Lola (Málaga, Day 3)

In a case of déjà vu, we had breakfast at Krumble and then set sail for the Pompidou Centre. It was coffee and croissant again and a chat with one of the owners of Krumble. Originally they had their eyes on Australia and Covid happened. Instead they moved from Argentina to Spain. A pity. I would have loved their croissants and pastries being available in Sydney.

That big white shuttered door at the Pompidou Centre was open today and it made entrance to the centre so much more obvious and much easier. Jayne chatted with the attendant and mentioned the Frida Kahlo exhibition. Apparently the webpage that noted the Kahlo exhibition was only 10 years out of date. It closed in 2015. Just missed it.

There was a semi-permanent exhibition, To Open Eyes Artists Views, and a temporary one, The Animal Dream. The former examined, amongst other things, feminist art and the latter human relationships with animals. The artist view's collection featured a variety of works from sculpture and installations to paintings and covered Duchamp to Pollock to some interesting feminist works from Judy Chicago. That is, naked painted women playing with flares (the same colour they were painted) in the California desert. It was about reclaiming the feminine form from objectification. Deep.

The cube from the inside.

The animal exhibition was reasonably predictable in the beginning and then got weird and in the end, finished with some completely esoteric film clips. Let me explain. There were the usual portrait style photographs of a variety of animals from a rooster to a lizard to an orang-utan to an elephant. Some complete with a reflection in the pupil that showed the photographer. Each of these had a darkened background like an old masters portrait. Interesting, if not obvious.

Duchamp.

The next section was a documentary. It interviewed a series of American women and one man, each of whom entered some sort of competitive dancing thing with their dog or dogs. It was riveting stuff, like seeing a car accident. You couldn't look away. Weird is insufficient to describe these people. The final movie was about the eradication of fire ants and involved a lot of cacti, some bad acting and a soccer ball. Yeah, I have no idea. Anyway, it was interesting.

Unmistakably Jackson Pollock

We had decided to forgo dinner this evening and have a late, lingering lunch. There were plenty of options along Pier One and there was only one small cruise liner in today, with a capacity of about 700 people, so crowds were low. After so much tapas, we decided a steak would be the choice of the day. It came down to two restaurants, side-by-side. One, Lola's, was recommended by our guide from yesterday. The other was not. There we have the link to today's title, Lola by The Kinks, an absolute classic from 1970.

Lola's was the cheaper option and with the prophetic words of Jayne's father ringing in my ears, "It's not cheap if you can't eat it," we sat down. The rib eye steak was really sirloin. My 'rare' was tending the other side of medium and Jayne's 'medium' was nailed to a stump in a bushfire. Part of the problem, and I haven't seen this sort of stupidity since England in 2003, was serving the steaks on a hot metal plate, so they continue to cook until the plate cools. Idiots. I thought the Spanish would know better, but then this is a tourist area, heavily frequented by Brits.

There were two other issues with our lunch. The red wine was served and the bottle was unchilled. This is a first in Spain. All red is served slightly chilled to combat the heat and the white is over-chilled and iced to death in a bucket. Consequently the wine wasn't quite blood temperature but it didn't get to show its best. The view across the harbour was delightful and the people watching was interesting until a 'super yacht' arrived and obscured our view and that of about four other restaurants. It turned out the yacht was once owned by a Russian oligarch (now dead, a pity a few more don't follow his lead) and is for sale for a tidy €240 million. Now I've always been more of a socialist than a capitalist, dear reader, even when flying Business Class, but the concept that someone could spend that sort of money on a plaything is absolutely ludicrous. If you haven't read Juice by Tim Winton, you should.

On the walk back to the hotel, we saw a bobcat bogged on the beach. Vastly amusing. Spades at the ready, the workers, trying fruitlessly to dig it out, sent sand flying. More like dirt flying, it doesn't really resemble sand at all.

Funny to watch.

