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Andalusia is the Spain one dreams of—sunny and dry but not arid, plentiful with palms painted against a backdrop of azure skies. Everywhere in Granada, the intoxicating confluence of Europe and North Africa is evident in the food, architecture, and people. Street life unfolds in a whirl of exotic aromas, sounds and textures and in the hills of Sacromonte, the gypsy culture thrives where the locals live—as they have for centuries—in houses built into ancient caves ...
Raquel's Cave House ...
More photos of Granada ...
Bonus Footage: Raquel's pet turtle trying to chase and shell-butt us ...
I awake with a start, somehow aware that I am in a masia in the Spanish countryside, but foggy on the details. As my eyes slide around the dimly lit room, I am hit by a sudden wave of fatigue. The kind of brought on by planes, trains and mountain roads, too many early mornings and late nights. The nape of my neck is damp; my limbs ache. I drift off again and am awakened a second time by the clinking of coffee things, the soft splatter of water from a faucet.
Jill appears in the doorway. “How do you feel?” She eyes me hopefully as she sips from a mug.
I know she would like to leave the masia as much as me. It has been a cold few days, the earth and sky as damp and dark as an English moor in winter. We have reveled in the atmospheric haze of the countryside but now crave the sight of new things—the aroma of food, sound of human voices.
I throw off my pallet of blankets and stretch skyward. “We are going to see a castle today," I declare. And march for the shower.
Refreshed by a breakfast of oranges and coffee, I pull our car onto the rugged track toward Sierra Engarceran. The fog finally lifts as we approach the outskirts of nearby Benalloch, revealing vineyards, olive fields and frothy meadows dotted with sheep. The flat landscape dives without warning into one ravine after another, finally rising into peaks as torn and ragged as paper. As we creep higher, I take the hairpin turns like an old lady and we exclaim over the nameless hill towns that roll past; each with a church like a sweet, bun-topped grandmother.
When Morella suddenly looms in front of us it as if by magic. The city is wholly vertical in nature—a colorful skirt of buildings winding up the mountainside and culminating in a first-century castle at its pinnacle. We roll silently into the citutat—the city center—where we get out, stretch, pull on weatherproof layers in the wood-fire air.
The town is on the cusp of afternoon siesta, many of the restaurants preparing to close until 8 or 9 PM, when they reopen for the evening meal. Like Sierra Engarcaren, the streets are narrow, large enough only for foot traffic or bikes and lined with shops and eateries. Beneath stone arches, a fire crackles in a brazier. Drawn by its amber glow, we spy a nearby pastisseria—its large glass window showcasing neat rows of croissants, empanadas and buns.
We enter and order coffees. The woman behind the counter smiles patiently as we choose lunch—ham and cheese baguettes and a trio of almond, chocolate and marmalade pastries. It is just the two of us in the café and we devour the warm, buttery sandwiches as if we will not eat again. Outside, a more serious rain begins and we watch the rhythmic blooming of umbrellas in the street. When the last crumbs of pastry have been destroyed, we reemerge to wander more twisting alleys, each leading to another level of the town until we finally reach the cathedral. We stand before its enormous doors of inlaid wood and stare up at stone faced saints who in turn, behold us with weatherbeaten, beatific countenances.
