SpainCataloniaBarcelonaGothic QuarterPlaca Sant Jaume41°22’58” N 2°10’39” E
August 14, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ⛅ 33 °C
Flying Qatar Airways, we set off to Barcelona via Doha. Qatar airlines have won best airline 6 times. This accolade meant nothing to Jason – he wasn't impressed in the least! We had forgotten what it was like to travel cattle class for more than 24 hours. Leading up the trip, I’d felt like Kath from Kath and Kim in the episode where they go to the Hyatt Coolum and fly Qantas ... business class, as she kept reminding everyone. Unfortunately we weren’t going business class. But fortunately we weren't going to Coolum either. We were going somewhere much better (sorry, Coolum)
Cooped up like battery hens, we were wedged at the back of the plane, behind a Brazilian couple, for over 14 hours. If we thought that we had little room on this leg of the trip, this was nothing compared to the next. From Doha to Barcelona, Jason was squeezed in the middle of the row with a tall, larger-than-average man to his right. At least this flight was only 6 hours.
Early in the morning, around 5am, we arrived in Doha, Qatar to face a 35-degree wall of heat. There was a haze covering the entire city and all that could be seen were the silhouettes of skyscrapers in the distance. After being herded onto a bus and driven for what felt like kilometres, we reached the main terminal of the airport. We then had to navigate our way through the labyrinth that was Hamad international Airport. We really needed to pack a cut lunch to survive the distance. Lucky we had 2 hours between flights, because by the time we got to the gate it was time for boarding. We were positioned behind a younger Spanish version of Donatella Versace. I'm not sure if she was trying to match her brassy hair tone with her orange skin or vice versa.
After checking into our hotel, freshening up, we set out to explore La Rambla, stopping along the way to taste the local delicacies and take in the atmosphere of Barcelona. In one club, we met an Argentinian couple and chatted for a while - mostly about Argentina, Buenos Aires and the difficulties of learning Spanish. We’re fairly certain that the girl was having difficulties understanding our Aussie accents.
And it wouldn't be a Ricky/
Jason travel adventure without a moment where Jason thinks he’s lost his wallet or been pickpocketed. Well, less than 24 hours into the latest adventure, panic sets in, only to realise that his wallet was in his bag.
We spent the next two days wondering the city centre of Barcelona, grazing and drinking along the way. Oh how we've missed these little adventures!
We've slipped back into European dining habits, with dinner occurring at 10:30pm. Though we may have had dinner earlier had we walked into the correct restaurant. Jason had found a Mexican (yes, not Spanish. We had already filled our bellies with Iberian jamón). We were seated at our table, but something wasn't quite right. I could smell Ramen not guacamole and chilli. Sure enough, we had walked into the neighbouring Ramen restaurant. We quickly exited when we realised, letting out a "sorry, wrong restaurant" in Spanish. We ended up having to go to a Spanish tapas bar because the Mexican restaurant was booked out. Oh well, time for Paella.
Next stop: StigesRead more
SpainCataloniaSitgesPort de Sitges Aiguadolç41°14’12” N 1°49’22” E
August 16, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ☀️ 31 °C
Sitges is a small town 35 kilometres southwest of Barcelona and is famous for its film festival, and as a holiday location for Spaniards (and gay men from around the world). After the 40-minute train journey from Barcelona, we arrived at our seaside abode, which we would call home for the next two days.
As we opened our hotel room door, our first impressions conjured up a movie set. But the set is maybe more Tarantino crossed with a horror movie. At least there was more space than the Barcelona hotel. We could at least swing a cat in the room without leaving claw marks. And based on previous experiences, this was certainly not the worst … at least there weren’t blood-stained walls like those in an Ecuadorian hotel we stayed in, although there seemed to be other body fluids on the bathroom mirror. Just hope the mirror doesn’t have monkeypox!
We had worked up an appetite after a day of travelling, so in true Ricky/Jason fashion, we set out to find ourselves some provisions. With so much choice, it can sometimes be difficult to settle on something. We’re like hunters waiting for a better kill … maybe a better option will be around the corner. Inevitably, it never works out that way. We’re always a sucker for a menu del día (menu of the day), so we jumped at the opportunity to gorge on a three-course lunch with the obligatory alcoholic beverage.
Sangria is fast replacing water as the hydrating liquid of choice. And afternoon siestas have started to feature in the daily routine. Oh well, when in Spain …
Fueled up, we set out to explore the old city and the beachfront. You can walk from one side to the other in ten minutes but each street is a labyrinth of interconnected alleys and side-streets. After wandering up and down the rabbit-warren like streets, we headed back to the hotel for a light refreshment and a quick siesta. I mean, we needed to re-energise so we could paint the town red!
With any story of ours, it generally commences with food and drink. This time, we dined along the beachfront, eating pizza, slurping on our Estella beers and people watching. If we thought that half of France were holidaying in Barcelona, all of the gay men in France had headed to Sitges. There were more homosexuals in Sitges than a Madonna and Kylie concert combined.
We followed up dinner with more drinks at a club that has become an institution in Sitges. Parrots has been serving up drinks for 40 years and provided us with a place to take in all the eye candy. In typical European style, chairs face the streets to enable people watching. The streets turn into a makeshift catwalk for all to parade down. And what an eclectic offering we had!
Time for another siesta I think.
Oh, and I've started a tally of the number of times Jason thinks he's lost his wallet etc. Make that 2 ... for now.
