Bangkok

Bangkok, Thailand is a sprawling urban jungle of over nine million people. Located in southeast Asia, it is infused with Theravada Buddhism, aggressive street hawkers, miles of canals, and food vendors on nearly every alley in the city. Shanty houses lie in the same neighborhood as luxurious skyscrapers. Tuk-tuks and motorcycle taxis flood the streets. Everyone seems to speak a little English, but no one seems to speak it fluently. In short, the Thai capital, also known as Krung Thep, is like no other city in the world.

The Chao Phraya River divides the city of Bangkok and is a major venue for transportation. Not only do tourists and locals use the river, but also large tugboats pulling cargo.

Boat taxis run up and down the river, making stops along the way. Some ferries, like this one, will simply take you to the other side.

The most important (and busiest) attraction in all of Thailand in the Grand Palace. Home to the Royal family since 1782, the Grand Palace was constructed just fifteen years after the former capital of Ayutthaya was destroyed by the Burmese. It is visited by thousands of tourists and is home to the Emerald Buddha.

In Thailand there is a strong alliance between the Royal Family and the Buddhist religion. The king, therefore, is greatly revered and his image can be found on many public buildings and currency.

Khao San Road is one of the most famous streets in Bangkok. It is popular for its cheap lodging and colorful night market. Here one can get a massage, tattoo, eat bugs, or Pad Thai. We went for the Pad Thai.

One of the most popular dishes in Bangkok is a bowl of beef noodle soup. Some street stands specialize only in noodle soup and you can buy a bowl for about 40 baht ($1.14).

Notice the bottled water in the picture? Bangkok is a blazing hot city, yet tap water is not potable. Bottled water is sold everywhere. So, stay hydrated!

In many respects, Bangkok is just like Disneyland. Case-in-point are the boat taxis that transport travelers up and down some of the main canals. A ride on one of these boats can cost as low as 7 baht. A cruise along the waters will make you forget that you are in a city full of skyscrapers, and instead, take you away to the jungle, where palm trees hang over the canals and shanty houses with clothes hanging to dry along the water's edge.

And then there are the tuk-tuks, the three-wheeled taxis that are ubiquitous in Bangkok. Once again, they feel like a ride at Disneyland. But beware! Everywhere you go, drivers will come up to you and ask: “tuk-tuk, tuk-tuk?” They are wily. Always negotiate a price before accepting a ride. And always be ready for an impromptu adventure.

For a less adventurous, yet more scenic mode of transportation, try Bangkok's BTS, or Skytrain, system. The BTS allows you to see the city from an elevated perspective, and lets you sit in air-conditioned ease while avoiding the gnarly traffic jams on the street. There are two lines, which don't allow for many options, but if your destination falls near a BTS line, I would definitely take it.

If the BTS doesn't meet your itinerary needs, maybe the MRT, or subway, will. Although there is only one line, it makes a long snaking path across the city.

The bus is another option in Bangkok. If you can master the transit maps, they can take you almost anywhere, and are very cheap. Some buses, like this red one, don't have air-conditioning.

When in Thailand, you must make time for a traditional Thai Massage. They will twist you, pull you, walk on you, dig their elbow in you, and make you cringe and almost cry, but when all is over, you will feel far better than when you arrived. Allow one to two hours. My one hour massage cost 250 Baht ($7.13), plus a tip.

The national sport of Thailand is Muay Thai boxing. As far as I know, there are two main venues in Bangkok, with fights three times a week. Admission can be steep, ranging from 1000 to 2000 baht per person. Beware of pushy hawkers trying to sell you the expensive seats. We didn't get to watch a fight on this trip, but came across this training ring while on a walk.

Yes, the toilets in Thailand are different than those in the States. There will be a variety in Bangkok, as you probably wont find some of the more “deplorable” ones that you may find elsewhere. You may encounter squat toilets, but most of them will be sit-down type. They ask you not to put toilet paper in the toilet as their plumbing system may not be able to handle it. Instead, use the hose and sprayer to clean yourself off; pat dry with toilet paper (if they have any), and you will be good to go!

