Spanish Escapade

Thanks to ex-cyclone Oswald, I was without electricity for an entire day recently. With no charge on my laptop, I had plenty of time to waste. Going through my holiday mementos, it reminded me of my time in Spain.

My mother and I were embarking on a weeklong organised tour starting in Madrid, going to Toledo, Cost Del Sol, Granada, Seville, and a few other places. We waited at the designated spot for the big bus to pick us up. When a little van arrived, we should have known then it wasn’t going to be like the brochure.

At first we thought the van was taking us to meet the bus, perhaps it was just a shuttle. The driver could barely speak English and we couldn’t speak Spanish so there was a lot of confusion. We went along with it anyway, it seemed legit enough.

Turns out, the van was our bus and the driver was our guide. Something had been lost in translation between the glossy brochure and reality. Still, we were excited to see Spain so we hoped for the best.

Thankfully, one of the other five people joining us on our tour spoke Portuguese – close enough to Spanish. She translated as much as possible but we rarely knew where we were, what time we were being picked up, or what was going to happen. We spent the entire week in the dark.

Holy Toledo!

And then it got that little bit worse. Two of our group were leaving half-way to join another tour that was going to Morocco – this included our impromptu translator.

So the remaining five of us sat in the lobby of our hotel and stared at our driver/tour guide. He was trying to use charades to give us our itinerary for the next day. Needless to say, it wasn’t quite working.

Being the youngest in the group, the others all turned their attention to me. Apparently, because I was young, I could magically speak Spanish. I have no idea how I became the translator, but I managed to get that he was going to pick us up at seven a.m. the next morning. Be there or be lost in Spain forever.

One thing after another went wrong on this tour, but it couldn’t dampen our spirits. We were in Spain after all, the home of Sangria. One of the best memories I have is being in the Costa Del Sol, in a crappy hotel where the elevator wasn’t working, on a rainy day, and in the dining room having a makeshift dinner because they forgot to arrange something for us. The sangria flowed and the five of us had the time of our lives.

So, in conclusion, I highly recommend Spain. It truly is a beautiful country with so much to offer. And nothing can’t be fixed with a little sangria. Adios Amigos.

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