|
In my defense, the bar was dark, the menu’s lettering was minuscule, and my brain was fried. I'd been walking all morning, and the last leg of the journey had required pushing through the dense crowds thronging downtown Málaga, where every tourist currently visiting Spain seemed to be jockeying for the most Instagram-worthy place to pose over lunch.  Cheerful hubbub drew us to La Tranca on a quiet residential street in Málaga. Leaving the brouhaha behind, Rich and I found a quiet street with a small café-bar where the host was singing snatches of old Spanish songs, holding his grandson on one hip, and tallying tabs on the bar in chalk. I ordered some tapas, including the slightly unusual option I’d spotted: montadito de pato (mini-sandwich of duck). Then we heard our host call to the cook, “Montadito de pata” (mini-sandwich of foot). “Wait, what?” I said. “A foot? Whose foot?” But our host had already disappeared, so I was left to speculate. This being Spain, where the average citizen consumes 125 pounds of cerdo a year, pork seemed probable. Having spent decades idly gazing at hams hanging above tapas bars, I was well aware how little meat surrounded pig’s trotter. Was I about to be served a whole greasy hoof between two slices of bread? To my relief, when the mini-baguette arrived, it was hoof-free; instead, the inside was stuffed with the fatty bits of meat that bulge around the pig’s ankles. Tasty, but somehow I don’t think I’ll be ordering it again Málaga is one of those cities that changes radically from barrio to barrio, often from street to street. As on prior visits, I made a huge effort to avoid downtown's Touristville, but that day I’d soldiered through to pay homage to a true hero in the fight against absolutism. What’s absolutism? The ancient claim of some monarchs and dictators that their supremacy is all-encompassing and unfettered by any need to respect law, church, social norms, or the rights of anyone but themselves. (I know, right? Aren’t we lucky to be living in more enlightened times?) Historians view Louis XIV, the famous Sun King of France, as the archetypal absolutist. He certainly dressed for the part.  Louis XIV was King of France from 1643 until his death in 1715 — 72 years and 110 days, the longest running monarch in history. Spain’s most emblematic absolutist was King Ferdinand VII, who overturned the new liberal constitutional government of 1812 and retook the throne with the help of the French army. One of Ferdinand’s fiercest opponents was young General Torrijos, who sought to spark an uprising in 1831 by landing on Málaga’s coast with 60 men. But it turned out he’d been lured into a trap by the absolutists, and Torrijos and his soldiers were captured and shot without the lawfully required trial. "This tragic end to his life explains why he has gone down in history, quite rightly, as a great symbol of the struggle against despotism and tyranny,” wrote historian Irene Castells.  The Execution of Torrijos and his Companions on the Beach at Málaga by Antonio Gisbert Pérez is considered one of Spain's finest historic paintings. When the absolutists weren't looking, Málaga laid Torres and his men to rest in their fanciest cemetery, San Miguel. Later, feeling even more glory was needed, they re-buried them downtown under a monument covered with frou-frou and well-deserved praise for their bravery. I never did find Torrijos’ original resting place during my visit to San Miguel Cemetery. My plan to ask the caretaker about it got completely derailed when he began sharing grisly tales of ghostly inhabitants. It seems a previous caretaker, the monk Brother Pepe, reported he’d heard a child crying, “Mama, Mama” and traced it to the grave of Antoñito, who died from leukemia at 14 months. Naturally Brother Pepe consulted a psychic about the phenomena, and she told him Antoñito was bitter about his suffering and needed candy to sweeten his soul. So the monk started leaving candy and small toys at the grave; later he’d find the candy half eaten, the toys gone. “Just local kids, eating the candy, taking the toys,” said today’s caretaker. “Mere legend.” “So you haven’t heard his ghostly cries?