Settling In, part 19

My folks went along on their planned itinerary, flying to Barcelona to spend a few days there and then taking a train to Granada. There had been a last-minute flurry of rearranging the Granada accommodations—their travel agent had been able to book them into the highly touted parador there, located in a former Franciscan monastery. (The paradores of Spain are government-owned hotels housed in beautiful historic buildings.) But somewhere along the line someone had scared my dad off of it. “He said he was sleeping there, and his window was open, and he woke up with a cat sitting on his face,” Dad said. So calls went back and forth to the travel agent, and they got the reservation changed to some less threatening establishment.

But when I flew down alone to meet them at the Málaga airport a few days later, they were bemoaning their choice. “We went to the parador for lunch one day, and there wasn’t a cat in sight,” Dad complained. “I’m really sorry we didn’t stay there.”

We picked up our little red rental car and set off for Marbella, a short distance away on the coast. Mom and Dad were bubbling over about their trip. “We loved Madrid,” Mom said, “but oh—Barcelona! It’s so beautiful—Las Ramblas, the waterfront. And our hotel was great—you’ve got to stay there when you go! The Hotel Colón, right across from the cathedral. But make sure you stay on the other side of the hotel, because the church bells ring all night long!”

I was doing the driving, slightly miffed that the car had an automatic transmission. “I’m more used to the standard now,” I said. I was a little miffed, too, that they had preferred Barcelona to Madrid, because I felt great loyalty to my adopted city already.

“But we’re going to drive up into the mountains to see Ronda,” Mom said. “You’ll be glad you don’t have to shift gears all the time.”

“This is great!” Dad gushed. “I love it when you get out on the road in a new place, a new country. Remember when we did this in Italy, Jackie? It’s the serendipity of the road—you get lost sometimes, but you find something better than what you were looking for!”

We descended into the seaside town of Marbella, with palm trees all around and the blue Mediterranean on the horizon. White villas and huge condo blocks lined the waterfront. My parents had reservations at the Atalaya Park, which was recommended in my guidebook, but I hadn’t been able to get a reservation there. I was going to stay at Guadalmina Golf, a nearby resort. We decided to go to their hotel first.

The Atalaya Park was a big place, almost like a Catskills hotel. I took Mom and Dad in to register them, and the clerk gave them their key and directions to their room. We started off down the hall, took a left, went up some stairs . . . and it became clear that Dad was not going to be able to do this walk several times a day.

“He’s been doing so much better,” Mom said. “All the walking we’ve done the past week, he’s just gotten stronger and stronger.”

“Yeah, but this is nuts,” he said. “Let’s see if they have anything closer.”

We went back to the front desk, but they had nothing else available. “I knew they were full, because I couldn’t get a room,” I said. “Let’s see if we can get you something at my place.” So we gave back the key and got into the car again.

The road to Guadalmina Golf led through a residential neighborhood. There were pretty pastel houses with lush tropical gardens along the way. Finally we came to a collection of low pink buildings. I went in to see what was available.

“Yes, we have a large double room available,” the clerk said in good English. The resorts in Marbella catered to all kinds of Northern Europeans, and there were thousands of British retirees in the area.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Mom and Dad were delighted with their room, and with the place in general, which was attractive and relaxed. There was a restaurant with a wide terrace overlooking the water. “We have a Sunday brunch there with music,” the desk clerk had told me, and we put that into our plans.

My room, however, was a disaster. It looked as nice as the double, but there was a terrible stench in it—it seemed like triple-strength ammonia, and it was impossible to ignore. I called the desk to complain, but there were no other rooms available, and I figured we’d had enough moving around for one day, so I decided to put up with it. We went into town for dinner.

October was off-season for the Costa del Sol, but my mother was excited just to be in a place where jet-setters came. We walked through some of the shopping streets of the town, and I, at least, enjoyed the quiet. I was sure I’d hate this place during the high season. We picked a little outdoor place for dinner and had a simple but satisfying meal.

The plan for the next day was to go to Ronda, about forty miles north of Marbella in the mountains. Before I moved to Spain, more than one person had told me this was the best town to visit, perhaps the best they’d ever visited anywhere, so I was looking forward to it. The road up was incredibly winding and precarious, and I took the wrong turnoff once. My folks were panicked—“I’ll check the map! No, turn here! That’s the wrong way! We’ll miss it!” So much for the serendipity of the road, I thought.

