THE REAL SPANISH STEPS
Where Adventure and Masochism Meet
Kay and I recently did a mini-tour of western Andalucía. Our first stop was Sevilla. Although more often than not, we do not make reservations ahead, we did so for Sevilla because we weren’t sure just when high season began. Ignoring our longtime and trusted travel advisor Rick Steves, we chose a hotel listed in both Let’s Go Spain and the Knopf City Map Guide. About the Hotel Zaida, Knoph said, “Experience the pleasures of living in a 18th-century Mudéjar palace with all the mod cons. Truly delightful.”
The location was good and the price €50 ($60) was right; Kay called and booked a room. Our train left a little after eight in the morning and we were in Sevilla well before noon.
The hotel was located on a narrow street, with two stories of rooms surrounding a two-story, domed courtyard. There was even an elevator. The room was large, though totally lacking in character, and the bathroom was modern and clean. Unfortunately, on the other side of the wall, the staircase up to the roof was being renovated. And, because the workers did not take siesta, we did not take siesta, as the pounding and grinding continued only inches from our pillows. When there was a pause, we could hear a bulldozer working in the lot behind the hotel, just below our window. This would not do.
That afternoon, Kay led me to a hotel recommended by Rick. The Pensión Alcázar was little more than 100 meters from the Cathedral and the top rooms had private terraces. It was not easy to find, as it was located on a street so short we couldn’t find it on the map. We got directions at the tourist office, passed through an arch, up a narrow cobblestone street, and there it was. We could see the terraces as we approached. Kay was beside herself. Yes, the woman informed us, a room with a terrace was available for the following two nights for only €54 a night. “Eureka!” said Kay, or words to that effect.
We informed the people at the Hotel Zaida that we were leaving the next day. They offered us a room in another “muy bonita” hotel. We told them thanks but no thanks.
We checked out at noon, and having an hour before checking in, walked along the river with our bags, stopping to refresh ourselves in a sidewalk café. We reached the hotel at one to find that our room was ready. The man who worked there took Kay’s bag and started up the steps. I carried my bag and wore the backpack. On the second floor, we turned down a short hallway, then climbed again. The stairs from the third floor were very narrow; about halfway up the man warned me to duck. At the top of this stairway there were two doors, one to a hotel room and one that opened onto a large terrace, off of which there was another room. To reach our room from that terrace, we climbed narrow, steep metal steps with a pipe handrail - more like a fire escape than a stairway - to a small terrace. If the steps had been any steeper, Kay would have come down backwards. The door to our room was at the top.
From all appearances, the room had simply been built on top of the hotel. It seemed relatively new and well made. Although small, it contained a kitchen sink and countertop with a small refrigerator beneath. A door led out to a private terrace, where there was a table, four chairs, a large umbrella and a view of the cathedral and the gardens of the Alcázar. The bathroom, however, was the smallest I’ve ever experienced. How small? Drying off required standing with one foot in the bathroom and one out.
Our “penthouse” room was delightful. It was unique. It was on the fifth floor.
After settling in — where does one put two suitcases in an 8x10 room? — we went down to explore the neighborhood and pick up supplies for the room. I counted the steps on the way down. There were 59 steps, plus one down to the sidewalk. Sixty steps.
We returned, had lunch on the terrace, then took siesta. Later that afternoon, we went to the Alcázar only to discover that winter hours were still in effect and that it would close in 45 minute. We decided to walk the town instead.
The next morning I went down for breakfast, then climbed back up to fetch Kay. We toured the Alcázar, which is actually three palaces, walked its extensive gardens, then climbed back up to the room for lunch.
After lunch we explored the cathedral, the world’s third largest church, and climbed the bell tower, formerly a Moorish minaret. The tower is 330 high, but I couldn’t count the steps because there weren’t any. You make the climb up on a spiraling ramp built by the Moors to allow a horseman to ride up five times a day to give the call to prayer. By my reckoning, 330 feet at 8” a step equals 495 steps. But, because walking a ramp is easier than climbing steps, I’ll round it down to 450. I dawned on me as we stood there under the huge bells, that a record of some kind was possible. We were now pretty tired and returned to our room for a nap. I counted the steps again. There were still 60.