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Besides, Antoñito isn’t even in this cemetery anymore.” Before I could ask why, the caretaker launched into the story of the Corpse Bride, Carolina, who was jilted at the altar and supposedly died there from lovesickness. Her faithless fiancé died a week later. Coincidence? Fate? A vengeful ghost? Who can say? In case our time in Málaga didn’t cover enough ghoulish ground, we also visited the city’s other famous cemetery, San Rafael. “Every day during the Civil War,” said a woman who stopped to chat with us there, “they brought in townspeople by the truckload and lined them up against that wall.” She gestured to an old stone wall, 100 yards long, crumbling and riddled with bullet holes. “They shot them and dumped them into pits.” Left-leaning Málaga was subject to some of the harshest repression of Spain’s White Terror; some historians say the total killed throughout the city was 20,000 — 10% of the population at the time. Records show 4471 townspeople were shot in San Rafael cemetery; their names are inscribed on a memorial pyramid. Lest we forget.  Paying our respects to the 4471 people shot against the wall in San Rafael Cemetery. And before I tell the next story, no, I didn’t risk getting shot, or even arrested, but I did run afoul of authorities at the cathedral. Begun in 1528, Málaga’s cathedral was designed to have two towers, but only one was completed, causing the building to be nicknamed La Manquita (the one-armed lady). At the base of the unfinished tower there’s a plaque telling how funds raised to complete the tower were diverted to help the American colonies free themselves from Great Britain in the War of Independence. Unfortunately for me, the plaque can only be viewed from the cathedral garden, which was currently closed for repairs. Standing behind the barricade tape, I could just glimpse the bronze rectangle. I glanced around; there was no one but a busy maintenance worker between me and my goal. Slipping past the barricade tape, I took off at a brisk, professional trot. The maintenance man shouted something, and I called back that I was a travel writer who needed a photo. I picked up speed — arrived at the plaque — got the shot! Whew! Three security guards materialized and politely but firmly escorted me out of the grounds. I explained my mission, and they seemed more amused than concerned. What I did not tell them was why I was so interested. Wikipedia says the part about helping America is quite likely a complete urban legend. According to the parish registers, that money was actually spent renovating a roadway. What? Bearing false witness on a church wall? Somebody is going to have a lot of explaining to do at the Pearly Gates.  One of the trip highlights was the night some kind Scots invited us to share their table at a crowded restaurant. The two adolescent boys were wide-eyed as I regaled them with tales of criminal trespass, ghosts, my foot sandwich, and as a grand finale, my famous snake-in-our-bed story (see that post here). And I thought about how lucky I am to have this blog to keep me perpetually inspired to take detours to lesser-known locales. It helps me embrace the world as my Home 2.0 and feel my connection with the human family, loony as it is. Not all my adventures are Instagram-worthy, but they sure give me plenty to talk about over dinner.  HOME 2.0 This is the latest in my series of blog posts exploring what it takes to create a better life for yourself abroad — or at home, for that matter. See all posts in this series. WANT MORE? To subscribe, send me an email. [email protected] SUBSCRIBED BUT NOT GETTING POST ANNOUNCEMENTS? Check your spam folder. If you still can't find it, please let me know. GOING SOMEWHERE? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.
