Moroccan Travelogue, Part 1

Curiosity is only vanity. We usually only want to know something so that we can talk about it; in other words, we would never travel by sea if it meant never talking about it, and for the sheer pleasure of seeing things we could never hope to describe to others.

                                       -Blaise Pascal

Tuesday, March 11, 2003

All great slacker journeys begin with a ride to the airport from the slacker's parents and so it was my dad who dropped me off at the Tulsa airport.

Would you like to guess how far to Morocco I made it before being harassed by screeners? If you are familiar with my past travel experiences, then you are probably guessing the Tulsa airport. You are correct.

I arrived well before boarding time, and dreading what was to come, I stopped short of the metal detectors. I decided to do my waiting on the liberty side of the screening station. For half an hour, I studied the passengers as they passed through the metal detectors and strategized as to the best method for passing through without being "randomly selected" by federal agents for full screening.

When I spotted two young Arab women wearing hijabs get in line, I watched carefully to see how they would be treated. Expecting them to sail through as the result of some sort of reversed discrimination, I was almost surprised to see at least one of them get selected. She had to remove her shoes and have the wand passed over her.

I couldn't put it off any longer. Other than avoiding eye contact-and making sure I wasn't wearing a headscarf--I hadn't come up with any strategy for sneaking my dignity past the feds. As soon as I stepped through the metal detector, a uniformed agent confronted me. "Sir, would you please step over here." First, I was placed in a little metal holding pen until another agent could gather up the items I had placed on the conveyer belt. Next, I was asked to step over to the screening area for the treatment I knew so well. "Stand here . . . arms out . . . turn this way . . . not that way . . . shoes off . . . extend your leg . . . lift it . . . other leg . . ." As the agent passed the wand over one of my shoeless feet, it beeped. I lost confidence in those wands long ago. I think they have a button on them the agent can press when he wants it to beep. When things get dull, they press it just for giggles. I'm not Evil Knievel--I don't have metal bolts in my ankles. Why would a sock and a human foot set off a metal detector?

After concluding that my foot wasn't an explosive device, the agent asked to examine my wallet. "Watch me closely while I do this, but don't worry--I'm not I.R.S." Humor from the Leviathan! Ha!

Next, he wanted to examine my belt. When he saw that it was a money belt, he asked me to move to a cubicle set up for private screenings. I was the only person I saw who received this special treatment. While the other passengers gawked, I shuffled over to the cubicle with my belt unbuckled, trying not to trip over my undone shoelaces. Once there, the agent didn't open my money belt, but he did pass it through his fingers, squeezing and bending it. He looked over at me and explained that some of the 9/11 hijackers hid their box-cutters in money belts. "How do they know that?" I asked. He said that other hijackers on that day were caught while trying to board and their box-cutters were discovered. Does that mean there was an attempt to hijack more than four planes on 9/11? Where are these other hijackers who were caught? Why is Zacharias Moussaoui the only person being prosecuted for 9/11 if others were caught? I should have asked him, but instead, I said, "I thought box-cutters weren't prohibited items prior to 9/11."

"They weren't."

"So why would they need to hide them in money belts?"

He shrugged. "It might have had something to do with the size of the blades." Our discussion of hijacking techniques thus concluded. He determined that I didn't have any shoe bombs, wallet bombs, or belt bombs, so he let me go.

My flight to Houston took off on time. National Terror Alert Level: Yellow.

My next flight took me to Newark, NJ, which was a bit of a surprise since my flight itinerary showed that I had a direct flight to Madrid. Many of the seats were occupied by members of a choral group from Guam on their way to perform in New York. I had a window seat and the girl sitting beside me in the center seat was a member of the choral group. She was so obese that, although she was of average height, the layer of blubber she was sitting on elevated her head a good two inches above mine. Wedging herself into her seat was quite an ordeal. At one point, she gave up and asked the man sitting in the aisle seat if he would switch. Without expression, he replied, "No. I always sit on the aisle." No sympathy for the horizontally challenged.

