I wouldn't say we're van-life-ing wrong, it just feels neither here nor there -- I'm either longing for the simplicity and independence of my tent (where it's normal to be unwashed and exhausted), or else I'm fantasizing about the air conditioning and running water that would otherwise be integral to sleeping "indoors." A big factor is certainly the heat, as mid-May was already high 80s, and the combination of sun-baked upholstery and daily dune climbs withered me like an off-brand chunk of dried mango. Before our little fridge frizzled out, I could clutch a chilled liter of water to my chest to (try to) sleep.
But the van is great for casting a wide net, getting to out-of-the-way places, and peeing mid-morning in a country that abhors public bathrooms. The chameleon-like ability of the van is to come and go on a whim, to park in a city center and be your very own lackluster hostel for the night.
We're just finishing a tour of southwestern Portugal and Andalusia, Spain. In Portugal, we left the van next to a wakeboarding school/brah-paradise, and hiked ten days on the Rota Vicentina, a.k.a. Fisherman's Trail. This series of paths connects villages and beaches on the cliffstrewn coast. Big dunes covered with flowering plants, tiny carved out coves, long sand beaches, cafes just opening for the season, and occasional surfers dotting the waves unspooled before us. Brave storks and storklets(?) perched in nests in obscenely precarious places, undeterred by strong winds or asshole seagulls dive bombing the fledglings.
After flirting with heatstroke and recuperating at a yoga-yurt sort of campground, we took the forecast for 100F as a sign to stop. Back in the van, we crossed the border into the Gary, Indiana, of Spain: an enormous industrial zone complete with cancerous-smelling air, just next to where Columbus departed on his voyage to America(!).
There are many, many beautiful places in Spain: Sevilla is lovely, with big parks and well-preserved historical quarters; little Moorish villages perch in the mountains of the Alpujarra; Granada is stuffed with great art and music and food and life. But we also came to Andalusia to visit where Jean-François's great-grandparents came from before emigrating to Algeria and leaving for France. What I call our "cultural heritage" stops all shared elements of economic hardship and ecological exploitation. In Berja, we found the remnants of a prosperous mining town, now with a humdrum, scruffy mien. Little Albuñol is nearly choked out by the expanse of intensive-agriculture greenhouses squatting throughout the valley. In fact, this region has been expanded by silting up the river, creating a huge, unnatural plain extending from the feet of the mountains. The 40,000 hectares of greenhouses of El Edijo, the "sea of plastic," is the most visible man-made structure from space. Depressingly, they even extend into the national park; the Internet tells me they are part of the dystopian introductory shots of the newer "Blade Runner."
To end on a cheerier note, tapas is originally from Andalusia. We have had gallons of gazpacho and platefuls of thinly-sliced salty ham. This is also the home of sangria, and -- hey, it's 5 o'clock.
