Pueblos Blancos

The year is winding down and we are venturing off to the Pueblos Blancos, or White Villages. It is fitting that we jam in as much travel into the calendar year as possible. Perched like white ornaments across the hillside of Spain, we journeyed to Grazalema and Zahares to absorb culture and cadence.

The first impression was the uniformity of their homes and small towns. If you helicoptered above this region, it would appear like marching bands all in synchronized step. Same roofs, same shutters, same “plumes on their band helmets.” The only distinguishing elements were succulents and orange trees, grown proudly by the residents.

Reminiscent of Mykonos, Greece, the pure white stairs, and meandering side streets with fauna marked each little village. We snuck into Mass in Grazalema, passing the sign of peace to two elderly women who sat behind us in the upright pews. I think the pews were built at a 90 degree angle to keep you awake during the Homily.

And then we snuck out the side door as the Eucharist was distributed and I said a prayer to God asking for forgiveness of my sins. Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been 50 years
since I last went into one of those confessionals.

So we headed to a local bar for heathens and sinners to catch a mid morning coffee. Ah yes, coffee is definitely one of my seven deadly sins. As we sat and watched the locals, I saw the two women from church helping each other back to their residence. They were walking slowly, arm in arm, taking each careful step along the street. The communion continued long after Mass.

If you sit long enough with a level of mindfulness, you can take in new sounds. Above the chatter of loud mouth Americans, we heard a speedy train whizzing through La Perla Blanca. We also heard street a distant birthday party with every person equipped with a tamborine. I liked the foot stomping. It sounded more like a World Cup final instead of a birthday.

The quiet of day was interrupted by a group of motorcyclists roaring by on their Sunday cruise of Andulucia. Our attention quickly turned to an older couple out for a stroll. They sat down near us and started murmuring in a whisper. Were they talking about their delicious piece of cake and coffee, or about the crowded streets of their once “undiscovered” village?

We lingered for the afternoon and then headed back to Ronda taking a new route. It was a white knuckle experience across the mountain peaks. Scared shitless, I drove snuggly against the inner wall, grazing pass guard rail anchored by 2’ x 4’quarried posts. With every whoosh, we descended down and off this madness passing the would be Lance Armstrong’s.

Returning to town, we stopped at a restaurant that was targeted on Carla’s Secrets. She sauntered in just after 5:30 and asked the owner…”Do you need reservations? With a smile, he muttered…”I don’t…every seat is sold out tonight!” I guess that’s code, we are so popular that you will have to plan for another future date.

To put this restaurant’s popularity into perspective, we know the former mayor of Ronda and had them call for a reservation. He was turned down as well. When your tapas are that good, your food outranks everyone, every day.

Orange trees lined every major thoroughfare in these White Villages