Hummer Rage

As I was standing by the zebra crossing near the flat yesterday evening, I saw some guy driving a Hummer down the street.

I looked at him and it and thought

“What a fucking c***.”

Who drives a Hummer down Essex road?

Who drivers a Hummer at all? That too in the city.

A poser with a tiny penis that’s who.

I have a little travel rage today.

Mystery Unfinished Sentences on London Bus Stops: Update

The mystery deepens.

It gets curiouser and curiouser.

Yesterday on the bus home from work I definitely noted that 3 of the 4 sentence-signs were missing.

I was actively looking out for them you see. (Sometimes I forget and don’t watch the stops.)

In fact that was sort of why I published that post a few days ago (I wrote it in late Jan), I figured it’d better go up while it was still partly relevant and at least one sign was left.

I assumed someone working at TFL was just taking them down. (Vandalism and all that. You know how uptight they are.)

However today I looked out for them, just to see if they’d all be gone, and lo and behold!

They were back!

Not just back, but looking distinctly cleaner than before!

What is going on?? Who is this person taking these signs down, cleaning them and putting them back up again?

Or is my mind playing tricks on me?

Is my fragile eggshell mind cracking??

Oh god.

My mind is all gone.

I must try to get better photographs if possible. Maybe tomorrow or on Sunday.

(Indolence allowing, and man, am I indolent.)

Mystery Unfinished Sentences on London Bus Stops

Over the last few weeks I’ve discovered an intriguing and mysterious series of unfinished sentences lying on top of the bus shelter roofs.

Really, I mean that quite literally.

You know when you’re on the upper deck of a bus, sometimes you see strange random objects placed on the top of bus shelters? An old shoe, a rubber ball, a hat – All manner of lost oddities either from drunken scuffles or wayward students.

A few weeks ago on the way home from work, I saw the first one on the top of the shelter 3 stops before the stop at Angel.

At a Particular Speed

I didn’t give it much thought, after all I had seen stranger things on the tops of bus shelters.

However a week or so after that I saw another one.

Or a Particular distance

I wondered if it was a broken up road sign, chucked up there by some drunken student.

My more romantic side thought it was maybe part of a poem, to be found at the top of bus stops around London, to be pieced together once discovered.

But it didn’t seem to make much sense as either.

I told myself I would be ready and waiting with my camera the next time I was on this route back from work.

Easier said than done however, for various reasons.

1. I only use this route on the way home from work in the evening.
2. I needed the be seated on the left and in the front of the top of the bus for the best possible chance at getting the shot, but it entirely depended on how full the bus was and also where the bus driver pulled up.
3. The bus kept moving. So annoying of it. Just when you want it to stay a while at a stop, off it went.
4. My camera phone needs a bit of time in low lighting conditions. Very tricky also to get my hand not to shake.
5. Sometimes I’d just forget to look out for them and they’d pass me by.

So I had no luck for a week or so, but one evening I saw a third bus stop with yet another phrase on it!

To Go Or Move

I didn’t have time to get my camera out and 2 bus stops passed me by unphotographed.

I was so excited I actually got off and walked all the way back to try to get another bus and photograph all 3 in one go.

Unfortunately the bus I chose was packed and I couldn’t get the seats I needed. Damn those busses.

Even with no. 3 located, it still made no sense.

But at last, by pure fluke (the bus had stopped for about 5 minutes there), I saw what I believe is first one in the series, on the bus stop outside Kings Cross Underground.

Exciting! I think it makes the phrases coherent now.

T_AVEL

1. T_avel (Travel)
2. To go or move
3. At a particular speed
4. Or a particular distance

I’ve found no others at after this one.

There are still so many unanswered questions.

Who left these there?

Was it deliberate? Or was pulled apart from some road-side sign?

Are there other bus-stops in London with scraps of sentences?

If there were all sourced and pieced together would it construct a paragraph? Some poem? A hidden message?

I’m tempted to take a bus ride tomorrow just to check out the ones before Kings Cross.

But I like the element of chance in finding them. The perfect timing required for the bus to pull up in the right spot, and for you to be seated in the right spot. I don’t know if these would be as enjoyable if found though deliberation.

PS:

I found a bus stop near Euston where someone had put an entire turf of grass on the top of it. I pointed it out excitedly to the ex who grunted and hissed at me,

“I’ve seen it already! No talking!”

Flight Back to London

Flight back was not as bad as the flight out. 