Bangkok is a museum of holy Buddhist shrines and temples. Wat Pho, officially called Wat Phra Chetuphon Vimolmangklararm Rajwaramahaviharn, dating back to the 17^th century, was a royal monastery while the Grand Palace was under construction. Replete with pagodas, ornate buildings, Buddhas, and Chinese stone statues, Wat Pho is the quintessential Thai temple.

The centerpiece of Wat Pho is the Reclining Buddha. This forty-six meter icon is revered by many who believe that worshiping the image will bring them peace and happiness.

Across the city on the fringes of Chinatown, the temple of Wat Traimit houses the largest golden Buddha in the world.

When you visit a Thai temple, it will be required of you to dress modestly (no shoulders or knees showing), and when entering the holiest shrines of the Buddha, you must remove your shoes.

During your visit, you will undoubtedly happen upon monks dressed in their orange robes. I didn't learn much about them during my visit, but they are certainly a curiosity.

Buddhists don't have a monopoly on religion in Bangkok. You will find Muslims also, and they worship in mosques such as this one. The Ton Son Mosque was originally built around 1688 AD, but has since been renovated with modern materials.

Throughout Bangkok (as well as Thailand), you will find spirit houses in front of many of the properties. A spirit house is designed as a place for spirits to dwell that could cause problems for the property owners, especially since their old home was disturbed by construction on the property. It is usually in the shape of a house or temple, and offerings such as flowers or food are often left.

Bangkok is world renowned for its markets. Klong Toey is a fresh produce market that is best enjoyed in the morning. Walking through this market you will find Thai chili peppers, tamarind, long beans, morning glory, pulsating fish, mounds of raw meat, huge balls of curry, and any other ingredients that you would find in Thai cooking.

Much different is the Pak Klong Talad flower market, the largest of its kind in Bangkok. We visited here in the evening, after dark, but they say the best time to come is after midnight, around three in the morning when the freshest floral arrangements are being set out. Walking along Pak Klong Talad is a sensory pleasure, with pleasant aromas swimming the air, and a vibrant array to please the eye.

Next door is the Saphan Phut Night Bazaar, near Memorial Bridge, and along the flank of the Chao Phraya River. The later in the night you come, the more active the market becomes. They sell t-shirts, jeans, DVD's, and about anything else a teenager might want. It is here that I bought a jersey of my favorite soccer team, Barcelona, for just a fraction of what I would have paid in Spain.

On the weekend (and usually located an hour or two outside the city) are the floating markets. A combination of boats selling produce, and stalls on terra firma selling meals, a floating market is the perfect place to experience a new variety of food and setting. Fish is plentiful, and a common meal will include the entire fish with a plate of rice and a spicy dipping sauce.

It was here that I bought my first bag of coconut water. Yes, they sell it in a bag with an insterted straw.

The biggest market in Bangkok is the Chatuchak weekend market. Composed of over 8,000 stalls, Chatuchak is almost too big to take in. Everything is sold here from art to clothing to food to bugs (the edible kind).

If a crowded street market in the balmy air of Bangkok doesn't sound appealing, how about one of its many air-conditioned malls? We chose to relax at CentralWorld, sipping on fruit shakes while sitting in cushy chairs. CentralWorld is several stories high, and is the largest mall in Bangkok, with over 500 stores and 100 restaurants.

Around the corner from CentralWorld is Siam Plaza, not a true plaza in the conventional sense of the word, but a cluster of shops and restaurants. It is also a central hub of traffic, with the BTS rail line directly above the street, and is extremely busy with pedestrians.

Perhaps because of the abundance of street stalls, the common grocery store isn't as common in Thailand as it is in the States. The 7-Eleven store is the closest and most convenient substitute we found. Not only is it very air conditioned, but it also sells some of those small knick-knacks that you may not find anywhere else: finger nail clippers, band-aids, sim cards, and toothpaste. We also enjoyed the pre-packaged, yet unique pastries such as bread with pandan cream spread on top. 7-Eleven is found in nearly every neighborhood in Bangkok.

If you want to leave the chaos without leaving the city, try a visit to Lumphini Park, Bangkok's own version of Central Park in New York City. Here you will find lots of grass, as well as ponds, and a panoramic view of the high-rise skyline. There are peddle boats you can rent for a small price that will allow you a romantic cruise on the lake. You will likely see a monitor lizard or two.