Despite what must have been the painful compression of her girth between her two armrests, she maintained a pleasant demeanor throughout the flight and it was fun to watch her reaction to seeing snow for the first time. We passed over a forest of factory smokestacks and then touched down in the Garden State on a runway dotted along its edges by bulldozed piles of dirty snow. It probably hadn't snowed in over a week and the ugly mass was the only snow that remained. The girl had to ask for confirmation that it was really snow, but when told that it was, she beamed like she was sledding in a winter wonderland.

The flight to Madrid was much quieter. My travelling companion was a Spaniard who didn't speak English, so we didn't exchange much more than a nod of the head.

The in-flight movie was I Spy. I had intended to get some reading done after the movie, but that was before I discovered I could play chess on the video screen on the back of the seat in front of me. I lost the first two games and became obsessed with beating the Continental computer. I put so much thought into each move that the third game lasted the rest of the flight. With a great sense of triumph, I won just as we started our descent into Madrid. I was gratified to see that the computer required more and more time to process each move as the game progressed. In my fantasy world, I imagined my victory causing the entire Continental on-board computer to lock up and send the plane into a dive. Then I would truly be satisfied. Of course, if it was that easy to crash a passenger jet, they would be teaching chess game theory in Islamic madrassas all across Saudi Arabia.

From the airport I took the Metro to Sol, which is the center of Madrid. It had been over 24 hours since I had slept, but I wanted my sleep schedule to adjust to Spanish time as soon as possible, so rather than finding a hotel, I forced myself to keep moving. I started my sightseeing with Plaza Mayor. A market square that was originally outside the city, it was brought within the walls of Madrid in the 15th century. All of the guidebooks list Plaza Mayor as a must-see, so I was disappointed to find that it is little more than a paved courtyard with a single statue of Felipe III in the center. The buildings that enclose the courtyard were built in the 19th century and didn't look all that interesting to me.

The only thing that really caught my eye was a banner handing from one of the apartment windows that read "No La Guerre." That was the first of many such signs I would see in Spain. There were so many, in fact, that sometimes the statement would be shortened to a simple "NO." It would be assumed that you know by now what's being said no to. Throughout my stay in Spain, wherever I was, I could stop and look around and could find one of those banners. I even saw an official information booth at a tourist site with a "No A La Guerre" sign in the window. Do I go to that booth to find out what time the museum closes, or to find out what George W. Bush has in his chest in the place of a human heart?

If there were no banners visible, then I could surely see someone wearing a button that expressed the same sentiment. The standard button was rectangular with red lettering on a black background. Sometimes it seemed that every third person on the street was wearing one of those buttons. The anti-war sentiment in Spain was intense.

Next, I visited Plaza de la Villa. I thought it was a much more interesting plaza showing older and more varied forms of Spanish architecture. The oldest building is the Torre de los Lujanes, a fifteenth century building in Mudéjar style. The building to its right contains a Mudéjar doorway with a distinctively Muslim horseshoe arch. One of the reasons for my trip to Spain was to see this type of Muslim architecture.

I went to Catedral de San Isidro, but wasn't able to go inside. Next, I went to Cathedral de la Almudena. This neo-gothic cathedral, begun in 1879, wasn't inaugurated until 1993. This might explain the funky colors and geometrical patterns on the ceiling.

The first place where I had to pay an admission price for entry was the Palacio Real. Built in the 18th century, it is the official residence of the king, although he doesn't really live there. My Let's Go guidebook said to arrive early to avoid long lines, but it was the middle of the day and I think there were ten people in line. I walked through a few of the palace's 2000 rooms and also visited the armory, which contained the sword of El Cid, which was pretty cool.

