Lonely Planet Spain led us yesterday to Merida where we toured nearly all day through the ancient Roman sites around the old city. Very impressive but tiring. We have yet to come to terms with the Spanish ways. The sun stays up late and so do we, but afternoon rests are neglected. So today in Cordoba we are lying on the bed, sun streaming in the window, socks and undies drying on the sill, having a siesta.
Never trust a GPS.
Entering Cordoba today, we were cruising until the British lady in the dash with the sweet and steady voice directed us down the narrowest set of lanes I have ever driven. Footpaths either side of the passage were the height and width of a brick and with the mirrors in, the tyres squealed either side against the “footpath”. It was like one of the kid’s toys where the Matchbox car runs along the plastic track with raised sides. If the path got any narrower, there was no hope for this brand new, unmarked car. A man with a big belly stepped into a doorway to let us pass and he had to breathe in as the mirror left a track across his tightly stretched shirt.
There were just two ways out, forward and hope for the best, or hire a crane to lift us out. The throngs of tourists down in the sunshine staring at us in amazement, taking photos of the crazy driver in the blue Citroen and laughing under their polite faces, gave us hope that we might be soon be spat out of this sausage. We were, and we slunk as low as we could in the seats our chins barely visible to sniggers and drove around the corner, more erect this time, grinning and finger waving at new tourists as if nothing had happened. Another Mr Bean moment.
From our window, I could roll one of my wet socks on the sill into a ball and toss it onto the roof of the Mezquita, the city’s main attraction. The tour through the complex and a couple of beers and a lie in the sun has made this not a bad day after all.
