A new friend from Marbella invites us to her country home in Ronda. A summer house in the mountains? Lovely I think, envisioning deep green pastures and rolling fields of clover. The fact that my fantasies of European country life resembles the set of the Sound of Music should tell you something. Cecilia tells us it's a very curvy drive. The roads vindicate her comment, proving to be delightfully twisty, and in some places, treacherous. What I don't count on are the radical shifts in terrain. One moment deep ravines, around another curve water trickles down a boulder, presumably from melting ice. The sun adds intensity to the landscape by dodging through metallic clouds. Across a ravine the sun breaks on the side of the mountain shining on what appears to be snow. On closer look the chalken cliffs reveal themselves to be nothing but rock. But what a surreal, lunar moonscape! Surely this could double as a set for Apollo 13?
I'm told this magnificent range of mountains is the Sierra Bermeja.The animal life appears as abundant as the landscape pristine. Woolly sheep hug the rocky crags, in coats of dirty white, rust and yellow they graze on spiky shoots of grass. The possibility of crossing paths with one of these guys or a cow, sparrow hawk, long-eared owl or an Egyptian mongoose! is a possibility that thrills me as they are all inhabitants of this Sierra.
We reach our destination within one hour, with Cecilia skillfully navigating the curves, Julie closing her eyes lest she hurl and me devouring the countryside. Our hosts, Maren and Ignacio Diaz meet us at a gravel path, beckoning us to follow their dusty Land Rover. We follow down a dustier path that might be mistaken for a road. Later we are told this adventurous driveway had to be built as no other means existed to navigate to the house. This comment personifies our hosts, as we learn they are masters of conjuring whatever they envision.
We arrive at the house, which is more of an estate than the snug country home I anticipated. It's all a country home should be: a gorgeously sprawling main house; horse stables in which live Uniquo - a tall dark handsome fellow with an almost black mane and Flora - a dainty former working horse with a wheat-colored mane plaited coquettishly over one eye; an eternity pool built for swank patio parties and summer lounging with a jacuzzi inserted in the middle. Best of all is Puccini, a feathery, blond Labrador who gently grabs my sundress in his teeth and leads me to his favorite spots. He's so obviously a human lounging around in a canine body. I can't help but kiss his muzzle and melt at his beseeching gaze that seems to say 'You wanna pet me. You know you do.'
Our hosts serve champagne, olives grown on their olive grove, jamon serrano and crumbly Manchego cheese made from sheep's milk. Normally I love the holy trinity of bubbly, briny & salty. But today I'm a wee bit queasy from last night's Sangria, made with delicious local wine but an ungodly amount of sugar and ultra sweet fruit brandy. So instead I sip lightly, hoping to do justice to our lunch - Paella Marinara.
Lunch is served in an indoor courtyard, reminiscent of a Moroccan palace but with distinctively European views of rambling hills. Olive oil, grown from the olive grove and pressed locally is passed to soak up the hearty breads. The aroma of the oil first captures attention, grassy and redolent of young green onions. Then the paella, deeply yellow from the saffron, is moist and unctuous. The tiny calamari are tender and infused with a seafood broth as is the rice. Matter of fact, all the fish has reached a similar state - the tiny cockles, juicy shrimps, with heads still intact, tender bits of filleted fish.
The host and his son Luca (named after Suzanne Vega's famous song) entertain the house full of women. Ignacio is a casual metrosexual wearing great jeans and the demeanor of a man at peace with life. Luca has the face of an angel and the manners of a diplomat. He charms us with scenes from his favorite movies in impeccable English. Mr. Bean Goes on Vacation features prominently. No mere Cars or Ice Age creatures for this sophisticated child. Moreover he configures oil freighters (complete with cranes, captains and motors) out of Lego's. We sense a facility for engineering with that little man...He invites us to view a movie. As Mr. Bean is unavailable we tuck into a Night at the Museum in the upstairs viewing room, replete with sound-reducing sueded walls and light-reflecting navy decor.
While the menfolk finish the film Maren charms us in the great room. A steady fire has been burning from the same log in the walk-in fireplace to warm our chilly shoulders. I can't decide what kind of wood it is as nothing in the USA has such a long burn time. I assume it's one of those magical logs that litter the Andalucian countryside as I've seen tree stumps curing on the roadside. Maren has gentle blue eyes at odds with her lean energetic frame. She speaks several languages beautifully and manages to make each of us the center of attention. No small feat in a roomful of 5 women. She's a successful entrepreneur and I'm guessing it doesn't hurt her business at all to look like a celebrity.
A fellow guest, a resident of Malaga has graciously brought me a present of an Egyptian Tarot Deck. Bae is a water nymph masquerading as a woman - willowy, mischievous, lush with emotion. I read a spread called the Celtic Cross in the magnificent gold papered Egyptian deck. I've never seen it before but know instinctively how to interpret the nubile characters. We talk, a room full of women each from a different destination on the globe. And yet we understand each other intuitively, sisters from a previous life, forever bonded by spirit. There's an Indian proverb that says: When two or more women gather together, the stars come out in daylight. The stars shone that afternoon.
We talk about careers, men, art. And yes, in that order. I find out why my attempts to dance at the local discotheques have been met with such a negative reception. I am chagrined to learn only prostitutes (many of whom are Russian) patronize the venues. Never having been mistaken for either Russian nor a lady of the evening I accept the inevitable conclusion that I will not be dancing while in Marbella.
A couple from Madrid arrives. They tell me of a street in Madrid populated with Indian restaurants and their fondness for the cuisine. I invite them to New York so I can properly prepare a meal on my own turf. They are either very polite or would love to take me up on the invitation. The sun prepares to descend, showing off colors that a painter would greedily hoard. Time appears to stand still as the sun suspends itself between two mountains for seemingly an hour.
It's night time before we finally drag ourselves away. We are replete, exhausted, enamored of this home and it's inhabitants. Tomorrow I fly home but today I must drag my head out of the magical clouds of Ronda.
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