8 Comments
Is the planet Mercury in retrograde? Could there be something in the water? Are the End Times really upon us at last? Because it seems to me that humans have been behaving very strangely lately. And now citizens of the animal kingdom are joining us on the wagon train to weirdness. Take, for instance, our furry friends who volunteer as crimefighters. My regular readers will recall my post about the attack squirrel that drove off a would-be thief in Idaho. And now a herd of llamas has become media celebrities for capturing a wanted criminal in Derbyshire, England. It happened one night. The hapless (alleged) criminal — who is no doubt rethinking his life choices at this very moment — assumed he’d made a clever move by evading police and taking off across a dark and seemingly deserted field. Suddenly he heard a beastly bray and found himself surrounded by a posse of eight belligerent llamas. “They circled this fugitive,” said owner Heidi Price. “And they started releasing this huge alarm call. Which sounds like an old man laughing.” OK, yes, that would be seriously disconcerting. The llamas kept up the cacophony until Heidi’s partner discovered the culprit and alerted police, who recaptured their man and declared the llamas “heroes.” No, I don’t know why our animal companions are taking up side hustles in law enforcement. I can only assume they are questioning whether we are up to doing the job ourselves.  "First, they do an on-line search." And it’s not just animals and humans; even inanimate objects are running amok these days. You probably saw the headlines about the horrific railway accidents near Córdoba and Barcelona. Now evidence is emerging of poor maintenance, crumbling infrastructure, and safety shortfalls so widespread and severe that train service is stuttering to a halt all over the country. If they’re operating at all, trains often move at a snail’s pace to avoid stressing decades-old, ready-to-fail rails. In some places, passengers are required to get off in mid journey, take a bus, then switch to a train again. In the middle of all this there was a national railway strike, which was ended early so that everybody could get back to full-time shouting and finger-pointing.  In 2019, I set off from Seville's railway station on a five-month, ten-country Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. (Sigh.) I'm really going to miss Spanish trains! When will things be back to normal? Possibly in my lifetime. Upgrading 10,000 miles of railway tracks isn’t going to happen quickly, cheaply, or without five-alarm political pandemonium. Rebuilding public confidence will take even longer. If you’re planning a visit to Spain, do not count on being able to travel by rail. Business is booming for the airlines and bus companies; their financial officers can hardly believe their luck at this sudden windfall.  Rich is never happier than when he's studying maps and transit schedules. "No big deal," he keeps saying. "We'll just take the bus." Rich and I have vowed this won’t put the brakes on our determination to travel the world via public transportation. In fact, our resolve proved a useful example in our discussions around this week’s Ideas Club subject: “What’s the purpose of purpose?” As my regular readers know, in October Rich and I started the Ideas Club here in Seville. The concept — stolen (with their permission) from some creative folks in Petaluma, CA — is like a book club, only we read articles and talk about issues. This year's topics: Artificial Intelligence, The Future of Work, Freedom, Enough, and now Purpose. How does purpose shape and direct our life? The Japanese speak of ikigai, the reason we get out of bed in the morning. Research scientists describe innumerable health benefits, demonstrating ways purpose can help us live longer, healthier, happier lives with better sex. But how do we figure out what our purpose is? How do we incorporate it into our daily lives? What if we don’t fulfill it? What if we become obsessed? What if we decide to hell with it and head off in a different direction altogether? What happens if achieving our heart’s desire isn’t enough?  “The majestic way they climb higher and higher until they kiss the sky reminds me of the huge pile of work I have waiting for me when I get back.” Our 15 participants divided into small groups for lively discussions that ranged over history, philosophy, and science, enriched by riveting personal anecdotes and blue-sky speculation about whether character drives purpose or purpose drives character. My group examined what happens when a rational purpose grows into full-blown obsession. One example was the recent case of a soccer dad whose love of the game and desire to support his own kid got him so overwrought that he ran down onto the field and (allegedly) slapped an 11-year-old girl in the face. Yikes, mister! It’s only a game!  