Four Weeks, Four Countries by Ilka Cohen (heaven official's blessing novel english .TXT) 📕

day, for I was startled by gun salutes and firecrackers on my return. With the three-hour early-morning drive to Cordoba in mind for the next day, we passed on the opportunity to partake in the fiesta and called it an evening early on.

And why did it have to be an early-morning drive? Well, the mezquita, the famous medieval mosque that lured us most to Cordoba can be visited for free if you show up there before 10 a.m. Also, there are no groups allowed in before that time. An enticing enough prospect to make us leave at 6 a.m. in the dark. In the dark? Sure, it was early, but should it be dark at 6 in the morning in June at this latitude? Surely not. It is a quirk of how the world is carved up into time zones. Spain is in the same zone as Germany but neighboring Portugal shares England’s timing, i.e. Greenwich Time. Thus, if you live in Ayamonte, it is an hour earlier across the river. And the Portuguese clock seemed to fit the actual stand of the sun much better in this little border corner. Thus we had to stumble through the dark to the car where everybody but driver Aaron soon settled back to sleep. We would have been there at 9:15 a.m. – if the parking structure selected from the map did not happen to undergo renovations along with all the street sections around. So we got lost for a few minutes, had to park farther away and then almost jogged through the still mostly empty streets of Cordoba. Our efforts were rewarded, though; we made it in time and had the huge mezquita structure almost to ourselves for the first 20 minutes. Abrupt switch from sun-baked heat and haste to contemplative twilight in the huge room of the mosque. A magnificent building, started in the 8th century with the idea of recreating the desert praying experience: The floor was red sand and clay mixed, the many columns symbolized the palm trees of an oasis. Beautifully decorated carved wooden ceilings, filigree stonework and mosaics. Also an example of early recycling – many of the columns came from Roman excavations and a previous church, making them all different in color, size and shape and the overall impression somewhat more organic. Very different from anything I have seen so far. Later on, the Catholic church remodeled the middle of the building into a cathedral in Renaissance to Baroque style. By itself, it would have been impressive, but taking apart part of the mosque for it seems like a grave injury and deformation. Of course, you can argue – and a church brochure did – that the Muslims tore down a 6th century Visigothic basilica first to make room for their mosque. At least, they paid for it and did not just confiscate it. I guess sentiments of historical conservations are fairly young. We stayed a long time, admired and enjoyed the atmosphere. A mass was underway in the cathedral part, and the choir singing sounded truly heavenly. Got to give that to the Catholics.
We exited into the orange-tree filled courtyard with ex-minaret and then went for a stroll through old Cordoba. Especially picturesque again the little streets of the Juderia, white-washed, flower pots everywhere and brief glimpses into verdant and idyllic patios. The 13th century synagogue was closed. I bought a star-shaped ceramic tile at an art co-op.
Next we ventured just outside Cordoba to Madinat Al-Zahra, the ruins of the former palace complex of a caliph. Impressive size but both the excavation area and the exhibition hall were also closed. Then the reason dawned on me: It was Monday, traditionally the day when museums close. A bit of poor planning here. I shared this insight only hesitantly since the other big highlight of the day was supposed to be Italica, first and best preserved Roman settlement in Spain, birthplace of emperor Trajan and possibly Hadrian. Born optimists that we are, we drove by anyway. At least we could see it through the fence like the caliph’s palace. Well, not exactly, most of Italica remained hidden from view in the distance and behind walls. At least we agreed that it cannot be as big or impressive as Ostia or Pompeii, trying to convince ourselves that we had not missed out on too much. Besides the drive along small country roads was a welcome break from the highway.
We recovered at a cafeteria in Ayamonte with beer/sangria/cola/water, then let frugality win out and bought our dinner at the supermarket again. At least it allowed me to give in to my craving for chorizo. Of which there are many kinds in Spain. The type I chose turned out to be very similar to a certain Hungarian paprika sausage I still remember well, an unexpected find.

