 41: Granada to Priego De Cordoba (85 km)
Weather: Overcast in morning, clearing and warming to partly cloudy in afternoon.  Mid 30s in morning, warming to high 50s
Roads: Moderate traffic on major road out of town, reduced to very light once I hit smaller roads
Bike: Brakes and shifting slightly improved, but good enough

I am not sure why I tempt fate by writing things like in the last entry about how flat this section would be.  I will grant that it was flat-er, for the first 25 km on say 41 and the home stretch on day 42.  But the rest was pretty darn hilly, and longer than I anticipated, which made the plan to do this in 2 days kind of a stretch.  I am starting to run short of time, though, and to allow for other potential unforseen snafus getting back to Lisbon, I'd love to have that extra day. 

Anyway, now that I have that complaining out of the way, I will say that once I cleared the kind of grimy outskirts of Granada (fairly easily because as I mentioned it is flat), I once again found myself in a now familiar world of Spanish villages and windy mountain roads.  It's late fall here and much of the landscape is a tableau of browns and dark greens, and most of the rolling hills are taken up with orderly rows of love trees.

For most of these farms, it's harvest season, which seems to be done as it has been for centuries- with guys setting a tarp under a tree and beating it with poles until the olives fall onto the tarp.  When I would go through towns, the next stage of the process was evident- the olives arrive by truck to collection areas, which have machines to desperate out the leaves, and then they are salted, crushed, and pressed, to remove every last bit of oil out of them.  It seems staggering to believe there could be demand for this much olive oil, though I imagine it has to be one of Spain's significant exports. 

Anyway, I just plain ran out of daylight around km 85, even though I wanted to go farther to make the next day easier.  The good news is that a great dispersed campsite showed up just at the right time.  Perched on a clifftop overlooking a scenic gorge and slopes of olive trees, it offered a very pleasant place to lay my head for the evening. 

Day 42: Priego De Cordoba to Cordoba (120 km)
Weather: overcast most of day, spitting rain toward end of day, high 30's in the morning, warming to upper 50's. 
Roads: very light traffic most of day, a little heavier when on more major road through park. 
Bike: same could use a tune, but all systems nominal. 

Though this was a long day and no mistake, at least I knew that going into it, so I could prepare mentally and physically.  When I am camping, there is generally little to do after sundown at 6:30 or so, so after reading for a while, I am generally asleep by 8 or 9.  Even making up for hostel nights, I don't need more than 8 hours, so it's not difficult to be up and at 'em at the crack of dawn (which is 8). So, making the most of the daylight, I was on the road early and chugging up the mildly sloped 1000 vertical foot pass through Sierra Subbeticas National Park.  Shortly beyond this, I was able once again to take pleasant small roads through olive grove  farmland and a few villages, this time trading elevation not in the thousands of vertical feet as I had been doing since Ronda, but in a few hundred at a time.  I was feeling strong for most of the day, but 120 km is a long way, and I do admit to uttering a bit of profanity when the last 20 km of road turned really bumpy and a fiendish set of hills, and a drizzly rain right at km 110 made the home stretch a struggle. 

But gritting my teeth and gutting through it, I was soon crossing the famous Roman Bridge, passing the exquisite Mesquita mosque, and checking into a very pleasant hostel in the hear of town where a couple Euros extra got me a private room to snore my heart away in.  The showers were surprisingly functional (not sure why Europe seems to struggle so with this technology) and above all hot, and  I bought myself a congratulatory dinner.   Hit the sack early, due to being totally exhausted, but pretty darn satisfied with myself for completing the bike tour leg of the trip.

The plan now is to bus it back to Lisbon, and figure out how to do the bike box shuffle once I am there, hopefully avoiding getting totally ripped off getting my bike in its box from town to the airport, as I was the other way around.  I have heard mixed things about how easy it is to transport bikes around Spain, but I guess I will find out tomorrow.  It's a little sad that the bike, so long a liberating asset to me, is now transforming back into the albatross it was starting the trip...

Also I am sure I will put in an entry summing up my thoughts about the bike trip in general, but having just completed it, my main feelings are overwhelmingly positive.  It's a very different way to see a country, to be sure, but has some huge advantages, and I can't say that I have any significant regrets.  But I ramble. Tomorrow, the lovely sights of legendary Cordoba!

Days 39 and 40: Granada

Day 39: Granada

It's been a pretty constant theme that between my broken Spanish and the shaky English directed toward me, combined with genuine cultural differences, that I am gererally operation this about 50% certainly about what is going on.  I still am baffled about store hours, how you are supposed to get your check gracefully at a restaurant, and, in this specific case, what the deal really is when you want a ticket to the Alhambra.  Somehow, I got it in my head you could only by tickets between 8-9 am and around 2, and, eager to see what had been billed as one of the top sights in Europe, there I was, huffing up the hill in the frosty morning to the ticket office. 

While I don't think that was necessary, there were still signicant crowds even early on- a phenomenon more or less unheard-of for me this trip.  And of course I soon found out why.  The Alhambra is a triple whammy: a huge ruined Moorish castle, a magnificently restored Moorish official palace complex, and a similarly sublime residence from about the same period.  Oh, and add to that a 16th century Spanish palace and beautiful gardens between everything, and there you have it: one of Europe's greatest attractions.  Of course, it is also on a ridgetop overlooking the city, and has the backdrop of the snowcapped Sierra Nevada in the background.  Who am I to argue?  It is amazing, what can I say that Washington Irving hasn't? 

After wandering dazed out of there, I kept walking up through the traditionally Muslim quarter, which is built on a steep hillside and after the Medina style of tight, mazelike streets.  At the top of the hill, the hill gets steep enough that the houses are just extensions of the caves that honeycombed the slope.  Apparently this section is still home to many musicians and artist types who don't mind the lack of morning sunlight.   I wandered until I found a courtyard near a church that claims (justly) to have one of the best views of the Alhambra and city beneath it.  Handily, there was a tapas bar with outside a eating just there, and street musicians playing flamenco music to those there.  I figured, "hard to top this" and spent the rest of the afternoon sipping cerveca and munching tapas while listening to the music and watching the sun set on the Alhambra. 

Quick note on tapas in Spain: there seem to be widely different rules about them, such as whether they come automatically with a drink order or not.  Granada has so far been the most generous- elsewhere you just get some olives or bread, but here you get real food, though you have no idea what it might be, and it can be pretty much anything.    Over the course of one afternoon and evening, I got fish in sauce, fried eggplant, pate on toast, fried sardines, blood sausage with potato chips, and quiche with tomato wheels. 

A final note today was a very fun bit of serendipity: while sightseeing at the Alhambra, I bumped into some old work colleagues Su Theida and Mike Stronger, which seemed so incredibly unlikely, but there it was.  We had dinner together and caught up, and since they were going to many of the places I had been, I was able to give some sage advice.  All in all, a really fun day. 