Ronda was a big disappointment. It was set on top of a rock with a deep ravine dividing the town, with the old Moorish part, La Ciudad, on one side and the newer town (well, new as of 1485), El Mercadillo, on the other. We took a stroll over to the 18th century Puente Nuevo (New Bridge) and looked into the gorge, which was interesting enough, and we had coffee in the town’s attractive parador, but somehow the enchantment of the place escaped us. The guidebook suggested we walk down the road that led into the ravine, but with Dad’s problems I decided it would be better to try to drive down. Thus I embarked on a harrowing effort to thread the car between buildings that were built long before cars were even thought of, so that their architects had unkindly put them way too close together. My depth perception was nonexistent, so I relied on the screaming of my parents to guide me as I tried mightily to avoid scraping the rented car. The steepness of the ravine’s sides was almost too much for me, a Midwesterner, comfortable only on flat surfaces. We passed the Arab baths, the minaret, the cathedral, and the Alcazaba, but we didn’t look at them much in our panic. Maybe that was why Ronda just didn’t work for us.

Having finally reached the bottom of the hill, we took a residential street that led us into a commercial area. “Hey, how about getting some bread and cheese and stuff for a picnic?” Dad said. I knew this was something I could handle, so I parked near a small supermarket, and we trooped on in.

We picked up a baguette, some Coca-Cola Lite (the Spanish version of Diet Coke), and some potato chips, and I went over to the deli counter to get some sliced cheese. “Medio kilo de queso planchado, por favor,” I said to the clerk. She gave me a funny look. I thought I had asked for a pound of sliced cheese.

“En lonchas?” she asked me—sliced?

I turned beet red. “Si, en lonchas,” I said, embarrassed. I had asked her for ironed cheese.

We paid and drove out of town till we found a small pull-off next to the road where we could lean against the car, feel the breeze, see the view, and have our lunch. I explained my gaffe to my folks, and we laughed till the tears ran down our faces. “Iron the cheese! Iron the cheese!” Dad roared.

Back in Marbella, we decided to go to a fancy restaurant recommended in the guidebook. It was difficult to find the place, in a beautiful old house behind a hotel, but we did have a fine meal there. It was quiet, though, and again we had a strong sense of being out-of-season visitors to a summer resort.

The next day, Sunday, we took advantage of the hotel’s brunch. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and breezy, and the maître d’ gave us a table on the edge of the terrace looking over the water. “It couldn’t be more beautiful,” Mom said. A guitarist strolled among the tables playing Spanish music. “This is the life,” said Dad.

For the afternoon we took ourselves to nearby Gibraltar. I knew there were long-standing disputes between Spain and the U.K. over this British territory, but I didn’t know much more than that. It was only a short drive west along the coast, but when we pulled up to the border crossing it was clear that we were entering a different world. Cars were backed up, waiting to cross into the colony, and guards were checking trunks and passports.

The first thing we saw once we got through the border was a wide expanse of concrete. This, it turned out, was an airplane runway; cars had to cross a military base to get to the town.

Suddenly we found ourselves in England. The steep, hilly streets of the town were lined with gray stone buildings full of shops selling watches, pipes, clothing, scones—and Union Jacks were everywhere, in neon. It looked nothing like Spain.

We navigated the narrow streets for a while, looking for the cable car that was supposed to take you up the rock, past the dens of the Barbary apes. When we found the bottom station, though, we realized they were running on a Sunday schedule, and we’d have to wait a couple of hours to take the ride. “Not worth it,” Mom pronounced, so we cut the visit short and went back to Marbella.

The next day all three of us drove back to Málaga and flew to Madrid. My folks’ travel agent had booked them into a different hotel, the Meliá, for these last couple of days, just to try a different part of town. It was near my gym, so I had no trouble finding it to drop them off. “It was a great trip, honey,” Dad said. “Thanks for being our tour guide!”

The verdict on the Meliá was a thumbs down, especially after the luxury of the Palace, but the Argüelles neighborhood in which it was located was a good one. I had started to get to know it during my trips to the gym. It was an elegant area near the university, with pleasant cafés and great leather goods shops. A branch of El Corte Inglés, the big department store, was right across the street from the hotel, and it was a short walk down Calle de la Princesa to the Plaza de España, a pleasant park. Underneath the park, my friend Sandra had told me, was an arcade of small shops, and one of them carried Chinese cooking ingredients, which you couldn’t easily find in regular grocery stores. I took advantage of the opportunity to stock up on soy sauce and sesame oil.

Finally it was time for Mom and Dad to go. “We’ll see you soon,” I said. “We’ll be there for Christmas.”

“You guys were the best hosts ever,” Dad said. “We can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s a wonderful place to live, I can see that,” Mom said. “But I’ll miss you!”