Back at the hotel, we changed and joined many other guests at the pool. There were more people cultivating sun cancers than in the water and it was a refreshing dip. The afternoon sun was moving quickly and we needed to move to capture some warmth and dry our gear, in preparation for packing for transit day tomorrow.

Before.

After.

The area below our room had been transformed into a Porsche car wash. There were six or seven of them lined up at the front of the hotel in the morning. None of them were ours. I didn't see the Peugeot 308 getting washed.

The hotel from the beach.

As the sun was close to setting, we walked back down to Pier One to photograph the sunset. Yeah, nah. Not much happening there. And have a gelato.

I've seen better.

That was the day.

Until tomorrow, another transit day.

Mrs Bartolozzi (Málaga, Spain)

The next morning was rather grey and cloudy but that wasn't the most disappointing aspect to the day, dear reader. Turning the corner onto the waterfront and seeing two cruise ships in port, that was disappointing. It means the streets will be filled groups following flags. I don't have an issue with that as such, I have succumbed to joining such groups on occasion. My issue is with their mindless behaviour. However, disappointing turned to devastating when the whole port was in view. Not two, but four ships: combined mass to be disgorged onto the streets - just under 10,000 people. Yay.

Not a pretty picture.

Time travelling meant we needed a laundromat, after breakfast of course. We found a local café that was well reviewed and popular with the locals but it was also relatively expensive. Relatively because breakfast for one at the hotel is €28. We paid just under €18 for both of us; still a bit pricey for two coffees and two serves of tostados.

The fountain at the main roundabout.

We walked to the laundry after breakfast. It had excellent reviews and the owner/operator proved to be as delightful as previous customers had said. The only problem for us was that his laundry was closed for renovations and wouldn't be fully functional for a month. He directed us to the nearest self-service laundry. 

We went back to the hotel to gather the camera and all we needed for the day's excursions and walked down the main street to the old town. The recommended laundromat was just beyond. It was small and not all the machines were operational but it looked clean. It would have to do.

The walk to the old town is decorated by many different hibiscus plants

Into the old town we went, to be confronted by tour group after tour group, following flags or paddles that denoted the ship they were on. It was crowded, very crowded, as one of my favourite poets once wrote, "the crowds upon the pavement were like fields of harvest wheat". I would have liked a scythe to harvest a few of the less considerate stalks.

Jayne had discovered a walking tour of the old town that highlighted the main sites and had dovetailed this with recommendations form the hotel staff. The markets were not fully open, but we squeezed in there. It was similar to the markets in Valencia although the building wasn't as grand. There were stalls selling all the usual produce, fruit, vegetables, seafood, meat, cured meats, nuts, gelato and so on. 

The manic markets.

We found an exit and made our retreat into the fresh air. Next stop was the church of San Juan, because we walked past it. Well, we stumbled upon it. We were actually looking for the Cathedral and I saw a bell tower. The wrong one as it turns out, but we popped in to the church anyway.

The church of San Juan.

The search for the Cathedral continued. It is known as the 'one armed lady' because only one bell tower was ever completed. Not that you'd know from ground level. It is difficult to photograph because of encroaching buildings, crowds and the sheer size of the Cathedral itself. Apparently they are experiencing water issues with the roof and it is covered with a temporary structure.

Part of the Cathedral exterior.

To enter the Cathedral, you need to part with €10 or €9 if you're old like me. Interestingly Jayne had declined entrance to the Barcelona Cathedral because of the excessive cost, but we lured inside by the pictures of the interior of the Málaga Cathedral. Looks can be deceptive, dear reader. The interior did not shine bright and golden like the enhanced photos at the entrance.

It was quite crowded inside. I'm sure some priests in Australia would have been thrilled if this many people turned up for Sunday mass. It was also still and humid. The conditions were not ideal. I snapped a few photos, tried to ascertain where the organist sat to operate the organ and then exited 'through the gift shop' so I could breathe again.

I've seen bigger.