Just around the corner is the castle, its entrance marked by a sandwich board advertising tour fees—€3.50 for one adult. The docent hands us a guide sheet translated into English and motions toward a pair of doors that open onto the castle’s Franciscan abbey. All is quiet in the romantic, pillared courtyard until suddenly—the bells begin. They are more than loud, they are cacophonous and bone-shaking. A quiver blossoms at the back of my neck. It is the call of holiness or, in the very least—the stern rebuke of anything that is not. We leave the ethereal courtyard, feet crunching up a rocky trail marked by a smattering of ruins. The mist thickens, making us feel as if at any moment we might hear the clatter of hooves, rattle of chain metal or thwack of arrows. Squinting upward through the fog, we are entranced by the mammoth walls that seem to appear, then disappear into the clouds. As we walk, Jill reads aloud from the guide sheet:
"The Castle of Morella is actually a mountain with a castle built into it. Geologically it is considered a hanging synclinal, meaning water filtered through the calcareous stone and clay have made natural caves. These caves have been in use since prehistoric ages. Due to the caves' great capacity for natural water storage, the castle could easily withstand lengthy sieges in Medieval times. According to historians, the castle has endured Roman, Muslim and Christian rule. Because of its equidistance from major hubs of civilization—Sargassa, Valence, Palma and Barcelone, it was the only castle under crown rule (neighboring territories were ruled militarily by the Knights of the Templar, Calatrava, Hospitaller, Montesa). In its early days, the legendary Spanish warrior, El Cid attempted to wrest the castle from the Iberians but was unable to take it. The castle became a National Monument in 1931 and since then, massive, ongoing restorations have been implemented."
The higher we go, the more we are battered by rain and wind—unforgiving gusts that finally force us to descend the ninety-eight steps from the parade ground, all sodden skin and chattering teeth. We cinch our hoods and step sideways through the gale to glimpse ruins of the castle’s ancient moat, then continue down—past the guard towers, the graveyard, stables, soldier’s quarters and artillery, the bakery, Governor’s Palace and the gigantic stone cistern. Finally, we exit through the imposing Main Gate.
When we look up again, the fog has cleared and the massive castle—a marvel of both nature and human engineering—reveals itself. Man-made angles jut sharply from mossy, dark earth. Plant life drips from crevices beneath stone-hewn watchtowers. All along the ramparts there are ripples of grass and flowering vines. In many places, it is difficult to tell where the castle begins and the mighty mountain ends.
More Photos of Morella
From Sitges, Jill and I drive south to Valencia. Our destination is the tiny village of Sierra Engarceran in the province of Castellón. We arrive late in the day, our Smart Car rolling through the narrow, shuttered streets like a marble in a maze. Slowly, people begin to appear—an old man with his matted, brown dog, boys unloading a truck, a cluster of women chatting on a side street.
I park in the plaza and phone Rob, our host. He arrives moments later, unfolding himself from a blue Citroen as his dog peers out from the back window. His hands and jeans are dusty with clay as he kisses us gruffly on both cheeks. He is an artist, an almond farmer, a joyful transplant. We follow him on the serpentine road out of town and are rendered speechless by the late afternoon light that folds down across the hills like giant, gold wings.
We stand in the stone piazza outside his masia—his farmhouse—and gaze at the craggy peak at its back, the steep incline bursting with herbs.
“Remember, you are in rural Spain," Rob says, in his gentle British lilt, when we ask about Wi-Fi and the nearest amenities. His nonchalant shrug signals that we will be far from pretty much everything for the next week. Life will move at a snail's pace; there will be mist and fog and drizzle and possibly—storms.
Each detail of his property seems plucked from a novel: the tidy terraces of almond trees, green, sunken pool in the garden, the living room’s snug, stone fireplace. In the kitchen, we linger beneath low-slung beams and admire the postcard view of the village framed by a large window. Rob’s dog, Idgie weaves between us excitedly, her black body sleek as a raven’s wing.
Rob begins to list off possible points of interest—we could hike to the saddle of Tossal de l’Om (the mountain behind the masia and the site of a 14th Century Muslim encampment only recently unearthed by archaeologists). Or, we might drive to the nearby towns of Ares and Morella—ancient, walled cities topped by medieval castles. As Rob talks, I fat-finger notes into my phone and finally—after building a fire in the living room and showing us a stash of leftover wine—he departs, Idgie trotting at his heels.
Left to our own devices, we realize that we are in need of supplies. We return to town and following my muddled notes, drive in circles until we finally locate the carnisseria. Entering, we dodge the swish of beaded curtains, and are greeted by Ima, the shop owner. She is aproned and curvaceous with an inquisitive face framed by brown curls. Briskly, she beckons us inside.