Next stop: ValenciaRead more
SpainValenciaPlaça de l'Ajuntament39°28’11” N 0°22’35” W
August 18, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ☀️ 29 °C
Our sojourn in Sitges was short and sweet; but like all good things they have to come to an end. Valencia was our next destination, which meant travelling back to Barcelona to get the 3.5-hour intercity train to Valencia. As the train pulled into Valencia-Estaciò Del Nord, we gathered our bags and I noticed a purse tucked underneath my bag. I quickly checked to see if the owner could be identified. But alas, the French Canadian woman could not be found. I handed in the purse, which seemed to be devoid of any money but contained credit cards and identification.
After the good Samaritan act, we were on our way, traversing through the streets of Valencia on the hunt to find our accommodation.
We arrived at our hotel address but the reception was in another building about a half a block away. With our backpacks strapped to us, we traipsed over and back, and were rewarded with a spacious and modern abode for the next two days.
We settled into the room just in time for episode three of Jason’s Lost World. Yep, it's a tally and a sitcom. This time, he was panicked about losing his day backpack. He was convinced he had left it at a bar that we had briefly stopped at to hydrate. False alarm. His bag was in the hotel the whole time.
Continuing the European dinner tradition, we moseyed down the street until we stumbled upon a restaurant that was offering a menu del día (menu of the day) 3-set course for 20€. When we walked in, there was barely a soul. Then all of a sudden, once we were seated and ordered, the restaurant started to fill up. There was an Italian guy outside who acted as the restaurant spruiker. Oddly he reminded us of a friend, Craig Ellis, in both his style and mannerisms (Craig, I’m sure you would have gotten on well with your doppelgänger. We thought the dinner may never end. The plates kept coming. The entrée alone consisted of three different dishes. We looked at each other at the end of the entrée and thought we may not make it through to the end but we would give it our best try. Two hours later, we rolled out the restaurant and stumbled down the road through the old town.
Next morning, before we could even leave the hotel, Jason sat on his glasses and broke them. Maybe if he had held back on that final dessert last night there may have been less pressure on the tiny metal frames. But never fear, MacGyver (aka Ricky) to the rescue. A little bit of gaffer tape can go a long way!
While we were waiting for Jason’s new glasses to be dispensed, we wandered around town. We seem to attract odd characters along our adventures. including an elderly woman who commenced talking about the Holy Trinity and how we needed to read the Bible every day. We both looked at each other and thought this might go down the path of her telling us to repent or something. In the end, we went along with it, at least it was good to practise our listening skills. She thought we said we were Italian at first. Italiano, Australiano. Sounds all the same I suppose.
After several days of grazing the Spanish streets like heifers in calf, we felt a detox day was in order. We’d stored enough fat in reserve to last the next 24 hours … most definitely. But we soon broke the hunger strike with a kebab from an old man with hairy ears. I was so tempted to jump the counter and attack his ears with some Sue Ismiel’s Nads wax strips. Jason got worried when he turned the rotisserie on to heat up the meat. “Should we run? Food poisoning?”, he said. But we had just ordered? We couldn't just do a runner. It turned out to be one of the best kebabs, from a man with the hairiest ears we ever seen.
In the afternoon, we decided to climb the 15th-Century Torres de Quart, built as part of the fortification of the city. I’ve climbed temples and stupas around the world but for some reason I got half way up a narrow set of steps leading to the top of the guard tower and I couldn't go further. Instead I turned back to where an American woman was pacing up and down and also too frightened to ascend the staircase. Later, we stumbled upon the contemporary culture museum, which was housed within an historic building. This was less exhilarating!
The next morning, we continued our Ulysses adventures wandering the streets and soaking in the Valencia vibe. At one point, I saw a guy walking down the street with his shirt open and what looked like an exposed blister. Monkeypox?
Next stop: Madrid.Read more
SpainMadridChuecaPlaza de Vazguez de Mella40°25’14” N 3°41’53” W
August 20, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ☀️ 31 °C
From Valencia, we travelled by fast train to Madrid, the Spanish capital and most populous city, with a population of around 6.7 million. Before we even left the train station in Valencia, Jason had set up his own tuckshop/canteen, with a sandwich production line, buttering breadsticks and man-handling Iberian turkey meat to create our homemade bocadillos for the trip. At least we won't stave for the two-hour journey.
Our accommodation was located smack bang in the middle of Chueca, the trendy gay neighbourhood of Madrid. Our studio apartment was perfectly situated for spending hours people watching. And that we did. In fact, I think we both need to see a chiropractor to iron out some of the kinks caused by so much rubber necking. Jason likened us to the cantankerous, but, I might add, much more youthful, Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets, perched up high looking down on the crowds and passing judgement.
The apartment had all the mod cons. To enter the building and the apartment, we needed to use an app. It took a few goes to work it out but we got there in the end. I’m still not convinced that this is more convenient than a traditional key, by the time you open the app and try to log in. And don’t get me started on the beeping stovetop. Every time something was left on top of the stove, it would let out a screeching beep. The smart TV was so smart that it decided it didn’t want to work. Or maybe it had gone on holidays like the rest of Spain. But it was a nice (and very white) apartment. Trendy doesn't always equate to practical though.
From tuckshop/canteen lady, Jason transformed our trendy Chueca apartment into a cheap laundry mat, with all kinds of apparel strewn everywhere.
After the household duties were taken care of, it was time for dinner and a night out on the town. Actually, one night turned into another and then another. I'm fairly certain our livers are screaming out for a detox, and the bags under our eyes could be packed for a weekend getaway.
The intermittent partying was punctuated by meanderings through Madrid (along with a little bit of sleeping and eating). Some days, we just wandered without purpose, going in whichever direction took our fancy. We revisited some of our favourite places from our previous trip to Madrid, five years ago, such as the Plaza Mayor and el Centro. No matter the adventure, it generally ended with a re-stocking of essential beer and sangria supplies.
