Soft jazz plays. I’m the only one here, apart from the receptionist who only occasionally makes noises indicative of efficiency. Outside the sun is shining, but I dream of dreary skies. I’ve booked the hotel across the car park. This changeover marks the beginning of the end of my Basque stay. It’s been a reassuring return to Spanish grace, however I’m impatient and some good things aren’t best savoured when the traveller is distracted.
I will say that a 2 day stopover in Zaragoza was a clever way of cutting up the journey. Two 4 hour bus rides are far more palatable than one 8 hour one. It helped that the city had a lovely patina, and soaring peaks to gaze longingly at. Floating up and down a Main Street or two, I indulged my senses with pretty patterns, vibrant colours and the promise of something tasty with every step.
You’d think I would be sick of jamón y queso, but their quality is consistently mouthwatering. You quickly forget to try to mind that it’s on offer all the time.
Another curiosity is how few American visitors can be found. I’m staying in a tourist hotspot near the airport, yet I believe I’ve only heard a solo feminine voice introduce American tones into my jumble of foreign impressions. It’s the Brits that dominate amongst the English speakers, though internal tourism seems to be making up the bulk of the hotel customers.
It’s not hard to find Americans in Rome or Reykjavik, but the abundance of Spanish speakers in their home country makes for an emphatic absence. Do they have limited engagement with Latinxs? Do their forays into learning this “second language” of the nation only advance so far?
There are no Australian voices at all, but that can be excused given the non-negligible matter of geographical proximity.
And yet, here I am.
I will say that a 2 day stopover in Zaragoza was a clever way of cutting up the journey. Two 4 hour bus rides are far more palatable than one 8 hour one. It helped that the city had a lovely patina, and soaring peaks to gaze longingly at. Floating up and down a Main Street or two, I indulged my senses with pretty patterns, vibrant colours and the promise of something tasty with every step.
You’d think I would be sick of jamón y queso, but their quality is consistently mouthwatering. You quickly forget to try to mind that it’s on offer all the time.
Another curiosity is how few American visitors can be found. I’m staying in a tourist hotspot near the airport, yet I believe I’ve only heard a solo feminine voice introduce American tones into my jumble of foreign impressions. It’s the Brits that dominate amongst the English speakers, though internal tourism seems to be making up the bulk of the hotel customers.
It’s not hard to find Americans in Rome or Reykjavik, but the abundance of Spanish speakers in their home country makes for an emphatic absence. Do they have limited engagement with Latinxs? Do their forays into learning this “second language” of the nation only advance so far?
There are no Australian voices at all, but that can be excused given the non-negligible matter of geographical proximity.
And yet, here I am.
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