“Qué te gustaría?” She asks, feet and hands spread wide. What would you like?
Words leave my mouth in a slow stream and her tiny counter begins to fill: oranges, avocados, bananas, broccoli, apricots, tomatoes, thick slices of ham, cream, mayo, eggs, cheese, a loaf of bread and three bottles of wine—two tinto, one rosa.
As she deftly taps numbers into a calculator, she unleashes a barrage of Spanish. Where are we from? Are we staying at Rob’s masia? Is fair-haired Jill Rob’s daughter? The last question makes us laugh. Aside from the fact that they are both Caucasian, Jill and Rob look nothing alike.
In a flurry, Ima bags our purchases. The entire haul will feed us for a week and costs nineteen euros, wine included. Before we leave, she imparts snippets of local information—the bakery is open from six-thirty to two most days, never on Sundays and on Saturday, hours vary. The farmacia is around the corner and Bar Salvador sells wine, beer, cigarettes and occasionally, food.
“Entiendes?” She looks at me pointedly. Do you understand?
I nod. "Your words come so fast. Como un viento.” Like a wind.
She laughs and with the cadence of an approving mother, tells me that it’s good that I speak Spanish.
“Lo intento,” I reply. I try.
I will always try.
Back in the masia’s cozy kitchen, Jill chops piles of vegetables next to a roiling pot—heaps of broccoli, garlic and tomato. She tests the pasta, dumps the vegetables in. Fragrant steam fills the air. Splashes of cream, butter, a pinch of salt. Her elbow lifts and points as she stirs industriously with a wooden spoon. She moves with the grace of a dancer, happier than I have ever seen her.
We draw chairs up to the rough-hewn table and slurp noodles topped with fresh cheese, every so often refilling our squat, clay glasses with wine from a label-less bottle of tinto. A local map is spread out and our eyes rove the topography of Sierra Engarceran. As night shrouds the farmhouse, we become full and sated. Warmly tipsy. The iPhones come out and we play our favorite songs, loud as we please, singing along in the glow of the kitchen.
The next day, we hike. Fog moves in a winged froth, chasing us up the rocky embankment behind the masia. Higher and higher we climb, pink-cheeked, shivering; flanked by hillside troves of hyacinth, thyme, wild lavender and mint. At the pinnacle, Jill buries her face in a feast of purple rosemary while somewhere below, dogs in the valley bark and whine. Seated on a pair of large, flat boulders, we munch sandwiches until a thickening mist sends us down through the shrubs and rock fields. Our steps, careful and precise, as if we are brittle and small and not people at all—but figurines made of glass.
We return late to the village one evening, sapped by the desperate, indecisive hunger of strangers in a strange land. Squinting out the car windows, we search for signs of life—a cluster of voices or the furtive glow of lamplight. But darkness has settled over the village like a solemn prayer. All is quiet.
"Bar Salvador?" Jill asks as we slow to a stop near the only place that appears to be open.
We glance at each other and shrug.
Inside, heads swivel as we enter. The dim room is lined with men watching sports, drinking beer, smoking. Murmurs trail us as we walk past.
The proprietor is tall and lanky, somehow younger than we expected in his tracksuit and dark-rimmed glasses. "Bienvenidos," he greets us.
We order wine and I ask if there is food available. He waggles his head for a moment and raises a finger as if to say, I don't usually do this but—
"Mama!" He calls loudly.
A slice of silence and then, the curtain behind the bar ruptures and a woman steps through. Like Ima, she is aproned and rotund with a benevolent face. He speaks to her in a flash of Catalan but the meaning is clear. She nods at us, smiles; disappears behind the rippling cloth.
We pull up chairs at a nearby table and sip our wine. Moments later, the bartender brings us two of the largest baguettes we have ever seen—mighty, hinged planks of crusty, soft bread layered with tomatoes, ham, cheese and olive oil. It is comfort food of the highest order. We devour the simple, savory flavors in rough mouthfuls, scarcely stopping to speak. Or breathe.