Day  40: Granada Too

An easier start this morning, where I woke up to a pleasant breakfast  and made a to do list of many of the trip logistics I had outstanding and plowed through most of them.  This made me feel less stressed, and happy to spend the rest of the day seeing some of the lesser known sights, but still interesting. The tombs of Ferdinand and Isabella rounded out my Columbus theme nicely, and I enjoyed the park dedicated to the apparently famous poet Garcia Lorca. 

Later in the afternoon, I was very pleased to visit the "Parque De Cincias", which was a cluster of museums in a very showy complex of modern buildings.  There was a really excellent exhibit on the scientific contributions of the  Moorish Iberians, and another on the the private collection of some rich guy who was fond of large nineteenth century clockwork contraptions, a nice raptor exhibit, and then some kind of goofy (and preachy! ) ones about proper nutrition and the importance of home and worksite safety.   Also the old standbys of such museums such as the miracles of biology (where they had a whale heart the size of a couch on display) and some fun physics exhibits.  Though the museum was legitimately good, it was mostly exciting because it wasn't more cherubs and elaborately martyred saints.

Not much after that, just a quiet dinner and then bed, which is just as well considering the long ride in store tomorrow.  It should be more relaxing for all my efforts today, and (knock on wood), the road looks considerably less hilly on the way for the home stretch. 

Daya 37 and 38: The Road to Granada

Day 37:  Malaga to Periana (60 km)

Roads: Very light traffic almost the whole day, and happily there was very little city/country transition today due to me going straight into thew mountains from town. 

Bike: No serious issues.  Could use so,e more brake pads soon, and shifting could use attention, but everything is functional for now.

Weather: Mostly sunny, but definitely cooler at altitude.  Low 60s/ High 50s mosst of day. 

Sunday mornings are quiet join Spain, and aside from having to negociate my exit from town through a marathon that was going on that morning, it was remarkable easy and pleasant to exit Malaga to the North.  While the city sort of sprawls to the flatland to the west, it's butted right up against steep foothills to the north, and it was right into the teeth of that climb I hurled myself straight off the bat. 

I could tell yesterday from my view from the ramparts of the castle I was due for a climb, but I did not quite anticipate it would be 3200 feet!  It did have some mercy in the grade however, and by distracting myself with podcasts on my headphones (most of the trip I had done without as to absorb the countryside better), I was on top of the ridge in 20 km.  Rewarding myself with a little ubiquitous cafe con leche and strange Spanish donut at the top, I contined, soaking in the outstanding views of the national park to my left (west) and the sparkling Mediterranean sweeping off behind and now far below me (south). 

The road maintained elevation more or less for a while as I completed the next 20 km leg up the east side of Montes de Malaga national park, and then down through some charming villages.  Then, going up and down through fields of neatly-tended olive groves and dramatically jutting mountains,always conserving at least 1500 feet, I got to a point near Periana around 4:30 where it made sense to stop.  Granada was within fairly easy reach, the elevation was relatively low, and I knew I had a big climb directly ahead and was getting tired.  Besides, I had a sweeping view of a large lake beneath and to the south of me and a dramatic mountain park to the east.  Discreetly finding an out of the way spot in an olive grove, I made camp and cooked dinner in the beautiful sunset.  Again, need ending to catch upon sleep from another noisy hostel stay, I slept soundly and long (having gone to bed at dark ), waking refreshed for the long day of riding coming up.

Day 38: Periana to Granada (90 km)
Weather: sunny, clear, cold.  Around freezing first thing, rising to high 40s mid day. 
Bike: no change from yesterday.  Some work on the brakes yielded more power, but it's temporary.  Will need pads in Granada, and probably both rotors replaced at home, as they are both getting warped. 
Roads- pretty quiet all day with slight but predictable build up when entering Granada.  Hilly but very quiet. 

Since I got nearly 12 hours of sleep, it wasn't too hard to get up first thing, pack up camp, and hit the road.  A huge climb awaited me of course first thing, though I knew that.  It was scenic, however, and once I got to about 2500 feet, I didn't go much below that for most of the rest of the day.  I did battle with a 1000 vertical feet I kept gaining and losing, but the scenery was so nice it was hard to stay mad at this lack of altitude discipline. 

With the change of elevation, I have changed seasons.   In Malaga, it was sunshine, palm trees, and people sitting on the beach, and up here it's bare trees and frost hang in around in the shadows all day.  For the first time this trip, I had my long biking pants on all day.  But fortunately I was geared for cold weather, and it just made for a change of pace as I wheeled through more pleasant villages, a very nice reservoir flanked by mountains, and of course my approach to the Sierra Nevada. 

Granada is up on the shoulder of that range, but for once it had only a mildly heartbreaking climb toward the end, and actually that was 10 km out.  The day was a little longer, and definitely hillier, than I had suspected,  but I was still feeling pretty solid on the way into town, even after all that elevation gain and distance.  

I haven't mentioned this because I have mixed feelings about it, but credit where credit is due; thank you, Mc Donalds, for having free WiFi. Multiple times now I have entered a city, and you are there very handily allowing me to zero in my GPS on the location of the lodging, effectively leading me right to it with no fuss.  I feel a little bad from not buying anything, except for one moment of extreme weakness in Ronda when I was falling-down tired and ravenously hungry. 

Anyway, found my way to the very nice hostel and had a great dinner in the the walk-around time, when I got the impression that all Granadans ate was churros, since that was all anyone was eating at 7:30 pm.  Predictably in bed pretty early in anticipation of some high quality sight seeing tomorrow. 

Days 35 and 36: The Road to Malaga and Malaga

Day 34: Ronda to Malaga (100 km)

Weather: Just splendid.  People here consider it arctic, but to a North American it would be a crisp fall day.  Frost on the ground in the morning, but warming to low 60's by midday. 

Roads: low to no traffic most of the day, moderate as I got into Malaga.  Roads smooth and small for most of day, two big climbs, but relatively gradual.

Bike: running well, but showing signs of having been ridden more or less constantly for well over 1000 miles.  Will need an overhaul once I get home, poor sweet thing. 

Feeling much better this morning, I hit the road as early as I could, knowing I had significant distance and elevation to make today.  The weather could not have been more cooperative; the crispness early just gave me an excuse to actually wear some of the cold weather gear I had been schlepping around the whole trip.  Besides, the brilliant sunshine warmed me right up, as well as the 1000 vertical Foot climb pretty much right off the bat. 

Since Ronda is already pretty high, climbing from there got me up to the treeline, and yielded fantastic views back toward the national park near Ronda and eastward to the rest of the day's riding.  I passed through a few of the picturesque "white villages" of the region: whitewashed, red tiled villages generally perched magestically on hilltops or mountainsides.  The farmland between was idyllic olive groves and vineyards, and with the trees along the way showing fall color and the golden low angle sunlight beaming down it all, it was sublime.  What little traffic there was was slowed by the curves or uneven pavement, essentially making the vast majority of the day a cruise on a de facto bike path.