At Heathrow I was off the plane, through immigration, collected my baggage and in 30 mins flat was on the Heathrow Express. Not content with this I called my cab company who were there waiting just as I got off the Paddington Express.

I have never been this efficient in my entire life.

Noticed this sign on the loo door on the plane.

There was turbulence so I couldn't get a steady shot of the 'No Smoking' sign.

But as you sit on the pot, lower down the loo door is a little ash tray. How odd.

Mixed signals or really old plane?

The Goa Airport

Hideous statues at Goa airport. I mean, who commissioned these monstrosities? And then grouped them for Christmas? Like that's doing anyone a favour.

Back dated post (such a bad habit) from my Goa Trip & New Years Eve. 

The next morning, while still buzzing from the night before, I went for swim after breakfast. The ex was still groggy and refused to leave the hut.

It was amazing. Really it was. I think I was still high, which made it feel even better. I wore my sun glasses in the water.

Then me, the ex and PhD all smoked one last one before we left for the airport.

PhD got into an argument with a young, mustachioed policeman at the Goa airport entrance about how they should open both airport entrances, therefore making everything more efficient and that he shouldn’t just accept the status quo but try to change things! Yes We Can! Jai Ho! I have dream! Friends, Foes, Countrymen!

Clearly the effects of the smoke had worn off.

The ex tried to drag him away but he wouldn’t budge. This lecture/debate lasted 15 minutes. His hindi is only marginally better than mine, so it was with some horror that we left him to it and joined the line for security (X-raying the bags)

Maddening bureaucracy and pointless red tape cripple the Goa Airport. (PhD had a point after all, but don’t annoy a cop just as you are about to board a flight is all I say).

One Goa airport rule is that all airlines have their own security stickers for your bags post-screening. Imagine that – Printing all the different types of stickers for each airline, then managing who is being screened for what flight and then matching the stickers correctly. Logistically it’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever witnessed.

Since my mother made us reach the airport some 2 hours in advance for our flight – She fucking tricked us! She told us there might be lots of traffic and we should leave early! It was a scam. I’m sure of it. There was no traffic. She loves to get people waiting at airports. Some OCD thing – So security weren’t even ready for our flight – Surprise surprise, our bags got the wrong sticker.

When we went up to the check-in counter, the counter lady said,

“Aare! You can’t fly with the wrong stickers on your bags! You must screen them again.”

PhD promptly had a fight with the counter lady. Most definitely the mal had worn off.

“What difference do the stickers make? They are all generic anyway!”

The counter lady seemed baffled, both by the use of the word ‘generic’ and his casual rejection of the immutable laws of the Goa airport. Then he said,

“We’re leaving the bags with you. This is your problem! You made the mistake and you should sort it out for us! Why should we screen them again? Come on guys, we’re going to the waiting lounge.”

I thought, I’m not leaving my bag unattended you madman!

Luckily no one listened to him. No one ever listens to the academics, thank god.

By this time the ex was getting rather hot under the collar. The ex gets very agitated with unforeseen occurrences. It’s so cute.

The ex then scolded me severely for taking that photo above of the mind blowingly hideous airport statues instead of sorting out our luggage issue.

Plus I had 2 lighters in my bag because Goa Airport, unlike all other airports in the world, still implements the ‘no lighter’ policy (even if the lighter is in your checked-in luggage), just because they can’t be bothered to change it.. So I had to open 2 suitcases to hunt for the lighters.

There was a hidden 3rd lighter which I only found back in Bombay once I unpacked! Hah! Take that Goa Airport!

Then we settled down to find some snacks. While we stood in the queue at a food counter waiting to buy some samosas, PhD got impatient, (Yes We Can! Challenge the status quo! Jai Ho!) went off on his own and returned with an armful of samosas.

Unfortunately everyone else waiting patiently in the queue had just been served. So in the end we had nearly 4 extra plates of huge samosas.

I told PhD he really should run for Mayor of Goa.

New Years Eve In Goa

Last sunset 2011. How sentimental of me.

That's it. Sun is gone. Thus ends 2011.

Back dated post (Well, clearly.)

The build up for New years Eve is such a killer. All that expectation, all that fear of failure.

The first part of the evening was excruciating.

I mean, I was sober.

With my parents.

We went to a restaurant in Goa called La Plage, which we had already eaten at two evenings out of five – It’s managed by 2 very attractive French women (Older, of indeterminate age. 45+ I should think.) who were very touchy-feely with all their patrons.