Blurry with fullness, we settle our bill, pantomiming our satisfaction with exaggerated gestures.
"Fuen perfecto," I say. "Y gracias a tu mama, tambien!" Thanks to your mother, also.
"De nada, de nada." The bartender dips his head with a smile. "I will tell to her!"
The curtain behind him darts and flutters, but does not open.
More Photos of Sierra Engarcaren
Jill, my friend of twenty years, joins me in Barcelona. Our reunion is an immediate return to our twenties; we scream when we see each other outside arrivals then, drive down the serpentine coast to Sitges where the sea blusters and roils, changing hue as if it is one, large, liquid chameleon. It is a town in which it feels as if we have gone backwards in time, backwards within our own selves. The light is soft, painterly, and we take to the skinny, cobblestone streets like teenage girls. Strolling arm-in-arm as we ogle handbags and jewelry; double-fisting gelatos as we follow our noses to one tapas joint after another.
The beach, however, is our favorite haven and we rent €6 loungers for one glorious day until the man shoos us off of them at six o'clock. We stay with our rears and soles and elbows in the sand, chair-less but happy, watching locals chase their dogs and children through the crashing waves until the last of the sun squeezes through the clouds, eventually returning to our tiny seaside apartment where, we sing and howl with laughter. All the while, eating continuously from a hastily-assembled charcuterie board of gas station staples—Iberian ham, goat cheese, berries, crackers and a surprisingly delicious bottle of rioja.
Hot Tip: Tarragona (45 minutes south of Sitges) has a Roman colosseum with killer views ...
While walking towards town, I meet Antje’s son, Pablo. He tells me that when I reach the bottom of the path, instead of turning left into the village I should go to the right and take the trail to the barranco, the ravine. This trail is the ancient Camino Real de La Costa (The Royal Road of the Coast) and wraps around the entire island, linking the villages and towns. It is marked by three distinct bands of color—red, yellow and white—painted on rocks, posts and signs along the way. It is an ancient road and just how long it has been in use is unknown. The Guanche people (aboriginal Berbers from mainland Africa) inhabited the island beginning in 1000 BC and Roman commander, Pliny the Elder makes mention of the Canary Islands as far back as 50 BC when a Mauretanian expedition landed there to find the abandoned ruins of massive buildings.
I take Pablo's advice and descend into the dense, thicketed canyon. The rock-studded trail is edged with gnarled trees, plump cacti, ferns, palms and succulents. At each steep drop-off, I stop to enjoy the magnificent scenery—a symphony of things blooming and growing, all of it tethered to the dark red, stone-riddled earth.
At the bottom of the barranco, the steep climbing begins. It is unbelievably hot and the walls of the ravine sway like giant, draped green nets on all sides. Sweat drips into the corners of my eyes and I try and ignore my fluttering heart as my feet slide across a loose fan of rocks near the trail’s edge. I catch my breath and continue to trudge upward, all to aware of the signs along the way that warn: Landslides! Peligro! Danger! After several switchbacks, I stop for a drink of water. Looking around, I notice a small, wooden door built into the mountainside. I sit down on its little stoop and just as I am wondering what could be inside, I hear a soft crunching.
A man is coming down the path above me carrying a massive bundle of grasses bound with twine. He supports this load with his back, neck and head. As he draws near, I stand hastily and gather up my pack.
“Buen día, señor,” I say. “Disculpe.” Excuse me. I scoot to one side of the narrow trail, away from the little mountainside door and keenly aware that there is no rail behind me to prevent a fall into the deep, green barranco.
“Nada, nada,” the man says and smiles. It’s nothing, it’s fine. With one hand, he opens the mysterious door and in a smooth motion, heaves the bundle of grass inside. Ah-ha! I think. Mystery solved. It’s a mountainside hay mow.
