Churros For Breakfast

The Petulant Parsnip Goes To Spain

I spend most of the scorching London summer laying inert on my back and whinging about the weather and climate change. We do a lot of adulting (broken garden fence, choosing between 4,657,585 shades of Indigo paint, fixing a dodgy flush, debating the merits of Venetian blinds and other assorted miscellaneous grown up matters). But then autumn arrives and I realise how much I will miss warm weather. And so, off to Spain we go.

Hello Europe, old friend.

Day Zero: Late Night Tapas and Loquacious American Teenagers

Freshly showered and luggage free, we head out for late night drinks and tapas. The streets are buzzing with the Saturday night crowd but we manage to usurp an outside table. The waitress recommends a dry white wine, which is helpful cause I’m never going to make it in life as a Sommelier. We end up with a serving of Tocino, jamón ibérico, olives and copious amounts of bread and sit around chatting and listening to late night chitter chatter. The Spaniards are famously late eaters and it feels great (and subversive) to be out at 11 pm after 2003.

Someone in a nearby building is clearly indulging in a weekend weed sesh. The loquacious American teenager at the table on our right continues to give off “main character energy” - out of a group of 6, she does ALL the talking, while the others nod and obsequiously agree. By the end of it we have learned that (a) Doug is hot but unapproachable, (b) her mom lied to her therapist and (c) she accidentally ate dairy last night but didn’t die.

Ready to leave, I finally get to flaunt my Duolingo Spanish. “La Cuenta, Por Forvor”, I exclaim triumphantly, while beaming at our waitress. She raises an eyebrow and looks at Mrs Parsnip and they engage in a form of silent sisterly communication about (I presume) men. As she gets the bill, I try again. “Perfectamente!”, I exclaim. I have done it. I have mastered Spanish. I am a sophisticated polymath. A celebrated linguist even. She merely smiles politely and moves on to the next table. The crowd continues to mill about and Mrs Parsnip reminds me not to leave my phone behind.

Days One and Two: Iberophiles in Paradise

The Alhambra has long been on our list and it does not disappoint. It is stunning and we wander, hypnotised through the mazes and rooms and corridors and honeycomb vaulted domes and stalactite ceilings. There are patios and council rooms and watchtowers and women’s quarters and lush gardens and wooden carvings and water bodies and glazed tiles. It is early October, the summer tourist madness has receded somewhat, and even with the throngs of people still there, we are able to take our time and admire the Moorish beauty of it all.

Back downhill, we potter around the tourist shops in the Arabian quarter. Mrs Parsnip brings out the best in the shopkeepers, most of whom we gather are from Morocco. Her latest earring acquisition complete, we do a mini hike up a steep route and end up at a brilliant viewpoint opposite the Alhambra. Like true Iberophiles, we indulge in the local cuisine: gigantic meatballs, impeccably shaped creamy croquettes oozing with béchamel sauce and ham, vibrant Salmorojo and assorted Huevos. There is a fair amount of Basque cheesecake thrown in for good measure, even though we’re not in Basque country.

Day Three: Churros for Breakfast , Sierra Nevada and Conversations with Strangers

Churros for breakfast = apparently what the locals do here. I do not want to be the vulgar foreigner who does not partake in local customs and so, powerless against the lure of fried dough and dipping chocolate and old Spanish traditions, I willingly start my day like this. It is a moral obligation and would be rude not to. So yes, churros and chocolate for brekkie. Damn right.

Mrs Parsnip is organised and has booked us a tour to see some beautiful villages in the Alpujarra region. I’d rather drive ourselves but the roads are twisty and I can’t drive on the opposite side of the road for nuts so a guided tour it is.

I generally love talking to strangers and finding out about their lives, unless I’m tired/hangry or if they’re very obviously what Roald Dahl would call a poisonous pustule. The tour van is tiny, but thankfully it is quite clear pretty quickly that the others (2 couples, American, travelling together and 1 Chinese lady, travelling solo) are not slopgroggled grobsquifflers. Quite the opposite, actually. And so the crew sets off to the mountainous villages with Paco the driver and loads of en-route banter. Topics include but are not limited to: reading, clinical trials, US vs UK politics, Blade Runner 2049 vs Blade Runner 1982, how the design for Jedi robes was inspired by clothes people actually wear in Morocco, Ketanji Brown Jackson, Santa Semanta and erm, naked hamams in Istanbul.

The Alpujarra region is breathtaking and we stop at various cool places for photographs and drink mineral enriched water from the Fuente Agria Spring and admire picturesque waterfalls in Chorrerón. We chat with a local weaver lady who weaves a small carpet in front of us and tells us about the decline of Spanish silk with the expulsion of the Moors.

Fittingly for 2022, the day ends with everyone exchanging Insta handles/other socials. Thanks to the resourceful Americans, Mrs Parsnip and I end up at a cool spot for dinner in the city that night.

Day Four: The City We Became

We’re on our own.

With the biggies (Alhambra, Sierra Nevada) out of the way, now comes my favourite part. The bit where we walk around and soak in the city. No agenda, no to-dos, no guide book, no maps. We go to our newly “local” coffee shop, where the Barista is taciturn but the coffee is fucking amazing. We stop for a chat with a Senegalese artist in the Albaicin quarter and he tells us about the thought process for his art and the importance of family in their culture. We walk past trees invitingly laden with cherubic pomegranates and old ruins in the heart of the city and local bars blaring Julio Iglesias and glamorous Flamenco performers on a ciggie break and stop for beers and Tapas and watch the world go by.

We accidentally stumble into a Dia De La Hispanidad procession that involves parades and drums and crackers and then wander into an old school bakery where the sweet old lady doesn’t know the English word for Pumpkin pie. She enthusiastically launches into a slapstick enactment of a wailing ghost and makes stabbing gestures until we realise what she’s trying to do: Halloween = Pumpkin = Pumpkin filling in the pastry.

At some point we crave a break from the fried food we’ve been feasting on and end up at a Ramen Bar and chat with Tony, who is from Spain but loves Japan and has lovingly decorated his walls with Studio Ghibli posters.

We walk and we walk and we walk. Past piazzas and souks and churrerias and museums and art galleries and juice bars. And through the narrow, winding lanes where the abuelas gather to gossip and the mercados where jamon and olives and beer and friends drive a lovely, less frantic pace of life. The shops start to shut down as it hits 2.30 as folks recede indoors for a siesta.

And on and on we saunter until we finally feel like we’ve claimed the city as (quasi) familiar and earmarked our favourite bits of it. We nourish ourselves in the dying embers of the late afternoon sun, rustling our paper bags full of large roasted chestnuts and feel gloriously alive.