Tarifa. The southernmost point of Europe, where the coastal legs of Spain come to a perfect point and her toe cheese (Manchego, naturally) sloughs off into a thin wash of blue dividing Europe from Africa. The respective cliffs thrust out at one another like, “You want some of this?” and us tourists screech to a halt at each mirador to snap pictures like our fingers are having miniature seizures.
Tarifa is one of those perfectly sized cities that you can daytrip to and leave still wanting more without feeling like you didn’t see enough. Billy and I have realized in our travels with toddlers that there’s a sweet spot size-wise when it comes to cities. Anything with a population over 50,000 and we leave feeling pissy. Once we find a parking spot, we’re basically confined to whatever the four-block parameter surrounding the parking spot has to offer. Sometimes it’s awesome, sometimes we end up eating at a crappy restaurant next to a child-unfriendly museum and are stuck at a mind-numbing playground for 2 hours in what could be the coolest city in the world but we’ll never know because we parked in the wrong goddamn spot. Planning helps, I guess - go to the big cities with a specific agenda - but it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks, like agenda. I now look at the population size of every place before we go, and it's a better trip advisor than, well, Trip Advisor.
Tarifa. Holy hell, this is where Andalusia has been hiding the cool kids! When Billy and I first got to Jimena I actually googled “aging population Spain” because it seemed like everyone we saw was pretty advanced in the game of life. Apparently it’s a bit of a problem, but not in Tarifa. A mecca for kitesurfers (which I hope to learn before the inevitable hip transplant) and home to adorable crooked alleys and a sun-drenched, vino-soaked square,
I felt like I finally understood, on an atomic level, what old people mean when they say being around young people keeps them young. The energy, the ideas, the exhuberance! It made me feel super excited and then immediately like I needed to take a nap. So we went to the beach.
I have all the markings of a hippy. I am, among other things, largely unkempt, vegetarian and if there’s an acoustic guitar around you better cover your ears or join the fuck in. I think Bob Dylan has the voice of an angel. Ditto for Neil Young. Okay, not exactly, but just writing that made me giggle. And I’m actually a pescatarian but who can say that with a straight face? In New York all my friends thought I was a hippy and in the Midwest all my friends thought I was a city chick. I fall somewhere and nowhere in between. Thankfully Los Canos de Mecca is there to catch me.
The thing about hippie spots is that there’s usually a lot of kids around, and my naked and barefoot children fit in perfectly. We gorged on pizza and climbed trees at Bar Las Dunas and then stuck our feet in the sand and listened to the live band playing incongruous 90s chick rock at the bar next door. It took decades to get the Natalie Imbruglia hit, Torn, out of my head. It's now been wedged back in. I’m cold and I am shamed, lying naked on the floor. That's what's going on. Nothing's fine I'm torn.
Unfortunate, indeed.
This place is magic (and yes that's a pedal powered hippie-go-round). We stayed for sunset and more, watching the world turn pink, then blue, then black. The kids were wild-eyed and delirious by the time we got back to the car and fell asleep before we'd even hit the highway. I DJ'd while Billy drove, playing Jeff Buckley, Leonard Cohen and a bunch of other not-quite-hippies with the heat cranked up and the windows down. A stellar end to an incredible month. Thanks, Spain, I barely remember the rain.
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