Inching away from the sheer drop-off, I continue upward. Suddenly, I hear the tinkle of bells. I look ahead and behind for the bobbing heads of goats, but there is nothing, just the grass man dashing nimbly down the trail. I walk on and the bells become louder. Still, no goats on the path. I stop and listen. There is sudden smacking sound. I look over and am startled to see a pair of goats sitting in the shadows of a large cave. They stare at me with deliberate interest, chewing placidly; heads swiveling in unison as I draw closer. They are seated upon a ledge above a large, open area of the cave where there are beds of straw and bowls filled with water and food, even a little gate fashioned from branches tied shut with rope. It is a very clever mountainside pen; the goats are cool and sheltered from the sun and in close proximity to the tableau grasslands at the top of the trail where they feed.
I walk on. There is another switchback and then, another. Finally, I stand upon the plateau of land that I can see from the window of my little cabin, all the way across the ravine. It is a breath-taking place; abundant with golden grasses, dragon trees and majestic views of the sea. Blue on blue as far as the eye can see. I breathe a sigh of relief and bask in the rich colors. Me, the girl whose knees ache at the mere thought of heights. I made it.
One afternoon, Kata, Antje's red cat comes calling. We play—me tugging his stuffed, pink dinosaur so that he will bat and fight it, legs wrapped like a wrestler around the faded, plush body. I pet him and he purrs loudly then, falls asleep on the striped patio bed.
All of a sudden, it is four o’clock and I am due at Antje’s shop. We are going to the neighboring town of Puntagorda to visit the local mercado (the market) and attend the African culture festival. I lock the door to my little cabin and bound down the trail to the town square. When I arrive, there are a surprising number of people in the plaza. Usually, it feels forgotten by time—just a few old men drinking wine at a plastic table in the corner.
Inside Antje’s shop there is a German couple that I passed on the Camino Real de la Costa earlier in the day. We exchange niceties and as they leave, Antje introduces me to another man. She nods at him with a smile and asks, “Can we take this one to Puntagorda, also?” He is slender with brown, curly hair, a scruffy beard. A shoulder bag is slung across his chest and he wears faded, brown cords and sandals; his cap sits at an angle. It’s Che Guevara, I think.
“No problem,” I say.
Before we can leave for Puntagorda, we must wait for Antje to close her shop. Che Guevara turns to me with a smile and says, “May I invite you for a drink?”
I accept and Antje shoos us out of the store. We walk next door to the local watering hole.
“You would like coffee—or wine, perhaps?” he asks, as we enter.
“Coffee, por favor,” I reply.
He says his name is Manolo and asks mine. I tell him. The bartender, Petra is from the Czech Republic. She deftly whips up a caffe sola and I carry it to the table. Monolo also has a coffee but tries to talk me into a shot of Jägermeister.
I make a face. “En serio?” Really?
“Oh yes,” he enthuses. “It’s the best. Es un digestivo!”
I shake my head. No, gracias.
Petra rolls her eyes and we share a look. She pulls out her iPhone. “Jägermeister es malo,” she states with an air of authority. “The best drink is from my country, from Czech Republic—Berenchova.” She shows us a Google photo of a fancy blue bottle of liquor.
Manolo waves her away with a laugh. Luckily, he drops the idea of Jäger shots. We talk instead of Garafia and La Palma. He works for the tourism office as a guide. It is one of the rare non-agro or shop jobs in Garafia.
“La Palma is not Spanish,” he says decisively. “Es todo. It’s everything.” There is a diverse mix of cultures here—Portuguese, French, Spanish, German, African, Eastern European. He pauses and brings out a worn, leather pouch of tobacco and rolling papers and begins to prepare a cigarette. “Regarding La Palma,” he continues. “Trust me, I am an expert here. Whatever you wish to know, I can tell you.”
Behind the counter, Petra arches a delicate brow and bites back a smirk.
