Seattle Times Article-Travel in Spain

Special to The Seattle Times


When traveling around the world, some things seem universal — toddlers playing peek-a-boo and taxi drivers lying to you.
The drivers don't stretch the truth just to gouge their fares; there exists a variety of reasons for their ploys. Indeed, many places, fed up with their antics, have provided set rates or fare readouts to control them.
My wife, Lisa, and I were at the Castillo de Castellar in the Andalusia section of Spain and had requested a taxi to drive us to the next town north where we could catch the train to Ronda. The driver stated, "No, the train does not stop there."
I told Lisa, "Five bucks says he's lying," and of course he was. He wanted to go back and join his knot of friends drinking café con leche, smoking cigarettes and discussing soccer.
Ah well, it pays to be flexible.
We had arrived at the Castillo de Castellar train station four hours early. Inexplicably, the schedule we'd received from our hotel was wrong, most likely out of date. So, looking to kill some time, we resurrected an idea we'd had before — the "hippie castle." I had read that some time back, hippies had moved into an old castle, squatted there and set up some kind of Bohemian village.
This is where dragging along a heavy laptop and a bit of research the night before help out. It is always nice to have options.
So off we went, up the mountain. There were virtually no tourists, or guides, or any money-draining devices, just a walled castle with people living and working inside. There were literally cottages, si viende (for sale) there, too, and a couple of places for rent.
Walking along, seeing the stones in the street and old stone stairs, I could imagine the hundreds of feet over hundreds of years that wore them to their current smooth patina. I thought of someone pulling a cart or carrying a baby through the old town. The fact that people were living there now added to the image. It was an anti-sterile-museum tonic; it seemed more accessible to my imagination.
The train ride to Ronda took us slowly up in elevation and it reminded me of the Ellensburg area. It started to rain, and when we finally got there it was pouring. We started off to find "the bridge." I didn't have the actual name on my lips, but an Internet search of Ronda, Spain, always shows the same picture of an amazing bridge, spanning a deep chasm between two plateaus cut by a river.
Of course, many tourists were already standing in doorways, out of the deluge, looking at travel books, trying to determine the same thing.
By the time we got to the bridge, we were soaked. I had my larger camera in its case in the backpack wrapped up to stay dry, and I was using my small weatherproof Olympus trying to capture this stunning view. After struggling a bit, I determined only Ansel Adams in a helicopter could do Ronda photographic justice.
Drying off in a "matador bar," my wife and I debated running for the train or waiting it out. Madly, we decided to go for it. We walked crazily through the rain, dodging umbrella points as fast as we could. Wet and exhausted, we cheered when we realized we were right on time.