Signs like this are cropping up all over America these days. Let's hope parents take the message to heart. After nearly an hour of animated dialog, it was all I could do to convince the small groups to quiet down for a moment so we could switch over to general discussion. Then the room was off and running again, comments flying back and forth. We didn’t reach any conclusions, but that wasn’t the point. We were there to speak our own truth. As I recently heard an artist say, “I could just actually look inside myself and find things that were worth sharing.” How often do you get to do that?  Of all the topics we’ve covered, the one that had the most impact on me personally was January’s theme, Enough. We discussed how, in our scarcity culture, we can we slow the ingrained habit of ceaseless striving for more of everything. How can we accept the fact we have enough time, food, interesting work, congenial companions, and so many other essentials? We talked about “time poverty,” the feeling held by 60% of adults that they lack enough time to complete tasks, do their work, and enjoy life; most feel they need an extra four hours a day. As a writer, I live by deadlines, frequently feel rushed, and often wish for that extra four hours. To counteract that tendency, I’ve adopted “enough” as my mantra for 2026, reminding myself (sometimes every five minutes) that there really is sufficient time to get everything done. Yes, there is! It has helped a surprising amount.  As a reminder, I'm thinking of putting this picture, taken at a family reunion, on the wall above my desk. But the real payoff is knowing we’re building community here in our Home 2.0. The Ideas Club brings together people from various countries and social circles, who get to know one another on a deeper level through thoughtful discussion. Our participants can get pretty excited, so we start each session by reminding everyone to practice active listening, allow others to speak without interruption, and remain civil and open to new ideas at all times. This is not a debate but a civilized conversation. Because this was the last session of the season, we gathered afterwards for dinner, with heaping helpings of pork cheeks and artichokes and merriment passing up and down the table. I looked around and thought, “This is how we are going to survive these dark and dangerous years. Together.” Like the crimefighting llamas, we are finding strength in numbers and the unifying power of laughter. We can’t know if these are the End Times, an unfortunate but temporary misalignment of the stars, or mere potholes on the road to the next stage of our collective experience; that’s for future historians to debate. What we do know, as Kurt Vonnegut reminded us, is this: “We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.” WANT TO KNOW MORE? Here’s how our first gathering went. Subject: Artificial Intelligence Here’s how our second gathering went. Subject: The Future of Work Want to start your own Ideas Club? Here's how.  Some of the California family and friends we're counting on to help us get through this thing, whatever it turns out to be. HOME 2.0 This is the latest in my series of blog posts exploring what it takes to create a better life for yourself abroad — or at home, for that matter. See all posts in this series. WANT MORE? To subscribe, send me an email. [email protected] SUBSCRIBED BUT NOT GETTING POST ANNOUNCEMENTS? Check your spam folder. If you still can't find it, please let me know. GOING SOMEWHERE? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  Rich pauses during a leisurely meander around Huelva to wonder if it's time for lunch yet. Is it possible to go overboard with de-stressing? Oh, yes. Just look at Englishman Jeremiah Carlton, who in 1720 turned 19, inherited a vast fortune, and decided to spend the rest of his life in bed. He employed servants to give him sponge baths, spoon-feed him meals, and bring him stacks and stacks of books. He spent his days reading and napping until he died, at 89, in his sleep. Seventy years of hibernation seems a bit much, but I can see the appeal. In these jittery times, who hasn’t been tempted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over their head for the duration? But few of us have the money or the metabolism to become the next Jeremiah Carlton, known for 300 years as the World’s Laziest Man. On the other hand, I can see the value of — how can I put this? — making an effort to make less of an effort. Giving myself permission to do less. Taking time off from the headlong rush of daily activities. The Italians call it il dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing. They embrace such simple pleasures as sitting in a sidewalk café watching the world go by.  