The road leveled considerably on the approach to Malaga, and began to avoid mountains instead of humping straight over them as had been the case for most of the last two weeks of riding.  So, while the last 20 km into Malaga was not as pleasant as the rest, it at least was flat or slightly downhill, and went by pretty fast, for end of the day riding.  I located the hostel wish little difficulty (though I did have to fight through the large pedestrianized downtown that was full of people enjoying the Christmas lights that had been recently set up). Though Malaga doesn't have quite as much to offer as some other places, I figure it's worth a sightseeing day tomorrow, since it is a large city boasting a number of archeological and cultural sights. 

A quick note on the Spanish schedule.  Though everybody knows about the siesta (which is a real thing- and even though I am aware of it, I still find it annoying that I can't buy, say alcohol for my camp stove at 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon.), a lesser-known phenomenon is the pleasant period starting around sundown and lasting until around 9 or 10 in the evening.  Everyone emerges from their houses and strolls around, generally pausing to get a coffee or a drink, or dinner, or just meet friends in the street.  Occasionally, there is music, but generally you just hear people laughing and chatting.   I think there is a term for it, but I can't remember it, but it wouldn.'t really translate because the US lacks the concept as well as the word for it.  Anyway, it's a really charming feature of traveling in Latin America. 

Day 35: Malaga

I had wondered if Malaga was worththe layover day, since my guide was kind of lukewarm about it.  However, the schedule allowed for it, it was nice to help fully recover from being ill, it was a gorgeous day, and I figured in such a large city, there had to be something worth seeing.  

And there was.  Malaga is a little unappealing riding into it, I'll admit.  The easy to find bike lanes are absent, and there's a large ring of down at the heel neighborhoods surrounding it.  But the interior, where the hostel was, is fully pedestrianized and a pretty ritzy shopping area (the GUTTERS are marble). It's getting close to Christmas, so this whole zone is decked out with poinsettias and impressive light displays, but apparently Santa is not a thing here, and is conspicuously absent.  

Malaga has also been actively working on improving its image, and has obviously invested heavily in redoing its waterfront, which is now a very pleasant peninsula with the port and marina on one side and a much more low-key beach area on the other side.  

They have also made the most of the fact that this is the birthplace of Pablo Picasso, and even though he left when he was 10, they still have a very impressive museum in his honor, that houses a large exhibit of his lesser known work along with many of his contemporaries, in a beautifully restored mansion.  

But besides all that, it was worth the day's stay for the magnificently restored complex of Moorish castles that overlook the town.  Heretofore, the castles of that era required a certain amount of imagination to visualize their former glory, but these were so well preserved, down to the working fountains in the beautiful gardens within, that it was like walking onto a movie set.  Certainly an excellent side benefit is that walking the ramparts of the castles gives you a sweeping view of the surrounding city and countryside- especially useful and interesting to me because I can see where I came from and (sigh) the big climb I have tomorrow.  

There was also the requisite grand cathedral downtown, which was of interest to Americans, because its unfinished tower is so because the local bishop redirected the construction funds to help bankroll the American Revolution.  So now it's lopsided and we are free from onorous beverage taxes!  Thanks, Malaga!

A change today was also I finally hit a town not in the dead season.  Though the downside is of course not having all of the sights to myself and dealing with a crowded hostel as opposed to having a dorm room to myself.  On the up side, it's not a ghost town and everything is open, and the streets/are vibrant and exciting.  

The weather here at sea level was predictably warmer than Ronda, and as I saw the sights, I was comfortably in short sleeves most of the day. This was also conducive to eating some tapas and shipping cerveca on the beach.  Good to soak that up, because next stop is Grenada, up on the shoulder of the snowy Sierra Nevada.  

So certainly not sorry for the day spent here, and excited and well rested for big climbs ahead.  Thankfully, I'm not stretching for distance this leg (it being too far for 1 day, but shortish for 2, so I can actually moderate the distance in respect of the elevation gained!

Days 33 and 34- Ronda

Well, if I had to get stuck somewhere, I couldn't ask for a nicer spot. 

As I mentioned in my last post, I kind of staggered into Ronda after dark, exhausted, and suffering from an intestinal complaint.  Though a night's sleep took care of most of this, the intestinal thing persisted, and worsened rather acutely the next night, so I woke up the next morning hardly on a state for a long push over the mountains to Malaga.  Now those of you who know me would know that I am far above toilet humor, and would never, on this trip, or any other, make up humorous names for such a condition like "the Moroccan Thunder crap" or "The Strains of Gibraltar."  That would be childish. 

But as it was, I ended up with two days in Ronda instead of the scheduled one.  This turned out not really to be a bad thing at all (well, besides the reason for it).

In any event, Ronda is a small city built on a mesa that is split in two by a several hundred foot deep gorge.  The two halves of the city are connected by what has to be the most spectacular bridge I have ever seen: the so called "New Bridge" (built in the late 1700's). As opposed to the much smaller "old bridge", which the Moors built in the 1300,s on top of a Roman aquaduct.  Apparently, if Hemmingway can be believed, prisoners were hurled from this bridge in the Spanish civil war. 

There is plenty more to see as well, such as the best bre served hammam (Turkish bath) on the Iberian Peninsula, built in the 1300's, several interesting museums (like one on the bandeleros, who were sort of like Old West desperados, except with blunderbusses and giant pocketknives instead of six-shooters, and bullfighter-looking  outfits instead of dusters and Stetsons.   Fascinating though how both cultures in the 19th and 20th centuries romanticized these bloodthirsty criminals in remarkably parallel fashion.  I also really like the Museo Lara, which was a totally eclectic collection of a dead millionaire, and his taste and interests were the only thread holding the collection together.  Fortunately, it was all stuff I thought was interesting as well from 19th century science equipment, to really weird guns, to nautical instruments, to a bizzare exhibit on the Inquisition.)  Of course, the town itself is just a treat to stroll around in, with the characteristic whitewashed, red-tile-roofed houses perched up on the edge of either side of the gorge.  Apparently this is also the bitrthplace of bullfighting as we know it today, and apparently both Picasso and Hemingway spent a lot of time in the impressive bullfighting ring in the middle of town.  And let's not forget the wine museum, that has faucets of local wines in the walls you can try, apparently to your heart's content.  This perhaps was the cruelest blow of this stomach condition yet!

The second day was even better weather than the first, and it pained me to not be able to take advantage of the opportunity to use it to get to Malaga.  But, feeling better by midday, I took my unloaded bike out to the fantastic surrounding countryside, which is made up largely of vineyards and bodegas (which seems to mean "winery" here instead of "cramped New York City convenience store.") all on rolling hills right out of a Renaissance painting.  My destination was yet another Roman ruin, this one called "Uncompounded", which was less impressive overall than Voibolus in Morocco, but did have an am having theater, where the seating (for several thousand) had been carved out of the bedrock, and the 60-foot-tall stage had been reconstructed.  Add to this that the site was on a long sloped mesa with a commanding view of the vineyards around it and the craggy peaks of the national park beyond, and the result was spectacular.  It was also nice to ride an unladen bike for a change through the ride was 20 km each way with significant elevation gained and lost both coming and going, it felt like appropriately moderate exercise to help me kick this stomach bug. 

