Trip To Spain

Stepped off the train in Málaga. The air hit you first – thick and warm, smelling of baked earth and something sweet, like orange blossoms. Checked into a small apartment overlooking the Mediterranean. White walls, blue shutters. Simple. Just what I needed. Balcony looked out to the sea. That was enough for now.

Days blurred into a rhythm quickly. Beach in the morning. The Mediterranean was cool, bracing at first, then welcoming. Swam out past the breakers. Sun on your back, salt on your skin. Looking back at the shore, the coastline curved away, white buildings stacked up the hillsides, green patches of pines against the blue sky. Afternoons were for wandering. Málaga’s old town a maze of narrow streets, opening into sun-drenched plazas. Stopped at bars. Tapas appeared – olives, salty anchovies, manchego cheese. Cold beer in a frosted glass. The taste of Spain.

Picasso’s city. Went to the museum. His early work. Before the cubism, the angles. You could see the Málaga in it, the light, the faces. Walked the Atarazanas market. Sensory overload. Fish glinting on ice, mountains of spices in burlap sacks, the shouts of vendors, the press of bodies. Bought saffron threads, the smell earthy and rich. Evenings meant flamenco. Found a small tablao tucked away in a side street. No stage, just a small space, close and intimate. Guitar chords ripped through the air, raw and urgent. The singer’s voice, a lament, a cry. Then the dancer. Stomping feet, flashing skirts, eyes burning with intensity. Didn’t need to understand the words. It was all in the movement, the music, the feeling. Andalusia poured out in that small room.

Weeks drifted by on the coast. Sun, sea, slow pace. But the pull inland started. Time to move on. Bus to Ronda.

White Villages and Deep Gorges: Inland Andalusia

The bus climbed, leaving the coast behind. The landscape changed. Green hills turned to rocky mountains. White villages started to appear, clinging to hillsides like whitewashed dreams. Ronda perched on a cliff edge. The Puente Nuevo bridge spanned a dizzying gorge. Checked into a hotel, small, overlooking the chasm. Balcony view stole your breath.

Ronda was different. Cooler air, mountain air. Walked the bridge. Looked down. Vertigo. The Tajo gorge plunged deep, the river a silver thread far below. Houses on the other side, white boxes against the dark rock. Bullring in Ronda. Plaza de Toros. Oldest in Spain. Empty in the midday sun. Dusty arena, the silence heavy with echoes of past fights. Walked through the gates where the bulls charged. Imagined the roar of the crowd, the drama, the blood. Arab Baths, cool and quiet. Stone arches, filtered light. Whispers of a different time. Wandered the streets at night. Cobblestones underfoot, stars sharp and bright overhead. Wine in a small bar, local red, strong and earthy.

Drove out to the white villages. Grazalema, Zahara de la Sierra, Setenil de las Bodegas. Each one unique, each one beautiful. Setenil’s houses built into the rock overhangs, a surreal landscape. Drove through olive groves stretching for miles, the silver leaves shimmering in the sun. Stopped at an almazara, an olive oil mill. Tasted oil fresh from the press. Green, peppery, the real taste of olives, nothing like the supermarket stuff. Bought a bottle, a taste of the Andalusian earth to take with me.

The white villages were a different kind of Spain. Slower, quieter, closer to the land. But Seville was calling. Time for the city again. Train south.

Seville: Heat, History, and the River's Pulse

Stepped off the train in Seville. Heat slammed you like a wall. Flat city, spread out under a relentless sun. Guadalquivir River flowed through it, brown and wide. Checked into a place in Santa Cruz, the old Jewish quarter. Narrow streets, shade welcome. Seville was vibrant, pulsing with life, even in the heat.

Alcázar first. Royal Palace. A masterpiece. Moorish arches, intricate carvings, tilework that glittered in the sunlight. Gardens cool and green, fountains splashing, peacocks strutting. Lost hours wandering through the courtyards, imagining sultans and kings, centuries of history layered in the stone. Then the Cathedral. Massive. Giralda tower beside it, a former minaret. Climbed to the top, breathless. Seville spread out below, a terracotta sea of rooftops, the river winding through. Plaza de España, grand and sweeping, tiles depicting every province of Spain. Rented a rowboat on the canal, drifting in the sun, feeling the heat bounce off the water.

Santa Cruz quarter, a labyrinth. Shady squares, hidden patios, tapas bars spilling onto the streets. Sherry in Seville was fino, dry and cold, perfect for the heat. Tapas endless – jamón ibérico, plump olives, grilled prawns, fried fish. Sat at tables outside, watching the Sevillanos go by, their easy grace, their loud laughter. Seville moved at its own pace, unhurried, savoring life.

Flamenco in Seville was grander, more theatrical than in Málaga. Tablaos with stages, polished performances. Still fire, still passion, but more refined. Crossed the Isabel II bridge to Triana, the gypsy quarter. Flamenco there was different, raw and earthy, in the bars, on the streets, in the blood. Felt closer to the roots there.

Took a boat trip on the Guadalquivir. River breeze a welcome relief. Passed under bridges, saw Seville from a different angle, the grand buildings rising from the riverbank. Evenings in Seville were alive. Tapas by the river, music drifting from open doorways, the murmur of conversations, the clinking of glasses. Seville nights hummed with energy.

Train to Córdoba next. For the Mezquita.

