The Journey

Monday, May 13, 2013

This weekend we went sun seeking and decided to make the 1100km round trip to Andalucia, home to beautiful sandy beaches, free tapas and the most incomprehensible accent outside of the Basque country.  

Rachel took the wheel, Crystal handled directions and I was in charge of keeping moral up in the front. Emilio slept with his mouth open the whole way.

Things were going great, we made great time on the way there and were similarly optimistic about the way back.

Until we found ourselves in a slight pickle. Just after Jaén, we were lead astray by a sneaky McDonalds sign which never lead us to those beautiful golden arches. Instead, we ended up here, in the middle of an olive grove "somewhere" on the road to Madrid.


Obviously we had to stop and take a few photos. There's nothing like the Spanish countryside to make you feel like you're the only people in the world. (The only people in the world with phone signal and radio coverage).

After a 20km drive along pot holed, rubble strewn roads and one wrong turn at a fork in the road, we eventually found civilisation again. We stumbled upon a small village called Villagordo and made a dusty, tired guiri invasion on what looked like a First Communion party.

If this had never happened, I could never have experienced the true nature of what one of my students means when they say they "go to my village" at the weekend. Scorching, dusty heat, nothing for miles around and 90s childrens party music. 


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