They made everyone feel like they were supremely important. Case in point: My PhD bawa neighbor (I’m just going to call him PhD from now on) was convinced one of the ladies was trying to hit on the ex because her hand lingered in what was assumed to be a highly suggestive manner.

The PhD’s and the ex’s thoughts, whatever the context of the situation, jump straight to sex. They both have uniquely one track minds. All I saw was a woman who knew how to do her job beautifully.

Ordinarily La Plage was excellent. Unfortunately they had succumbed to the New Years eve temptation – The greed had gone to their head and were massively over booked. So much so that we didn’t see dinner for 2.5 hours. I was nearly gnawing on the table by then. Starvation rarely adds to the convivial feeling.

Our PhD neighbor’s younger brother and his girlfriend also joined us for dinner, but since they seemed to be either on drugs or coming down off them they were in no position to contribute to any kind of cheer.

Our plan was to eat, watch the fireworks on the beach, then ditch the folks shortly after midnight and find some wild party. Dinner came just before 12. Mine was inedible. Half the patrons left their plates to watch the fireworks. We couldn’t leave the folks until 2 and I was sober until then.

YES! FUCK YES SOBER! STONE FUCKING COLD SOBER! Man I was irate.

Eventually the folks left and the ex managed to strong-arm us into a party, just by looking furious and saying with a thunderous frown

“We were just in here 5 minutes ago! Give us a stamp!”

I saw the man’s face. It’s an expression I’ve had many times on mine. It’s resignation and a desire to avoid a confrontation. He was clearly thinking,

“I know they weren’t here 5 minutes ago but I can’t be dealing with this at 3 in the morning. Just give them a stamp.”

The party was rubbish. I mean, it might have been fun had I been un-sober. But rave music is intolerable even on vast quantities of intoxicants. Sober it was excruciating.

I told PhD and the ex I’d had enough. Screw this night, I was going back to the hut to smoke the measly amount of mal I had managed to scrap, beg, borrow and steal together from kind, charitable souls.

Then just at that moment, coming out of the darkness of the beach, like a saviour, like Jesus, was some Bawa that PhD happened to know. We greeted him so joyously he might as well have been Jesus. (Or Zarathushtra, which would be more fitting, but the name is such a mouthful.)

“Do you guys want to party?”

Yes! by god yes! We do! We really really fucking do!

After that the night picked up.

We found other people we knew at another party with many more intoxicants.

We didn’t really have any other friends in Goa and sort of tagged along with this one group, which I must admit, felt a little uncomfortable. I don’t like satelliting around a group of friends. (But I’m uncomfortable naturally so that doesn’t count for much.)

I think my major tip while tackling the Goa party scene is to carry a roll of toilet paper in your bag. I wish someone had reminded me.

The loo was….*shudder*. I can’t even bear to remember it.

We rolled off back to our huts and I immediately had a shower and stiff scrub.

*shudder*

Sigh. All my stories seem to end in poo.

Goa

Beach at Gopal's Shack. He took 2 hours to serve anyone they were so busy. But I was sympathetic so he was nice.

Sunset

The ex and I are in Goa for a week over the New Years.

With my parents and the neighbors (also Bawas).

I’ve always gone with the family, and really never been to Goa with a jing styled a lá Riddhi and her court. The only other friend I’ve gone to Goa with is Leo. We visited Riddhi and her jing at the slum they were living in Anjuna once to pick up our mal. I say slum, because there were 8 people (including her current and ex-boyfriend) to a double bedroom. The thought of it frankly terrifies me. I like the mal and all that, but 8 to a room is dreadful. I can’t do it anymore, even if I was hammered out of my skull I couldn’t do it. I’m too old.

I haven’t been blogging as often for obvious reasons.

One being that the hotel we are staying at turns off the wi-fi at night. Which is a typically Indian notion. Like the wi-fi will run out or something.

The other reason is that it’s Goa. I’m too busy lazing around, eating and drinking.

Right now I’m sitting outside our wooden hut rooms, with a watermelon juice and my laptop, which only has about 1:30 mins of battery time left. Fucking macs batteries.

So I’ll re-cap the last few days as briefly as possible.

Day 1:

I love how the light looked on the curtains.

That being said it was a full free show if you were changing.

'Designer' Huts. 24/7 Room Service but no telephone in the hut.

Room Window. It was nice to just sit on the bed in the afternoon with the AC on and chill.

Coconut Trees. Well its fairly obvious.