We’d decided to eat at a restaurant on the other side of the river, about a mile away, and we left around eight. The restaurant was located in a three-story tower on the far end of the bridge high above the river. Although the weather had turned and the night was cool, we chose to eat on the rooftop terrace. I wanted the additional 15 steps.
It was a beautiful evening. Across the river, the well-lit cathedral, palaces, church towers and the Torre del Oro, tower of gold, sparkled under a full moon. Headlights flickered over nearby bridges, while down below on the water sculls raced in and out of the shadows. We dined on a platter of fried fish, breast of pork with a bottle of white wine. As we ate, the sound of laughter and the tinkle of wine glasses floated up from the cafés along the river. It was one of those nights.
As I climbed the 60 steps for the forth time that day, I realized that the handrails could be used to pull myself up. Once in the room, sprawled across the bed, I counted the day’s steps: four climbs of 60 steps equals 240; another 450 at the cathedral; at least 20 at the Alcázar, which, although it is only two stories tall, has very high ceilings;, plus 15 at the restaurant; a total of 725 steps. I needed to get my hands on the Guinness Book of Records. Or, at the very least, a pint of Guinness.
From Sevilla we bused to Arcos de la Frontera, one of the most beautiful of the white villages, where the plaza/mirador is 330 sheer feet above the river. There were no steps, just a long, steady hill. We then bused to Cádiz, where we stayed in the Hostal San Francisco, located on Calle San Francisco, and lunched at San Francisco Uno on Plaza San Francisco. From there we bused on to Algeciras, which we used as a base to explore Gibraltar, and then trained back to Granada.
I’ve yet to find a Guinness Book of Records. If anyone knows the record for most steps in one day by a man over sixty, please inform.
A DAY IN BAEZA
Riding Shotgun. Succumbing to PIC.
Kay and I recently took a short trip north to Jaén, the province north of Granada and the olive capital of the universe. We were specifically interested in seeing Úbeda and Baeza, two small cities known as outstanding examples of the Spanish Renaissance architecture. Both have been designated World Heritage Sites.
Because the cities are only fifteen minutes apart by bus, we decided to spend two nights in Úbeda, the larger of the two cities, with approximately 40,000 people, and make Baeza a day trip. We arrived in Úbeda in the early afternoon, checked into a hotel and spent the remainder of the day exploring the city,
The next morning, we headed to the bus station. A dozen or more buses make the short trip between the two cities each day, so I wasn’t worried about departure times. We reached the station at 10:25. The next bus was at 10:30, the one after that at 1:30. We hastily bought tickets and raced outside.
There were two buses, both of which could stop in Baeza in route to further destinations, and the drivers were trying to get all the Baeza passengers on one bus so that the other could drive straight through. At 10:32, it was determined that there were too many Baeza passengers, so everyone was allowed to board either bus. Kay and I were the last of ten or so passengers boarding bus number two. As I boarded the driver touched me on the shoulder and indicated the pull-down seat over the steps. Yes, I was going to ride shotgun. I nodded resolutely, found the lever that unlocked the seat, lowered it, and settled in. I looked over at the driver. He buckled his seatbelt. I buckled my seatbelt. He backed the bus away from the platform, then drove slowly and carefully through the narrow streets. His back was straight, his eyes focused on the road ahead. So were mine. I tried to assume a posture signifying quiet confidence and composure. No big, triumph, silly grin. After all, what if the driver had a heart attack? Or an overpowering sneezing attack? It would be my job to take the controls and bring the bus to a safe stop.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in Baeza. But what a fifteen minutes! It was an eternity; it was the blinking of an eye; it was the next best thing to riding on the hook and ladder truck.
Baeza, with only 17,000 people, is a very small city and it didn’t take long to see the sights, so we decided to take the two o’clock bus back. Kay had packed a picnic and around one o’clock we found an empty bench in the Paseo de la Constitution, the long, tree-lined park and promenade in the center of town. Our curved, cement bench was near the bandstand and across the wide promenade from a small playground.