Finally, no trip to Bangkok would be complete without a trip to Chinatown, perhaps the largest in the entire world. The principal street is Yarowat Road, with its gold shops, street stalls, and lively night life. All the streets radiating from Yarowat are equally alive, some in alleyways so narrow that wandering through the overflowing merchandise can be a tricky ordeal.

Don't be surprised if you come across quivering fish heads, the smell of ancient Asian herbs, or a Chinese Buddhist temple.

 Whenever you're in Bangkok, the time will come every evening when the large equatorial sun dips low on the horizon of haze and smog, and after a glorious sky of amber-painted colors, the night will come and take the edge from the heat. The lights will turn on from the skyscrapers, the street stalls, the tuk-tuks, the barges on the river, and a new chapter will begin on your visit to Bangkok. ♠

Spring Equinox at Parowan Gap

A small group of people stand together next to a diagonal cliff-face of jagged rocks. We stand in the shade and feel the chill of a small breeze that brings goosebumps to my arms. A faint cry of a bird can be heard somewhere above in the cliffs. “If you are quiet,” the lady says, “you can hear the call of a falcon.” We all stand still and listen and hear the high-pitched shriek. “The falcons nest on this side and the eagles nest on the other.” She points to high jagged rocks on the other side of the Gap.

At the moment, I am probably the youngest member of our little group. Most don gray hair and have a scholarly look about them. Our tour-guide, Nancy, has gray hair also, but much longer, and appears to come from the hippie generation, now becoming a grandparent. That's not to say she was a hippie. She may have been closer to a cowgirl, raised on a ranch. Whatever her background, I know that she is local, and has a huge understanding of the Parowan Gap and the cultures that surround it.

The Parowan Gap is a large V-shaped notch carved between two craggy hills, leaving a corridor that connects Cedar and Parowan Valleys. Ten thousand years ago it connected Rush Lake to the west and the Little Salt Lake to the east in what was part of the massive Lake Bonneville. The first signs of human activity at the Gap go back nearly 5,000 years. Since then it has attracted the American Indian, having left hundreds of drawings all over the rocks.

When the site was discovered by the Anglo, it was assumed by many that these drawings were mere doodles. But after much study, it has been concluded that what lies at the Parowan Gap is a sophisticated charting of the sun, moon, and stars. Some archeologists even suggest that there is influence from the Mesoamerican culture in Mexico, which would include the Aztecs. While most of the petroglyphs at the Gap belong to the Fremont culture, there are also two Spanish crosses, early Mormon inscriptions, and Hopi influenced carvings.

The Paiute deity, Tobats, watches over the Parowan Gap. 

From where we stand, to our east is the rock profile, or god mask, of Tobats. Looking closely at the rugged rocks, you can see the larger-than-life head, slightly tilted, with a slit for a mouth, a pointy flat nose, high chin, flat forehead, and an indention for his eyes. Tobats is the creator god, and is associated with many Paiute legends. One tradition tells of Tobats standing on the north peak of the Gap and teaching the Paiutes.

Although I know of Tobats from my own research, it is interesting that Nancy doesn't dare mention the name of the Paiute god while speaking to our group. She says that she doesn't want to mispronounce his name in respect for the Paiute elders who hold their deity sacred.

We cross the narrow road that runs through the Gap and stand in front of a panel on the north face. Yesterday was the spring equinox and Nancy is explaining some of the glyphs associated with this time of year. “Do you see that dying little sage brush up on the rock? If you look to the right and see three rocks that appear to be stacked on top of each other, and above them you see what looks like claw scratches in the rock. If you come to this spot on the morning of the equinox after sunrise, a shadow will be cast onto those scratches in the rock.” I count eight grooved lines in the stone. Nancy explains that the shadow moves one line every two days.

Ancient glyphs like these may have been used to mark important dates.