So a standing ovation for Ronda, and do be sure to put it on your itinerary if ever you go to southern Spain.  I hope tonight will bring much more rest and far less thoracic turmoil and I can get an early start for my quest for Malaga. 

Days 30-32: Back up to Tarifa and the Road to Ronda

Day 30: Travel Day from Makes to Tarifa

Not a whole lot to say about this day, since it was pretty much taken up by a long bus trip and a ferry ride.  I will say that everything went smoother than I expected, with the bike accepted aboard the bus with no hassle (though minor expense) and the ride up there perfectly pleasant in a clean, modern bus.   I felt a little bad for the person sitting next to me, in that I had not washed my clothes for a bit, but aside from that bit of uncomfortableness, all went well.  The bus does stop at those way stations that seem so popular in the developing world, but the Moroccan version isn't bad at all, and in 4 or 5 hours I was back in Tangier.

As an aside, I will mention how much different it is to view the country from the window of a bus then down there humping it on a bike.  The bus is so much more an insulated experience (not altogether a bad thing), but it did hammer home for me how much more one experiences of the land itself from the saddle of the bike, for good and ill.  End of sanctimony.

  For some bizzare reason, they drop you a few kilometers out of town, which would be really inconvenient had I not had a handy means of conveying myself and all my stuff right at hand.  I pedaled into town (funny how just a week has gotten me acclimatized- when I first got here everything seemed strange and mildly threatening, now no sweat), bought a ferry ticket with minimum hassle, boarded with only one guy demanding a tip for doing his job minimally competently, and zoomed back across the Straight.  The weather was a little rough, and it being night with no horizon to look at, it was kind of barf-o-rama in there, but otherwise fine, and in an hour I was back in Spain and checked into the same hostel I stayed in earlier.  I grabbed some food and settled into a very pleasant bar filled with locals and a guy playing Spanish guitar.  People clapped rhythmically along and even shouted "Ole!" In the pauses, and the whole thing was so Spanish it seemed kind of ridiculous.  Then off to bed.

Day 31: Tarifa to Jimena De La  Frontera (80 km)

Weather: mostly sunny, low 60s most of the day, windy.
Roads: Mild traffic on way out of Tarifa on more major road, very mild rest of day on more minor roads.
Bike: running nicely with no issues

It was certainly nice to get out on the bike again! Though the ride out of Tarifa consisted of a 1000 vertical foot climb along a major road, the contrast with Morocco was still so fresh in my mind that I still felt it to be a treat: wide hard shoulders, moderate grades, and above all a population of drivers that appreciate the value of human life!  There were also some excellent views at the top of the pass looking south over the Straight of Gibraltar and the Moroccan coast beyond.

I skirted the port town of Algeciras, getting a few nice views of the Rock of Gibraltar along the way, and whatever traffic there was immediately died the moment I left the highway.  The rolling foothills were very pleasant- apparently others thought so too, because for much of this stretch, I was paralleling the long-distance hiking trail that stretches the length of Alcornacales National Park.  The rolling road ended on the slightly more major road north of Algeciras, and I found to my delight my old friend the Camino Verde- the off-highway green asphalt bike path!  This whisked me up the pleasant town of  Castellar De la Frontera.  Though it left me then, the road was relatively smooth and flat following a river valley to my destination for the night at Jimena De La Frontera, which I hit right around sunset.  The town, like many in this region, is set dramatically on a hill crested by a castle, which certainly was scenic, albeit a bit disheartening to have to climb a steep hill right at the end of the day.  All was forgivem , however, upon the discovery of a pleasant campground with nice hot showers and its own restaurant.  I ate Spanish pork chops washed down with summer wine, mainly because I could.  Then off to an early night's rest after a great day of riding. 

Day 32: Jimena De La  Frontera to Ronda (the looong way) (105 km)
Weather: Mostly sunny, occasional gusty winds
Roads: ideal for nearly the entire day.  Lane and a half wide pavement with next to no traffic.
Bike: no real issues.  Shifting a tiny bit rocky.

Definitely a day of extremes today.  I got a decently early start, but was not feeling to great due to an intestinal complaint I suspect was probably a residual effect of Morocco, or perhaps my distain of Islam dinner I the night before.  But I had a choice: either a straight shot on more busy roads to Ronda at about 40 km, or a long arc through the national park at around 100 km.  Thinking I would kick myself later if I had the chance to ride a magnificent route and didn't, I chose the latter. 

Sure enough, the ride through the park was outstanding riding.  It hit that ideal of touring- lonely windy roads about a lane and a half wide, with no traffic to speak of, with glorious scenery rolling past continuously.   It was, however, extremely hilly, and for the first 30 km, I climbed a net of 2000 vertical feet, often losing a few hundred feet here and there to slight downhills.  The road out into the park was mainly with the wind, but coming back out, and finally actually pointing at the destination for the day, was definitely not, and I spent the next 30 km battling the wind as well as climbing.  The scenery got progressively more dramatic, however, with the foothills giving way to the steep craggy mountains that make up the background of the park.

Being kind of sick had sapped a lot of my energy, and I was pretty tired well short of my destination.  Hoping that having left the mountains and following a river valley most of the way to Ronda it would be relatively flat, I decided to push on.  My dreams of flatness were soon destroyed however, as the road instead chose to rise 1000 feet above the river valley, only to drop me right back into the valley.  I should quickly add that it is spectacularly beautiful as it does this, winding up and through dramatic rock spires with the canyon gaping below.  Also, I did notice a trail that paralleled the river far below I might have taken, but whether it was navigable by a 100 lb road bike is questionable.

I reached the valley below Ronda just as the sun was setting, and though  the sun was beautiful against the rock spires now far above, I was totally running on fumes, and the last huge hill to get into town in the dark was pretty miserable. There being no hostels in Ronda, I decided to try a "hostal" (a hotel that tends to sacrifice amenities for location, funky charm, and price), and this one hit the spot.  Downright luxurious by camping/hostel standards (you have your own bathroom! With towels provided! ) , it is in the middle of town, and with the regularly scheduled rest/sightseeing day tomorrow, will hopefully be a great place to rest and recuperate. (Writing this lying in bed the next morning, I am very happy so far!)

Anyway, after getting some dinner, taking a look on hot shower, and drinking about a gallon of "Aqua-ade" (Gatorade in Europe: like the "quarter-pounder", the American reference to a college football team was apparently too many leaps in translation), I was out with a smile on my face.

Wimp Out

Below s a transcript of an interview between my superego and my conscious on the road back to Tangier and Spain.  The superego, as it often does, is doing the questioning, and the conscious mind answers. 