While sitting at a sidewalk café in Palermo, Italy, watching to world go by, Rich samples the local breakfast special: brioche stuffed with ice cream. How sweet it is! In France, nineteenth-century poets coined the term flâneur for the artists and sophisticates strolling about Paris savoring the city as a work of art. To maintain a leisurely pace, flâneurs were said to amble about with a pet turtle on a leash. Naysayers have challenged this as une légende urbaine (urban legend) but I like to believe it’s true. I know it’s possible; just look at all the oddball pets people take into the streets. I’d always felt faintly surprised and slightly impoverished that the English language didn’t express an equivalent concept. And then, to my delight, this week my friend and fellow blogger Jackie wrote about “pootling,” a 20th century British term that means to move slowly, without any real purpose. It’s a variant of the 1930s verb “to poodle,” a blend of “potter” (to move aimlessly) and “tootle” (to meander). Apparently actual poodles are optional to the practice. It’s not surprising the term didn’t arise in America, as we do not generally favor such lackadaisical pastimes. Our sports are extreme, our cars are turbocharged, and all our children are expected to be above average. We’re raised on stories of people with extra get-up-and-go who worked hard and prospered mightily: Levi Strauss, Ariana Huffington, Joseph Pulitzer, Isabel Allende, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and so many other immigrants who redefined the upper limits of American exceptionalism. As for us mere mortals, we arrange our lives around more modest goals. One of mine is traveling with a purpose, finding a narrative that gives direction and meaning to my trips, blog posts, and books. Pootling is vital to my process; I have spent countless contented hours moseying up and down back streets and grand boulevards, inviting them to surprise me. They always do. Of course, I use my common sense. There are plenty of neighborhoods that are best avoided by the savvy traveler. Rich uses an app called GeoSure to check the safety ratings of unfamiliar territory. And we keep alert. If we see someone shooting up drugs, directing traffic in the middle of the street with no pants on, or running towards us shouting about the End Times, we remove ourselves from the scene with all due haste. But on most occasions, we ramble about quite comfortably, enjoying whatever beguiling sights surround us. I particularly like to check out the street art, which gets more wildly creative all the time. I haven’t seen the masterpieces shown below, but they’re on my list. One of the most delightful rewards of footloose rambling is stumbling upon obscure eateries you won’t find on Yelp or TripAdvisor. Here it’s important to use what Rich calls your “sniffer”— a combination of olfactory skills (“Mmmmm, that smells fantastic” is a good start) and your sixth sense about the atmosphere, staff, and patrons. Occasionally we settle at a table and then have second thoughts. Maybe the prices make us gasp, or we find there’s a fixed menu for a feast that’s beyond the scope of our appetites. I never want to insult the hospitality of our hosts by flinging down the menu and walking out, so I’ve worked out a tactful way to extricate ourselves. I pull out my phone, look at the screen and give a start, as if I’ve received an alarming message. I show the screen to Rich, and we exclaim, “I can’t believe it,” and “Yes, we have to go. What a pity!” We apologize (in sign language, if necessary) and slip out the door. But most of the time, we stay and take our chances, trusting our sniffers. We’re rarely disappointed. Last night, after our sniffers had led us to a cozy new wine bar in Seville, Rich and I fell to talking about the meaning of life (wine does that to me) and he brought up one of my all-time favorite quotes. It's from Joseph Campbell, a scholar who studied the world’s mythology to discover common themes that help us understand what it means to be human. He wrote: “People say that what we’re all seeking is the meaning of life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances with our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.” To feel that rapture, to find the alignment between our innermost selves and outer reality, we have to pay attention to the world. And that’s a lot harder if we’re always dashing from one activity to another.  