Near the claw marks is an extensive panel of over a dozen glyphs. Nancy explains what some of these mean. One that catches my attention is a serpent-like line that could be described to look like a pregnant mother's belly. In this line there are fifty-two sections (representing weeks of the year) and on the curved part of the belly there are thirty-six sections, indicating the thirty-six weeks that a woman is pregnant. She explains that the Indians learned that timing was important when having children, and they learned that if they could breed like the animals did—who have their babies in the spring—then their mortality rate would be much higher. This is all very fascinating, but I can't quite understand how the Natives came up with weeks that match the same “week” in western culture. I understand months because it is roughly one rotation of the moon, but not weeks.

Much of the information that Nancy gives, I am sure, was gleaned from the research of Garth Norman, an astro-astronomer who studied the Gap for several years and discovered correlations with ancient calendars in Mesoamerica. In his book, Norman extrapolates the meaning of the glyphs using complex calculations that I struggle to understand. Using his hypothesis, the Indians at Parowan Gap were pure geniuses. They mapped out not only the seasons of the year, but such difficulties as metonic years and the revolution of Venus.

To the left of the birthing panel is a glyph of a bear print with an upside-down comb above it. Below is a fan-like shape that Nancy compares to a large pizza slice. The pizza has 29 lines. The bear print above it and the upside-down comb have the resemblance of a great-horned owl. That makes sense, she says, because the owl only comes out at night. I can see the likeness of the owl, but I will admit that it is a stretch.

Nearby is a plaque depicting the interpretations of the local Paiute tribe. I quickly note that these translations do not coincide with those of Norman's studies. Even Nancy admits that there are other interpretations out there and they are all subject to speculation. She says that some of the renderings are down-right scary. That may be true, but I think that all of these explanations are a leap of faith.

The Gap casts a distinct shadow as sunset approaches.

After examining another panel that is just around the corner of the broken hillside, our group walks to a location a couple hundred yards east of the Gap. A good half-hour of daylight lingers in the sky. I breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the company of other strangers along the route.

Cairns mark the location to watch the sunset at equinox.

We arrive at a small pile of fallen rocks that sit on the loamy earth in close proximity to one another. This is the equinox cairn. How do they know that this was the original pile of rocks constructed by the native Indians? Je n'en sais rien. But sure enough, this will be the location to watch the sun set perfectly in the center of the Gap on the day when both night and day are equal in size. At different locations, there are also cairns for summer and winter solstice.

To pass the time, Nancy does a good job telling stories about local pioneers in the early days of Mormon settlement.  During a bitter cold night in 1854, the settlers heard a cry for help from a man in a snowdrift. That man was John C. Fremont, and he was nearly frozen to death. After he was warmed and fed, the settlers helped rescue his crew that was conducting a survey for the railroad, and also helped replace their horses.

During the narration of the story, a large animal is observed sauntering down the hillside and through the trees in a diagonal direction, coming toward the crowd, but still distant, then veering off to the right and disappearing across the road. Some of the onlookers think it is a deer. But others, including myself, know better. It is a prong-horned antelope. Dark, smooth and slightly curled back at the top, his horns stand straight up from the top of his skull. His hide is reddish-brown with white on his belly and rump—completely different than the gray coating of a deer.

Several minutes later, we turn around to watch the sun, squinting our eyes and concealing the strongest of its rays with our hands. From this angle, the Gap appears as a large upside-down triangle with very uneven and jagged sides. At its point at the bottom of the gap, where this large chasm meets the horizon, the blazing sun melts slowly out of sight, until suddenly it no longer hurts to look in that direction.

The next morning, I arrive at the Gap an hour before sunrise. I am the only one here. A strong scent of sage brush carries through the air, smelling as if it has just rained, although I know it hasn't.

I situate myself near the center of the Gap, on the south side, in a position where I can see the light through the slit of Tobat's mouth. I hear only the cold breeze that funnels through the corridor of the Gap. In the obscurity of morning, the rugged ocher cliffs appear to be absent of glyphs.

Near the opening of a triangular cave shelter, I kneel down and gaze upward into the sky. They say that this is the point that the Natives used to watch the North Star. At this early hour, a few stars linger in the twilight. I can see part of the handle of the Big Dipper, but little of the pot—and nothing of Polaris.

Then I hear the first high-pitched whistle. Kak, kak, kak, kaak. I know that it comes from up high, but I'm not sure exactly where. This must be the falcon.

