Le Tour avec les Forbes-Gray

Spain is an incredible place, but not for any reason you'd expect. It's not the rolling hills of olive trees or the tiny villages nestled in the mountains that amaze me. Rather, I'm awed by the pleasure I find in doing the many mundane tasks that Spaniards do everyday without thinking.

I adore hanging out the laundry, especially when I've just done a load with a lot of underwear. I know it sounds crazy, but before we moved here I acquired about 20 pairs of undies in vivid colors (orange, hot pink, lime green, turquoise...) and I can't think of anything more exquisitely beautiful than brightly-colored, freshly-laundered undies dangling in the sunlight of our patio de ojos.

Aside from domestic chores, buying groceries has taken on a whole new appeal. I try not to plan too far in advance with the meals because, frankly, I'm fond of the man who sells me fruit and vegetables and I miss him if I go too many days without ordering produce by the kilo. (For the record, a kilo of mushrooms is entirely too much fungus for two people to consume.) I love that he takes the time to explain to me how to eat custard apples and is impressed that I know how to make gazpacho (yeah, it's not difficult). And I dream of the day when I can make small talk with the ease of the old ladies in line behind me.

With that said, I would never recommend passing up the array of scenic destinations Spain offers. One moment you can be lying on a sandy beach soaking up the Mediterranean sun and a mere hour of driving later you can gaze over the edge of a 360-foot cliff at the winding river below or the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

During the holiest of holy weeks, Semana Santa, we took advantage of our vacation days and ventured to Ronda with Sage's parents to see the famous gorge...or perhaps I should say the infamous gorge. In the novel "For Whom the Bell Tolls” Hemingway tells the story of Franco supporters being beaten and thrown over the edge of the cliff that divides Ronda. When looking down at the sheer drop to the rocky river bed below, it's hard to imagine any beliefs I'd be willing to fall to my death for.

In addition to the stomach-flipping heights, we explored the shockingly well-preserved Arab baths. Built partially underground to maintain the temperature of the rooms- one cold, one warm and one hot- the baths were used by both travelers to the city and locals to purify their body and souls...uh-huh. I think they just liked lying around in a pool all day, but maybe that's just my lethargic self projecting my thoughts!

Of course, an account of our trip to Ronda wouldn't be complete without mentioning the marvelous meal- with more courses than I could count- that we enjoyed at Restaurante el Tragabuches. In a span of 3 hours we sampled macadamia nuts coated in a lemony yogurt sauce...spoons of shredded grapefruit and raw tuna... a miniature nest with chorizo paste and a raw quail egg...baby carrots drizzled with black licorice flakes, pepper, salt and orange juice...green apple sorbet accompanied by creamy goat's milk cheese, truffle oil and pine nuts. Perhaps more impressive than the endlessly creative tasting menu was the level of professionalism maintained by the wait staff throughout the meal. They eagerly answered our inquiries about ingredients we didn't know in Spanish and were happy to bring even the bottle of the olive oil they had used to the table so we could read the label.
The staff took great pride in serving each dish and in explaining what particular flavors regional ingredients brought to a dish. Memories of the meal come to me in textures-crunchy, foamy, icy, creamy, crisp. Just writing about the dishes makes my tastes buds go crazy!

Enough about food... on to the wine!! I may be a foodie, but Sage's father, Gary, is fondly referred to as the family wine weenie. It was his wish that we visit Jerez de la Frontera on the way to Ronda and tour the bodegas where Tío Pepe sherry is made.

They say that we have more memories associated with smells than any of our other senses, sight included. I'm sure that 50 years from now I will remember the musty scent of yeast as we toured the cellars of the bodega where the sherry is aged in oak barrels. In the dark, cool aisles of infinite barrels, we learned how each year's harvest is stored, sampled and monitored. We sniffed sherry aged in barrels that once contained cognac and studied the particular characteristics of the region that produce the special grapes for making sherry. While I'll admit that sherry isn't my first choice for beverages, I was fascinated by the sophisticated process required to make the drink and still can't fathom how on earth people discovered wine-making processes before they developed flushing toilets.

Having satiated our gluttonous urges, we returned to Malaga to witness one of the most somber celebrations in Andalucía- Holy Week.

I always thought the Ku Klux Klan had invented eerie, candlelit processions with anonymous participants hidden away in robes with pointy hoods. As it turns out, they were just copying the annual, religious parades in Spain-minus the whole hateful, racist bit, of course. Seriously, the processions are creepier than I had imagined. Penitent worshippers march for hours in long, silent processions through the streets, swinging burning incense and carrying candles. Those who feel their sins are more severe VOLUNTEER to carry floats of the Virgin Mary that weigh several tons, some even choosing to do so while barefoot or with balls chained to their feet. I don't really get the appeal, but it's definitely a sight worth seeing. Unfortunately, it's almost impossible to capture on camera due to the low lighting, but hopefully the pictures give you the slightest idea what I'm talking about.

Eventually, of course, we had to abandon the land of fancy food and aged wine and return to our jobs. Patty & Gary went home to their cats and we came back to ours. Life goes on in Malaga. Guess it's time to bring in my laundry...

---

---