The next place to check off our list was the Roman Theatre. Once again, dear reader, I assert that size does matter. The theatre in Cartagena made the Málaga version look, well, let's just say it was the Palais Garnier compared with a country town hall. Yes, it was small and not a lot of it had been restored. 

The Roman Theatre.

Our intention was to do a guided tour of the theatre and Alcazabar later so we didn't loiter but sought out a bar to have an afternoon beer. All the restaurants, cafés and bars were buzzing but we scored a front table not far from the theatre and settled down for a Málaga lager.

The usual people watching was enhanced by a group of enterprising young locals who put on an impromptu break dancing display, complete with music. Once the performance was over they walked around, hat in hand and then moved a few doors down to another set of drinkers/diners. I'm not sure how productive their work was proving but there was no doubting their ability or fitness.

Saw this in a side street.

Rehydration complete, we returned to the hotel and grabbed our laundry and walked to the laundromat in the hope that siesta time would see the machines empty. A plan that almost worked. There were three small machines. One was in use and one labelled 'out of order' and the third? Its handle was broken so it to was out of order which meant using a 14kg machine. Who has that much washing? It cost extra but hey, to have a pair of underpants laundered at the hotel was €5. To wash and dry our clothes cost €12.50 and we had a lot more than three pairs of knickers. Bargain.

The rather obscure title, Mrs Bartolozzi, is a song by Kate Bush where she sings about washing the clothes, metaphorically of course. Since we spent part of the day in the laundromat it works.

To while away the time, we walked into Soho proper. The tour guide maintained there was street art adorning the buildings. The tour guide was wrong. There were a couple of feeble attempts at art, a lot of graffiti and bugger all else. We combed the nearby streets methodically, because we had the time while the washing and drying was happening. And ... nothing. No sides of buildings adorned with paintings of birds by famous street artists. There were more sex shops than street art, but Jayne wouldn't let me browse. A fruitless search but it filled in the time.

The best of Soho.

Dinner tonight was at a nearby Italian restaurant, literally across the street from the hotel. It's quite a large establishment. As you walk in, there are tables to the right that could seat 40 or so people and then the area to the left where there were about 10 patrons seated with plenty of vacant space.

We were greeted with, "Do you have a reservation"? Perhaps greeted is the wrong term, it was more an accusation. He dismissed us to the young woman resetting tables, we were seated and we watched as a pizza and the biggest calzone I've ever seen arrive at the next table. We exchanged glances, hmmm, large serves, proper Italian.

After some discussion, we settled on zucchini flowers, a caprese salad and one pizza between us. A wise decision as we watched the people next to us move the food around their plates. I doubt they would have finished one pizza between them and most of their dinner ended up in the bin. Such a waste.

And that was about it for the day. Tomorrow we head back into the old town for a dose of Picasso.

Until next time.

Hotel California (Cartagena - Almería - Málaga)

To pick up from the last blog, it was time for dinner. After weeks of tapas and the occasional pizza, we opted for old school pub food, a burger. Don't despair, dear reader, we returned to La Taranta where I noted burgers on their menu a few days back. It turned out to be an excellent choice. Smoky bacon, wood-charred beef, green tomato (interesting) and the usuals, except beetroot, we're not in Australia, Toto. A lesson for all pubs back in the home country ... the bun stayed together until the last mouthful.

Back at the hotel, we part-packed before retiring for the night. The bars and clubs on the dock were pumping and the Saturday night party people were out in force. Not even our double glazed windows could drown out all the revelry.

In the morning, we needed to find a new breakfast place as our regular haunt was closed. We found one on our second attempt. Kuss offered things way too sweet for my palate. Down a side street, we found another café and headed out the back, away from the smokers to order tostados and double espressos. Suitably charged, we returned to the hotel to finish packing and check out.

I wasn't looking forward to escaping from the maze of columns they call a carpark, but the carlift was successfully negotiated and we were free! Next stop was a service station to refuel the car. Petrol was €1.50/l or about $2.65 AUD.