This theme continued into the evening as we tried the local delicacies on offer at the surrounding restaurants. One night we rolled out the apartment door and across the road to the Greek restaurant. We then rolled back home with our gullets and tummies full.
The next morning, I got an update from Jason on the additional weight he had gained overnight from the shared dessert plate that I ordered. Pinching some loose skin, he said it was my fault he was no longer beach-body ready. It’s not like I was Alicia Silverstone force feeding her child or a bird feeding its chick. He freely participated in the gluttony without any coercion.
To shed some of those extra kilos though, we walked to the Royal Palace, the largest functioning royal residence in Europe. The opulence and grandeur of the palace is astonishing. Only the Elon Musks of this world could afford to build anything like this now. And the Spanish were only able to build this through raping and pillaging other countries, stealing the wealth for Spain, and leaving the colonies without. It’s interesting how we glorify all of the buildings in Europe, but this opulence was the result of colonialism, from stealing from other sovereign states.
The meanderings through Madrid continued on our final day, as we fueled ourselves just enough so that we had enough energy to swipe our credit cards to purchase a few souvenirs and do some shopping. The woman in the souvenir shop sporting a two-tone grey mullet and ponytail was a “fashion highlight” for the day.
We got to the end of the week and for the life of us never worked out why people were touching the agave plant outside our apartment. We began to think that it had magical powers or healing properties. Random people would walk past and grope the plant, sometimes in an unsettling manner. I guess that mystery will never be answered.
Oh, and the Jason’s Lost World tally now stands at 4.
Next stop: Seville.Read more
SpainAndalusiaSevilleTrianaPlaza Nueva37°23’19” N 5°59’43” W
August 24, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ⛅ 33 °C
Our next destination was Seville, almost three hours by train from Madrid. We arrived at the train station and proceeded to make our way through security. Then all of sudden I hear from the security person, “¿hablas en español? (Do you speak Spanish?)”. We reply and are taken off to another area. Apparently the steak knife and fork set that I bought from the $2 shop, and which had made its way to Madrid, was too big to travel to Seville. The second security person continued to interrogate us about a second knife that they thought Jason had in his bag. We kept saying that we had nothing else. After a few minutes of back and forth, the security person gave up and let us continue on. But not before questioning us about the aerosol fragrance can that I had. It was like we were hardcore criminals. Were we now going to be tracked by the Spanish Secret Service all the way to Seville?
We got to our AirBnB apartment without being intercepted by the secret service or getting embroiled in any other altercations. Phew! Although we did need an all-terrain vehicle the size of a matchbox car to get around the city. Some of the streets are merely a crack between buildings and the footpaths are barely wide enough for an Olsen twin to walk down sideways. You'd probably need a can opener to get into your car if you parked in the streets.
Unlike the streets of Seville, our apartment was spacious – well, compared to the Madrid apartment, it was palatial. We were only located a short walk to the Alameda de Hércules and a slighter longer walk to the Casco Antiguo (the old town). That is if Google Maps doesn't get us lost in the labyrinth of laneways and alleys.
After settling in, we headed towards the old town, Casco Antiguo, to explore the hidden treasures of the city. All the walking worked up a thirst and appetite that could only be satisfied with a little alcoholic beverage and a hot chook from Jason’s favourite supermarket, Supermercado Día. However, unlike at home, the chooks weren’t hot, but cold and cryovaced. Still it went down well!
The next day we picked up where we left off and continued wandering around the old town. Along our travels, we spotted an elderly woman hooning around town in her motorised wheelchair, towing her granny master 2000 trolley behind her. She'd obviously gotten her provisions for the day and was hightailing it home. There was no way that our tired and weary feet could keep pace with her. Clocking over 15,000 steps, we felt we deserved a little, itty, bitty mojito and bocadillo to help sustain us for the stroll home.
The following day, we set out to explore the UNESCO heritage-listed Real Alcázar, the official Spanish royal residence in Seville. Originally, the palatial complex was built for the Christian King Peter of Castile in the Thirteenth century CE. Unique to this part of the country, the palace is an example of Mudéjar style, a type of ornamentation and decoration, influenced by Islamic art and used in the Iberian Christian kingdoms, primarily between the Thirteenth and Sixteenth centuries.
We continued the tour through Seville’s ancient history with a trip to Itálica, the Roman settlement nine kilometres northwest of the city. Itálica was founded by the Roman general Scipio in 206 BCE and has barely been excavated but includes well-preserved mosaic floors in the houses of the elite – well, at least the ones that weren’t stolen.
We were a little skeptical about the tour and initially thought we may have fallen into a tourist trap. But we were pleasantly surprised. Our tour was led by knowledgeable Nieves (Snow) and Barbara, except Nieves kept calling her Patricia. Each time, Barbara would politely correct her. When Nieves got it right, I could have listened to her say "Barbara" over and over. The way that she rolled the Rs. Barrr-ba-rrra.
Itálica was followed by a tour of the ex-monastery of San Isidoro del Campo, founded in 1301 by Alonso Pérez de Guzmán. According to tradition, San Isidoro de Sevilla (Saint Isidoro) was buried on the site of the church. Over 700 years on and Guzman's family are still allowed to be buried inside of the monastery.
On our final day, we decided to hire Lime electric bikes so we could cover more terrain. We’d forgotten that we needed four-wheel drive cars to traverse this landscape. Firstly what was supposed to be a 15-minute bike ride, ended up taking almost 40 minutes. Stupid Google Maps was set to car mode.
