Travels with Blanquita: My City is Better than Your City

Every Spaniard I've spoken to unanimously agrees that Spain is the best country in the world. With my lifestyle here, I obviously can't argue with that. However, the subject that is most under contention and is sure to start a loud, gesticulating argument at any time, any place...is the particular city in Spain.

After such a fabulous weekend with Maddy and Agata (next blog post), Monica and I decided that we deserved a break. Eating, drinking, sitting, laughing...ugh, such a tough weekend. I really needed some me-time, you know?

However, daylight savings time (it's a week later here) played some rude tricks on us this past Saturday night. "Let's go home early...like 2ish." Except the nightlife is too fun to go home just as things are starting to really get fun, so with the time change we weren't snuggled in our beds until 4:30am.

I have never been more proud than when somehow Molly, Monica, and I made it to the bus station just in time to catch the 11:30 bus to Huelva. Upon our arrival we met our friendly Huelva city bus driver, who was concerned that we were dressed for beach weather when it was slightly overcast and a bone-chilling 72 degrees.

Gambas in garlic sauce. Those ladies weren't lying.

"Pero somos americanas…¡no hace frio para nosotras!"

We were the first to hop on, but the bus filled up quickly with Huelvans dressed for the elements in their scarves, down jackets, and wool pants. Two elderly ladies with super-fun teeth sat close by, and quickly filled us in on why Huelva is the best place on Earth.

"Sevilla es muy bonita, muy bonita, pero Huelva..."

Evidently Huelva has the best Semana Santa (it's too dirty in Sevilla), strawberries, jamón (we just eat fat chickens here), gambas (prawns--k, totally true), and the friendliest people (no one else talks on autobuses).

Testing Huelva's tostada con jamón for breakfast

Our friend the bus driver made a special stop just for us at Punta Umbria, and waved us off the bus. This was completely unacceptable to our new best friends, who insisted we were making a huge mistake. Amidst all the commotion with angry old ladies grabbing our hands, warning us from the dread that awaited us, the conductor pointed us in the direction of the beach. As Monica waved goodbye to them through the window, all she received in return was a disapproving finger-waggle and frowning head shake. But as we skipped off, our driver honked at us, stopped again, and actually hopped off the bus to give us very specific instructions and hand gestures.

Okay. So, the opposite direction. Got it.

With Monica in her pink Delta Zeta pride, Molly in flip-flops, and me in my North Face and summer dress, there is a slight possibility that everyone else sitting on the bus during this exchange was making fun of the americanas estúpidas. But probably not. And like, we totez used our like--best Spanish accents to say thank you, and stuff.

From there, it was all sunshine and giggles as we played in the waves, took long walks on the beach, and ate fantastic gambas between ~~roasting in the sun~~ ~~predisposing self to skin cancer~~ naps on the sand.

When Mama Rosa found out what we learned on the bus, she did the best Queen Latifah impression I've ever seen in Spanish:

"Ohhhh no she didn't! No, no no!! It's because everyone is jealous of Sevilla. What happens is, everyone is jealous, so they make up these lies to make themselves feel better! Better Semana Santa? All Huelva has is gambas and a halfway decent beach. That is it."

In short, a long-winded "¡No me digas!"

Well. I'll leave it to the locals to fight over which city is better, but we certainly enjoyed our stay on the "halfway decent beach."