Now more adventures from Spain:
South to Granada, May 2003.  
I still feel the rattling, jolting and persistent swaying of the train. I was trying to sleep in the narrow top bunk. The train was moving at high speeds, riding along metal, maybe rusty, rails. At times a loud and long sque-e-e-e-ak grounded all sleeping passengers to a halt as the train came into a station.  
Even in the dead of night, the stations were bustling. Night travelers crept on and off our train like the changing of the guard. The door to the couchette swung wide open, flooding the room with dim light from the hall. I heard whispers, shuffles and adjustments, then it was only the sound of the train again and back to blackness. One couchette mate was from Somalia. It was almost like a hotel -- actually more like a dorm room on wheels, with four bunks in each.  
Twelve hours of Spanish countryside passed by in the blur of a cryptic dream, then the sun was coming up over the olive orchards outside the window, now in southern Spain. Traveling down the eastern coast along the Mediterranean Sea, we had arrived in Granada.  
This town is full of several hundred cobblestone alleys in a tangled web, winding around two and three story whitewashed houses. It is always my desire to get lost in such streets. And it is also equally satisfying to find the way out again. But here the Alhambra looms over the opposite horizon like a compass, pointing the way back to the hotel.  
We stayed at the cutest hotel with a green garden patio where breakfast was served. A medieval princess would have been quite at home here. The location made it even lovelier, right smack in the middle of the Alhambra itself, the ancient Moorish fort that guards the hill overlooking the quaint whitewashed town. The white peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range in the distance make things even more romantic.   Every nationality had come to see the Alhambra, meaning long lines and only a few tickets. Mind you, your tour leader was busy claiming her territory in a culture where cutting runs wild. We managed to tour along with several hundred other digital, regular and video cameras. (In my mind I saw stacks of photos spilling off tables around the world a few weeks later.) Still the place was beautiful, with ornately designed Islamic carvings glorifying every ceiling. The central patio of the palace with its delicate one hundred-plus columns brought the fairyland past to real life. This is supposedly the most visited (and maybe the most photographed) monument in Europe.  
A day later we were on another short train ride heading on to new sights in Ronda. Someday I will buy a house in Ronda and be the innkeeper of a little B&B near the Guadalevin River by the old bridge. This innocent waterway is a mighty one. It has carved a 330 foot gorge that is an awesome site. The ancient people liked such places, high on hilltops that were hard to get to. In 1793 the New Bridge was built, finally uniting the two sides of the town. Today this bridge is an incredible work of art. Looking down from its sides into the gorge makes anyone dizzy. I wondered if dogs found as much pleasure in such spectacles as humans did. I saw two dogs walking with their owners, struggling to peer over the side.  
One day while in Ronda, Donald Gray and I went for an amazing bike ride. Our guide was Raqel. She brought the bikes and the bike helmets. Soon we were off down a narrow, paved country road which had actually been an old train route before World War II. At some point the metal in the tracks had to be pulled up, shipped off and melted down for ammunition and bomber planes. Where in the big world is that metal now? We didn't think too much about it and instead rode and rode and cycled and cycled, faster and slower, over a few bridges and through several tunnels.  
I had a good time filming action footage while pedaling no-handed with the video camera rolling inside tunnels. One was almost a mile long. Though this one had lights, some didn't. I found my heart rushing to keep balanced on two wheels in the dark. Have you ever ridden a bike with your eyes closed? Don't try it. So much work had gone into this old rail line. The tunnels were serious, about one every mile. It was all just for us, almost 35 miles of smooth, wonderful Spanish countryside. We only passed two other bikers the whole day.  
A few days later on our way to Morocco, Gena Fine and I found ourselves in a town very close to Gibraltar. The lure of this rock positioned magnificently in the straights between Spain and Africa meant we had to go. It is a strategic military position and a quaint, historic town owned by England. Maybe you have heard of the apes that live on top of this rock? We drove up in a taxi to see them.  
The younger tourists were there first and were disrespectfully feeding and even holding these wild animals. I was hoping one young man in particular would get bitten! Other monkeys were eating garbage out of the trash cans by the side of the road. Tony Blair should do something about this, the poor monkeys.  
The roads at the top of the Rock of Gibraltar were narrow, only one-ways, with cliffs descending at steep angles to the ocean. This rock was impressive. The military officials during World War II must have loved it. England will never give it up, nor will she ever share it with Spain.  
The shops and restaurants in the main town took English pounds rather than euros like in Spain. The main walking street paved the busy center. At the restaurant where we had lunch, we met a couple from Texas who were touring on a cruise ship. They had a few hours in Gibraltar and would be back on the boat at six for the night.  
Gena and I didn't have nearly enough time to understand and appreciate Morocco fully. Several weeks of travel time, perhaps even years would have been nice. As it was we only had three days. The countryside is so similar to Spain, with rolling fields of olive trees. And the Moroccan influence on Spain was now totally obvious. However the Moroccan culture is very different from that in Spain. The people speak French, most are Muslim rather than Catholic and all the guide books said, "Watch out for hustlers."  
To get there from Spain, we hopped aboard a large industrial transit ship that took us two hours across the Straights of Gibraltar over to Africa. At the other side, near the port in the town of Tangier we managed to hail a cab and were soon at the train station with Blair, a man we befriended on the ship. What were the chances? He was from Lansing! The train took us on a five hour journey south to a city called Fes. Next time I'm in Morocco, I want to go to Marrakech, several more hours from Fes.  
The highlight was exploring the "Medina" in Fes, the market area. Talk about streets being tangled, it was more like knotted thread here. Amazing. A donkeys carrying large loads were one of many hazards. Kids rough housing in the two-inch space between you and the alley walls were also to watch out for. The locals passed smiling, as if saying, look at our charming children. I was worried the ancient and colorful tile work near the edge of one fountain might crumble to pieces as a boy slammed his friend up against it in a Hollywood-type scene. Perhaps I have never watched boys at play in such close quarters. Girls with dollhouses are different.  
We learned that every Muslim town should have five public places, the mosque, the bath, the market, the university and the bakery. We stopped to watch the men at the bakery where they bake all the bread for the neighborhood. The houses in this area were too small for big stone ovens. Thus, everyone shared the two huge ovens in the center of town. Youngsters brought trays of dough covered with the family tea-towel. This was the signature of the loaf. When the youngster returned later, she would look for the family cloth and know which bread was theirs.  

Morocco was interesting. I will have to go back.
Travel is safe.  

Heather O'Neal
Of Global Interest LLC Adventure Travel
Ann Arbor, Michigan
(734) 369-3107
www.ofglobalinterest.com