We eventually made it to the Plaza de España, which was built in 1928 for the Ibero-American Exposition of 1929. The architectural style mixes elements of Baroque Revival, Renaissance Revival and Moorish Revival (Neo-Mudéjar). The trip home felt like another episode of Groundhog Day, as we bounced along the cobblestone pathways. We didn't need to worry about monkeypox blisters, we were developing bike blisters instead. Again, Google Maps had us going in all kinds of directions, taking us from one side of town to the other but going nowhere at the same time. It was supposed to be a 4-minute bike ride but we ended up going around and around like a dog chasing its tail. Dazed and confused, we eventually made it home unscathed.
And Jason’s Lost World tally is now five. Nope, make that 6: wallet and glasses. Steady and consistent average of 1.2 per location.
Next stop: MálagaRead more
SpainAndalusiaMálagaPlaza de la Constitución36°43’17” N 4°25’18” W
August 29, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ⛅ 29 °C
Setting out from Seville, we took the three-hour intercity train to Málaga. This time Ricky was given the task of acting as the tuckshop/canteen lady. Jason had to handover the mantel over so he could concentrate on packing. Apparently, he was running behind on his schedule.
As we boarded the train, we seemed to crash the party of a group of young Belgian tourists. I say Belgian, but Jason disagrees and claims that they were German (because he saw a German flag sticker on one of their phones. But the Belgian flag has the same colours as the German, except it has vertical stripes instead of horizontal). They were watching a German movie with Dutch/Flemish subtitles. Let’s just say they were from somewhere in the cold. At any rate by the end of trip, we were ready to kill them. The train really didn’t need to hear their goings-on.
We arrived at our accommodation that was positioned in the middle of the historic centre. If we thought the streets of Seville were small, the taxi couldn’t even get to our apartment, so we got dumped on the side of a street and had to navigate our way through the maze. Our apartment was on two levels but it was literally next to reception. We were so close we could have assisted with check-in to get a reduced rate.
In true Jason and Ricky fashion, we took off as soon as we could to wander and explore the streets of Málaga. And even more customary for us is to hunt for food and something to drink. Despite being in a city of almost 600,000 people with plenty of food options, sometimes the hunt doesn’t come easy. We wandered for what seemed like an eternity. All we could see was outlets selling pizza, kebabs or ice-cream – none of which was to our fancy. And we always seem to leave it until we reach the point that we feel we’re going to die like the colonial explorers Burke and Wills. Finally, we stumbled upon a Thai restaurant. But we soon discovered that it wasn't real Thai, but Thai-inspired. Who puts Keen’s curry powder in a Thai red curry! The dirty bastards. Not to mention it took 45 minutes for the food to be served. Meanwhile, we slurped on a cerveza and provided a commentary on the people walking by. The salesperson in the "I am Joy" shop across the street was so thin you could hardly see her when she turned sideways. How she had the energy to manoeuvre the broom as she swept the floor I have no idea. The broomstick handle was thicker than her arms! She went about her chores, oblivious to the shop full of customers. She was obviously expending all of her energy on sweeping and rearranging stock and didn’t have enough energy to raise her head or spit out an “hola”.
Málaga is a popular seaside destination for the Brits so we were expecting to land in the middle of a Geordie Shore or the Only Way is Essex TV production. As Jason astutely noted, there didn’t appear to be as many "British slappers" as we had expected. And Jason says this a nano-second before a woman walks past him with a thick British accent. Innit proper mint 🤣🤣
At first, I couldn't understand why the Brits are attracted to Málaga. The outskirts seem dirty and rundown, and the beaches are nothing to rave home about. But still it is probably better than many of the pebble beaches in the UK. The historical centre, similar to other Spanish cities, includes well-preserved buildings from the past to admire.
After a day of wandering, we settled into bed, only to be awoken at 3 or 4am to blood-curdling screams of a banshee. It sounded as though a woman was running up and down the laneways screaming as loud as she could. To me, it sounded as if she was suffering from a mental health episode. There weren't any calls for help, just screaming at the top of her lungs. Jason had surmised differently, with a much more elaborate and sinister plot. He was ready to thong her (for the non-Aussies, Jason wasn't proposing to use skimpy underwear that goes up your clacker to use as a sling shot. But he was prepared to sacrifice a thong/jandal/flip-flop to throw).
Surmising and people watching became the theme for the rest of our Málaga meanderings. Sitting as we chugged down our mojitos, we surmised about the strangers staggering down the streets. We caught a glimpse of a older, female version of Jason, as she shielded herself from the sun. I mean she’d spent so much money on plastic surgery she couldn’t melt. Similarly, Jason has been shadow hopping like a vampire in the daylight trying to avoid the sun.
By the end of the second day, Jason was beginning to feel unwell, surmising that he may have COVID. It had nothing to do with the fact that we walked over 23,000 steps and had hardly eaten most of the day.
Oh, and Jason’s Lost World tally average has gone through the roof. I’ve actually lost count now, but let's just say 9 for argument’s sake.
Next stop: Ibiza.Read more
SpainAndalusiaGranadaSacromonteTower of the Mihrab37°10’39” N 3°35’16” W
August 30, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ⛅ 34 °C
We got up early to travel by train to Granada, a little over an hour away from Málaga. We had a ticket to visit the palaces in the Alhambra at 1pm and we had mistakenly thought that this meant we weren't able to enter the complex until that time. So we wandered around Granada before heading to the Alhambra. It turns out it was only the Palace that we needed to wait until 1pm. Oh well, at least we got to see Granada.