The drive to Málaga was about 4 hours so we thought we would stop at Almería, another port town with a fortress. It was almost half way between our final destination and Cartagena. Jayne had located a positively reviewd parking area, with coordinates loaded into Apple maps and off we went.

They love a tunnel.

The first interesting event of the day was the toll road. We have encountered many toll plazas on this trip. They all require you pay by card, no Amex, philistines. This one tricked me by offering a ticket. Confusing. I reveresed out and read the sign which simply said, "ticket". Back in again, thankfully there was no traffic, and there was ticket waving in the breeze. Ticket rescued on we went. In small print, we were instructed to keep the ticket to present at the point of exit, otherwise we would be charged for the longest distance possible.

No space wasted.

The scenery was remarkable only in that it was a never ending sea of hot houses. We have no idea what they were growing, but on the flat land they covered the ground as far as you could see. In hilly areas, they were carved into the terraces. The soil, that grey, limestone dirt looks like it wouldn't support anything. Obvioulsy I'm wrong in that assessment.

Greenhouses everywhere.

We peeled off the A7 at Almería and followed the instructions to the carpark. Almost. The entire wharf area is under reconstruction so the road we needed to access the carpark no longer existed. After a couple of mainies, we found where we could park. It required a walk because the construction had closed all pedestrian access except at the either extremity of the wharf area - maybe a km or so apart. Well, it is a transit day. Not everything can go well.

Not what we expected.

It was quite warm as we walked back to the street where we headed up the hill into the old town and to the main square and tourist information centre. The streets were unusually quiet in comparison with Cartagena, the joy of not having thousands of cruise tourists clogging the streets.

No action in the plaza.

Plaza de la Constitución was located at the top of the hill. It was deathly quiet. The information centre had closed at 1:30pm, it was now 2pm. Ah, Sunday in Spain. From the other side of the plaza, we could see the fort on the hilltop above us. It also appeared deserted. Ok, let's try the Cathedral. No dice. God was having a siesta until 3pm. "Do you want to find the butterfly house"? Jayne asked. We turned for the car.

The unmanned fort.

Part of the Cathedral wall.

As an aside, the Cathedral is quite interesting because it is a fortress in itself, complete, back in the day, with cannon placements. Almería was a popular destination for pirates and the good Catholics didn't welcome their arrival. Or of they did it was with cannon fire. So the closest we got to the Cathedral was the extensive wall. As always it was difficult to photograph because of its size.

Cathedral wall.

Back on the road, the remainder of the trip was uneventful. The only thing of note was the Hotel California. No really, it's about 1km away from us. It made today's choice of title rather easy. Hotel California by the Eagles. We found Málaga okay but had a little trouble findng the hotel. Much like the AC Hotel in Cartagena, the Gran Miramar Hotel is alson know as the Gran Málaga Hotel. One name is sufficient, people.

The Hotel California has been found.

The hotel is, well, grand. Like very grand. 

Palace Miramar. Another name.

The foyer area is expansive. It is just stunning. After we were whisked from our car, valet parking only, and escorted to the check-in desk, we were provided with glasses of cava. Very good cava. 

The foyer.

There are seven levels, the highest being the roof top bar and chill out space with views over the Mediterranean. There is a very large pool and a reserved beach section for hotel guests. Nice.

The birds returning to roost.

Our room is old world charm. Ornate plaster ceilings, king sized bed, sitting area, marble bathroom with bath, shower, toilet and bidet. So civilised. Once unpacked, we refreshed, changed and strolled down to the sea where jsut across the street was a seafood restaurant. Dinner sorted.

Sunset over Málaga.

We enjoyed dinner as the sun set and then retired to the luxury of our room for a well earned sleep.

Until tomorrow.

Orinoco Flow (Cartagena)

Last night when we went to bed in Cartagena, all was quiet. Not so when we awoke, but that was not discovered for a few hours, dear reader. We had located a breakfast place that was open before 10am, bonus, and it was only 5 minutes from the hotel. It wasn't quite at capacity when we arrived and we secured a table outside in the shade. The lady arrived and we destroyed the Spanish language in placing our order - she was amused and finished every part of the order for us with a laugh.

