The last time I messed around in the Strait of Gibraltar, it was to take part in the start of the most morally questionable military operation of my career.  This time, the 35 minute experience only gave way to complete and utter peacefulness in the Cádiz environs.

Time to unravel. I’m on Spanish time.

 

I could tell you about the constitutional history of the city…

…or the harbor’s significance in one of the greatest naval battles in history, the Battle of Trafalgar…

…or explore in detail Spain’s deep religious roots…

But I’m not going to do that. 

My brain is largely shut off in this country- only flickering on momentarily when I need to try and speak a little bit of Spanish in order to make my way around. After all, I’m finally in a land where I can don skimpy PT gear (ahem, that would be shorts) and not worry that I’m ruffling the modesty feathers of the local population. 

 

So you know what that means-  where can I get in a good morning run in my underused workout clothing? Yes, Megan is blogging about running again. It’s been too long!

We’re staying with another Olmsted scholar here in Spain. The couple is inhabiting the most amazing house, complete with salt water pool and a seemingly inexhaustible reserve of hospitality (yes, this includes sangria).  When I look at their digs and compare it to my own in Dakar, there is no denying that my own palace sucks. Still, I’m not complaining. 

At least not much.

The Bassett Hacienda

The house is in a wooded wonderland. We woke up this morning to witness the remnants of an otherworldly mist that gently blankets every inch of this Olmsted gold mine. Four of us got motivated enough to head out for a run, and it wasn’t long before we were bound for an outing that would bisect the Iberian peninsula and the Atlantic ocean.  Good stuff.

Ahh the beach. Gracias, General Olmsted.

In order to access the beach, we cut our way through a neighborhood that spit us out onto the best blue I have seen so far on my trip.  We ran up and down the shoreline, watching locals practice their bullfight techniques (complete with horns and a red cape!) as well as early swimmers. Not wanting to miss out on this experience, we were sure to jump in the ocean before heading back to our meager accommodations.

Hashuma (shame)! Not only am I running around in this ridiculous get-up that exposes my knees, but I am about to go for a dip in this outfit!

Heading back to the hacienda.  It’s a direct shot through a little neighborhood back to their house from ocean. Or is it?

Okay so in our trot back to the house, we get terribly turned around: mucho lost-o!  We can’t seem to find our way out of the labyrinthine network of streets. And none of us speak Spanish.

Where do the Bassetts live again?

Remember how I earlier said that my brain was largely powered down during this trip, except on the rare occasion where I need to speak some Spanish? Well, when I say “Spanish”, I mean the ten words that I learned from watching exactly one Beavis and Butthead episode and from watching various Speedy Gonzalez cartoons about twenty years ago.

You laugh, but this knowledge was useful!

The Bassetts live across the street from Burger King. There is nothing else around of note, so I took advantage of this internationally-recognizable landmark and asked two separate people how to get home.

Hola! ¿Donde esta el Burger King?

The answer involved a mixture of French-sounding words (rond-point, or roundabout, at least I think), hand gestures and the word “arriba” used repeatedly. Got it. 

Thank god for mindless cartoons! After 30 minutes of wandering, we finally spied the BK beacon!  

So we finally got back, happy to have conquered our little Spanish neighborhood. We wrapped up the extended run by taking a second dip in the pool back. Just to be sure that we had recovered from our harrowing cultural ordeal, we followed this up by relaxing poolside and then did some more swimming.

It’s been a good day. I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s travails with eager anticipation.