Kay had packed Mortadella, cheese, bread, apples and tangerines. We’d bought a bottle of the local white nearby. We had, of course, also packed our acrylic wineglasses, there being no reason to sacrifice style when eating al fresco. The sun was warm and the wine tasty. As we ate we watched small groups of four or five older men as they walked back and forth in animated conversation. I don’t think they were exercising as such, as not one group – and there were several – ever walked from one end to the other without stopping at least once as one of the men, hands flying, make his point.
Just as we were finishing our meal, a tour group entered the paseo from behind us. The tour leader, a short, middle-aged woman, stepped up on our bench right beside me. The group, there were at least forty, fanned out in a semi-circle, standing no more than two steps away. We, along with the leader, were at the center of focus. She began lecturing the group in German. We looked up at her, then out at her group, and shrugged. Several returned our shrug. Suddenly she became aware of us and turned to me.
“Alemán? Español? Inglés?”
“English,” I said.
“There will be only two minutes. Maybe three. Here is where I always stand.” Which clearly meant not on the empty bench across the path.
Two-thirds of the group was listening to her and one third observing us as we finished our picnic. Several smiled, as if acknowledging the awkwardness of it. What were we to do? It felt strange, even rude, to continue our conversation while the woman, who could have reached over and patted me on the head, continued her lecture. I resisted the temptation to mug it up. So we settled back, I crossed my legs, and we continued to enjoy our wine. This brought even wider smiles to our portion of the audience.
After three minutes, the tour leader stepped down and off she went, her entourage following along like new ducklings. No thank you. No apologies. Just gone.
Now, this little scene pushed us, even as we kicked and screamed to resist, down the slippery slope to the world of PIC, Political InCorrectness. Kay and I were reminded of the many times we’ve had this thought: American travelers should be grateful for the existence of German ones, for without them, we would be known as the biggest, most impatient, most oblivious tourists. Thank you German travelers. And my apologies to those who don’t fit that description.
The walk back to the bus station was shorter than we’d remembered, and we were there at 1:30 to buy our tickets. The ticket office was closed, meaning that we would buy our tickets on board. But what does one do for a half an hour in an empty, boring bus station? Why go to the café for a farewell-to-Baeza glass of wine. We took our places at the end of the bar away from the smoke. The bartender, an older and very jolly fellow, poured the wine. We sipped and continued our wallow in the depths of PIC. Soon our jolly fellow was back with our tapas, a small dish of tiny clams, perhaps a dozen or so. This is not Kay’s cup of tea, so she demurred and I profited, as usual, by her reluctance. I shook out a toothpick and began the work at hand. Mr. Jolly appeared immediately and shook his finger. No toothpicks. He pantomimed tipping the clam up to the lips and sucking it out. I did so. They were delicious. He indicated to Kay that she should try it, too. She indicated that she didn’t like clams. His face fell. He left. Two minutes later he returned with a separate tapa for Kay, a delicious piece of chorizo and a slice of bread. He returned once more to banter and then it was time for our bus and we left.
That night we had a most difficult time finding a place to eat dinner. In Granada, it is almost impossible to walk more than a block without passing a restaurant or café. Not so in Úbeda. Perhaps the city fathers have decided that the historic zone would not become a nighttime tourist attraction. We combed the streets of the historic area and the only places we found were on the edge near our hotel where we’d eaten lunch and breakfast; neither was particularly attractive for a last meal in the Renaissance. We’d almost given up; it was around nine, when Kay saw a sandwich board at the entrance to a narrow lane. Café this way, it said. In desperation, we headed that way.
The café was located in the courtyard of an old building. The covered courtyard was two stories high with columns supporting the passageways above. The kitchen and small bar were in other rooms. The tables and chairs were the plastic ones found in sidewalk cafes and they were empty. But we were hungry, and plastic tables did not indicate an expensive place. We sat.
Our waiter was another guy with a big smile. He brought menus, two very nice glasses of wine, and then a gas-powered heater, which he placed by our table. We each ordered a large mixed salad, €2 each, and the plato combinado, only €5. Kay had grilled chicken breast, Spanish omelet and fried potatoes; I slices of cured ham, fried egg and fries. Both plates were delicious and substantial.
We left around ten, just as diners were beginning to trickle in. Ah, those Spanish.