I have barely returned to where I had set down my gear when I hear a whining howl of a lone coyote. The shrill of the yip carries easily over the bulk of rocks in the Gap. I guess that it must be somewhere on the far west side.

Not too long after the coyote has slipped away, I hear a deep and soft hoo, hoo, hooo, hoooo carry across the gulf of the Gap. This is definitely an owl. Immediately my mind returns to the presentation last night and the interpretation of the petroglyph to be a great-horned owl. Unlike the other animals who are calling this morning, I feel like I can roughly pinpoint the location of the owl. I can't see him, but can easily imagine a soft, mottled gray bird with large yellow eyes, rotating his head, and hooing away to advertize his territory.

I pass my time by walking around and perusing the glyphs that are now becoming more visible. There are so many! By now, the owl has ceased calling, but a symphony of others have begun. It sounds like the jungle of Costa Rica. I had no idea that there were so many birds here! Once again, my mind reverts back to the sacredness of this place by Native Americans. Could this be a dwelling place for many of the old spirits? Certainly, this place feels sacred to me.

Now I turn my attention to the etches in the rock that Nancy correlated last night with the equinox. [It is interesting that Norman uses these same etchings to mark the winter solstice.] The sun is scheduled to rise at 7:32 this morning. The sunrise will vary depending on the placement of hills and mountains. This time comes and passes without a projection onto the claw marks.

I look far to the west, beyond the area of the Gap, and see a delineating shadow that signals first sunlight. It is still some distance away, but slowly moving eastward.

Another hour passes and the sun is far from shining on the little corner of rock, and I see that it is approaching at a snails pace. At 9:05 I notice an interesting phenomena as the shadow cast onto a nearby rock is almost a perfect match to an ancient snake-like line etched into the stone.

Finally, at 10:10 am, the shadows of the sun move across the bear-claw etchings. After two and a half hours of waiting, I get to see what I came to find.

Is this coincidence? Does it really mean anything? Does it truly mark the equinox, or will I find a similar happening if I return in a month? Why were these markings etched into the rock?

The Parowan Gap is a fascinating place that, in my opinion, conjures more questions than it answers. Although many of the glyphs have their interpretations by modern day men, most of the truth at the Gap is shrouded in mystery. ♠

[My experience at the Parowan Gap happened during the spring equinox of 2015.]

Whitewashed Villages of Andalucia

Frigiliana

In Washington Irving's classic book, Tales of the Alhambra, he recounts the story of three Moorish princesses whose father, Mohamed, was a king of Granada. Their mother was a beautiful Christian damsel whose city had been sacked by the Moors—she being carried away as part of the booty. She caught the eye of the king and became part of his harem, eventually being persuaded to marry him.

When the three daughters were born, the king summoned the astrologers, and upon seeing them they shook their heads. “Daughters, O king,” they said, “are always precious property; but these will need your watchfulness when they arrive at a marriageable age; at that time gather them under your wings, and trust them to no other guardianship.”

This omen disturbed the king. He decided to take no chances and determined to have them reared in the Royal Palace in Salobreña, some forty miles from Granada.

“The castle of Salobreña . . . was built upon a hill on the seacoast. One of the exterior walls straggled down the profile of the hill, until it reached a jutting rock overhanging the sea, with a narrow sandy beach at its foot, laved by the rippling billows. A small watchtower on this rock had been fitted up as a pavillion, with latticed windows to admit the sea-breeze. Here the princesses used to pass the sultry hours of mid-day.

“Here the princesses remained immured from the world, but surrounded by enjoyment, and attended by female slaves who anticipated their wishes. They had delightful gardens for their recreation, filled with the rarest of fruits and flowers, with aromatic groves and perfumed baths. On three sides the castle looked down upon a rich valley, enameled with all kinds of culture, and bounded by the lofted Alpuxarra mountains; on the other side it overlooked the broad sunny sea.”

Passing view of Salobreña.

It was with this story as a backdrop that I waited with anxious anticipation for our bus to pass along Salobreña on its route from Granada to Nerja, along the Mediterranean coast of Spain. I recall passing the Suspiro del Moro, the mountain pass that was so named after Boabdil, the last Moorish king in Spain, was driven from his home in Granada. Upon reaching the pass where he would gaze upon the Alhambra one last time, he let out a sigh and broke into crying.