The Alhambra, which translates from Arabic as 'The Red One’, is a well-preserved palace and fortress complex, showcasing Islamic architecture of the Thirteenth to Fifteenth century CE. It was built in 1238 CE by Muhammad I Ibn al-Ahmar, the first Nasrid emir and founder of the Emirate of Granada, which was the last Muslim state of Spain. The palace complex includes many courtyards and fountains. One set of stairscases leading to the top of the Generalife had a water feature built into the hand rail. Located outside the Alhambra walls is the former Nasrid country estate and summer palace. It too incorporates elaborate courtyards and gardens.
On our way to the Alhambra (and also around Málaga), there were women handing out twigs to rope tourists into getting their fortune read. Tourist trap! After avoiding the first few women, Jason turned to me and said "why are we not doing the Terrie Nelson finger wave". From there out, we had our script written, a slight wave back and forth of the index finger and a stern look on our faces.
Our train back to Málaga didn’t leave until almost 7pm so we had a few hours to wander the streets of Granada ... again. On the train trip, Jason's surmising contained. This time, the focus was on a nearby couple. Jason had their entire life story mapped out. They were a newly married Ukrainian couple on their honeymoon. All this from just the way they looked. Jason should join the women handing out twigs and start fortune reading. Tired and sore, we managed to stumble home, after more than 23,000 steps.
Next stop: back to Málaga.Read more
SpainBalearic IslandsIbizaFigueretesPlaya Figueretes38°54’16” N 1°25’45” E
September 1, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ☁️ 30 °C
Ever since Jason decided that he wanted to go to Ibiza for his birthday, he has had the Vengaboys' song “We’re going to Ibiza” in his head and has had it on high rotation. Finally, we were on our way to Ibiza for a party in the Mediterranean sea. But before we took off from Málaga, I popped by the trendy Barbershop around the corner from our accommodation to get a new hairdo. Refreshed with a very Latino cut – a zero to three fade – we were on our way to Ibiza.
We got to the airport with plenty of time to spare, despite Jason panicking that we were going to be late. But the spare time was quickly eaten up, as we queued for over 45 minutes to check in, even though we had already checked in online. We had forgotten how painful it was to fly budget Vueling.
As soon as we hit the ground in Ibiza, the party started. We had tickets to see Martin Garrix at Ushuaïa, a well-known club in Ibiza where almost all partygoers hang. We quickly realised that navigating the island may not be as easy as we first thought. Essentially, taxis are the most efficient way to get around. Ride share doesn’t exist, so you are at the mercy of the traditional taxi service. This proved more difficult to find as the hordes decended on any taxi that came by. Jason approached two French girls outside of our hotel and they happened to be going to Ushuaïa too. So we tagged along.
As we pulled into Ushuaïa, a guy came up to us and asked if we could change a 20-euro note. Twenty minutes later, after we entered Ushuaïa, we caught sight of him. He was obviously under the influence of something more than a mojito or margarita. He’d taken off his shirt, had his eyes closed, and it looked like he was trying to keep imaginary walls from falling down, as he made small pulsing motions in the air. Now we know why he needed change.
Prior to arriving at Ushuaïa, the club sent us the dress code. Guys couldn't enter shirtless or wear a vest. All the steroid gym bunnies were told to put on their shirts by security. But strangely enough women could wear next to nothing. Women wearing short shorts and bra tops dotted the landscape of the club. In front of us, one woman, who appeared to have had butt implants, wore a pair of denim shorts that covered a millimetre of her bum and the rest of the material had disappeared up her clacker. To quote the John Waters’ film 'Cry Baby': "hysterectomy pants I call them." The butt implants were obviously done to help distribute some of the weight from her breast augmentation, otherwise she would have toppled over. I'm not slut shaming her; it's just interesting the double standards when it comes to objectifying different genders.
It became obvious that superficial appearances mattered more on the island. Faces filled with botox and fillers and that was just the Zoomers/Gen-Z in the audience at Ushuaïa. Influencers have marketed Ibiza and presented an idealised version. In reality, it is tired, overpriced and overrated. A bottle of water at Ushuaïa cost 12€ (AU$16) for a 300-millilitre bottle, while beer went for 15€ and basic spirits for 19€. Still, we enjoyed our time there.
After a night out, we spent the next day exploring the old town. We sweltered, as Jason continued his quest for shade and a cool place to rest. Maybe it's the paws – the man-o-pause.
The following night, we had tickets to Calvin Harris. As experienced Ushuaïa partygoers, we knew what to expect and teamed up with two girls from the Dominican Republic and Ecuador (but now live in Miami, Florida). This wouldn’t be the last time that we would see the girls.
As we stood listening to the music, waiting for Calvin Harris to come on, three Scottish girls, Kylie, Amber Cornell and Tricia, weaved their way to our patch of the club. Kylie was a little vertically challenged and needed some assistance to see the stage. Jason let Kylie in front of us and this sparked the beginning of a new friendship. Kylie thought Jason was a hot Jason Donovan. Together they are Kylie and Jason - their rendition of Especially for You will be in stores for Christmas. Kylie then turned to me and said in her thick Scottish accent, “and you’re hot too. You're both handsome". I’m sure the soft lighting helped. Needless to say, we now have a "penpal" and a crew we can call on when we are in Edinburgh.
The night soon came to a close and we had to make our way home. The Thursday expedition back from Ushuaïa was relatively painless. We had left 5 minutes prior to closing and were able to snatch the first taxi that came our way. The Friday night expedition didn’t go as well. As we left the club, the line at the taxi rank was already snaking around the corner. We filed to the end of the line and waited as it slowly moved.
After about 30 minutes waiting in line, Jason saw the girls from the Dominican Republic and Ecuador. We bolted as fast as we could and they allowed us to catch a ride with them. Then came the slow ride home. The roads became a carpark as we came to a dead halt, moving only ever so slightly every few minutes. A trip that would normally take 10-15 minutes took 45 minutes. We probably could have walked home, but who knows where we would have ended up.