Q: So, you are wimping out on bike touring in Morocco, huh?
A: Pretty much. 
Q: Developing world too much for you, then?
A: Well, hold the phone a second.  I don't want to leave Morocco so much as I don't want to bike tour here any more.
Q: Aside from the unsafe roads, insane driving, hostile people, vicious dogs, and lack of facilities, what are your concerns?
A: Maybe being the constant focal point of scorn and derision everywhere I go also has something to do with it too. Also riding past a never ending pile of garbage.  Gets old after a while. 
Q: so what's next?
A: glad you asked.  Looks like I am going to make an arc up through Andalucia with my remaining time, hopefully including Ronda, Granada , and Cordoba.  So there is definitely a strong pull factor, as well as the push. 
Q: Oh, I see.  You like long stretches of good road, scenic views, no hassle, and a large supply of red wine, do you?
A: Yes. Yes, I do like those things.
Q: So from a practical standpoint, how does this work? Does this mess up your plans? 
A: Arguably, it makes things easier.  I was going to have to fly with the bike from Marrakesh, which likely would have been a hassle.  Now I just need to take this bus ride back up to Tangier, and another one two weeks later from Cordoba to Lisbon.  And then I have my nice bike box to put everything in for the flight home.  The busses are pretty easy and cheap- at least in Morocco they are. 
Q: So Morocco was a disaster, huh?
A: Not at all!  Apart from a few unpleasant experiences, I have really enjoyed it, and learned quite a bit.  The food was great, and I met a lot of nice people.  Besides, all the trouble is what makes for great stories later on.  People kinda tune out when you talk about the great wine in Portugal, but everybody likes the image of me fleeing the Mocking Dead. 
Q: Have you considered people don't like you and take pleasure in your discomfort?
A: What's not to like?  I'm amazing. 
Q: You don't smell too good...
A: Yeah, well, I have not figured out how to get laundry done here. And the shower was tepid at best, so I still have soap in my hair.  It's 40 degrees in the mornings and evenings when I'm around that hostel!
Q: Moving on, what answer do you have to your critics? 
A: How about you try riding a hundred pound bike up and down the busiest, dirtiest, hilliest street in your town while dressed as a French mine and bearing a sign reading "God hates America".  See how long you make it.   Also have the option of at any point being able to switch the next day to a delightful bike path with wonderful scenery full of other mimes who think you are the best mime, and express their pleasure (since they can't talk)in the form of very cheap and delicious red wine and paella.  Okay, so maybe my analogy fell apart there a bit at the end, but you know what I am saying. 
Q: Man, you really smell, dude.  The poor woman beside you in the bus is totally dying. 
A: I know.  This is the first time I have been in a heated space in a week.  Really sorry about that. 
Q: well, on that note, that about wraps things up.  Any final thoughts?
A: Besides what a lazy question that was?
Q: Hey, it's your superego. 
A: I'm good.  And looking really forward to the next leg!

Days 28 and 29: Meknes and Fes

Day 28: Meknes

The weather has been mostly sunny, but very chilly in the evenings and mornings, which is all the more noticeable in a place with very few heated buildings.  Midday warms to a pleasant low-60's though, so it's very pleasant to walk around and sightsee.

Which is great, because there is a lot to see. Meknes and Fees are fairly close together- it's only about half an hour be train between them so I decided for simplicity's sake to just stay in the same hostel for 3 nights and base my adventures out of there.  Though this does have to be the most sterile hostel I have stayed in, and not particularly comfortable or a good place to meet anyone,  it's cheap and centrally located and does the job. 

Anyway, Meknes, smaller by far than Fes, is roughly dived into two sections, as are many Moroccan cities: the Medina (or medieval city) and the Ville Neauvou, built largely be the the colonial French.  The new quarter is not particularly interesting to visitors, it being just a modern city of grimy administrative and business buildings, but the Medina is fascinating. 

In general, Meknes is a much lower-key version of Fes, with many fewer (almost no) faux guides hustling you, and a Medina you can get your head around in a day.  It was Friday the day I was there, so the main souls (markets) were deserted, but this was in a lot of ways a good thing, in that it allowed me to see a lot of the other sights much more easily.  Many of them centered around a central historical figure, Moulay Ismail, a Sultan in the early 1700's who won back and consolidated much of what is now Morocco.  He was a great builder, as well, and he and his son's architectural legacy makes up a great part of the cities of Fees and Meknes.  Even better (from an interesting history perspective) was the fact the Ismaiel was also a brutal tyrant, kicking off his reign by piling 400 heads of his enemies in the palace courtyard, and also fond of driving around town in a chariot pulled by virgins. Pretty much every sight I saw had some similar gruesome/awesome story attached to it.  For example, the main gate to the Medina, colonaded with pillars from Volubolis and magnificently imposing, apparently, when it was completed, Ismaiel asked the architect if he (Ismaiel) could have done any better.  The architect, having no safe answer to this question, tried "yes", which did not work out well for him.  Nearby is is a vast underground granery that rumor has it was also used as a prison for the thousands of "Christian slaves" Ismail had is his court.  Legend also has it that when the slaves died of exhaustion, they would simply bury the bodies in the walls they building. 

And so on.  In the afternoon, I got to talking with a guy working at the beautiful madrassa school (also from that period), and against my better judgment, let myself be led to see a series of other lesser known sights.  Though this always comes with a fee which is in informally given at the end as a "tip," it can lead to uncomfortable situations, such as a dispute about the value of the tour or getting sucked into the inevitable rug shop for the hard sell, but fate was with me and this guy was on the up and up, and it ended up being a fascinating afternoon visiting wood workshops, an olive oil factory, a tannery, home sites of prominent historical figures, and so on.  Not having the right change but also very grateful for once actually receiving the goods offered and not being pressured to buy anything, I tipped the guy $20 for the several-hour tour and felt fine about it. 

After a full day of seeing the sights and again lacking much opportunity for night life, I hung out at the hostel that night chatting and playing cards with a couple from Luxembourg.

Day 29- Fes

Another clear but cold morning today, but I got a nice early start (easy to do when you go to bed at 10 having drunk nothing but mint tea and coffee the night before).  I figured out the logistics for the next day's retreat to Spain (bus takes bikes, train doesn't), which was easy because the (surprisingly clean and modern) bus depot was near the (also pleasant) train station.  It turned out to be a snap to get to Fes, buying a ticket from a computerized machine and riding the speedy electric train. 

Having a good experience with a guide the day before and hearing grim tales of faux guide hassles from my book and from the Luxenbougians, I decided this time to just bend to fate, hire an official guide (marked with really unimpressive laminated badges) negociate the price as best I could, and go for it.

This worked, mostly.  The official guide did indeed take me to many of the sights I had hoped to see (various mosques, historical schools, the much larger and more famous tannery, etc.) But interspersed with way overpriced tourist trinket shops, and ending with a stop in an overpriced restaurant.  On the up side, it did save a lot of time in the vast maze that is Fez's Medina, and the shops were short stood and soft-sell, and I threatened to walk out of the restaurant which triggered a negociation for a more reasonable price, and to be fair, it was an awesome lunch.  So all in all, a win. 