Now, I know what you’re thinking: Do I really want to pay more attention to the world right now? Good point! It’s only February and I’ve already had about as much of 2026 as I can take. I feel, as late night host Jimmy Kimmel put it, like I’m in the movie Speed, hurtling along in the back of a bus that’s wired to explode if it slows down. But we can slow down. In fact, we can get off the bus and wander around in a more congenial environment. For some of us that means relocating to Home 2.0. But wherever we are, it's about dragging our eyes away from the headlines and turning our attention to the things we find around us. The Japanese call it shinrin-yoku, forest bathing. Indigenous peoples in the Americas head to sweat lodges for revitalizing temazcal rituals. The Spanish luxuriate every day in siestas. The Norwegians practice friluftsliv, embracing nature in all weathers. And now, at last, we English-speakers can indulge in pootling whenever and wherever our whimsy takes us. “Your sacred space,” said Joseph Cambell, “is where you can find yourself again and again.” And luckily for us, there is sacred space all around, just waiting for us to discover it.  HOME 2.0 This is the latest in my series of blog posts exploring what it takes to create a better life for yourself abroad — or at home, for that matter. See all posts in this series. WANT MORE? To subscribe, send me an email. [email protected] SUBSCRIBED BUT NOT GETTING POST ANNOUNCEMENTS? Check your spam folder. If you still can't find it, please let me know. GOING SOMEWHERE? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  On a beach in southern Spain, a man who never existed turned the tide of war. Graphic: Detail from the original cover of The Man Who Never Was “You don’t want to go there,” a Spanish friend told me. “There’s nothing to see.” “Intercity tickets?” The clerk at the railway office repeated my words warily, as if I’d asked to be strapped to the top of a locomotive for a trip through Siberia. In winter. Naked. “Are the trains running?” I asked. There had been massive disruption of service following the recent tragic accidents near Córdoba and Barcelona, but I wanted to travel west, away from those areas. “Yes, trains are running.” Long pause. “I could sell you tickets." Longer pause. "But with the bus, you will have fewer delays, fewer cancellations; you will get there much quicker. Take the bus.” Which is how Rich and I found ourselves spending Friday morning jammed into the cramped seats of an intercity autobús, lurching over 55 miles of potholes on our way to the Spanish seacoast town of Huelva.  OK, so Huelva isn't as picturesque as my Home 2.0, Seville. On the upside, our room in this hotel cost just $67.50 a night. We were there to visit the grave of The Man Who Never Was. Fans of the book and movie Operation Mincemeat will recall that in 1943, the British were desperate to mislead the Nazis about the location of the upcoming invasion. “If the enemy is waiting for us on those beaches,” Churchill warned, “History herself will avert her eyes from the slaughter.” British Intelligence came up with a daring, high-risk ruse that required dressing a corpse as a British military officer, giving him false invasion plans, and slipping his body into the sea. They calculated the body would wash ashore somewhere around Huelva, where the area’s active network of Nazi spies would, with luck, manage to steal the papers from the Spanish authorities, copy them, and send the misinformation to Berlin, where it just might fool Hitler. What could possibly go wrong?  Naval officers sliding "Major William Martin" into the sea off the coast of Huelva in 1943. Yes, I know it sounds like the plot of a lurid spy novel, and no wonder; the concept sprang from a memo drafted by Ian Fleming, a young Navy officer serving under Rear Admiral Godfrey. The deception worked so well that for weeks after the invasion, the Germans remained convinced the landing was a feint and the real assault was still to come. Thousands of Allied lives were saved, and — spoiler alert! — we went on to win the war. In 1953 one of the plot's leaders, Ewen Montagu, spent a weekend dashing off a history of his team’s exploits; his book, The Man Who Never Was, sold two million copies. Montagu never revealed the true identity of the corpse, which was laid to rest in Huelva’s Soledad Cemetery under his false identity, Major William Martin.  "Major William Martin" is interred in Huelva's Soledad Cemetery with full military honors. Then in 1996, amateur historian Roger Morgan turned up evidence that the body was Glyndwr Michael, a Welshman down on his luck in London, who’d died from eating rat poison. His name eventually went on the tombstone. Rich and I decided to go pay our respects and incidentally discover for ourselves whether Huelva was as underwhelming as everyone said. Huelva’s bus station did nothing to dispel its lackluster reputation. It was vast and empty, with flickering lights and cracked flooring. Our hotel, a short walk away in a cluster of slightly shabby high-rises, had a façade so self-effacing we had a hard time finding it, even when we were standing on the doorstep. But the staff welcomed us warmly, and our room was great: big, clean, comfortable, entirely bed-bug-free, and — as Rich frequently pointed out — just €57 ($67.50) a night. It was one of the top hotels in town.  