Over the next few days we slowed the pace a little as we recovered from the 48-hour intermittent party. For Jason’s birthday, he was treated to some fine dining at La Torreta, a Spanish restaurant serving modern, Mediterranean fusion cuisine. Opening with a couple of cocktails, this was followed up with an artistically presented entrée and a tasty main to die for.
All was going along as planned until drama struck us on our final morning in Ibiza. Jason had already gotten up when all of sudden the fire alarms sounded. At first, we thought it must have been some drunken shenigans. When the alarms didn't stop, I started to think maybe this wasn't a drill. The emergency exit had opened and I followed it to the bottom until I reached a passage that was blocked with bikes. Then I looked around the corner and I could see and smell smoke. It looked like I couldn't get out so I backtracked to get Jason. Before leaving the hotel room, we could hear people outside yelling there’s a fire. Within a few minutes, the police and fire brigade arrived. After a hour, the fire had been extinguished and we could re-enter the hotel. It was scary to think of what could have happened if it was a bigger fire.
We can only hope that the drama doesn’t follow us.
Next stop: Maspalomas, Gran Canaria.Read more
SpainCanary IslandsSan Bartolomé de TirajanaPlaya del Ingles27°45’38” N 15°34’44” W
September 5, 2022 in Spain ⋅ ☀️ 27 °C
After the hotel fire drama in Ibiza, we headed to the airport early. We didn't need any other dramas unfolding. As soon as we stepped onto the plane, the English woman sitting next to us struck up a conversation. She had lived in Sydney 20 years ago but now lived on Ibiza, dedicating her life to saving Ibiza's hippie lifestyle. As we took off, I got a run down on all of the island gods and goddesses. At one point, Jason kicked me, as a secret code for “this woman is loco”. As he did, she caught a glimpse of it, but it didn’t deter her from continuing her Ibiza tales.
We were staying in Maspalomas not far from the Yumbo Centre, and a little walk to the Cita Shopping Centre. The Yumbo Centre would become the epicentre of our Gran Canaria getaway. After bouncing around Spain for the last month, we were looking forward to setting up camp for six days to bask in the sun, sand, sea and other shit 😂.
Before arriving we didn’t have too many expectations. Gran Canaria is known for its black lava and white sand beaches, and also as a popular destination for the Brits. And based on all the signage in German, it seems the Germans too like to visit the island.
On our first night, we wandered to the Cita Shopping Centre to grab a bite to eat and a little beverage to drink. One prominent theme on our holiday, apart from drinking and eating, has been mazes and labyrinths; the Cita Shopping Centre was no different. We ended up in the dungeons of the shopping centre, where another theme started to emerge. We noticed there was an unusual number of sex cinemas and sex/swingers clubs in the vicinity. It turns out that Gran Canaria is also a popular destination for British and German swingers. It reminded me of Magda Szubanski's and Peter Moon’s Full Frontal characters, Bob and Cheryl Ugly, who were avid neighbourhood watch champions, watching their neighbours for more than 8 hours at a stretch (https://youtu.be/_bBNyxqym-8). Exit, stage left!
Most of the Island seems geared towards European tourists. The bars played British artists (or whenever we entered the room INXS or Sia would come on as if they knew the Aussies had arrived). The only exception was the cars booming with loud music, most blaring the sounds of Bad Bunny’s “Tití Me Preguntó”. That syncopated reggaeton beat is recognisable anywhere!
The only Spanish spoken is by the shopkeepers, and even then Spanish is their second (third or fourth language). So there's been even less opportunity for us to practise our Spanish!
Each night, we seemed to end up at the Yumbo Centre, and somehow managed to appear at Ricky’s Bar and Cabaret for the Drag Show. I mean it seems fitting that we ended up there. But the drag shows were really sub-par. Bad bingo drag queens imported from the UK seem to rule the roost in Maspalomas. By day, the Yumbo maze is a bustling shopping centre with all kinds of merchandise. By night, pubs and clubs for all persuasions are pumping.
The beach (Playa del Inglés) was a little walk away from our hotel, and we probably needed a packed lunch for the trip. On our second day, we made the mistake of heading out too early in the blaring sun. Needless to say the shadow-hopper, Jason, managed to get to the beach without frying, unlike the burnt Brits, Bob and Cheryl Ugly, who displayed their battle wounds with pride. The skin on some dangled like a thread on their bali-inspired sarong or boob-tube bikini. I really just wanted to go over and rip it off like a wax strip.
The dunes of Maspalomas are one of the main tourist destinations (that is, other than the swingers clubs). The dunes were even further than the beach but we decided to up the ante on our step count for the day. We only did that once, and never again. Instead we opted for the €4 taxi trip for all future dune adventures. We needed our energy to traverse through the desert sand dunes. The first time, our legs and calf muscles didn’t know what had hit them.
In between visits to the beach and the dunes, we shopped, taking advantage of any bargains that were on offer. The only problem was how we were going to fit it into our bags. Packing next time is going to be a real treat!
By Friday afternoon, our hotel had transformed into a gay pool party, for the fifth annual Freedom party. Men in skimpy swimsuits and oiled up torsos paraded around the pool. We sat back, sipped our mojitos and took in the views. Is it time for another mojito?
By the way, the Lost World syndrome has spread like COVID and I'm now a victim too (but still trailing Jason).
