The difference was immediate and distinct. A stiff wind dried and cooled our bodies that had oscillated between sticky-damp and profusely dripping over the past two weeks. On the beaches burkas were replaced by bikinis, or even lack thereof. Tuna tataki stepped in for tagine, and the imams call to prayer was muted by the fast finger plucking of guitars in bars. If Morocco was our cleanse, then Tarifa was our reward. Sitting on the beach that first night we watched the sun whip with the wind over the horizon towards home. In front of us was the gateway to Europe. Only later did we discover that this place was world famous for its wind. In the moment however it was famous to us, simply for resembling something close to a return to familiarity and normality.
Liberated by fresh air we swapped in our bus tickets for a set of car keys and took to the Autovia. Our first stop parked us in the wine country of Rhonda valley in the heat of wedding season. A short walk away dipped into the valley itself and left the crowds behind. We sauntered though small vineyards on dirt paths; crushing stray grapes beneath our feet. The smell of dry hay and musky wine casks hung heavy in the hot air. A secret trail wound us up a deep ravine through abandoned stone watermills with caved in ceilings draped in sun drenched ivy, and collapsed floors open to the storming whitewater below. We burrowed deeper along the hillside, where it seemed only rebellious teens and pioneering homeless had gone before, until we popped out at the base of a waterfall from the land before time. Although famous to many for it’s venues with views, Rhonda will always be famous to us for the world’s best caprese salad.
For the few days we practiced our best high society look alike lifestyle in the charming and all too popular old streets of Marbella. Endless boutiques lined the streets with racks of all white clothing, next to equally endless restaurants packing the sidewalk with all white tablecloths. Fourth of July docked us in deck chairs at an ever famous beach club while an American hits cover band played cheesy classical rock ballads on the stage over the pool and all the pretty people jammed along on red, white, and blue blow up guitars.
Our costal tour detoured inland with a stop in an ancient city famous for its Alhambra, the last defeated stronghold of the Moors. We toured its manicured gardens and dazzled at its boundless fountains finding an excuse to take a photo or two. By night the city is best enjoyed by foot, tapas hopping from bar to bar accompanied by a glass of dark vermouth and a diminishing sense of direction. Being lost after dark could never be more fun.
Back on the coast, and in search blue water, we set our heading for a national park, infamously the only qualified dessert in Europe. We lugged beach chairs and an umbrella through baking sand dunes for miles, often running from swarms of furious bees, desperately in search of our private paradise. When we finally got there, our eyes burned from sweat and sunscreen, and our feet blistered from sandy sandals. While we may not have been the only people that day to find our perfect beach, the experience was no less special.
When we ferried away from North Africa in search of our own clear blue freedom we unknowingly sacrificed a different sort of freedom. Gone was the isolation of standing on a rooftop over the medina listening to the call to prayer and watching the sunset. From here on our sunsets would be viewed shoulder to shoulder with the entirety of summering Europe; cigarettes and all.