We took the morning flight out from Bombay on the 26th. My mother, using her usual tactics didn’t stop nagging until we were in the car and on the way to the airport.

My god that’s an exhausting way to wake up. Seriously, how are you supposed to drink your tea in peace with constant yakking?

By the end of day one even the ex was exhausted with the friendly familial bickering that is common among bawas and semi-loudish Indians and my family in particular.

Back in our designer huts – Yes, designer huts. Ac, Wifi & 24 Hour room service provided! (No telephone in the room, if you want room service you need to go to reception.) – we are a little thrown to find a tiny frog perched on a step in our loo. We try to find someone who will remove it for us.

Later a boy who seems highly amused by our request, comes with a mop and bucket to take the little fellow out. I tell him to be careful not to hurt it. Once the froggie has been safely dispatched, the ex, in triumph, promptly confiscates his mop.

I am them made to mop the loo and floor where I’ve tracked in sand and mud. Even on holiday there is no respite from this hateful cleaning, a fact which I mournfully complain about. The ex is unrepentant.

Day 2:

Lights in the hotel garden.

Decorated tinsel tree

Dog that looked like a fawn. She became our friend and barked if house keeping went into our rooms.

Sunset through the trees, while walking down to the beach

The Goa vibe we all know and love

We all went off on our own. Thank fucking god.

I needed to lie down and read my Poirot in peace.

The ex and I were having a post-swim shower, and I demand the full use of the shower to wash my hair. Communal bathing is so annoying, especially when you are forced to wait in the sidelines to use the shower.

I like constant flowing water. (Sorry eco-friendly, bucket-bath type people.)

“Can I please use the shower now?”

(I ask the ex)

“NO! You have to bathe with me!”

My mother pipes in suddenly from outside the hut,

“I can hear you, you know.”

The ex and start giggling and promptly dispatch my mother on a shopping errand for Shampoo. (Since she is so conveniently near by.)

Day 3:

I read this as "Mass Marriage going on". I imagined lots of catholics lining up in pairs, down the aisle.

Poor puppy outside the main church in Old Goa. There was a horribly starved one outside the missionary hut.

Some church near another church in Old Goa.

Kid playing 'Catch and Cook'.

We made the colossal mistake of trying to sight-see in Old Goa.

I hadn’t been there in so long I had forgotten what an utter waste of time it was.

So really the entire day was lost in commuting to see St. Xaviers’s or St. Francis’s or whatever his name is, embalmed remains.

Like we gave a shit. And the worst part of it all was that we had absolutely no mal whatsoever.

None! I was so angry.

Day 4:

Tits Bits

Fire Thrower at Shanti's. We went there for some day-time rave.

A couple of days later I went up to some random bald dude and asked him if he was a fire thrower. He looked very similar.

Cat with kitty near Ganpati statue. I love its little face just poking out.

Cat with kitty near Ganpati statue. More kitties were hiding behind.

I discovered the ex has a highly entertaining posh habit of asking the waiters, no matter where we are, their food recommendations and serving suggestions.

So while we are lounging on our sun-beds and ordering lunch, the ex asks our shack waiter (in English), dead seriously;

“How do you serve your masala papad?”

As though this little shack is 4 star restaurant.

The waiter looks puzzled. There is a pause. He nods and says

“Masala Papad.”

and walks away. So I respond on his behalf to he ex;

“In plate.”

We then spent the rest of the time napping and ‘Gay spotting’. The ex was convinced this heavily beefed up guy in tight red shorts playing ball with a weedy looking boy was a homo.

I thought it was more likely he was not, even though the size of this thighs and the tightness of his pants were highly suspicious. The ex cited the dubious fact that his rugby ball matched his shorts exactly. It was assumed to be some sort of clear sign.

By day 4 I had succumbed to sheer beach-bum laziness and was using the sea as my personal toilet.

Look I know, I know it’s bad, it’s wrong. Haw haw thapad thapad.

But one Shandy down plus a dirty shack loo with no toilet paper is my excuse.

I try to rationalize that the salt in the sea would sterilize it. (Eventually)

And I only did it once… (Twice).

And I’m sure I won’t do it again… (Probably).

You’ll be happy to know I got my comeuppance when, just as I was mid-pee, a huge poo casually floated by me! I squealed and quickly waded in the other direction and hoped the sea would eventually wash it up on the beach.

I ran out to tell the ex immediately of this horrible event. The ex and I set about analyzing the poo based on my description.

Was it a dog poo or human? I ruled out women right away – It’s too hard for a woman to do a poo in a swimsuit.

