Drug Spoons and Tapas (pt. 1)
By: Sophia Belle
Tags: Nonfiction, Memoir, Travel, Adventure, Narrative

Shortly after I had arrived in Spain, I started making my way down the coast via hitchhiking. At the time, a leftist grassroots party named Podemos was lifting off into political fame. I often encountered their organizers in outskirt working-class towns and stopped to listen to their sermons about how neoliberalism was driving inequity. Through them, I learned the leftist history of their country, and, by proxy, my own.

Making my way to this mysterious camper in the foothills of the Andalusian mountains often felt like a pilgrimage. Each step was drenched with indecipherable purpose that felt profound but, at the same time, insignificant in the wake of all other steps. I grabbed a ride from a gas station outside of Valencia with a middle-aged gay man named Jose who was a touring performer. He sang and danced at big, tacky functions in rural towns, but, according to him, work was slow those days because of the receding economy. We drove for hours and hours through dusty farmlands, and grabbed hot dogs at isolated gas stations. It reminded me of parts of the US I had never been to, like the Midwest or California. I hadn’t thought about the US in a long time.

Jose dropped me off in a placed called Córdoba. Once again, I arrived at night, which is how it just seemed to be going that month. Shot after shot in the dark. Even in my own city, walking at a time when most people are inside is a strange and alienating journey. It’s especially so in a foreign place. I moved from new town to old town and watched the streets change from wide paved arteries and into cobblestone veins. The glass multi-story buildings shrunk into carved stucco abodes, decorated with intricate trims and doors. I sensed that this was a city of artists and makers. It was in the air, the iron, the planters, and the road signs. I could tell because it made me want to stop where I was standing and create something, too.

I found a women-owned hostel near the walls of the mosque. It had a courtyard inside filled with flora, red tiles, and murals. The owners greeted me warmly, and showed me to a dorm room that was called “Frida.” The kitchen was modest and clean. It was low season, and I enjoyed the space and quiet that the lack of tourists afforded me. In the the late morning, I explored Cordoba over consecutive shots of espresso, and it quickly became one of my favorite places in the world. A dreamy haze hung over the watermill, and the river, and the elegant Moorish houses– I can still retreat to those pastel hours of meandering afternoons when I desire.

the water wheel in Córdoba

One day, a man with a camera arrived at the hostel. Luis was a photojournalist from Cuba who had been traversing Europe for a state publication. He wore an army green Castro cap and loose button up, and consistently lamented the outdated technology of his DSLR. We hit it off immediately, sharing a love of photography, hitchhiking and communism. One night we bar-hopped, him with a case of Cuban cigars and me with my guitar. The charm of our bearings and our US-Cuban relations got us free tapas, steak, and cañas on more than one occasion. We made out, he left in the morning for Madrid, and I continued south. Some time after Fidel died, Luis was exiled from Cuba for publishing a piece critical of the new regimes capitalistic interests and reached out to me for help. I gave him the contact of a friend in Peru, but he never made it there. I hope he is okay.

The next stop was Granada. I couchsurfed with an art student and slept on a floor mattress in her modest university apartment for a night. She brought me to a Woody Allen movie screening in the dimly-lit cavern of a temporarily closed music venue. Completely enveloped in existential exhaustion, I fell asleep in a wooden booth and had to be woken up when the film was over. It was a bit embarrassing.

My time in Granada was brief. I was yearning for the countryside and couldn’t think of anything else. I longed to unfurl my tent and sleeping bag and read books into the night without worrying about bothering anyone. In the morning, I read the instructions again.

“Take the bus to Orgiva.”

It never occurred to me to ask the person who wrote it for more details. After traveling for so long, you tend to develop keen senses for decision-making. Sometimes I felt clairvoyant. I could look at a person, a place, or, in this case, a note, and see its motivations. With no impetus beyond the whims of my own mind, I had developed an indescribable method of choosing where to go and what to do. These actions just came as feelings; I’d watch them approach on a conveyer belt and either pick them up or let them pass. The virtual note was magnetic, and so I boarded a bus bound for the mountain village of Orgiva at golden hour. I didn’t understand what sort of surreal sinkhole I was barreling towards.