I lucked out by timing my visit to the palace to coincide with a temporary exhibit focusing on items obtained in the Orient during the early days of the Spanish Empire. The highlight for me was a collection of items from the Battle of Lepanto in 1571. By coincidence, I had read a long article about the battle just before leaving for Madrid. It was a naval battle fought between the Holy League (of Christian nations), consisting primarily of Spanish ships, commanded by Don Juan of Austria and the Ottomans (the Muslims) commanded by Ali Pasha. The battle ended with the virtual destruction of the Ottoman navy. This was the first Christian victory over the Ottomans. Although Ali Pasha escaped, the museum exhibit contains items captured at the battle that supposedly belonged to him. (If you are as big of a history geek as I am, you can read more about the battle here.)

I laid down in the Jardines de Sabatini, a neat garden beside the palace, for a brief rest and managed to catch myself before drifting into sleep. I pushed myself onward and spent some time hiking through a much larger garden nearby, Compo de Moro.

I returned to Sol to find a room for the night. It concerns me when the first hostel I visit on my first night in a foreign country is full, but when the second one is also full, panic starts to set in. I gave up on looking for places recommended by the guidebook and just started trying every hostel I came upon.

Here's a dilemma you face when you talk to hotel/hostel managers in Spain. If I ask in my best Spanish whether he speaks English, he'll give me a condescending smile and reply in English, "Yeeeeeees, I speak English," as if to say, "Do you really think I could run a hostel catering to tourists without being able to speak English?" But if I don't ask and simply start speaking English, he'll reply in Spanish with a wearied tone, "I don't speak English," as if to say, "You self-centered American, do you just assume everyone speaks your language?" There's really no solution to this problem, so I just learned to accept being an annoyance to every manager I would be paying money to.

The next question would often evoke another alternating set of frustrating responses. This one would not be limited to Spain. I would ask if there was a room available and the manager might respond with an incredulous expression and ask, "For tonight?!" He would then shake his head and give a slight chuckle. "We are completely booked," or as they say in Spain, "We are completed." What I hear him say in my head is: "You should have made reservations long ago. You're going to be sleeping on a park bench tonight, amigo." I would then walk to the hostel right next door and get the alternative response: "Of course we have an empty room." What I hear him say in my head is: "You are traveling in off-season, post-9/11--how could we not have empty rooms available, you dummy?" Indeed, the place might turn out to be three-fourths vacant.

That first night in Madrid, I managed to find a hostel with an empty room that was pretty much the same as every other room I would stay in during my trip. It was just big enough for a single bed, a sink, and a little desk. The sheets were clean, which is all I cared about. It was 16 euros for the night. Use of the shower down the hall would have cost extra, so I didn't use it.

By this time, I was so starved for sleep that I was losing the ability to focus. I collapsed on the bed, eagerly anticipating unconsciousness. That's when someone in the common room next to my room decided to practice playing flamenco music on his guitar. I laid there listening to it for half an hour and then decided to go somewhere for dinner.

After much searching, the cheapest place I could find was a donner (gyro) shop, so I had a donner kebob for supper and then returned to my room. An hour had passed, but the flamenco music was still going strong. It was actually quite good, so I really didn't mind. What better way to drift off to sleep on your first night in Madrid than to the guitar strums of flamenco?

Thursday, March 13, 2003

Ten hours of sleep later, I packed and found the non-English speaking manager to pay for my room. He claimed that I had been there for two nights and tried to charge me accordingly. I had been extremely tired the night before, but I seriously doubted that I had slept through an extra day. I insisted that I had stayed for uno noche and he finally backed down, but maintained a look on his face that suggested I was pulling a fast one. This wouldn't be the last time a hostel manager would try to charge me for an extra night. Does that trick really work for them? Maybe sheepish Americans are so embarrassed about not being able to speak the language, that they pop for the extra night just to avoid an uncomfortable argument of hand gestures.

After leaving the hostel, I headed for the Prado Museum. I arrived a few minutes before opening time, so I went for a walk around the neighborhood and just happened to stumble upon Iglesia de San Jeróonimo, Madrid's royal church building. It was the site of the coronation of Fernando and Isabel.

