The rock of contradiction

Date: Apr 23, 2010

We spent a very interesting and enjoyable time at Gibraltar today. Where else do you drive on the right side of the road in the streets, and on the left in the parking garage? Where you speak English in the shops and Spanish on the streets, and watch a group of Hassidic Jews counting their prayer beads pass a knot of Muslim women wearing Jellabas hashing out something in Arabic? Where do you pay for goods in Euros and receive change in Pounds Sterling. Where else would you find “Latino’s Diner,” advertising “Classic American Food,” while featuring a “Full English Breakfast” served all day. Where else would you find an elderly female Brit wearing a black tweed suit on a warm spring day and sitting next to a boppy Hispanic teen sporting that off the bare shoulder blouse look on a public bus. What with all the above, you throw in a cruise ship blowing into port and dropping of a couple thousand Italians, and you’ve got quite a picture to sit back and watch.

Yes it is a community of contradictions. Is it British? Is it Spanish? It all depends upon who you ask. Why do the Brits need an outpost to guard the entrance of the Mediterranean when they’re all European Union anyway. Why do the Spanish feel the need to close the border every so often. Is it just some “To the Empire,” port glass imperialists toasting queen and country? The answer to these and dozens more enigmatic problems can probably be found in some sort of historic karma which they’re all working out. Some residual blend of more than I can understand or try to explain here.

Never the less, it all seems to work. There’s a lively bounce to the place, and it seems to be really booming. They’re reclaiming the sea on several sides of the peninsula creating more jobs, more condos and more income for everybody concerned. There’s not a whole lot to do. You can take a tour of the ape caves, sounds like a real winner, and the place has to be some duty free haven because you won’t find that many jewelry shops anywhere else this side of the Grand Caymans. Take a city bus and things seem very British indeed. Quiet individuals reading their paper, or just sitting with stiff upper lips while others head off to Marks and Spencers. But then all hell breaks loose at the next couple of stops when the Spanish side of the equation comes on board. Suddenly somebody in the back recognizes somebody sitting in the front, and the noise-o-meter bounces its way to the overload setting. Suddenly, It’s Pirates of Penzance meets Don Quixote in a new Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. The one thing the Brits seem to have learned from the Spanish is their driving habits and tactics. None of this “Let’s all be civilized and we’ll all get along” bit. No, it’s that “You were first, but I squeezed in” thing from “Fried Green Tomatoes.” The motor scooter terroristas are here in full force and seemingly comprise a larger percentage of the motorists than even in Spain proper. Many of the Brits actually live on the other side of the frontier because it’s supposed to be cheaper. This was disputed by some that we talked to who said that used to be true, but with the Euro everything has equalized.

Our hotel here is quite nice. They gave us a room on the top floor so that it’s very quiet. It’s a handicapped equipped room. I must have looked really decrepit when I checked in. We have a terrace with a lovely view of the city and port area. We love to sit out there and watch the bee hive port activities. Our bathroom is about the same size as our room in Sevilla and the bathroom counter is an opaque green, but the sink is clear glass. I’ve never looked at my feet while washing my face before. It’s really quite unsettling and not a pretty sight. The bar of soap looks like a golf ball without the dimples, and if I had my sand wedge, I’d fire it off the veranda ala Hunter Thompson.

So tomorrow it’s off to Morocco. And here is where the part of the trip becomes one of winging it. We do have our car rental in Tangier. We can’t take Clio onto Morocco. She doesn’t have a passport, so we’ll leave her here at the hotel and just have to pay for the week we’re not using her. The guide books say the roads are excellent and it’s 350 miles to Marrakesh, but then they say you need 11 hours to make get there. So it’s all very confusing. Apparently you have to watch out for all kinds of strange things on the roads like stray animals (sounds like driving in Botswana), people walking in the middle of the road (sounds like driving in Thailand) and bicyclists turning in front of you without warning (sounds like driving in San Francisco) Trying to book a room is iffy, because of contradictory information. One review says the hotel has secure parking, while another says that means parking on the street. Maybe I’ll take the full insurance this time.

Anyway it should be fun. I asked Carol if she was all right doing this on the fly, and she said she was okay with it as long as she was doing it with me. Like they said in “Shakespeare in Love,” it all works out but it’s a mystery. Sounds like a cool way to travel.

We’ll try to stay safe, but we’ll definitely be living large and prospering.

Carol and Jim