The afternoon I wandered other parts of the Medina, getting pleasantly lost and enjoying the assault on the senses that are the souks, half-heartedly souvenir shopping (everything I buy I have to carry on a bike for 2 weeks). Saw some other amazing architectural sights (schools, mosques, etc), and then down through the other, relatively newer section of the Medina, and then wandered down eventually back to the train.  Wanting to experiment with some other elements of Moroccan public transportation that having a bike had obviated, I actually sprung for a very affordable petit taxi to save myself 45 minutes of walking through the bad part of town.  The train was just as easy on the way back.  I walked the long way through the more ville neuvou section of Meknes (pretty hopping at night) which was very like a modern city anywhere (except replace all bars with cafes). Stopped at one, wrote for a while, and then back to the hostel for another early night in.  A nice day, all in all, and considering the logistics, pretty low key. 

Day 26 and 27: The road to Meknes

Day 26: 'Chaouan to south of Jorf El Melha (125 km)
Weather: nice.  mostly sunny, mid 60's
Bike: rear tube still questionable.  Held most of today, but was squishy at end.
Road: not too bad most of the day, but got more congested later on.  Doesn't take much on those no-shoulder highways to make things unpleasant.

Kind of a rough day today.  I was trying to make time through this less interesting part of the country, and unless I wanted to spend 4 days picking my way through the mountains on super rough roads and sleeping in people's yards, I had to take the relatively major road.  Actually, the first part of the day wasn't bad at all- though there were still no shoulders and the pavement is kinda rough, and the dogs meaner, the traffic was lighter than I thought it would be, and the 2000 feet of elevation I gained slowly gave itself up in a mostly downhill way.  The scenery was pretty nice, with rolling mountains covered with cork oaks and olive groves being actively harvested. So I got to my sort of tentative destination around 2 pm, which was sort of one of those "campismo" like place I stayed in in Portugal and Spain a few times.  It seemed nice, but for some reason they wouldn't take tents, only RVs.  It being early, me not being particularly tired, and seeing an opportunity to turn 3 days travel into 2, I decided to go for it, and find shelter where I may down the road.

But the land got flatter, the road rougher, other traffic thicker, the dogs just as mean, and the towns I went through had no where to stay, and even if they did, I would be very hesitant to stay there, because they were super dirty and kinda scary.  Sadly, the worst part about the ride, though,was the people.  Though some were nice, most were pretty unpleasant.  This country has a huge problem with unemployment, particularly with young men, and that mixed with a culture where women are expected to do most of the work, the young men have little to do.  So they do what all bored young men do the world over- travel aimlessly about the streets (or even most country lanes) and try to look cool in front of their friends.  Enter a vulnerable, dopey-looking foreigner reeking of unimaginable privilege. The result is predictable, and honestly, considering the situation, could be worse, but as it is, going through towns is kinda horrible considering most people are jeering at me, or throwing rocks, or grabbing at the bike, or demanding cigarettes, or deliberately veering their donkey cart in the way, etc.  

Anyway, not finding anywhere to sleep and with the sun going down and with my rear tire flatting out again, I was getting pretty desperate, so I asked a nice looking older guy (older guys with jobs are usually nice) in sign language if there was somewhere I could pitch my tent, and thank God he took me behind a school and introduced me to his friends- other nice older guys, who said they would keep an eye out for me.  These other guys seemed to be important, because when they talked to the throng of kids who had gathered to watch me make camp, the kids listened.  I ate my little camp dinner (which was a little bit of a bummer, because I can't replace the rubbing alcohol fuel- they only sell rubbing alcohol here in tiny expensive spray bottles) while another rando guy stared at me and asked over and over again in French if he could have the headlamp i was currently using.  (Is "non" not "no" in French?).  I disassembled the bike, put it in the tent with me and turned in at dark, mainly so I would be boring and people would leave me alone. 

Anyway, the experience was kinda fun and adventury in retrospect, but mostly scary and unpleasant at the time.  The disparity of wealth thing is really preying on my conscience, and well, it kinda sucks regularly running a gauntlet of sneering youth and malicious kids and snarling dogs and having huge mega trucks and busses nearly hit me every few minutes.   The upshot is I am strongly considering pushing on for another day to see the apparently amazing Roman ruins of Volubilis nd hit the major town of Meknes (despite difficulties, I did make 120 km ytoday and am within very doable range) , get a comfy room, see the sights of Fez and Meknes for a few days, then pile the bike on a bus back up to Tangier, and continue the European leg back to Lisbon, accelerating with bus where needed.  It is my vacation, after all, and I want to do more than endure it.  And I guess as difficult as it is, I might have to admit I bit off a little more than I could chew with this developing world bike tour thing.   Sigh.

Day 27: (Thanksgiving) Jorf to Meknes
Weather: A thin skim of clouds most of the day.  Mid 60s.  Not as cold in the morning 50s maybe. 
Bike:  rear tire stopped holding air, replaced tube. 
Roads- not terrible traffic on sections of major road, almost no traffic on country road section.  Country road pavement was intermittent and grades steep.

Well, no turkey today, but I have a number of things to be thankful for.  First, I am not spending the night in a field of trash.   Instead, I'm  snug in a kinda antiseptic but totally fine hostel (with WiFi!) in Meknes.   Today was a whole lot better.  Starred out rough when my get up early to beat the traffic plan did indeed beat the traffic but put me square in the time where these nightmare kids are waiting by the side of the road to get picked up to go to school.  So ran the gauntlet of taunts and rocks hucked at my head again first thing, but made myself feel better by coming up with a term for my young tormentors- the "Mocking Dead." So called due to their tendency to sniff me out from a distance and swarm to pile shouted insults at me, and also due to the often dead-eyed expression, even as they call me wicked names. 

But I dwell.  Almost immediately after that I took the scenic route and got immediately free of traffic for hours, and a hugely view-packed ride to boot, though steep, rough, and hard (stop snickering- it's beneath you).  The fields stretched far away on every side, and were being tilled for a winter crop.  I was interested to see that about half of this work was being done with tractors, and the other half by donkeys and mules drawing plows. 

Then by early afternoon I was at Volubilis, a stunning archeological site of a sizable Roman town.  There was a pleasant restaurant across the street and I was starving, so I had my feast there, and felt much better. 

Anyway, this site is at least twice the size of  Bolognia in Spain, and Volubilis also has an amazing amount of nearly intact mosaic floors.  It's a bit of a mystery why they just leave these 2000 year old priceless bits of art in the open with no protection, but on the up side there are not nearly so many rules and roped-off areas, so you can get a much better view of the ruins.  They have partially rebuilt some of the more interesting structures, such as the triumphal arch and part of the basilica.  They also rebuilt on of the many ancient olive oil presses and included replica wooden works so you can get an idea how the Romans produced one of the major exports of Volubilis.  Interestingly enough, that industry hasn't changed- the area is still surrounded by working olive farms.

The end of the day was fine- a fairly busy road and some unwelcome hill climbing right at the end of the day, but get this: a shoulder!!  Such luxury.  Will sleep well tonight. 

Day 25: Chefchaoun

An ideal rest day today, with perfect weather (though chilly at night), beautiful sightseeing, and actual rest.  Though as I mentioned before, this is not a particularly early-rising culture (except for the 5:15 call to prayer echoing over loudspeakers all over town), it is possible to find somewhere to get breakfast before 10 am, and this is enough of a tourist town to have a couple spots that will make some eggs for you, washed down with a cafe au lait and absolutely fantastic fresh orange juice. 