Breakfast was a double espresso and tomato toast. Not so complex, but there was no menu so necessarily there was bit of guesswork involved. Jayne spent some time watching other orders arrive and decided to be adventurous tomorrow and add queso to our exhaustive list of Spanish words.

A sculpture on the promenade.

The remaining seats filled quickly, mostly with locals heading to work. A place like this is always a great choice. The coffee was good and the tomato toast, a spin on Catalan tomato bread, was too. It was a lightly toasted bread roll,  spread with grated tomato and olive oil.

Post breakfast, we returned to the hotel to grab the camera to find that the arctic doona had been rolled down and replaced by the sheet that Jayne had requested as we left 45 minutes earlier. Nice. Our destination today was based on the daily temperature and amount of sunshine. Tomorrow's top is supposed to 30°, so we are doing the outside touristing today. (It concerns me that the dictionary allows the word touristing).

Now that's street art.

Camera in hand, we walked a huge 2 minutes to the Museo del Teatro Romano, or the Roman Theatre Museum for those who aren't fluent in Spanish. This is probably the major tourist attraction of Cartagena. As we approached the square, we noticed large numbers of people with lanyards milling around and a person with a flag. Bugger. Tour groups. There was an American cruise ship in port. The good news: it was luxury ship with a maximum of 720 passengers.

The face of Emperor Augustus.
His mother loved him.

Being decrepit old people, we scored reduced entry costs to the museum and theatre. If this keeps up, the trip will pay for itself. The early sections are displays of recovered artefacts from the site which is still under exploration. There were the usual exhibits of reliefs, columns, statues, plinths and collars as well as exposed sections of walls. These were all accompanied with explanations.

Juno, Minerva and I can't remember.

We spent some time in the museum and the theatre, dodging the cruise crowd so we could amble at our own pace, undisturbed by the loud prognostications of the group. In this we were only partially successful, as a second group followed minutes behind the first. Jayne declared this was her kind of museum. Why you ask, dear reader? Nothing particularly cultural or interesting; it had escalators to each floor, no stairs.

The remnants of a relief.

It was quite amazing to realise that the theatre site was only rediscovered in 1988. Down through the years a shanty town built up over the site and as Cartagena became run down, the existence of the theatre was lost to memory as the forgotten people claimed the site. When you see the scope of what has been recently uncovered, it makes the story even more fascinating.

Original Roman columns recycled for more recent use.

The Roman Theatre.

Cartagena is taking its history very seriously now and every excavation is being carefully considered with an eye to the past. There are numerous buildings, scattered throughout the city, that are mere shells as their foundations are explored.

From the theatre, we walked down the marble paved main pedestrian thoroughfare to the Plaza de España, a rather underwhelming end to a grand shopping and eating strip. From there, it was on to another archeological site, the Parque Arqueologico Cerro del Molinete. This is one of the many fortified hills of Cartagena, now not quite in pristine condition. It provides a great view of parts of the city and, like much of the rest of the area, has been repurposed depending on who had invaded last. The more obvious remnants belong to the Romans.

The tower looking across to the next fort.

From the hilltop, you could see the larger fortifications on either side of the harbour. Cartagena is still a significant naval site, and its trading history dates back to the Phoenicians. I actually remember reading about it in history in year 7 (1972 if you are interested).

The covered dig below the park.

Also visible was another major dig that had been covered but we decided to give that one a miss - how many Roman columns can one see in a day? Dominating the near skyline was a massive cupola, clearly for a Cathedral. That would be our next destination. No. Apparently god enjoys a Spanish siesta too and the Cathedral was closed between 1pm and 4pm. Not going back to find out what was inside.

The dome of the Cathedral.

After all that walking around, it was beer time in the Plaza de San Francisco, another underwhelming space that contained a few restaurants and bars. A group of about 30 young men shattered the silence as they arrived en masse and entered one of the restaurants. Glad we weren't eating there.