Next stop: Marrakech.Read more
MoroccoMarrakesh-SafiMarrakech-MedinaMarrakesh31°37’59” N 7°59’19” W
September 11, 2022 in Morocco ⋅ ⛅ 37 °C
From Maspalomas, we set out for Marrakech, travelling budget airline Binter Canarias. They were the only airline that travelled direct from Gran Canaria to Morocco so we were prepared to go no-frills. We arrived early in case check-in took longer than expected. But it was probably the easiest check-in process so far. Vueling could learn a few things. The woman at counter 124 was a machine. Before she finalised one group she already had another lined up. “Siguiente en la cola” (next in line).
I was expecting a small aircraft, and it was, with only about 25 rows. If I stood on my tippy toes, my head hit the roof. Take-offs and landings were going to be interesting. But surprisingly, the flight was fairly smooth, although I was worried that the plane was a repurposed Fisher and Paykel washing machine.
As we got off the plane, a short Moroccan man came running out of the plane towards the airport shuttle bus. Jason’s Lost World strikes again! This time, Jason had left his sunglasses on-board the plane.
After queuing for immigration, we needed to begin the bartering process with the taxi drivers. Due to colonialism, French is still widely spoken (and advertising and signage are all in French). Hello high school French!
Taxi drivers, in our experience, are the most likely people to rip off tourists. You’re at their mercy, especially if you don't speak the language, and you really need to get to your accommodation. Our hard bartering paid off – we were only ripped off 50 dirham (AU$7) 😂.
We were staying in the old Medina, constructed in the late 11th century by the Almoravid dynasty. The Medina is filled with Riads, historical elite dwellings that have been converted into hotels/homestays. We were greeted by the Riad Manager, Soufiane, and the owner, Hakim, who was a French Moroccan living in Dubai with his Ukrainian wife and two children. We got the low-down on everything.
We headed to the Big Square (Jamaa el fna), the epicentre of the Medina. We’d spent the last six days in little old Maspalomas and now we had been transported to another world that was almost a sensory overload of smells, sounds and sights. Donkey- and horse-drawn carts are still used in Marrakech. And you can smell it in the air. At first, I thought surely people aren’t just pissing all over the square. No, just horses and donkeys.
Connected to the Big Square are the entrances to the Souk, a maze of shops selling all kinds of wares from teapots and rugs to fragrances and counterfeit “designer” clothes. The counterfeits were really bad. The Moroccans should stick to what they're good at: teapots, pottery, leather making, jewellery, fragrances etc.
The shopkeepers in the Souk were really aggressive in their sales techniques. I think they’re even more aggressive than the shopkeepers in Thailand's tourist areas (or even anywhere in India). One encounter left Jason with bruises along his arm from a shopkeeper trying to drag him into his shop. In the back of our minds, we had the Absolutely Fabulous episode, Morocco, in our heads where Saffy gets abducted and sold into slavery. I wonder how many camels I’ll get for Jason 🤣🤣.
Outside of the Souk, the shopkeepers seemed less aggressive. We had a lovely chat to one woman who sold Moroccan fragrances, oils and spices. She called the spices her Berber crack. Whenever she had a craving, she could take some of the herbs and spices and sniff it like it was crack.
To get to the Big Square, we needed to follow a narrow lane that connected a rabbit-warren of alleyways. Each day we would traipse up and down the lane, weaving between motorbikes and donkeys, passing by the same spruikers coaxing us to look at their wares or dine in their restaurants.
One guy, dressed in traditional Berber attire, tried to guess our nationality, a game that they all play, and not too dissimilar to the games played in South East Asia. Usually it’s a tactic to get you to stop and talk (and also so they know what price to pitch). After going through almost the entire list of countries in Europe, he was left unsure where we were from. The Berber Crack shopkeeper said we looked German, because we were tall, had blue/green eyes and had blondish hair.
French and German were usually the first couple of guesses.
The Berber guy was probably thrown when I responded in (bad) French, but obviously not bad enough to eliminate France as an option. The next day, we gave him enough clues that he guessed correctly. We took a look at his merchandise as a prize for winning the competition. But his pitch was way off. He tried to sell us two leather necklaces for AU$90. We quickly retreated, and he didn’t bother us, except to yell “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie” at us as walked by.
Within the Big Square, there were all kinds of stalls during the day, along with snake charmers and monkey handlers. There were numerous stalls in the centre of the square that sold freshly squeezed fruit juice.
Similar to the sellers in the Souk, the fruit juice sellers were competing with others for every person who wandered into their peripheral vision. Usually, we would say nothing and keep our eyes diverted. As soon as they spot you looking at anything they pounce on your like Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. It made shopping an interesting sport. One of the juice boys yelled at us to come to their stall, and when we ignored him he asked why we didn't want to buy from him. Before we could respond another juice boy yelled in English “because they don't like you”. We all cracked up and then went on with our day.
On our second day, we headed to the Bahia palace and gardens, which were begun by Si Musa, grand vizier of Alaouite sultan Muhammad ibn Abd al-Rahman, in 1859 and continued by his son, Si Ba Ahmed ibn Musa, grand vizier of Sultan Moulay Abdelaziz. The family had risen to power from that status of black slaves due to their connection to the royal family. The palace included a number of Riads, some for the grand vizier's four wives and 24 concubines.
After visiting the palace, we decided to explore parts of the new city of Marrakech. We set out for Guerliz, a district in the new city. There was a noticeable difference in atmosphere and architecture as soon as we stepped outside of the Medina boundaries.
It is also impossible to travel to Morocco and not experience a hammam. In the old days, when not everyone had a bathroom in their house, the hammam was the place to bathe and get clean. It was also one of the few places women were historically allowed to visit outside of the home. Due to COVID, we decided not to go to a local hammam and instead went with a more upmarket take on the traditional hammam. Though, the treatment we opted for probably wasn't too traditional – I mean, eucalyptus isn't native to Morocco.
