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a canarian adventure
Last weekend, I journeyed to Africa. That is, Africa according to Lonely Planet, Rough Guides, and other travel books. For all other authorities, I was in Spain in the Canary Islands, specifically Gran Canaria. These islands, unlike Mallorca, Menorca, and Ibiza which are located in the Mediterranean, are located in off the coast of Africa, near Western Sahara. It's a
two and a half hour plane ride to this part of Spain (although Germany is trying to colonize through a force of drunken, sunburned, socks-and-sandals wearing tourists) and quite honestly, everything changes. The accent is different (closer to the Cuban accent, and the buses are called the guaguas, like in Puerto Rico), and it was beautiful, sunny, and warm, while in Madrid, it was snowing. (OK, it was flurrying. But still. It was chilly and grey and bleh). I arrived with three girlfriends, Sarah, Kacie, and Meghan, all of us English teachers and all of us taking advantage of el Día del Professor (the day of St. Thomas Aquinas...don't you just love Catholicism 
and all those saints' days???) Our plan was to rent a car and drive across the island, through the mountains (discribed as Himalayan-esque) to the dunes and tourist-covered beaches in the south, where we wanted to see Mogán, a smaller town (the Venice of the Canaries, apparently). Again, this was the plan. The key part of the plan was that Kacie and I knew how to drive a stick. Through mountains. When I say that we knew, please put that in air quotes, and preface it with, "Well, I mean, I learned how to drive a stick..." Needless to say, the first twenty minutes were nearly disastrous. Sarah and Meghan in the back started eating cake to cope with the nerves, and well, the smell of burning clutch. We stalled going up the ramp in the parking garage, leading to a lot of nervous shaking (this was after taking five minutes to start the car, only later realizing that the parking brake was on. I am SHOCKED that they let us leave the parking lot. SHOCKED). This was nothing, however, as we then
stalled on the ramp leaving the airport going on to the highway. However! All was not lost, and we somehow managed to get out of the airport and on our way, with our map (which had no current road names..."OK, up here, take the small yellow road."). After an hour, we made it Tejeda, which is in the center of the island, and the goal of going through the interior. We walked around the small town, absorbing the insanely gorgeous mountains and trash-talking tourists that only went to the beaches. At lunch, I got some baby goat (and it was as delicious as I'm sure it was adorable), and we continued on our way, stopping for some more mountain views. When we arrived in the south, in Maspalomas, we headed out for dinner. Although we hoped to find something not super touristy, the impossibility of that task coupled with our hunger led us to...the Hard Rock Café. I am not proud of this moment. But we were exhausted. The next day, we played on the beautiful dunes, and then headed to Puerta de Mogán, which did have canals. I wouldn't say Venice-like, but that's a personal aside. We wore bathing su
its and sat on the beach, although it was honestly not that warm. We did not care. To top off our trip, we headed out in Maspalomas, tourist central, in search of nightlife...and we found the Kasbah. It was nothing like the Clash song (although we did rock it), and it was a lot like a mall. Think of Atlantic City, but more trashy. I'm torn that we don't have any good pictures of this mythical place. Pictures would help, but I don't really want to remember that terrible soulless black hole of dignity. Shudder. We sucked it up and danced, our life being so hard and all. The next day, we said good-bye to the Canaries, dropped off the rental car in one piece, and headed back to the Peninsula. That's what the cool locals call it. Which we clearly are not, but it helps to have dreams. (PHOTO CREDITS: KACIE DAUGHETY)
two and a half hour plane ride to this part of Spain (although Germany is trying to colonize through a force of drunken, sunburned, socks-and-sandals wearing tourists) and quite honestly, everything changes. The accent is different (closer to the Cuban accent, and the buses are called the guaguas, like in Puerto Rico), and it was beautiful, sunny, and warm, while in Madrid, it was snowing. (OK, it was flurrying. But still. It was chilly and grey and bleh). I arrived with three girlfriends, Sarah, Kacie, and Meghan, all of us English teachers and all of us taking advantage of el Día del Professor (the day of St. Thomas Aquinas...don't you just love Catholicism 
and all those saints' days???) Our plan was to rent a car and drive across the island, through the mountains (discribed as Himalayan-esque) to the dunes and tourist-covered beaches in the south, where we wanted to see Mogán, a smaller town (the Venice of the Canaries, apparently). Again, this was the plan. The key part of the plan was that Kacie and I knew how to drive a stick. Through mountains. When I say that we knew, please put that in air quotes, and preface it with, "Well, I mean, I learned how to drive a stick..." Needless to say, the first twenty minutes were nearly disastrous. Sarah and Meghan in the back started eating cake to cope with the nerves, and well, the smell of burning clutch. We stalled going up the ramp in the parking garage, leading to a lot of nervous shaking (this was after taking five minutes to start the car, only later realizing that the parking brake was on. I am SHOCKED that they let us leave the parking lot. SHOCKED). This was nothing, however, as we then
stalled on the ramp leaving the airport going on to the highway. However! All was not lost, and we somehow managed to get out of the airport and on our way, with our map (which had no current road names..."OK, up here, take the small yellow road."). After an hour, we made it Tejeda, which is in the center of the island, and the goal of going through the interior. We walked around the small town, absorbing the insanely gorgeous mountains and trash-talking tourists that only went to the beaches. At lunch, I got some baby goat (and it was as delicious as I'm sure it was adorable), and we continued on our way, stopping for some more mountain views. When we arrived in the south, in Maspalomas, we headed out for dinner. Although we hoped to find something not super touristy, the impossibility of that task coupled with our hunger led us to...the Hard Rock Café. I am not proud of this moment. But we were exhausted. The next day, we played on the beautiful dunes, and then headed to Puerta de Mogán, which did have canals. I wouldn't say Venice-like, but that's a personal aside. We wore bathing su
its and sat on the beach, although it was honestly not that warm. We did not care. To top off our trip, we headed out in Maspalomas, tourist central, in search of nightlife...and we found the Kasbah. It was nothing like the Clash song (although we did rock it), and it was a lot like a mall. Think of Atlantic City, but more trashy. I'm torn that we don't have any good pictures of this mythical place. Pictures would help, but I don't really want to remember that terrible soulless black hole of dignity. Shudder. We sucked it up and danced, our life being so hard and all. The next day, we said good-bye to the Canaries, dropped off the rental car in one piece, and headed back to the Peninsula. That's what the cool locals call it. Which we clearly are not, but it helps to have dreams. (PHOTO CREDITS: KACIE DAUGHETY)
1 comentario:
trashier than AC!? DAMN.
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