We then returned to the hotel to blog and pre-plan our next stop between here and Málaga. Soon it was dinner at a nearby restaurant. Paella, not tapas tonight. It was very good but I don't understand the Spanish fixation with langoustine. They are a lot of hard work for very little return. Give me prawns or bugs or lobster any day.

The altar of a random church. Needs more gold.

It was party night as we retired and the revellers kept us awake at varying points through the night. And that was through double glazed windows.

In the morning, we delayed our breakfast departure to phone Isobel for her 2nd birthday. When we ventured out around 10:30am, there was a flood of humanity streaming from the dock area. This time the American accents were replaced with British. Another cruise ship had docked and judging by the number of people, it was a much larger one than yesterday. It certainly wasn't there as we retired last night because we walked along the promenade.

It was back to the breakfast place we discovered yesterday, to snare the last available table and attempt our pathetic Spanish. The lady serving us laughed with us and admired Jayne's earrings. We did indeed score our coffee with tomato and cheese on our toast.

Breakfast done, we headed to the waterfront and the Museo Nacional de Arqueología Subacuática, the underwater archeological museum; an indoor venue to avoid the sunshine and heat of the day. Before we reached the promenade, we were able to see the P&O cruise liner that was docked. It would have overshadowed yesterday's ship. Now I know some people like ocean cruising, but I'm not one of them; they are a necessary evil to get to some places - from my perspective. Like our trip last year to see the Northern Lights. 

Despite what your mother may have told you, size does matter. This floating behemoth carries 5,200 passengers with a passenger to crew ratio nearing 3:1. The streets of Cartagena were swamped with sunburnt Brits. In an era where tourism is being constantly criticised, I feel the blame should be laid squarely at the feet of cruise companies building ever larger ships (this one has a rum distillery and a high ropes course FFS). Nothing exceeds like excess. Tourism itself is not the issue, its 'big' tourism that creates the problems. I tender Venice and Dubrovnik as evidence. We swam against the tide as we walked to the museum.

How to stow cargo and stay a float.

The museum is quite interesting as it provides an overview of what constitutes underwater archeology these days. Particularly in the light of UNESCO guidelines. The preference today is to find the wrecks before treasure hunters and often to secure the site to be sealed after investigation. It was a perspective I'd not considered because most of what is seen in the media, focuses on recovery and restoration of artefacts, not protection in situ.

A restored cannon.

Following the tour of the museum, we headed back to the hotel for mid afternoon beer. There is a very large family group staying at the hotel for a wedding. They happened to be enjoying lunch and occupying all three serving staff. A couple of beers appeared to be too much for the bar staff. Literally standing across the bar from them, I wasn't able to get eye contact to even acknowledge my presence.

Recovered ivory.

After five minutes of waiting patiently and a few more impatiently, we left for Bar Columbus where we'd enjoyed dinner last night. It was all of two minutes walk and we secured a table in the shade. This morning we were caught in the incoming tide of Brits from the cruise ship. This afternoon we sat and watched as the flotsam of sunburn, tattoos and cigarettes was washed back out. Happy days. The ship was in port for less than 12 hours.

Once it was safe to cross the street, we went back to the hotel foyer and blogged and researched Málaga and Alhambra. It would appear the latter, in Granada, is something we should have booked two months ago. After numerous attempts to find tickets, we decided to leave it until we could speak with hotel staff in Málaga tomorrow.

It is an early finish to this post, pre-dinner and all. As we sit and write and read, the space next to us has just been invaded by the wedding party. I guess it's better than Brits from the cruise ship.

And finally to the today's title, dear reader. A little obscure perhaps, until you listen to the lyrics. Orinoco Flow is by Enya with the timely lyric, sail away, sail away, sail away. The song was released the same year the Roman Theatre was rediscovered. Synchronicity.

Until next time which will probably include a transit day. Be afraid. Be very afraid.