The road came within view of the massive snow-capped Sierra Nevada Mountains. We passed over several large bridges, one that surmounted a deep barranco, and another that spanned the arm of a large blue lake. Hillsides terraced with olive trees grew alongside small whitewashed towns. I knew we were getting close.

Then, the village came into view. Through the dust of the bus window, I saw a prominent hill with an impressive dense cluster of alabaster buildings that covered the entire surface of the hill. It looked like no other town I had ever seen. Topping it off, like a crown jewel, was a 10^th century Moorish castle.

Unfortunately, our bus only passed by Salobreña, so we never had the opportunity to walk its narrow streets. But it was a great introduction to the whitewashed villages of Andalusia. My sole purpose of our detour to the coast was to explore these villages and to see what they were really like.

Playa de la Calahonda

Nerja is a charming little town on the Costa del Sol where our hotel proves to be a true bargain. For only 30 € we have a spacious and clean room with shower and toilet en suite. From our back-facing balcony is a view of a vacant lot, crumbing stone fences, a few scattered palm trees, and tables and lounging chairs from a well-kept patio—as well as a view of hanging laundry. In the distance I can see a swath of Mediterranean blue that marks the sea. From here, we are only a five minute walk to the water along the narrow street of Calle Pintada.

We find a small bar below our hotel and grab a bite to eat before exploring. I choose to eat a bocadillo (a sandwich made on good Spanish crusty bread) de beicon y queso, and Jenelle and I share a small plate of churros with a thick molasses poured over.

We make the stroll to the sea-side and find ourselves on a large platform that has an expansive view of the ocean. This is known as the Balcony of Europe. Nerja is a tourist town and I notice that many of the people don gray hair and are Scandinavian or British in origin. Although it is certainly considered whitewashed, there are enough buildings of other colors that most would consider Nerja not as “pure” as many of the other whitewashed villages.

We are anxious to get close to the water but we didn't bring bathing suits as it is still March and a bit too cold. From the palm-lined plaza that is adjacent to the Balcony of Europe, we walk down a sandy set of steps and onto a beach of course sand. This is the Playa de la Calahonda. There are several hardy sunbathers down here, some in bikini's testing the lapping waves at their ankles, and others stretched out on towels, hoping to catch the sunlight before it disappears behind them.

Nerja has a handful of beaches, and some of them, such as the Playa de la Calahonda, are nestled in protected coves. I see a cat that has found her home on a pile of colorful rags, inside a blue-painted skiff. Since visiting southern Spain, I have noticed that there are cats everywhere.

We return to the streets and find a store where we buy a small selection of mantecados, a simple shortbread common in Andalusia consisting of flour, sugar, milk, nuts, and fat. These ones were made in a convent and wrapped individually.

We carry the sweets with us and find a beach that is more secluded than the first. To get to Playa del Carabeo, we descend another set of steep steps, this one surrounded by green sprawling plants and flowers. We find more abandoned skiffs on the sand and another stray cat. This time, we are the only people on the beach.

Overlooking the Mediterranean from a vista in Nerja.

After eating our sweets, we remove our shoes and take pictures together using my tiny tripod. By now, the sun is well behind us, and hues of pink stretch along the horizon of a cloudless sky. We walk along the beach, getting sand stuck between our toes, and watching the lights on the distant coastal hills slowly turn on. To the south, the rocky outcrop becomes a silhouetted profile with palm trees and, if you look closely, you can see the Balcony of Europe hanging over the sea.

We brush the sand from our feet with our socks and then replace our shoes. Back on top of the bluff, we find a small restaurant with an outdoor terrace to eat our food. I order an individual-sized seafood paella and Jenelle a plate of chicken croquettes. We share a few slices of bread with a nutty pesto sauce drizzled over. I conclude the paella is alright, but I have certainly tasted better. While eating, a man with an accordion walks around the tables to serenade us with music. This is certainly a touristy town.

