mmm... patatas

To all the Peeps - assorted and otherwise,
     I've just come from an eating -- experience. I knew there would be many of these encounters when I set out on this journey, and in fact it's those sorts of experiences which make this trip so exciting. And of course it's always fun to reflect on what I've been through, and yes, to share it with you all as well.
     As you may or may not know, I'm still in Spain. As it turns out, this is a rather large land mass, even before you lump Portugal into the same trip. After about a month on generally Spanish speaking soil, I find myself today in the Andalucian Costal city of Malaga, birthplace of Piccaso himself. A typical southern costal Spanish town with a castle on a hill, a Cathedral, a history of naval battles, and a steady rotation of ruling empires from the Romans to the Moors, to the Portuguese. It also has (as every Spanish city I've been through seems to) an "old town," which is usually the place to find the nightlife, the historical sights, and a bar on every corner (one of you reading this understands that refrence the way it was intended).
     It is in Malaga's old town (or "viejo ciudad," as we call it here) where I found myself walking when I decided , or rather, when my stomach decided for me, that it was time for dinner. At that same instant I found myself in front of a small joint which I will undoubtedly never find myself passing by again, on account of the twisty, narrow streets of the typical Spanish old town which torment you by allowing you to think you have walked around the same block at least three times, when in fact you have not passed the same building twice. The joint was called "Pop's Patata's." A baked potato joint, right there, three blocks from the house in which Pablo P. himself was born. The smell was irresistable. I sat down at an outside table and studied the menu for a few minutes trying to decipher the choices.
     Having narrowed my selection down to what I thought was a small list of items I was familiar with (jamon, tomate, queso, sal, etc.), I decided to go with a "mixto." Afterall, I had a Mixto Bocadillo for lunch, and it turned out to be one of the best ham and cheese sandwiches I've had in Spain. But as I watched the lady behind the counter begin to make what I had ordered, I suddenly fely like I was watching something being stirred together from the remains of the trays in a jr. high school lunch room.
     She started with a good looking baked potato. Good enough. She then added a nice sprinkle of salt, a healthy 1/2 inch thick spreading of what appeared to be sour cream (but turned out to be mayonase), two heaping tablespoonfulls of tiny ham cubes (this I was expecting), another heaping spoonful of sliced green olives, followed by one and a half heaping tablespoonfuls of corn, another sprinkle of salt and a few other spices, about four tablespoons of ketchup squeezed un-lovingly from a quart-sized cardboard juicebox (thus accounting for the "tomate"), and then stuck a spoon in it the size of my thumb. Then she handed it to me with a Coke (or rather, a Coka) and a smile.
     It took two hands to carry the thing back to my table, and twenty minutes to eat what I could. But to tell you the truth, it was actually quite good. I just wish I could see all your faces as I describe it. Honestly, it tastes better then it sounds, and it sure as hell smells better then the smoke oozing out of the pores of the chain smoking, instant-messenger at the computer two terminals down from me.
     And so, after wandering through 33 miles of tunnels in the "solid" Rock of Gibraltar, dodging peddlers trying to sell me "high quality" drums whose price quickly dropped to 500 piscetas (about $2.50) in Morrocco, and almost being shut out of a place to sleep in a costal city ready to explode with the excitement generated by opening night of a week long festival celebrating...something--something causing music, good attitudes, ice cream, and people dancing in the streets not caring if anyone's watching, I decided to share with you a small, single meal. Just another dining experience in the middle of just another adventure, in yet another country in the middle of the greatest journey of my life.

Still walking the Earth like Kane,
Chris Unleashed, the Wild Dwanimal