The Prado, containing over 7,000 pieces of art, is considered to be one of Europe's finest museums. It is filled with Spanish and foreign masterpieces, including a comprehensive selection from the Flemish and Venetian schools. Not surprisingly, it contains a huge collection of pieces by Francisco Goya. The one most recognizable--and the one I remember studying in my art appreciation class in college--is Fusilamientas de Tres de Mayo (The Shootings of May Third), which depicts the terrors of the Revolution of 1808.

It was interesting to note the dates of Goya's paintings and how the styles changed over the years. His earliest pieces are of a realist style and depict little boys playing cards and flying kites in the sunshine. As he got older, his painting style became increasingly expressionistic and his subject matters became more bleak. Just before his death, he was a deaf old man living alone and painting creepy stuff like Saturno devorando a su hijo (Saturn Devouring His Son), which depicts the moment when Saturn eats his children upon hearing a prophesy that one of them would overthrow him. It's not something I'd want on my living room wall.

I was fortunate to be visiting the Prado while it was hosting a temporary exhibit of paintings by Vermeer and other Dutch painters on loan from New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was nice seeing an exhibit from an American museum because it meant that the description blocks were in English. However, whoever wrote them has a dirty mind. Whether the subjects of the paintings were playing instruments, painting pictures, or counting money, the description would invariably say that the activity was a sublimation for sexual desire. I'd like to know whether a Spaniard or a New Yorker wrote those descriptions.

From the Prado, I walked to the train station and took the high-speed train to Seville. This premium mode of travel was out of my budget, but the guidebook made it sound like such a sweet ride, that I wanted to give it a try at least once. I wasn't disappointed. There was no swaying or rocking and it was the quietest train I've ever ridden. I could hear a slight hum under my feet and that was about it. Best of all, it cut my travel time from six hours to two and a half. The anti-American sentiment in Spain didn't prevent them from showing a Jimmy Stewart western (dubbed in Spanish) on the video monitors and playing Bad Company over the audio system.

I was surprised at how sparsely populated the countryside was. Once we were out of Madrid, we passed very few small towns and although I saw many green fields, it was seldom that I'd see a farmhouse. There were also very few trees. The only ones I saw were part of olive orchards. The soil beneath the trees was always disked, so wherever there were trees, there was no grass. As we neared Cordoba, the terrain started to change. There were small mountains and I started seeing cedar trees. Just past Cordoba, I saw the first palm tree. As we approached Seville, the palm trees became more plentiful, interspersed with orange trees always loaded down with ripe oranges.

In Seville, I checked into a pensión, which is really no different than a hostel. The guidebook recommended catching a flamenco show while in Seville, so I asked the pension manager about tickets. He said tickets were 25 euros apiece! I don't think that even included a meal. Needless to say, the flamenco show was out, so I went walking around in search of someplace to eat. I ended up eating tapas at a bar.

Tapas are basically appetizers. Typically, a bar will have a tapas menu listing thirty or more varieties of tapas. They are very popular in Spain. People will go to bars and have tapas and drinks before going to a restaurant or they might just make an entire meal out of several different plates of tapas. I ordered something that turned out to be very much like pepperoni. I also had the calamari. It was one of the few food names I was able to recognize and ordering it was a safe way to avoid getting something really scary, which is a real risk when ordering tapas. I noticed another American in the bar did the same thing. Five pepperoni slices and four calamari rings isn't much of a meal, but I had a big bowl of sleep for dessert.

Before going to bed, I had noticed that there were a large number of smudges on the powder blue walls of my room, but hadn't given it much thought. Soon after I hit the sheets, however, I heard the sound of a mosquito in my ear. After slapping myself silly for half an hour, I decided that blind combat was being ineffective. I switched on the light and that's when I noticed that all of those smudges on the walls were red; they were blood splattered mosquito carcasses. A C.S.I. team could have compiled a DNA history of every resident of that room using those blood marks. When I finally managed to dispatch my enemy with a rolled up Economist magazine, there was no red, so I felt like that was some sort of victory. I turned off the light and crawled back into bed. Minutes later, the buzzing returned. I ended up spending most of the night with my sheet pulled over my head.