It also seemed too big a poo for a child, but god knows some repellent brat could possibly push out big one.

Let’s just think it was a dog’s. It’s easier.

On that auspicious note I think we shall end the re-cap so far.

Breeders On A Plane

Disclaimer:
If you are a long time breeder, or even recent breeder, please look away now. I would also like to remind you that I shall never be breeding nor will I ever be responsible for a child. You have been warned.

At long last, I’m in Bombay.

Remind me never to fly Kingfisher again. Frankly if it wasn’t for their generous baggage allowance (40kg) I would never fly Kingfisher. (The entire collection of vintage Agatha Christie’s I bought in a job lot were tranported home with ease.)

The start of the flight wasn’t the most auspicious.

It was clear the company had no money. (I’m not sure what’s going on, but basically they might be going bankrupt.) Even in First Class, the seats were scuffed and grotty. Everything looked old and tired and worn.

There were no little packs of toothbrush/ paste/ socks/ eye mask. Not even any peanuts! (Yes. An outrage). This is budget long-haul travel, and the price of the ticket was certainly not budget (£850 return).

To make matters worse, significantly worse, there was a child on board. A crying child. In fact there were two crying children on board.

The first was a fairly hum-drum crying child. Nothing special. It whimpered and gave out short, sharp, high-pitched sonic shrieks in bursts at random intervals. Like morse code. This was tolerable. I pitied its hapless parents and put on my iPod. If I can’t hear it, a crying baby rarely troubles me except for the rare, odd pang of pity for its creators.

However, (to my horror and irritation) the loudest volume setting did very little to drown out the sound of this second child.

It made the shrillest, vilest, most piercing noise at the top of its lungs. The noise was continuous and unabating. It had unusual stamina and lungs that never seemed to be the least likely to tire.

That’s when I realised I was dealing with no ordinary child. This was a devil child.

(I really don’t know why breeders travel with noisy offspring. I’m sorry (not really) but why should their non-use of contraception be inflicted on other weary travelers? Or at least, why can’t they get placed in a separate section that’s sound proofed? Like a small insulated pod somewhere near the loo?)

As you know, I have no maternal instincts, but I actually surprised myself by how much violence and rage this devil child inspired in me.

For about 10 minutes of this shocking shrieking I indulged in mere flights of fantasy:

• Visions of the baby falling helplessly from 20,000 feet…
• It’s cherubic, chubby, legs poking out from the airplane loo, as it is unceremoniously flushed down. Preferably by its own parent. More poetic.

As time wore on and it’s noise only grew more insistent, these fantasies turned into vague delusions of what a plastic bag would look like over its head. (I know that’s wrong. I just want to point that out. Besides, the clear ziplock I picked up at security had a big hole in it. It wouldn’t have worked.)

After 30 minutes, I was gritting my teeth, rolling my eyes and directing muttered curses at its mother who was really the source of the problem. She brought the abomination on the plane and then didn’t even have the decency to drug it. (Seriously, some brandy, a little opium, laudanum, anything, by god!)

I began to sympathize deeply with those babysitters and exhausted parents who shake their babies. It seems like a perfectly understandable thing to do.

To my utter relief as soon as we took off, the devil baby was silenced. (I don’t know how, nor do I care.) And it remained silenced for nearly 9 hours! It was a Christmas Miracle!

Someone did a giant poo in one of the loos and vomited in the sink. Neither worked.

I think it might have been the devil baby.

I wonder what the return flight will be like.

Jerez, Spain

Elegantly placed chairs in the coutryard

Part 3 of my belated holiday posts. Part 1  & Part 2a & Part 2b here.

I’d like to lodge a formal complaint against the 3rd hotel on our trip.

It’s called the Hacienda San Rafael. The ex saw their website and was immediately smitten.

Entrance (or exit depending on your point of view) to the Hacienda

Hibiscus growing on the walls

Here’s the hitch.

They charge over 300 pounds per night. THREE HUNDRED FUCKING POUNDS!!

Holy Virgin Santa Maria Plaza de Ponce Cruz Castillo!

I vetoed this hotel from the start. They can take their ’boutique’ and shove it up their ass. A 300 pound a night hotel is aimed at suckers and the parvenu. (I re-learned this word recently.)

I said I would pay what we would have if we had gone to a nice mid-range hotel, since the ex desperately wanted to stay here and it was frankly entirely out of my budget. I put my foot down for any more than 1 night, though.