To get to the spa, a Moroccan woman appeared at our Riad and guided us through the windy lanes of the Medina. When we arrived, we were ushered into a changing room, told to strip and put on some black see-through mesh panties. There wasn’t much left to the imagination!
The hammam experience started with rubbing eucalyptus oil over our bodies. They left us there for a few minutes and then returned to pelt water at us. Rinse and repeat; this time with gommage (scrub). And we paid for this!
I’ve never been too comfortable with strangers touching me, even for a foot massage. And especially in Asia when they bring out the stick and dig it into your foot. There’s something about it that makes me feel awkward. I feel like it’s almost a master-and-slave relationship. Anyway, I tried to put that aside.
But really shouldn’t there be at least dinner with that kind of intimacy and heavy breathing. Jason said to me afterwards, “you seemed to enjoy the massage with all that moaning”. But that was the massage therapist not me. I laid uncomfortably on the massage table, losing feeling in my hands and arms. At one point, I thought that I might have been having a stroke.
Fortunately, when we finished the hammam experience, the same woman showed us the way back to our Riad. Jason McGoogle thought that we didn't need her. Apparently he’d worked out the rabbit-warren. Except after the second left turn, he admitted he would have gone right.
Early on in our Marrakech adventure, we found Mazel’s, a restaurant that served the best pitas filled with slow-cooked meats of your choice. Needless to say, we popped by either for lunch or dinner each day to try different items on the menu. On the third night, as we sat at Mazel's, Jason entered the Lost World, panicking that he’d been pickpocketed. But alas, his wallet was just in his pocket.
After dinner each night, we gravitated to the Big Square to immerse ourselves in the crazy atmosphere that is the Medina. We watched the locals enjoying a meal, playing music or belly dancing. A group of Moroccan carnies were playing hoopla with a long stick and a rubber ring at the end. The end game was to snare a bottle and win a lucky dip prize.
As we stood watching the hoopla game, a Moroccan man struck up a conversation with us. The first thing that came out of his mouth after we revealed that we are Australian was “kangaroo”, followed by “Sydney, Melbourne”. He said he liked Australia because it had pubs, something that was foreign to Morocco. The lack of pubs meant our livers have taken a little break from alcohol. I couldn’t justify the AU$7 for a 250ml bottle of beer – well, I did justify it once as an emergency 🤣. After a bit of banter, he invited us back to his house. Maybe he wanted to marry us off to his sisters. We politely made an excuse and headed back to our Riad.
The topic of marriage came up when Jason was browsing in a shop. The shopkeeper asked Jason where his wife was. He replied that he was divorced, which was met with “how sad”. Jason said that he was happier now that he was divorced, and living a much better life without her 😂😂.
Both premarital sex and same-sex acts carry heavy prison terms and fines in Morocco. But interestingly, Yves Saint Laurent, a very open gay man, set up home with his partner in Marrakech without any fuss from the authorities. I guess having lots of money helps. The museum, which was once Saint Laurent’s home, was closed for renovations so we could only visit his gardens.
Jardín Majorelle was created by the French Orientalist artist Jacques Majorelle in 1923 and purchased by Saint Laurent in the 1980s. To be honest, the gardens were a little underwhelming. Many of the public gardens throughout Marrakech seemed more impressive.
From the moment we arrived in Marrakech, we realised that obtaining money may be a challenge. The ATMs that we tried were either out of service or undergoing maintenance, and the money exchange didn't accept Australian dollars. Luckily, we had some Euros to tie us over until we got to a working ATM.
The other issue with ATMs was the 2000-dirham (AU$28) transaction limit. On our third day, we tried to get money out of an ATM and the transaction appeared to have worked but no cash came out of the machine. We went into the bank and a Portuguese girl who had had the same thing happen a few minutes earlier was trying to chat to the bank personnel, who appeared to only speak French.
Eventually, we found a machine that sort of worked. It only worked if you selected French language. Nothing happened if you chose English. The French have never really liked the English, have they?
Another tourist tried to take money out of the machine next to us. We alerted him to the attachment on the card reader that appeared to be a credit card skimmer. He quickly removed his card and tried to use the same machine as us. We walked off to grab some gelato, and when we returned his card had been eaten by the machine. We surmised that he may have tried to select English and because nothing happened the machine took the card.
We were aware of the many tourist scams in Marrakech that take you to leather shops or tanneries. Jason says that I talk too much to strangers but I can't help talking back to them. We were told by a young Moroccan guy that there was a Berber market and it was the last night before they go back to the Atlas Mountains. He gave us some directions and took off. However, he kept popping up along the way. In French, he kept saying that he was out to buy food for his family. He ended up leading us to a Berber tannery; and, when a guy offered us some mint to smell before entering, we realised that we were being taken on a tour of the tannery. We politely declined the offer and quickly retraced our steps, trying to lose the guy who led us there. Exit, stage left.
Meanwhile as we tried to navigate back to the Big Square, the guy zoomed by us on the back of his mate's motorbike. Later, we saw him again in the Souk, and still he tried to get us to go to a hammam or get a massage.
Since alcohol was off the menu, we turned our attention to the patisseries. We had high expectations that the French colonial influence may have lived on in Morocco. We found ourselves some baklava, which was bland and tasteless, and then a Moroccan bakery that sold millefeuille. We bit into it and the custard was banana favoured. Who puts banana in a millefeuille? (p.s it seems the British do). The dirty bastards!
Next stop: stopover in Casablanca.Read more