Then, my eye catches a spectacular scene that unfolds nearby. Through one of the white arches that line the Plaza Balcón de Europa, the full moon rises above the horizon. It is very large and dark orange—almost bloody—in color. We watch it rise in awe and snap a few pictures while some of the local ladies are out for their nightly stroll.

While finishing our meal, the sound of clanking plates and the ping of silverware rise around us. I hear conversations in Castillian Spanish in the background, but so muffled that I can barely understand what is being said. Occasionally, the waiter comes to a table with a new plate of food and I hear someone say, gracias. Somewhere in the darkness, a moped revs up and hurries away along an obscure narrow street.

Church of El Salvador at Plaza Balcón de Europa in Nerja.

Then I hear the bells. Our terrace sits adjacent to El Salvador Church, and at once, the strong chime of the bell rings nine times. Then, without fanfare, the sound ends, and the conversations continue like nothing ever happened.

Before returning to our hotel for the night, we decide to take one last stroll to the end of the balcony. By now, the moon has lost its bloody hue and is higher above the horizon, casting a bright, wavy reflection onto the sea. As far as we can look to the southeast, there is nothing but foreboding darkness, except for where the moon's light has influence.

The beaches on either side of the balcony are lit up, where small nighttime waves roll into the rocks. Up here, a soft, brisk wind blows from the sea. Everything seems perfect as we walk along the palm-lined promenade, lit by iron-post street lamps, back to our hotel.

Maro

The following morning, we take the bus a few miles up the coast to the Caves of Nerja. Our visit there will be for another discussion. After visiting the caves, we walk for only five minutes and we are in the tiny village of Maro.

Maro is considered to be one of the “white villages” perched on the slopes of this Andalucian mountain range, the others being Frigliana, Torrox, and Competa. It sits on a hilltop with a grand view of the sea and surrounded by terraced slopes of olive and almond orchards.

There aren't many streets in Maro, and they all seem to be quiet, which is a relieving contrast to the bustling tourism of Nerja. It is lunch time and we hope to find a place to buy food before everything closes for mediodia, the three-hour gap when most Spaniards close shop and eat a large meal with their family at home, and then take a nap.

We find a small store on the bottom story of an apartment building with only a few shelves of canned goods and a couple walls of produce. An older lady is running the store by herself and is very polite to us when we come in. For less than 3 €, I buy enough food for both Jenelle and I.

We walk along one of Maro's streets, narrow enough for one lane of traffic. All the walls are painted white with different colors of trim around the doors and windows. We walk to the east side of town (in only a minute or two) and sit on a bench along a sidewalk that has a view of a pasture with two horses, and beyond that, the deep blue Mediterranean.

I pull my food from the bag, which consists of a can of calamares, a small loaf of bread, and a pear. As I didn't bring any utensils, I use my fingers to grab the calamares from the can and lift them to my mouth, then I chase them with a chunk of bread. When I am finished eating, I use the bread to mop up the sauce and oils left in the can, and wipe the can clean. The sauce has a taste of red peppers, tomatoes, and garlic.

Watchtowers such as this one are common on the Costa del Sol.

After lunch, we continue our circuit of the village on our way back to the bus stop. On the next hill over, I notice what looks like a watchtower on the crest of the hill. I believe this is a Moorish atalaya. I had read that the Moors placed these towers at regular intervals along the coast to be used for signaling purposes, or else as a defense. Squinting my eyes, it looks like there may be another watchtower even further in the distance—several miles away—but I'm not sure.

On our drive over from Granada, we passed an old Roman bridge. These are reminders that this land has been occupied by many different people for many centuries.

Just arrived in Frigiliana.

On day three, we make a day-trip to the pristine whitewashed village of Frigiliana. Before leaving Nerja, we stop at a bar on the corner and sit down to a breakfast of churros and chocolate espeso. The churros are thick, crisp on the outside, and light in the middle—in other words, perfect! We dip them into the thick hot chocolate, which is as thick as mud, but tastes a whole lot better.

When we board the bus for the ten minute ride to Frigiliana, we notice that almost everyone inside has gray hair and is dressed like a tourist. We are conveyed northward, around the flank of a small mountain. There, the view unfolds, and Frigiliana is draped beautifully in two distinct sections across the hillside.

