British Hospitality, Andalucian Hostility

Day 90 & 91

Saturday, Sunday

Like 8th graders on a Friday morning, we (the other English teachers and I) slink to the back of the bus and get into proper lounging form for the long bus ride to Ronda. As most group activities go, one person had an idea and everyone else jumped on board, our trip was no exception to this norm. A teacher had come across an adorable hostel in the mountains by Ronda and proposed that we sightsee Ronda by day on Saturday, grab a taxi out to the hostel Saturday night after watching the sunset in Ronda and then Sunday morning, hike back to Ronda and catch the afternoon bus home. The plan was perfect. And like lemmings we jumped.

Ronda, however, was not keen on accommodating our plans. We arrived in Ronda, where temperatures were easily high 30s/low 40s with gale force winds that tore through your coat, if not your face, having come from Málaga, the beachside town where it’s never dropped below 50 F. Calling Ronda ‘blustery’ lacks the vehemence that the wind threw at us, it was tortuously cold. But like poor travelers who’re hell bent on getting their monies worth of the experience we walked around and saw the sights and searched out lesser known sights, then stumbled upon sights that weren’t sights at all, that were just shady streets were normal people lived. And then we reached our breaking point. One can only put on a good face for so long…before it’s blown off by arctic blasts. So we ducked into a warm Chino (a dollar store) and all bought little arctic type wool hats and then commenced to café hop to escape the cold. 3 cafes and 2 glasses of wine later we called it quits, deciding that a sunset in Ronda was like a sunset in Malaga or in our hostel and we hailed the first cab we could find for our hostel.

And this is where the dream begins.

Our hostel was run by a Brit named Bots who smiled beneath a leathery face and loosely tied back pony-tail, like an undying relic of the Rolling Stones, who came to Spain about 15 years ago, fell in love with the coast and one crazy night up and bought a hostel and has been on the outskirts of Ronda ever since. And by the way, he’s a gourmet chef. While we defrosted by the fire he threw together the best paella I’ve ever eaten in my life (his secret, squeeze lime, not lemon over the dish). Dinner evolved into a dinner party and Bots regaled us with his travel tales (including going into the Cambodian jungle and smoking opium with a native tribe) as neighbors popped in and out, bringing a bottle of wine or a bag of dried fruit or left over Christmas candies. The conversation roared and the fire grew dim, and so passed one of the strangest nights of my life.

Crawling out of my bed the next morning, having nearly frozen to death I scrambled to put on every article of clothing I’d brought and then poked my head up to the loft to see how the day was forming for our hike to Ronda.

It was snowing.

Heavily.

Bots, like all hostel owners, had ears sharper than a porcupine quill and heard me taking some obligatory film of the epic snowstorm descending upon the mountainous region. He simply laughed and said, “You all certainly chose the right weekend for a hike. This is the only place in Spain where it’s snowing right now.” I’m not sure what our group did to deserve such a karmic backlash, but some pagan deity certainly was reeking revenge upon us. We decided to eat breakfast and let the weather clear up a bit and then decide if the hike was do-able. But upon reviewing the map with Bots (who had previously assured us it would be an enjoyable 3 hour hike) he said he actually hadn’t done it in 5 years and wasn’t sure if they’d put up fences to keep cows in and hikers out. And what’s more, the cloud cover hung so low the peaks of mountains were invisible, so as we stood out on the loft roof, Bots tried to point to the 2 mountains we’d have to pass between to come around to Ronda, but couldn’t identify where they were hidden. So, the hike was scrapped for another day. But since our group moved with the speed of a sedated sloth, we missed the 1pm bus and had to wait 3 hours for the 4pm bus. What else to do but play Scrabble (in English with a group of Americans, 1 Spaniard, 1 Brit).

In the end, I can’t say I hold Ronda in any special place in my heart, like every other tourist in Spain does. She was a brutal old bird, determined to make us suffer. But I’m happily filing away the memory in the file of stories that are more enjoyable told in retrospect than lived in the present.

Really, SNOW??? It’s the Costa del SOL (SUN!).