When Antje is finally ready, she pulls an empty suitcase behind her out of the shop. It’s for the handicrafts she will buy at the mercado, she explains. As we stand in the plaza, her son, Pablo suddenly appears. Where he has been, I couldn’t say. He is quiet, shy and industrious. I often see him around his mother's property—toting grasses to cover compost, digging, raking, planting. Yesterday, we sat in the sun outside the kitchen house surrounded by a tribe of cats, me—bumping along in stilted Spanish as he patiently corrected me. I learned that he likes chess and hiking, speaks German and Spanish and teaches futbol to kids at the grade school. bumped along in stilted Spanish as he patiently corrected me. I learned that he likes chess and hiking, speaks German and Spanish and teaches futbol to kids at the grade school.
“Pablo, kommst du mit uns?” Antje asks him teasingly in German. Will you come with us?
He shakes his head and with a faint blush, nods toward the bar. It seems to be the place where the entire town goes when work is done. Pablo is a homebody, his mother has told me, and will always choose the familiar.
Behind us, Manolo’s voice suddenly crescendos. He has been on a diatribe for some time but I stopped listening after we left the bar. Now, he is ranting about something a German tourist did; a thing of no real consequence, other than it gives him something to shout passionately about.
“Ay de mi!” he roars, suddenly. Inexplicably. His voice echoes across the plaza and a table of tourists looks up curiously from their plates.
“Tranquillo, tranquillo,” Antje whispers, tugging at his sleeve.
We pile into the car. Before we leave town, Manolo asks to use the bank. I park across the street and we wait for him, windows down so that the sea air blows through. He stands at the ATM, legs apart, as if he is facing off against an enemy. After a few moments, he bangs both hands down on the machine.
Antje and I turn to watch him. She was in the middle of telling me that this ATM once had a small opening beneath the machine for trash—receipts and such—and that people (tourists, mainly), thinking it was the card slot, kept accidentally throwing their cards in the garbage. We know that this is not the case with Monolo, the local. The Expert on All Things La Palma. He begins cursing loudly in Spanish then, turns back towards us, his hands to the sky and yells: “It say—I am not enough!”
“Fondos insuficiente,” chuckles Antje. As in: no dinero. We stifle our laughter, make sympathetic gestures through the open window. He turns back to the machine and after more cursing and banging, finally trots back to the car. By some magic he has procured a fistful of Euros.
“Vamanos!” He exclaims, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “To the festiva!”
As we drive, Manolo leans forward between the front seats and expounds in Spanish about La Palma’s incredible natural features—its abundance of caves, mountains, lush forests, beaches, the diverse flora and fauna. There is even a giant caldera—a collapsed volcano—at its heart (Caldera de Taburiente). It's clear that Manolo wants all visitors to love the island as much as he. I’m not a hard sell, however and tell him that La Palma is definitely a place that everyone should see once in their life, if they are able. As he rattles on, I focus on hugging the road's snaking curves and then—Antje abruptly tells him to stop talking.
“I would like to speak to Richele, por favor, since she is gone tomorrow,” she says.
“Claro, claro,” he replies and leans back, placidly rolling another cigarette. I glance at him in the rearview mirror as he stares out the window with a gauzy expression on his face, his thoughts already floating elsewhere.
Antje begins to talk. She was a young mother when she first came to Garafia. Pablo was two. When she arrived, she had three boys and soon after, gave birth to a fourth. Her sons thrived on the island; the older two are now back in Germany, one a museum curator and the other, an outdoor educator for children. Her youngest sons—Pablo and his little brother—split their time between Berlin and Santo Domingo.
Before Antje came to Garafia, she lived a bohemian life. She made art and handicrafts and became a self-taught photographer. Once, she had a job driving trucks through the Andorran mountains. These days, life is simpler. Antje is content to run her shop selling artisan goods on La Palma but still travels as much as possible. An addiction of sorts, she admits. What she loves most is going to Africa by boat from Grand Canarias. She has visited Gambia and Senegal several times and loves both countries. She even tried to adopt an eight-year-old boy—a Gambian orphan she came to know on her visits; who called her “Mama” and begged her to take him with her as tears rolled down his cheeks. The paperwork went on for years, she says. She prepared her house, applied for the requisite approvals. But it never happened. She found the boy a good school in Gambia and paid for him to go there until he graduated. He has since grown up and has a daughter of his own.
