Epilogue: We’re a Normal Couple

We took some wrong turns on this trip. On the way down, our search for the best arroz Negro – rice with squid ink – took us to Elche, which is supposedly the capital of this dish. It took too long to get there, and then the restaurant which the guidebook recommended was full, and then we were in no mood to find a different one, and so when they said we could eat at the bar we accepted. Forty-five minutes, an undercooked steak sandwich and cold French fries later, we were heading back to the highway unsatisfied.

On day two, we went in search of the highly-recommended nature preserve. We found a small museum with one guide who told us where to find the flamingos: Las Salinas - the salt works. After cruising the highway for a few minutes and seeing plenty of industrial ponds, big machines, and crumbling buildings, we gave up on the flamingos. The most exciting animals we ran into at the preserve were some sheep grazing nearby. We gave up on fauna (and on flora, too, since there was mostly large fields of yucca and scrubby little bushes) and went back to the beach. But we tried a new beach, and it was a bust. We drove to a second. Too rocky. And then our alarm went off, signaling that it was time to drive back in order to beat the parades.

Finally, on the way back to Barcelona, we gave Fodor’s one more chance. Actually, three more chances. First, we headed to the pottery town of Níjar. Tons of blue and yellow pottery, sort of like you could find in just about any store at home. Also unpainted furniture. Back on the road: this time to Mojaca. Mojaca is one of the “white towns,” which dot the south of Spain and look like little white movie sets against the dark hillsides. As we got closer to Mojaca, though, it looked like a tourist burg. We didn’t get out of the car, since we had about six hours of driving to go.

Except, of course, for lunch. The guide recommended a particular small restaurant in some other town, Lorca. We found it and parked, amid massive Easter parade celebrations. We talked to a man who turned out to be the owner about a table and went to wait in the bar. Taking a liking to our cute accents, he followed us in and assured us that we would have a table soon. Where were we from?, he wanted to know. “The United States,” though, wasn’t a good enough answer.

“You don’t have blue eyes and very large shoulders,” he said. “Where are you from?” We tried “maybe Russia?”

“No, no,” he insisted, while slugging a glass of warm vermouth. “They’re blonde, too. You’re Spanish.” I remembered that my uncle had once unearthed the fact that we might have had an ancestor in 13th century Toledo, and brought this up, figuring that there might be free lunch in it. “Ah ha!,” he cried. “No wonder you look so normal. You’re not tall, not big, no blue eyes! Ok, you” – he pointed at Leah – “You could be Dutch. Maybe Belgian. But you” – now pointing at me – “Spanish. And not the North, with all the French people. Southern Spain. A nice normal couple. Spanish.” He ordered another vermouth and slapped me on the shoulder.

Within minutes he had found us a table in a beautiful room with terra cotta walls, insisting that the drinks we had already had could just go on our check. We tried ordering some paella, but they were out of it. Calamari? Out of that, too. Salad? None left. Bread? Not clear. The waiter said something, I misunderstood it and said yes, and a plate of clams appeared. Not quite what we had in mind, but food nonetheless. The waiter vanished. No bread appeared. Cleaning crews appeared around us. We split a piece of fish and got the check. It was wrong by eight Euros, in their favor. And the drinks weren’t on it. After finding someone to fix the math, we split, chalking up the free drinks to the love that Southern Spain – the new Provence – has for the Luna de Miel.