Friday, March 14, 2003

As I stepped out of my room this morning on my way to the bathroom, I noticed the door next to mine was ajar. I leaned to my right and crooked my head as I attempted to see whether my neighbor had left for the day. When I straightened back up, I whacked my head against the wall in front of me. The pain was immense. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a huge whelp on the left side of my forehead with a swollen blood vessel going through it. It was much bigger than anything the mosquitoes managed to accomplish. That whelp would be my travelling companion for the next three days.

After eating an aspirin for breakfast, I headed out to explore. I caught a city bus that took me to the western edge of the old city. Directly across the river I could see the abandoned remains of Expo '92, consisting of modernistic steel structures and even a rocket ship that clashed with the beautiful architecture of old Seville. I walked along the old city wall and then made my way to the Convent of Saint Paula. Along the way, I passed a number of orange trees. The entire city was dotted with orange trees and the occasional lemon tree. It seemed odd to me that they were always loaded with ripe fruit. Why didn't I ever see a green orange and why didn't anyone ever pick those beautiful ripe oranges instead of allowing them to fall to the sidewalk to rot?

The convent didn't seem to be a big tourist draw. When I arrived, I had it all to myself. I also had my own personal jolly nun (who didn't speak a word of English) to escort me. I rang the doorbell multiple times before she showed up huffing and puffing with a big grin on her face. Other than a nice painting of St. Jerome and a magnificent wooden ceiling, there wasn't much in the convent that interested me.

When I traveled to Istanbul almost three years ago, I saw formerly Christian buildings such as Hagia Sophia that had been converted into mosques by the Muslim conquerors. On my trip through southern Spain, I wanted to see the flip side of that architectural appropriation and conversion. An excellent example is the Catedral (Cathedral) in Seville, which is the principal tourist draw in the city. In 1248, following the reconquest of Seville by the Christians, the existing Almohad mosque was converted into a cathedral. In 1403, the structure was demolished to clear space for a massive cathedral that stands today as the world's third-largest cathedral and the biggest Gothic structure ever constructed. All that remains of the former mosque is the minaret La Giralda, built in 1198. You can still see the distinctive Muslim arches and designs on its sides, but at the top, the Christians added a belfry housing 25 bells. (Muslims hate bells.) I paid to climb to the top of the bell tower.

Inside the cathedral is the sepulcher of Christopher Columbus, although it is questionable whether his bones are inside. I also saw a Spanish flag that was raised over the mosque when the Christians captured the city. It's still carried around the city on special occasions. That's probably the neatest thing I saw inside the cathedral and it wasn't even mentioned in my guidebook.

Facing the cathedral is the Alcázar. Originally built in the 9th century as a Moorish fortress, the Spanish monarchs transformed it into a royal palace. Although most of what you see today was built by the Christian Spaniards, they maintained the Mudéjar architectural style, so it looks thoroughly Muslim. This confused me when trying to keep my dates and monarchs straight.

I walked along the river, passing by Torre del Orro, and then crossed to the other side. I hadn't had anything to eat or drink all day and I was craving some fresh-squeezed orange juice after spending the day in a city filled with orange trees. I went into a bar and ordered some orange juice and I was served a bottle of stuff that tasted like Tang. That must have been some sort of cruel joke.

I finished my sightseeing with a visit to Plaza de Espana before returning to my room. Most restaurants in Spain do not open for dinner until 8 PM, so it's always a long wait until dinnertime. I managed to find an Italian restaurant recommended by my travel guide that was located in a former 12th-century Moorish bathhouse. Having gone the entire day on nothing but a bottle of Tang, I didn't have a problem consuming an entire ham pizza and some sort of pistachio and chocolate mousse for dessert. I then returned to my room for another night of buzzing and slapping, with my rolled-up copy of the Economist always within reach.

