Spanish Hills
Off in the hilly distance are the remains of an old castle - its walls reduced to rubble, perhaps by the cannonball of an opposing force - but the parapets remain, reminding us of its once glorious past.
It all seems rather bleak to a faerie, who is used to much finer accomodations than what we have seen here in Spain. Small shanty towns stand guard outside the city limits, railroad tracks forming the boundary between the haves, and the have nots. One couldn't call them homes, being fit only for cattle and swine, but it is a roof over their heads, and one is reminded to count our blessings. In place of doors are once colorful blankets, now faded by the sun and dirty, stretched across openings in the lean-to. There aren't any windows, and the hut is surrounded by a moat of mud. I do not see any humans until we arrive in a town called Ronda.
Approaching the main avenue, I sense a little difference in the atmosphere. Two story, plastered buildings line the cobblestone streets. Their roofs are covered with ceramic tile, solid wooden doors bar entry to all univited guests, and black bars cover the windows.
A car marked "policia" slowly cruises by, the occupants staring boldly, fingering their automatic weapons. If not for the heavy scent of garlic and olive oil in the air, one would think an invasion was imminent.
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