I checked some emails , and then meandered the famous Medina, which is all in shades of blue- apparently this was historically the Jewish quarter (many Jews settling here fleeing persecution in Europe), and they added indigo to their whitewash to distinguish their neighborhood.  The Medina is relatively compact, but still and absolute and literal maze.  There is no rhyme or reason (or signs) to the layout, and the alleys-often so narrow you could brush the fingertips of your outstretched arms along either wall- will asss often dead end as pass through.  'Chaouan is also built on a mountainside, so there is a vertical element as well, with twisting staircases leading up and down like a Dr. Suess illustration.  Lots of people live in the medina, of course, but most of the ground level space is dedicated to cubby-like tiny shops selling all manner of things- from practical groceries to all sorts of handicrafts.  Some of these niches are workshops, and the artisans hard at work inside on a loom or doing finish carpentry or making shoes, etc.  All in all, it's a great experience just wandering around getting inevitably lost. 

Without the bike in tow, I didn't have the giant bullseye on my back for the many, many people who claim to have a room or house for rent, and the only hustle is for restaurants or hash dealers peddling their wares.  'Chaouan and the surrounding area is the prime marijuana-growing area in the country, apparently the legacy of a political deal the king at the time made with a minority group: they would help him put down a rebellion, he would look the other way vis a vis the weed. It does seem odd that in a country where it is basically impossible to get a drink you regularly see all sorts of people smoking kif from long thin pipes, but thus is the great fun of travel- those "huh, did not expect that" moments.

Anyway, I saw the sights, including a nice hike up to the "Spanish mosque" that overlooks the town.  Apparently it was built by the Spanish during their colonial period here, and despite the commanding view it has over the town and valley, was never used.  There are great adventurous day hikes one can take further on up into the mountains, but feeling like I should stay true to the spirit of the rest day a long pull to Fes/ Mekenes over the next few days) and the fact that's where many of the nearby marijuana farms are, I took it easy. 

I did take the time today to chat with lots of interesting people, such as two young American recent converts to Islam, who, true to the old saw about there being no more fervent believer than the newly converted, urged me to examine my life and the lack of Allah in it.  On the rooftop terrace of the pension I am staying, I also chatted with a group of upbeat Peace Corps volunteers who were heaped to a rendezvous in Rabat for Thanksgiving. They were more than happy to give me route advice and answer my questions about the culture.  Not surprisingly, they had some friends in the SCA (my very recently former employer), there being a strong cross- pollenisation between the organizations.

And of course many shorter conversations with locals, which made me feel a lot better after a upsetting incident the previous day where I yelled at a guy who was just trying to help me because he was the previous nine such people who had approached me, ( sweaty and tired on my bike, and getting very frustrated at trying to find my pension in a literal maze swarming with people gaping,staring, and laughing at me ) , were scammers. I am not proud of the language I used, and it so happens this particular guy spoke solid English, so the colloquial American English epithets I directed at him were not lost upon him.  Watching him slump away, muttering, "such language, just really uncalled for" made me remember a polite but firm "no thank you'" followed by "please leave me alone" for the more persistent is sufficient.  Maybe when I get a really pushy one again I will use sea jargon to amuse myself, (belay that bilgewater, ye scurvy son of lubberly dog!)

The food here is definitely cheaper than Europe, so I have treated myself to some of the staples: richly seasoned skewers of lamb and beef on cous cous (yum), and tangine, a sort of meat and vegetable stew served bubbling hot in a clay dish (also yum). 

It getting cold at night and there being a dearth of heated buildings to hang out in, I decided that evening to experience a hammam, which everyone told me was like a Turkish bath, which actually told me nothing, because I had also not done that.  This must have been derived from the Romans, because like them, there are a series of rooms, each hotter and steamier (and kinda slimier) than the last. The hottest room is a little cooler than a wet sauna, but defiantly hot enough to sweat vigorously.  The idea is to sweat out all the gunk from your pores (which explains the odor in there of cumin and sweaty dudes), then pour buckets of hot water on your head and body while scrubbing yourself with a scratchy glove and soaping yourself. I don't know if it was more or less weird that you are not nude in there, though it does make total cleanliness a bit more awkward.   There is a big beefy guy in there running things, and if you pay a little extra (and I figured what the hey) he will scrub you (none too gently) with the scratchy glove and give you a "massage." This turned out to be different than the whale song-accompanied incense-burning chi-focusing experiences I had had before- primarily in that it involved lying on a hot slimy floor with a burly dude roughly twisting my arms, legs, and back in painful positions with jerking motions that made my vertebrae crackle, while occasionally having hot water dashed upon me kinda like what you might do to wake up a drunk on your lawn. 

All in all though, a pleasant experience, and above all, a warm one.  I had no trouble getting to bed and a slept well for the long road ahead. 

Days 23 and 24: The road to Chefchouan

Day 23: Tetouan to Oued Laou (50 km)
Weather: Partly cloudy, low 60's most of day, mild headwind most of day
Road- traffic moderate at first, tapering to light the farther down the coast I got
Bike- worked on it this morning, adding brake pads and adjusting shifting, rear tire still seems to have slow leak, considering swapping with spare tube, but also took apart my pump today and restored its high pressure/low pressure functionality which allows me not to be reliant oon gas stations to get bike up to full pressure. Hoping that "slime tuauhbe" will self-seal under full pressure. 

The day unexpectedly broke clear today, despite the forecast of the 100% chance of rain.  Plotting out the time I have left, I have to be a bit choosier about where I want to stay, and though seeing Tetouan in the clear daylight made me want to stay for a day, the more spectacular sights I might have to sacrifice later on made me/want to go.  I did wander about for a bit in the morning, getting some crepes with honey and soft cheese for a cheap and easy breakfast, and then falling into the clutches briefly of a rug scam guy (had not yet broken the habit of saying yes to people that paid off in Europe).  But free from him, strolled part of the charming Medina, got to a high point to get the skyline of the city, and then back to the pension to pack and prep the bike. 

Things were still a bit damp from yesterday's drenching, but I have extra sets of everything but shoes, but it being sunny and warm, I hit the road feeling fine.  After yesterday's experience, I chose the longer, more minor, scenic route and this paid dividends very quickly .   this was great psychologically since the day before really left me shaken about the whole Morocco leg of the tour, and I needed to get right back on that horse.

My road led directly east to the Mediterranean coast, and then bent southward to parallel it.  The Rif mountains, which make such a dramatic backdrop to Tetouan, reach all the way to the sea, and the road winds, climbs, and drops furiously along its slopes and alcoves.  This of course, makes for spectacular, though challenging, riding, since almost none of it is flat, and much of it is really steep.  The hills progressed in size each ridge, starting about 300 vertical feet, and by the 5th or 6th headland, a rugged 750 feet.  Each time, it would lose almost all elevation as the road dipped to service a town in a bay.   I got a lot of moral support chugging up the hills from the locals passing by beeping and shouting from tricycle tractor things and decorated truck/vans. 