Saturday, March 15, 2003

Continuing to move southward, I took a bus to the town of Ronda. Again, the scenery along the way was mostly farmland with very few houses. Something didn't seem quite right and it took me a while to figure it out: there were no fences. For two hours, we drove through prime pastureland and I didn't see a single cow. To an Okie, that seems peculiar.

As we got closer to Ronda, which is in an upper elevation, the terrain suddenly became mountainous and rocky. I saw fewer olive trees and more pines. In some ways, the terrain reminded me of Krujë in Albania. We went through a couple of pueblos blancos. They are clusters of white houses in the mountains. Tourists often go on pueblos blancos tours, going from village to village. They look kind of neat from a distance, but unless you are fascinated by conformity, it seems like a waste of limited vacation time.

Ronda is bigger than a village but not quite a city. It's main attraction is its spectacular view and an impressive bridge that spans a deep gorge that divides the town. During the Civil War, political prisoners were cast to their deaths from the bridge's midpoint. Ronda is also known for its importance in the "sport" of bullfighting. It is home to Spain's oldest bullring as well as a bullfighting museum, both of which I managed to miss. Orson Welles had his ashes buried at a bull farm at the edge of town. (I'm thinking of having my ashes buried at a gamecock farm in Durant, Oklahoma.)

After a full day of exploring old Muslim houses and fortifications, I found an outdoor cafe‚ recommended by my travel guide. The plan was to order a bocadillo, which is about the cheapest meal you can get in Spain. A bocadillo consists of a very thin slice of meat on a hard roll. I wouldn't call it a sandwich since it doesn't contain any condiments or "fixins" of any kind. The bread is so hard that it would often scrape a layer of flesh from the roof of my mouth. (I rate the quality of a bocadillo as high when the meat is thicker than the layer of flesh that gets removed from my mouth.) I sat down for a cheap meal only to discover that the cafe‚ has a minimum order of two bocadillos. Traveling alone definitely has its drawbacks. Once again, I hadn't eaten all day, so I thought I could handle a double order. The non-English-speaking waiter was dubious, however. He brought out the two bocadillos on separate plates and hesitated to see whether I really wanted both of them. I ate one and a half and took the other half with me for breakfast.

Sunday, March 16, 2003

This day was the low-point of my trip. Up until then, I was doing pretty well at sticking to my somewhat sketchy schedule and getting to where I wanted to go in a timely manner. Then it all fell apart.

On Saturday, the weather had been perfect. In the middle of the night, clouds rolled in, accompanied by strong winds. Although my window wasn't open, there was enough air movement inside my room to cause the rattling of my door to wake me up. When I got out of bed, the power was out, but came back on by the time I had packed. Once again, the manager tried to charge me for an extra night, and once again I prevailed. I stepped out into a biting wind and rain sprinkles. It was the first time I needed the jacket that I almost didn't bring with me.

When I got to the train station, I checked the schedule and discovered that I had confused Granada for Gibraltar the day before when I first checked the schedule. I was on time for the train to Granada, but that's not where I wanted to go. That was the first problem. The second problem was that trains don't go to Gibraltar. I ended up buying a ticket to Algeciras. According to Let's Go, I would be able to catch a bus from there to La Linea, which shares a border with Gibraltar. This screw-up would only cost me a 45-minute bus ride and an extra hour of waiting in the train station, so I wasn't too upset. Then as I studied the train schedule some more, I noticed that the train to Algeciras would be stopping in La Linea. I had a brainstorm. I thought I'd outsmart the Let's Go book by getting off in La Linea so that I could avoid backtracking on the bus. The train station might be a ways from the Gibraltar border, but I'd probably be able to take a city bus.