Near the bus stop is a mechanical theater of sorts, a booth with a glass window and inside a marionette dressed like a Moor, with a parrot next to him on a tree limb. The Moor will speak to you if you drop a euro coin in the slot. The “Moro y su loro” then recounts some of the towns history, emphasizing the lasting influence of Moors, Jews, and Christians alike.

Frigiliana is beautiful. Everything is whitewashed with the exception of occasional blue trimming and colorful potted flowers. The streets wind like a snake, with stairs that twist upward to the next level of street.

Typical street in Frigiliana.

Decorative motifs adorn the main street, Calle Real; yet it is so narrow that anytime a car comes you've got to move inside a doorway to get out of the way. Walking along this street, one may encounter two old ladies walking arm in arm, an old man using his cane, a woman carrying groceries, or a sign advertizing “caña y aceitunas 1 €.”

The higher one gets, the more spectacular the view becomes. There are palm trees, orange and lemon trees, fig trees, and avocado trees. The sea is also visible from here.

Most of our time is spent wandering the narrow streets. We don't find many things “to do,” but are well satisfied just meandering through the labyrinth of walkways.

How would it be if this were your soccer stadium?!

Just off one of the upper streets, we come across an impressive sports complex. Nearly dangling over the gorge of the Higuerón River is a soccer court and a steep set of bleachers that over-look the gorge. A tall chain-link fence is fitted around the opposite side, preventing people from falling off the edge.

For my own selfish reasons, I decide to hike to the very top of the hill, well above town. Jenelle isn't so keen on the idea and decides to wait for me below. She is such a good sport.

The road leading upward isn't much of a road. Along the way there are a few small houses locked up behind fences. They say there are the remains of an old Moorish castle on top, but when I arrive, all I find are a few crumbling walls.

I do, however, find a couple of burros feeding on grass. After snapping a picture, I hurry down, feeling guilty for having left Jenelle by her lonesomes for so long.

We return to Nerja on the bus, and being our final evening in town, decide to check out a beach on the other side of town. Along the way, we stop at Supersol and buy a couple Cokes. Behind the store there is a park area with benches where we sit down to enjoy the drinks.

Then we notice that we are right next to a petanca court. This is the ultimate sign that you are mingling with the locals. Petanca, similar to the French game of boules, is usually played by old men wearing black beret's, who mumble and mutter their words in a way that makes them difficult to understand. It is played on a graveled lane, where after a small red ball is tossed, the players then attempt to toss a larger metal ball as close as they can to the red ball.

I attempt to watch in an inconspicuous manner, hoping not to draw no attention to myself. Six men play together, all dress in long-sleeved sweaters, some of them knit. One is wearing a beret and sunglasses, holding a gray rag in his left hand.

Soon, their game is over and our Cokes are empty.

We move toward the beach, but quickly come to a soccer court. Inside the chain-link fence, a couple of youth teams play a very competitive game of fútbol. The fence appears closed off so we watch the game from the outside.

Of course, soccer is the national sport in Spain. Kids learn to kick a ball far sooner than they learn to throw one (if that ever happens at all), and they dream of playing for Barça or Real Madrid.

To our surprise, either a coach or a parent sees us trying to spy on their game and immediately invites us in. They are eager and friendly, and point us to sit on the front row of the three-rowed bleachers.

These kids look like young Ronaldos and Puyols the way they maneuver the ball down the field. We watch the game until the very last second when the victor is decided. I notice the contrast from American youth soccer games. Instead of handing out Caprison and Little Debbies at the end, the Spaniards drink water and stretch.

The sky has turned darker and a gust of wind picks up. We hustle down the Calle el Chaparil toward the beach before the storm arrives.

When we get there, the sea is already a white torrent of water. Waves much bigger than the standard Mediterranean size are pounding the rocky shore and sending up geyser-sized spray. We walk along the promenade and are amazed at the violence of the storm. Although the water is still some distance below us, the break of the waves sends a mist to our face.

The street lamps turn on now and the sky turns a darker shade of gray. Soon, the rain clouds arrive and the promenade quickly becomes sopping wet. We find shelter from the showers inside a small gift shop where we begin to look for postcards and souvenirs to send the kids. ♠