A Day in Paradise.

(portion of a journal entry)

The road to Algeciras is long. The first half was tuned to American hip-hop with the unfortunate announcer who commented in short spurts over the end of every song and finally cutting it off early... The second half was tuned American adult contemporary... Towards the coast, the rain was getting heavy, pounding on the bus. At one point we passed through a tunnel and entered a dream like quiet on account of no radio reception and the tired state of the passengers. I though to myself that this was quite a storm, but after looking at how green everything was, I figured it was just another day. We hopped from town to town, dropping people off and picking them up, each time worrying about my baggage which was on the honor system and worrying about whether I was in Algeciras, which at the time seemed unreasonable, but turned out to be a bright idea because the guides notion of a bus station was a curb in downtown/seaside Algeciras. The bus tossed us out into a heavy wind and thick downpour. The passengersd either headed for the one coffee shop, or the twenty travel agencies selling tickets for the ferry. I threw on my poncho qnd headed out. I was so happy I brought that. As silly as I looked, I was the envy of all the wet dogs running from the ticket offices to the port. As usual I couldn't find any street names so I headed back to the bus station for directions, but a fortunate puddle turned me towards the beckoning call of Hotel Octavia which is supposed to be next to the bus station to Tarifa. I damn near missed the bus to Tarifa trying to decipher that the ticket agent was calmly telling me that is leaves right now. This time I was even more concerned about my luggage since I was the only carrier. I even looked at the reflection in a passing window to insure the baggage doors were closed.

It was partly because I had made it to my destination, but still, when you step off the bus into Tarifa, your watch ticks a bit slower. It had cleared up and the sun was piercing - cool air and burning rays. Walking towards the ocean from the bus stop you reach the white walls of an old spanish fortress. A clearly marked sign points you to the tourist office where I found a map and hand drawn locations of all the hotels. I chose the one closest to the water abd also closest to the tourist office. A thirty dollar room, complete with a black-tiled bathroom, shower, clean towels, clean streets, and my favorite - mono shampoo, and located two blocks from the beach is nothing but luxury. It was only two and I had already found a beautiful room in a quiet town, beach nearby, and the promise of a long hot shower. At this point I didn't think it could get better, or if I would notice if it did.

I went to the post office. Next to the hotel is the old fort, now a collection of walkways disceting the short apartments, Spanish mini-markets and a single commercial drag - a bank, a post office, restaurants and pastry shops. Outside a mini-market, most likely the window of a converted bathroom, were a pair of portly kids smeering fudgsicle on their faces while they contemplated what to buy next, the attendant waiting patiently as though he had no customers at all. The sun came out from behind a cloud, and bounced off the white walls of the alley. There were a few people about, most of whom were headed towards a hole in the wall where I could hear a pool table. The two cafes had a few pairs of just-passing-throughers, while the pastry shops waited for a crowd with an ample stock. There were a few other stores, but they were closed for siesta, along with them the post office, open from 11 to 2 a few days a week.

I went to the grocery store. On the other side of the white-walled fort is the main drag, two blocks of photo shops and specialty stores. Running into that street, the other main road heads up through surf shops and california clothes, past the curbs designating the bus stop, to the gas station. Through an alley just prior to the gas station you can catch a glimpse of the grocery store, sealed in on all sides with no parking space even if you managed to squeeze your car over there. A few dreadlocked beach-bums meander outside, hoping to extend their surfing trip indefinitely despite the fact that they ran out of money at the end of last summer. Inside is the true meaning of super-market. This store serves as the lifeforce of the city, the only thing open for any decent amount of time selling a little bit of everything - isle 15 is televisions, isle && is produce. This city lacks a bread maker, but just as good are the two packs of hamburger buns, tailored for folks like me, the just-passing-throughers. I stocked up on enough supplies to get me to Morocco and headed out past a surfer who'd lost his cigarette.