The train ride was enjoyable. I had an entire car all to myself. Despite the dark skies, the view out the window was really nice. For the first half-hour as we made our descent from Ronda, we hugged a mountainside with a fast-moving river on our left. There were few signs of human activity other than a farmhouse that had a giant statue of King Kong in the backyard. (Don't ask.) Half way to La Linea, the countryside flattened out and I even started to see fences and cattle.

I thought I would leave the wind behind in the mountains, but when I got off the train in La Linea, it was still blowing and the skies looked even darker. I didn't see any signs for Gibraltar, which was a bad sign. I decided to walk along the main road until I could find a sign. After walking well over a mile, I gave up and returned to the train station and then walked half a mile in the other direction. I found a Gibraltar sign, but it was only a commercial advertisement and gave no indication how to get there.

I finally surrendered and looked for someone who could give me directions. I went to a shop that appeared to be devoted exclusively to cooking rotisserie chickens. No one spoke English, but they pointed and said, "taxi". That's the frustrating response I would often get when asking for directions. How do I make these people understand that I am not a taxi person? The image of taxis won't even register on my optic nerve. In Spanish, I asked whether I could walk to Gibraltar and everyone's eyes got really big. That's not good. "Taxi . . . taxi . . . taxi." Before leaving, I bought from them what looked like a giant hotpocket. It was the only thing they were selling other than whole chickens. It turned out to be cold and contained tomatoes, bell peppers, and things I couldn't and probably wouldn't want to identify. It was disgusting, but I was hungry enough to force half of it down.

I returned to the train station to look for a city bus. There was a bus shelter directly across the street and a toothless old man was sitting there, so I assumed there would be a bus coming along soon. I sat down at the shelter on my side of the street to wait for a bus going in the direction the chicken people pointed. After a very long wait, I crossed the street and asked the old man whether a bus would be coming along. He shook his head and told me that buses don't run on Sunday. Apparently, that's just where he likes to sit on Sundays. He then pointed to the nearby row of taxis.

I decided it wouldn't hurt to ask the taxi driver how much the ride would be. He said it would be 10 euros. No way. Keep in mind that a bus ride from Algeciras to La Linea would have cost me less than 2 euros. But then he told me that La Linea was over 15 kilometers away. Yeah, I could walk it, but that would just about kill the day. I was defeated. I climbed in the taxi.

The driver didn't speak English, but that didn't stop him from talking about the impending war with Iraq upon learning that I was from the United States. As he was driving, he grabbed a magazine he had been reading and showed me a page that contained pictures of various members of the Bush administration. He pointed to each picture and said, "Petrol . . . petrol . . . petrol . . ." I know only about five words of Spanish, and I didn't think I could formulate a geo-political argument using the words: "room," "walk," "expensive," "suitcase," "mustard," and "dog"; so I just smiled and nodded. I could have at least pointed to him and then the taxi and said, "Petrol," but I didn't try. He dropped me off at the border to Gibraltar and I headed for the immigration station.

Gibraltar is a fascinating place. Of course, I had heard of it before--or at least I had heard of the Rock of Gibraltar--but I had no idea that this little 2.5 square miles of rock was a British colony until I happened to read an article about the recent vote in Gibraltar in which 99% of the voters voted to remain British subjects. Although Gibraltar is a bit pricey and doesn't get included in the typical Spanish vacation itinerary, I had to see it just because of that article.

Going through immigration with a U.S. passport was a breeze. I was then on British soil. Everyone spoke English, all the signs were in English, and prices were in British pounds, although euros were also accepted.

To get to the colony, you must walk across the airport runway, which intersects the isthmus and ends in water on both sides. (Look both ways to make sure a jumbo jet isn't landing.) This is where I experienced the strongest wind of my life. The wind sweeping down that runway wasn't gusting, but was constant like being in a wind tunnel. It was impossible to walk in a straight line. It was also impossible to walk upright. I had to lean to my left into the wind at a 10-degree angle as I walked.