For the next day we had plans to cross over to Portugal. Aaron had a reservation for a day-long surfing class in Lagos, and I for three hours kayaking along the rugged coast full of sea caves and grottos. The time zone difference allowed us a somewhat later start in the morning, after all, it was still an hour earlier over there. Maureen and Marcus came along to explore Lagos, Micah stayed behind for a quiet day. While the drive to Cordoba had made me think of the Central Valley more than once – flat and intensely agricultural -, the landscape on the way to Lagos reminded me more of Southern California. Even the weather had turned to Californian summer just in time for a day near the water. There were subtle differences between the two countries. Portugal seems just a little bit more unkempt and laid back. It probably reflects greater poverty, too, but it felt invitingly relaxed. We reached Villa Offshore, seat of the Algarve Extreme company, somewhat ahead of time. Especially since we were dealing with surfer dudes here, for whom a start time of 10 a.m. was more a guideline than something written in stone. By and by, they packed their gear. At which point one of them remembered to tell me that I had to go to the beach to catch my kayaking group. Which was about due to leave at that moment. I rushed down to the remains of the old harbor fortress and found my group just ready to embark, life vests on and paddles in hand. Phew, that was close. A small group and all in their early 20s except for me. Two German couples from Zwickau (of course, Saxons…) and five Australians, four hung-over guys – Lagos has a reputation as party town – and a young woman, Joelle from Melbourne, who became my partner in the double sit-on-top. She had never kayaked before but was athletic and fit and picked it up fast. We were pretty much the fastest boat. Our guide, in a single, was a German who had emigrated to New Zealand years ago and then somehow landed in Lagos. The 25 Euros for the 3-hour tour were definitely well spent. The coast a succession of yellow sandy beaches and rugged sandstone formations, rocks, tunnels, and arches with evocative names like the camel, the elephant, the Titanic. And many caves and grottos that we visited. Wonderful photo motives, exciting but not overly challenging surf, sunshine and a pleasant breeze. Perhaps my favorite morning of all. On the way back, we stopped for half an hour at a beach for some swimming and snorkeling. Actually, everybody else decided the water was too cold, so it was only me swimming out there with snorkel and glasses. I saw some pretty striped fish as reward but returned with my legs scraped up from the sharp rocks and one knee bleeding rather dramatically. Well, it made for a good photo.
Right before we turned back to our launch site, I discovered Maureen and Marcus in the waves at a neighboring beach. They saw me, too, and waved back. Nevertheless, I had difficulties finding the correct beach afterwards and it took some searching and cell phone calls before we were reunited. Since Aaron had some surf hours left, we strolled through pretty Lagos. Lots of English and also German ex-pats have made this town their home, English is widely spoken, and we even found a very authentic German bakery and pastry shop. As to historic sights, there was the former slave market (the kayak guide had already pointed out the bay where the ships full of African slaves left for America), the mostly intact city wall, a number of pretty churches and a small fortress. The streets narrow but bright and full of holiday crowds, the whole pace has the atmosphere of a friendly spa resort. We snacked on ice cream and port wine and watched some of Portugal’s world cup efforts against Ivory Coast with the crowds. And finally waited the last hour at Villa Offshore for Aaron and his surfer group. Aaron was happy with the day in the surf. He had managed to stand up on the board a few times and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Only his knee hurt for days afterwards, so his new surfboard at home might remain a body board in the end. On the minus side, he had lost his wedding ring to the ocean. Everybody helped searching for a while but a ring in the ocean has probably even worse odds than a needle in a haystack. Hm, so I had sacrificed blood and Aaron gold to Poseidon that day. We decided to have my ring and some other gold melted at home and then two new rings forged from that. In the meantime, I should regard myself free and unbound as one of the girls from the group told me. Better not…
We saw a bit more of Portugal in the evening by driving to Sagres, the western-most point of Portugal, once thought to be the end of the world. King Henrique V stood there on the fortress walls, famously stroked his beard wondering what was out there and decreed to found a school of navigation. Who in time proceeded to chart and circumnavigate the world. We found something more prosaic – an excellent and affordable restaurant, O Dromedario, before heading back to Spain.

Our last full vacation day, June 16, was also the longest, taking us to Gibraltar, Baelo Claudia and Cadiz. The drive to Gibraltar is about 4 hours and thus the farthest distance we ventured to cover in one day. It led us past the now already familiar stretch to Seville, along a toll road for a short distance, then through the cork oak woods of the Parque Natural de Alcornocales. Here now it looked a bit like in the familiar Californian foothills, live oak replaced by the cork variety.
From Algeciras and La Linea, Gibraltar towers over the ocean. Abrupt, massive, steep and higher than I had expected. A mighty rock with a medium-sized town at its foot, covered in vegetation. We joined the border queue, which moved fairly speedily along, given that both the Spanish and the UK/Gibraltar side check every passport. Right before the Gibraltar border is an undeveloped stretch with military barracks. Reminder of the years when Franco blockaded Gibraltar after a referendum among its inhabitants on joining Spain had resulted in just 44 yeahs, but about 13000 nays.
We drove straight up to Europe Point, from where the African coastline is clearly visible. So close, and yet out of reach for this time. The sea crashing at the rocks below suddenly had this beautiful azure color. O right – this was the Mediterranean, no longer the Atlantic. Still my favorite sea, though I did not get around to swim in it this time. Instead we briefly admired the modern Al-Ibrahim Mosque next to Europe Point and financed by the Saudis, then drove on to the National Park Reserve of