The Andalusian Dog

Fair warning: this post will probably only mention a dog in passing, if it mentions one at all. I just like the name. If you don't know the reference, I recommend you look it up.

*Edit* The picture on the left is the Andalusian Dog. Right next to his Andalusian owner. In bronze. Through a plastic lens. More on the Holga later.

There are a number of things that I never expected to be able to say that I did. Most of them, interestingly, now revolve around the things that I have done in Spain. Coming to Spain is one of those. Now I'm living here with my fiance. Life takes some interesting turns. Another involves staying with my best friend Alex in Spain.

Alex's mother is a descendant of some rather prominent ranchers in the Autonomous Region of Andalusia and for the last ten years he had been quite keen to extol its splendor. "You've gotta come with me to Spain, man. It's awesome!" or a similar refrain would oft be spoken. After a decade and meeting the right woman, Alex and I were finally able to make it happen: He had a couple weeks' worth of vacation time from his job back in the States, I was unemployed and had nothing but vacation time and Sarah had enough time off from school. So we decided it was time to get out of Barcelona for a nice long weekend down south.

First and foremost, I would like to say that Alex and his parents are some of the most gracious hosts I've ever had the privilege of knowing. I'll fill in the details as appropriate, but suffice it for now to say that they took great care of us, opening up their beautiful home, lending Alex the use of their car and treating Sarah and I to some truly wonderful food. Mrs. Franceschi knows how to make a lunch, that's for sure.

A smiling Alex greeted us at Seville's airport with hugs all around. The drive from the airport two hours south to the Franceschi Compound as we've lovingly come to call it was unfortunately made completely in the dark. The Andalusian night is largely unpolluted by city lights, but a half hour trek to the south brings one to the beginning of the wind farms that dot the landscape the way cookie-cutter housing tracts do in the US. And while we couldn't see the entirety of the looming, triple-bladed generators, we could certainly make out the lights they used to shoo away passing aircraft. Through these lights, we could also glimpse the eerie majesty that is these giants, silently generating electricity (safely and greenly, I might add, but I won't mount my soap box in this forum).

After two hours' drive (and about 75 minutes worth of are-we-there-yetting), we arrived at our destination tired and a bit fragrant but ready for a drink. Or three. So we dropped our bags in our weekend bedroom and set out for Alex's favorite little tapas restaurant, filling up on some rather delightful, hotel-shampoo-sized goodies. Feeling gluttonous for punishment and filled with a desire to recreate some of the days of yore in Tampa, the three of us set out for El Garaje, a lilliputian dive not far away, for another round.

Alex and I finally managed to wear out my girlfriend but we weren't going down that easily. Proud of the summer home of his childhood, Alex and I walked to the edge of town from which we could see Gibraltar off in the distance when we squinted and looked at the aircraft warning lights just right. I finally put the kibosh on the evening around 3 am, realizing we weren't going to do much of anything the next day if we didn't get to bed at some point, which is why I was stunned to be woken by Alex the next morning at 9. But, he managed to rouse us and a day at Baelo Claudia awaited us!