"And the cycle of poverty repeats," she sighs. We talk more about this as we sit, sipping Cokes at the café outside the mercado in Puntagorda. Youssour N’Dour is blaring from the loud speakers as the stage is readied for the main act—a Senegalese band.
Later, we wander through the masses of dancers, drum circles and artists and finally, stroll the farmer’s market where, I buy a slab of rosemary goat cheese, some chocolate and a packet of anise crackers. The air is thick with colliding smells—the sweet haze of pastries and tang of cheeses, the keen pinch of spices. Outside, Antje steers me toward a stand where a woman is selling Gambian curry. In exchange for three euros she hands us plates laden with saffron rice and tender chicken swimming in a froth of coconut milk, dates, currants and cumin.
Later that evening, after we we have returned from Puntagorda, Antje comes to my little cabin bearing a steaming pot of Lemongrass tea. She is glad, I think, that I am so happy here. That I find it to be the kind of place I might return. When we were at the café earlier, she took a deep draw off her little pipe and said, “We should meet in Fuerte Ventura next year. There is a nice place on the beach to stay and there will be music and art and handicrafts. And dancing.”
It sounds like magic. And as she says the words, I would like nothing more. Yet, I suddenly realize: there is no such thing as ‘all the time in the world’. We can only see as much of the world as our brief time on earth will allow.
Both relief and desperation settle over me as I ponder this.
In the morning, I go next door again for my breakfast. I’m to go there whenever I like, Antje has said. The kitchen house is 150 years old; a traditional stone Canarian building that was about to collapse in on itself when Antje stumbled across the property in 1992. Workers on the island helped her bring the crumbling ruins back to life, adding plumbing and electricity and also—refurbishing the dilapidated goat barn in the back acre which, at the time, was nothing but a huge, overgrown jungle. During renovations, Antje lived in her caravan camper parked down in the town of Santo Domingo, 1500 feet of rocky switchbacks below the property. Gradually, the refurbished kitchen house and guest cabin blossomed into being and the goat barn became her home—an artful place of skylights, African cushions, colorful throws and vines curled around reclaimed beams.
When I arrive at the kitchen house, I unlatch the blue French doors and step into a woody hive from another era. It is earthily fragrant and totally quiet, save for the ticking of a clock. On one end, wood shelves laden with recipe books, tins and baskets of fresh produce line the wall alongside a side board, gas stove and sink; bundles of herbs hang above in the rafters. On the opposite end of the room there is a lofted bed and beneath it, a sofa and upright piano that Antje brought from Germany. There is also a wood-burning stove, shelf crammed with books and one modern touch—a fish tank where a pair of red, fan-tailed cichlids dart between the rocks.
On the table, my breakfast awaits: a bowl of gofio (locally-made porridge) topped with banana slices, on a plate—four green arcs of fresh avocado, a wedge of goat cheese, slices of salami and fresh bread—three coarse and brown, four soft and white. There is also an orange and hot tea. And milk, butter and jam.
I begin with the gofio and then, devour the avocados atop the delicious brown bread. Thinking ahead, I pocket the orange, slice the cheese and with the meat—make two small sandwiches for my hike.
This is the morning in Antje’s kitchen house—sunny, warm and florid with rich aromas.
The journey from Seattle to Garafia is long. Too long, by the standards of some. But to me, it is exactly the type of thing that makes me buzz with life. From Seattle to London it is nine hours, three more to Barcelona. I spend one night in a monastic room in the leafy Eixample neighborhood, embark on a series of bus, metro and cab rides and board a final, four-hour flight. Finally, I land on the smallest and northernmost island in the Canaries—La Palma.