Despacio, por favor.

I must be a glutton for punishment. Or perhaps I'm just very brave. Either way, going to Spain for a weekend with the last name Rodriguez, jet black hair and chocolate brown eyes would only lead to the logical conclusion that I speak fluent Spanish but sadly I don' t. Yet I continue to feel confident that one day I will speak fluently because my limited Spanish continues to take me farther than I always fear it will.

Having been to both Madrid and Barcelona, I was expecting a much different Spain than I encountered on this trip. I went to Costa del Sol because I was in need of some sun, sea and fresh air. As it turns out, Costa del Sol is the beach getaway for local Spaniards and few other Europeans and absolutely no Americans. I tried not to let this early discovery jade my expectations for a fabulous beach weekend. I had already been stripped of my sunscreen at security in London (In a later blog, we will discuss the conundrum of how to bring sunscreen to a sunny location when not checking luggage -- travel size for sunscreen do not exist because it would only ensure coverage of one arm so what are we supposed to do?? I digress....) and I was highly anxious about getting a burn, I didn't need to also be stripped of my hopes for this weekend to be fun and relaxing. But as the taxi traveled away from the airport and closer to the coast, I began to feel dread nesting in the pit of my stomach. Street after street of raft vendors and random explicit graffiti sprawled on vacant building walls was not was I had envisioned. The sordid sites were an interesting contrast along a busy avenue sandwiched between the sea on one side and rolling mountains on the other. I reasoned with myself, "It's best to visit a place where the natives live and not be imprisoned in a resort like a fragile, little bird in a gilded cage." The stiff upper lip came in handy and I focused on the beauty and ignored the rest for the remainder of the taxi ride.

Upon arriving at the Torrquebrada hotel, I sighed with relief because it appeared to be clean and somewhat modern. After some broken Spanish on my part and some broken English on the check-in clerks part, I was in my room and all my hopes were crushed and true disappointment set in. The rugs were stained by years (many, many years) of use, the comforter on the bed was as limp and thin as a piece of tracing paper (but there was a top sheet!!) and the TV didn't work. I pathetically walked out to my little patio hoping that a view of the Meditteranean sea would make me feel better but the rocky terrain standing in for the beach with its few grains of remaining sand forced a sigh of despair from this fragile, little bird yearning for that cage.

I know I am a spoiled American but I can't help myself. For me a beach vacation comes with expectations of silky white beaches and pina coladas by the pool (starting at 10 -- coconut qualifies as a morning drink, kind of like a power shake) and fluffy pool towels. Having traveled quite a bit I also know that our "Star" system is not the same as the star system of other countries but I thought a 5 Star rating in Spain would equal a 3 Star after the translation -- I was sadly mistaken; at best my hotel would earn 1 dull star missing a point (not really a star then, huh?). I pondered all of this as I slumped in the patio chair and one word came to mind that held the possibility of trip resurrection -- POOL! It was my last chance and I clung to it desperately. I didn't want to get too excited because I knew if the pool turned out to be a stagnant puddle swarming with flies that I may throw myself in with the hopes of drowning so I could put an end to the whole mess.

Gentle reader, I will cut to the chase and tell you that the Torrquebrada gets a 4 Star rating for their pool! Gracias dios! Two glorious round pools lay glimmering in the sun. One was tiered above the second connected by a tranquil potted waterfall that fed water into the lower pool. Palm trees provided limited shade but added to the tropical flowers that were blooming around the grassy area that was home to yellow and blue lounge chairs. The calm sea was visible over the tops of white stone railings and birds actually twittered and tweeted in the leaves of trees above. Paradise in the midst of a certain kind of hell. I skipped back to my room, changed into my bathing suit and ran back to the pool. Despite the less than fluffy towels, the absence of pina coladas (or any poolside drinks), and the many topless European women, I relaxed in a lounge chair and smiled at the sun. I knew a burn was in my future because I was sans sunscreen but sometimes you just have to be thankful for what you have and forget the rest.

I knew that more disappoints were lurking around the corner and my language deficiencies would cause frustration but I had the pool and of course my one Spanish phrase that I clung to "Despacio, por favor" and that's how I took the rest of my weekend -- slowly.