Córdoba: Columns, Patios, and the Echo of Faith

Córdoba felt different again. Smaller than Seville, quieter, more contained. But with a deep, ancient heart. Went straight to the Mezquita-Cathedral. A forest of columns inside, stretching away into the shadows. Arches of red and white stone, repeating patterns, hypnotic. A mosque transformed into a cathedral, layers of history, layers of faith. Walked through the cool, hushed space. Felt the weight of centuries, the echoes of prayers, both Muslim and Christian. A place of profound beauty, and profound peace.

Jewish Quarter, Judería, narrow streets winding around the Mezquita. White walls, flowerpots overflowing with geraniums and bougainvillea. Patios. Córdoba’s patios were famous. Hidden gardens behind iron gates, cool and shady, filled with flowers, fountains whispering. Visited patios, each one a small oasis, a testament to beauty and care. Talked to the owners, proud of their floral displays, their traditions. Alcázar de los Reyes Cristianos, another palace, another set of gardens. Fountains, pools, green walls, a cool retreat from the Córdoba heat. Roman Bridge spanned the Guadalquivir again, this time with the Mezquita rising in the background. Walked across at sunset, the light painting the Mezquita golden, the river flowing slowly beneath.

Córdoba was slower, more introspective than Seville. The Mezquita dominated, its presence felt everywhere. The patios were a hidden beauty, a private world behind whitewashed walls. A city of quiet grace, of layered history, of deep faith.

Next stop, Granada. For the Alhambra. And the mountains beyond.

Granada and the Sierra Nevada: Alhambra's Whisper, Mountains' Silence

Granada. The Alhambra. Booked tickets months in advance. Went early, before the crowds, as the sun was rising over the hills. Walked up to the palace. Entered another world. Courtyards, fountains, the sound of water everywhere. Intricate carvings, delicate as lace, in stone. The Nasrid Palaces, rooms leading into rooms, each more beautiful than the last. Hall of the Ambassadors, Court of the Lions, names that echoed with history, with legend. Light filtered through the arches, casting shadows, creating patterns. Spent the whole day wandering, lost in the beauty, the detail, the magic of the place. The Alhambra was more than just a palace. It was a dream in stone.

Generalife gardens, across from the Alhambra. More gardens, terraces, fountains cascading down hillsides. Views back to the Alhambra, framed by greenery. Walked the Albaicín, the old Arab quarter, on the hill opposite the Alhambra. Narrow streets, whitewashed houses, viewpoints looking across the valley. Mirador de San Nicolás, the famous viewpoint. Crowds gathered at sunset. The Alhambra across the valley, bathed in golden light, the Sierra Nevada mountains rising behind, snow-capped peaks against the fading sky. Breathtaking.

Sacromonte, the gypsy quarter, in the hills above Granada. Cave dwellings carved into the hillsides. Flamenco here was in the caves, intimate, raw, passionate. Drank local wine, watched the dancers, listened to the haunting songs. Granada nights were cool, clear, the air sharp with mountain freshness. The Sierra Nevada loomed, a white wall on the horizon.

Drove up into the Sierra Nevada. Mountains high and stark. Thin air, views stretching for miles. Walked hiking trails, the silence broken only by the wind and the crunch of boots on the path. Villages in the Alpujarras, white dots clinging to the mountainsides, remote, timeless. Mountain air clean, sharp, a world away from the coastal heat. The mountains offered a different kind of beauty, a wild, austere grandeur.

Last stop. The coast again. But the Atlantic coast this time. Cádiz.

Cádiz and Jerez: Ocean Wind, Sherry's Warmth, Farewell to Andalusia

Cádiz, on a peninsula jutting into the Atlantic. Sea on three sides. Old city walls, weathered by wind and salt. Walked the walls, the ocean wind whipping at your face. Cádiz felt different from the Mediterranean coast. More exposed, more rugged, more steeped in seafaring history. Beaches long and sandy, facing the vast Atlantic. La Caleta beach, small and sheltered, nestled between old fortresses. Cádiz Cathedral, golden dome gleaming in the sun, a landmark visible from the sea. Mercado Central, vibrant and bustling, overflowing with seafood fresh from the Atlantic – oysters, prawns, fish of every kind.

Jerez de la Frontera, sherry country. Bodegas lined the streets. Toured a bodega, Tio Pepe. Underground cellars, rows upon rows of barrels, the air thick with the aroma of aging sherry. Tasted sherry, from the dry fino to the rich oloroso. Learned about the solera system, the blending, the aging, the art of sherry making. Sherry was the taste of Jerez, warm and complex.

Bodegas lined the streets. Toured a bodega, Tio Pepe. Underground cellars, rows upon rows of barrels, the air thick with the aroma of aging sherry. Tasted sherry, from the dry fino to the rich oloroso. Learned about the solera system, the blending, the aging, the art of sherry making. Sherry was the taste of Jerez, warm and complex.

Horses in Jerez too. Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art. Watched the Andalusian horses dance. Proud, powerful animals, moving with grace and precision to the music. A display of skill, tradition, and beauty.

Back to Málaga. Full circle. The same apartment, the same sea view. The sun still hot, the sea still blue. Walked the beach one last time. Swam in the Mediterranean, feeling the salt, the sun. Ate tapas, drank cold beer, watching the waves. Six months. It had gone quickly, and slowly, all at once. Enough time to feel the rhythm of Andalusia, the heat, the history, the passion, the beauty. Packed bags, went to the train station. The sun still beat down on the platform. Train pulled away, leaving Andalusia behind. But not really. It stayed with you, a warmth in the heart, a memory of sun-drenched streets, the sound of flamenco, the taste of sherry, the scent of orange blossoms. And the promise of return. Someday.