I went to the beach. I went to the calm beach, the Mediteranean side of the bridge. Tarifa island sits a stones throx off the natural beach and a long pile of rockes hoists a sandy bridge across, protecting the eastern side from the Atlantic waves, and for the most part, the Atlantic wind. The beach is fifteen seconds across with a few dogs chasing each other. It sits next to a lagoon of some sorts created by a natural outcrop of rocks creating a thin plateau six feet above sea level. If you time it just right, the undercurrent will hold back the next wave long enough for you to run through the sand to the outcropping - I didn't time it just right. Despite all the protection there was still a bit of wind, but that mornings rain kept all the sand down.

I sat on the rocks and ate dinner. I made a cheese sandwich and followed it with kiwis and Spanish apples which remind me of chunky apple sauce. I ate and I sat on the rocks.

I sat on the rocks. Have I emphasized this? Above me sits the sun, still high above the ocean thanks to daylight savings. To my left is thirty feet of a flat narrow plateau of rocks leading up to a blue stucco wall hiding the main port. To my right is a small island, two football fields, the remains of an arab fort now support a tiny light house, too small to be an actual house. Outside the walls the grass is growing out of the rocks which lead down to the sea. In front of me is the sea. On the sea are the freighters - some going in, some going out. Beyond the freighters is a single rock. Perhaps five miles of water are all that separate us. The rock is maybe half a mile high and slopes daringly right into the ocean. Around the rock are some less inpressive hills, nothing to steal your interest. At first I didn't believe it, I figured that I was staring east and that must be the rock of Gibralter, but the sun was falling on my shoulder and I was staring at Africa. Tarifa island is the closet point to Africa and happens to obscure the view of any civilization, which was just fine by me. I was full in both my stomach and my heart and I headed to my palace.

I took a shower. I've been using this eucalyptus all-natural soap which is compact and handy, but only manages to get the stink out of your hair, leaving a healthy shine which starts to clump up in a day. The last shower I had was navy style since I couldn't count on the hot water, and before that was a less than thorough job at the sink since the only shower was broken. But today I took a long, long, hot shower and used up every bit of shower gel and shampoo that I could squeeze out of the individual packets. By the end of it all I was shaved, cleaned, beard trimmed and I posed in front of my camera feeling like a million bucks.

At about 8:30 I headed out for the sunset after packing a snack. The wind was pretty heavy but I toughed it out, the sun setting shortly after nine. It was a bit of a farewell for me. The sun setting out on the Atlantic as I was leaving everything familiar. I wasn't sure if I'd be in contqct for a while so I said goodbye to everyone and headed back before the last bit of sun ducked under the water.

In the evening their are children everywherer, playing in little playgrounds and running in and out of houses. Grandparents keep an occasional eye on them when they can pull away from their important discussions of the days events. Teenagers hop about picking up dates on mopeds and racing past the slower bikes. I turned in with the rest of the tourists having used up the roll in my camera. By the time I was back, only a few locals were headed inside, but the noise didn't bother me, and the wood blinds kept out the still illuminated sky.

In the center of town is a lottery booth, another one near the bus curbs. The lottery booths are the glue that holds together Spanish culture. Five feet by five feet or smaller, they house a long salesperson, often chatting with friends or blasting a radio. They are tough to see since the windows are papered with tickets. There are no instructions nor directions, just the word ONCE in yellow on the always green booth. In Tarifa their is also a woman on a motorized trike wearing a vest of tickets. In Madrid you can't walk a block without a booth or an independant, sometimes coming in clusters. However, this is the only thing bearing any resemblance to Spain. Tarifa's only flaw is the wind, fierce and heavy when viewing the scenery, but fairly calm around town. Other than that it is paradise. There are no clocks, no appointments. No one works and when they do the hours are easy and the time easily passed with friends. The town moves like the sea and breathes life back into every just-passing-througher. I knew I was leaving tomorrow; another day in paradise is not possible. The cost of paradise is lack of function; I had things to take care of and Tarifa has very few services. Paradise also takes a toll and I can only ignore for so long the longing eyes of those who have gotten lost here - the just-passing-throughers that never left and have become the driftwood that lines the beach. But today it was paradise, and I enjoyed every last bit of it. Tomorrow I head back to Algeciras, the Tarifa crossing being closed to non-EU citizens, departing for Morocco.