But this took time and energy, so my original dream of getting all the way to Chefchouan (around 100 km) grew kind of dim by the time I hit Oued Laou mid afternoon.  Though I still some proverbial gas in the tank, stretching to remaiming 55km inland would put me in town around dark and exhausted, and probably soaked again, as the clods were piled up dark and menacing over the mountains.   Plus Oued Laou, a small seaside fishing village, seemed inviting enough.  My Rough Guide, coming in more handy in a more difficult country with much less WiFi, pointed me to pleasant friendly inexpensive centrally located hotel (which is nice to know about so I can avoid the hustlers here offering their "room house very cheap").  I had only eaten snacks for lunch, so I pigged out on an early dinner at a fish place on the beach.  It was delicious, and neat to be eating the fish (With my hands, as apparently the custom) caught by the small boats just outside the restaurant, though being ankle-deep in feral cats and stared at by the passers-by as I ate (there are pretty much zero western travelers so far on my route), reminded me once again this I was definitely not in Europe anymore. 

But as I sit here on top of my hotel overlooking th
e beach at sunset and the Mediterranean behind it, with children playing in the courtyard below, and the minaret in the distance chanting out a call to prayer, I feel much, much better than I did yesterday and feel like I am falling much more into the groove on the trip.  The forecast seems favorable tomorrow, and the minor road up up the Oued Laou valley looks fantastic.  And at the end, the first big destination of the trip: the famous blue Medina of Chefchouan! 

Day 24- Oued Laou to ChefChouan (60 km... But 4000+ vertical feet)
Weather: mostly sunny- highs in high 60's, lows in low 40s, nice tailwind early and late today.
Bike: rear tube still a little questionable- but held pressure pretty well today. 
Roads: with very short exception of a bit of major road near Chef choan (which just confirmed my route choice), roads were nearly perfect-smooth, almost car-free, and incredibly scenic. 

Awoke this morning (actually day 25 when I write this) at 5:30 to the call to prayer, which, here in 'Chouan (as everyone calls it) echoes off the sheer cliff faces of the Rif  mountains the town and down into the valley.  I am piled under a heap of blankets- Chouan is at around 2000 feet, and it gets near freezing at night an issue in a hotel without heat.  It is very cheap, however, and long on charm- it is just off a square fronting the kasbah (castle) in the Medina (maze-like pedestrian-only area of town that is honeycombed with tiny shops).  The Medina here is famously painted all in shades of blue, and it is indeed a wonderful place to get lost!

But I am ahead of myself.  Day 24 dawned bright and mostly clear, with a strong wind coming off the Med.  Though Morocco is not quite as a layabed culture as Spain, not a lot goes on before 9, so I was kinda pacing around a bit with a packed bike before the hotel owner woke up and I could pay him and leave.  (When one goes to bed around 10 in a country without wine, one only needs so much sleep).

That accomplished, I headed up the very scenic Oued Laou  (pretty sure Oued is "river" in Arabic) valley, through bucolic farmland and cute kids waving and shouting "Hola amigo!" to me from their yards, older friendly men in Moroccan snuggies leading donkeys laden with sacks of grain to the mill, young men uselessly  wandering the road or lounging in small cafes in a rigid uniform of bleached blue jeans, euro-soccer jackets, high-top fades and insolent smirks (and generally smartass remarks in French and Arabic), and of course headscarved women doing almost all of the actual work.  

I quickly realize that the notion I had yesterday of doing the route from Tetouan to 'Chouan in one go was insane for anyone but some mutant leg-monster from the planet Herculiod.  Though my distance wasn't what I was getting in Spain, the vertical feet gained (and usually lost immediately) is hugely more, and the climbing isn't nice gradual spinning, but almost entirely granny-gear grinding up grades rarely acceptable elsewhere.  So, considering this day entailed considerably more vertical foot gain and a greater distance than the hardest mountain bike ride I do in Boise, AND I am doing it on a 100+ pound bike, I am going to officially cut myself some slack about the distance. 
The climb took me up through steep canyons with sheer cliff walls 100s of feet tall, and majestic craggy ridge lines of the Rif mountains towering overhead.  It was jaw-dropping scenery, and combined with yesterday's panoramas of the Mediterranean, made for one of the big riding highlights of the whole trip.  The near total lack of traffic, with only the occasional Mercedes "grand taxis" puttering by, made things all the more pleasant, and I arrived in 'Chouan decidedly tired (there is a particularly cruel 1000 vertical foot climb at the very end of the day when I was within sight of the town), but very happy about the day's experience. 

Quick side note about the taxis.  I have noticed that in many developing world countries that there tends to be a strange uniformity in vehicles that serve the same purpose.  Not only are they the same make and model of vehicle, but the same year and color as well, which in the case of the grand taxi (which is one way to get town to town if you don't like the bus- if you just want to get somewhere else in town, you take a "petit taxi"- a green compact car) is about 1991, and always either yellowy-beige or sky blue.  Bolivia had its decrepit 80's Range Rovers, Vietnam its massive Chinese dump trucks, etc.  How does this come about?  I imagine a scene like this:

CAR DEALERSHIP, INTERIOR, DAY.  FROM THE CLOTHES AND MUSIC, IT IS EITHER THE LATE 80'S OR EARLY 90'S.  SUDDENLY, THROUGH THE WINDOWS, A MOTORCADE IS SEEN PULLING UP OUTSIDE.  FANTASICALLY-DRESSED GUARDS SPRING OUT OF A BULLETPROOF SUV AND OPEN THE DOOR FOR AN EVEN MORE RESPLENDENT FIGURE, WHO EMERGES FROM THE VEHICLE, AND IS LED INTO THE DEALERSHIP FLANKED BY HIS HONOR GUARD.  HE IS TENTATIVELY APPROACHED BY A TIMID CAR SALESMAN, SAY EDWARD G. ROBINSON'S CHARACTER FROM "FARGO."

Car Salesman: Hey, uh there, how ya doin'?  Welcome to East Rutherford Mercedes/BMW.  How can I help ya today?

King of Morocco: I wish to purchase a vehicle, perhaps several vehicles.

CS: Well you sure came to the right place!  My, that's some getup ya got on there.  If you don't mind me asking, what do you do?

KOM: I am the King of Morocco, sovereign of the ancient realms, lord of all I survey.  Mortals tremble before me and flowers grow where I tread. 

CS: Well, that's super.  What can I do you for?  Maybe you'd like this S series right here?  It has power windows and anti-lock-

KOM: Tell me, is this a long lasting vehicle?  Would it, say, continue to operate until at least 2013? 

CS: Well, sure, with the right maintenance and our extended warran-

KOM: Excellent.  And could you fit perhaps 4 or 5 grown men in the back seat of this vehicle?

CS: Well, there's not really enough seatbelts, but I suppose in a pinch you could-

kOM: Splendid.  I will take 1,450,234 of them. 

CS: Wow.  Um.  Any color preference?

KOM:  I like vomit yellow.  Though make a few of them sky blue.  You know, for fun. 

END SCENE.