The staff called a taxi to take us to the cemetery, and our driver, Adriano, turned out to be a knowledgeable and engaging onubense (as locals are called, from the old Phoenician name for Huelva). He was proud of his city and immediately began filling us in on what had been happening around there for the past few thousand years. He explained that Huelva sits between two rivers, the beautiful Odiel and the Tinto, one of the most toxic bodies of water on the planet. A hundred kilometers upstream lie the oldest mines in the world; humans have been working them for 5000 years, since the days when metal was extracted using a rock lashed to a stick.  The Museum of Huelva's outstanding archeological collection demonstrates how they did it back in the day. In 1874, a British firm bought the Rio Tinto mines and made Huelva their base of operations, building a clever railway and pier system. In their spare time they taught locals the game Americans call soccer and launched Spain's oldest football club, Recreativo de Huelva. A century ago they built Barrio Queen Victoria, a cluster of disconcertingly English-looking houses on a hill near our hotel. And a few years back, some long-term British residents formed a society to maintain the grave and the memory of “Major William Martin.” Arriving at the cemetery, Adriano jumped out and escorted us to the famous tomb. We all stood for a moment over the body of the man who had helped save an earlier generation from Nazis and fascists bent on world domination. I silently thanked Glyndwr Michael for his service and thought of those who have lost their lives in a similar cause in modern times.  Adriano helpfully adjusts the Welsh flag on Glyndwr Michael's grave, which now includes Michael's true name, his parents' names, and a large inscription about The Man Who Never Was, courtesy of the Major William Martin Association. Rich and I spent two days in Huelva strolling around visiting sights Adriano had mentioned and sampling local bistros. The best meal of the trip — possibly of our lives, we agreed — was our post-cemetery lunch at Zancoli. All the tables were reserved but they kindly managed to squeeze us in at a miniscule table behind a pillar. The bullia — convivial noise — washed over us like a blessing. We ordered a lovely local wine and were given an amuse-bouche of gorgeous little sausages called chosco de tineo made from (and thankfully I did not know this at the time) a mix of pork and tongue, seasoned with garlic and paprika, stuffed into pig intestines, and smoked over a wood fire. There followed a dazzling plate of artichokes with ham and shrimp, and fresh-from-the-sea merluza (similar to American hake or whiting) baked in wine sauce. As you can imagine, we slept well at siesta. Huelva is a great place to take siestas, because — as Adriano pointed out — it is tranquilo. Tranquil. By Friday lunchtime, the restaurants were filled with large congenial groups, seemingly ready to let go of the cares of the week and relax into the weekend. By Saturday afternoon, everyone was strolling lazily in the sun or lifting a cold beer in a warm circle of laughing friends. It was like a poster for Life As It Is Meant To Be Lived. Whenever someone tells me “you don’t want to go there,” the contrary part of my nature senses adventure and starts reaching for maps and train schedules. “There are deeper reasons to travel — itches and tickles on the underbelly of the unconscious mind,” wrote author Jeff Greenwald. “We go where we need to go, and then try to figure out what we’re doing there.” Words to live and travel by.  One place I'm not itching to go: the Rio Tinto, near the mines, photographed in all its technicolor pollution by blogger Caracol Viajero. HOME 2.0 This is the latest in my series of blog posts exploring what it takes to create a better life for yourself abroad — or at home, for that matter. See all posts in this series. WANT MORE? To subscribe, send me an email. [email protected] SUBSCRIBED BUT NOT GETTING POST ANNOUNCEMENTS? Check your spam folder. If you still can't find it, please let me know. GOING SOMEWHERE? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it. |
This blog is a promotion-free zone.
As my regular readers know, I never get free or discounted goods or services for mentioning anything on this blog (or anywhere else). I only write about things I find interesting and/or useful. 
I'm an American travel writer dividing my time between California and Seville, Spain. I travel the world seeking intriguing people, quirky places, and outrageously delicious food so I can have the fun of writing about them here.
Don't miss out! SIGN UP HERE to be notified when I publish new posts. Planning a trip? Use the search box below to find out about other places I've written about. 
And check out my other bestselling travel books
Winner of the Firebird Book Award for Travel
BLOG ARCHIVES
March 2026
|