Indians cannot be such maha-suckers just because of a good website. I mean, really. We can make it at home.

A stray nudist. The ex was slightly scandalized. Child willys are so weird looking.

Another view through arches. Moorish architecture is one of my favourites.

Now here’s my problem with this hotel :-

It was stunning. An undeniably, stunning, private villa converted into a boutique hotel.

A dream of a villa. In fact a cupcake wrapped in a dream, muffled in a cloud, cushioned by another dream.

Silly pooch

The dog took a little dip in the pool. it was very entertaining.

But at 300 pounds per night you’d expect some value for money. The very least I expect, is an excellent breakfast.

You don’t expect them to have implement a budget airline policy! I was both offended and annoyed.

The breakfast was 1 croissant and some coffee/tea. That was it. (I’m outraged. Even now – and we came back from Spain in April). You get nothing but a pretty place to sleep at this place.

If you wanted more you needed to pay. There was nothing that wasn’t an ‘extra’.

Such a Ryan Air establishment policy. It infuriated me.

(Look I don’t expect everything included, but the lunch menu had small portions, the breakfast was stingy and everything was just over-priced. Like I said, just a good inclusive breakfast would have done it for me.)

Our meagre lunch. These were mains too. I was still hungry after this pitiful offering.

They even had their own shop selling over priced olive oil and indian exports (Anokhi produts - let me just say that €300 for a kurta is NOT OK. You rip-offs.)

The ex claimed that the people who can afford to go here wouldn’t care about paying for anything on top.

Some might not, probably. But most people would I should think. These people didn’t get to that level of richness without being a little £££ savvy. Plus I’ve stayed in enough 5 star hotels (parents), which have had great service and more importantly an amazing breakfast. It’s the least they can do considering you’ve had to take out a loan to pay for the bill.

If you wanted to eat dinner at the place, you had to have the set menu at the hotel restaurant. Since this villa was a converted farmhouse/stable in the middle of nowhere, they really had a good racket going. (The food was excellent I will admit).

Anyway, breakfast was very kunjoos. Dinner for one night was fine. If you like expensive hotels for no other reason than that you have money to burn I highly recommend this place.

So here some more holiday photos. I tried to value for money out of photographing the heckings out of this hotel.

They should fucking hire me.

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Vejer De La Fronterra, More Photos

This is a photo depiction of extreme relaxation.

Why aren't all cities like this?

Some more photos from the lovely Vejer De La Fronterra from way back in April.

I especially like the ones on the road to El Palmar, which was carpeted on either side with fields of meadow flowers. The yellow roads reminds me of the Wizard of Oz.

I’m quite impressed with the output of our humble phone cameras. Mine isn’t even a smart phone. It’s an old Nokia with a surprisingly good camera and very durable body (It keeps falling out of my pocket, so it better be durable.)

Road to El Palmar

Sign post as we leave El Palmar.

Beach Triptych

El Palmar is a small surfing beach, as I may have mentioned before. Of course, we didn’t surf. We just sat in the sun debating where we could go and pee. Peeing is a real problem. I think I have a very small bladder. I constantly need to pee.

There was the usual range of hardy Europeans (Germans I think) surfing in the freezing water. I admire Europeans who don’t seem to mind cold water whatever the season. Admire, but have no desire to emulate. There were several there, red and leathery looking, with that painful tan white people get that makes them look like poached lobsters.

An uninspiring look. I think I prefer my own jaundiced pastiness. Besides, there are less chances of developing skin cancer. (Cheerful, aren’t I?)

Then we drove back to Vejer, and debated for a long time where we would eat. On a holiday eating is of paramount importance. This comes secondary to the extreme relaxation.

I wanted to go back to the same restaurant as the evening before (It was really good), but the ex wanted to try some local tapas place.

The ex took offense (irrationally) at the more touristy eateries which was unfortunate. They were quite pretty. The one we eventually settled for had the football playing on the TV and a glump of burly men at the tapas counter. I always consider a TV playing football a distinctly bad sign as far as quality of establishment and food goes. And so it was. Regrettable to be sure.

In Seville we had tried this ‘avant garde’ tapas place. A tiny hole in the wall (I wish I could remember the name), it just had 4 small tables and a counter, really very tiny. The food, however was excellent (all tapas). The highlight being the savory strawberry gazpacho. It was quite unusual and unexpectedly moreish.

Well that’s the last of the dispatches I have from the Vejer frontier.

View from the hotel bar.

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