Spain and Portugal visit, aka “My Extreme Vacation”

Scott Warnock,

I generally say I’m an average husband—about a 5.5 or 6—but I am good with the gifts. I’ve had some real birthday and holiday highlights (yes, even the bagel slicer counts here…), and at the 30-year mark I’ve been over 90% with classic anniversary gifts.

It’s been fun. Year 1, paper, seems bland, but you can do cool things: Tickets, a painting, origami… let your imagination run wild.

This year is 30: pearls. She already has pearl jewelry—one of the aforementioned great gifts from Christmases past—so I started thinking, “How about a vacation at a pearl-named or themed location?” It wasn’t going to be a surprise, so I told her, and she ditched pearls: We were going to Spain, and we added in some Portugal too.

Everything was excellent. We saw amazing things in these beautiful countries, met many people, and had one superb meal after another (even the modest stuff was great, like a Spanish lunch sandwich of Iberian ham and cheese). She found us excellent hotels in the midst of every city’s old town.

But you don’t want to hear all that. You want to hear about my suffering… “My Extreme Vacation.”

We flew into Madrid overnight, and then we picked up our slick little red MG, and I drove. I ended up being delirious with fatigue and jet lag, so we made an emergency stop at a small tap room in a dusty little Spanish town, where we ate calamari and a chicken sandwich while pounding Cokes.

We made it to Cordoba. Then we walked—for many hours.

The next day I drove: to Malaga. Malaga was a fantastic central point for day trips to Grenada and the Alhambra and then also El Caminito del Rey, a spectacular hike on suspended cliff walkways. So the next few days, I drove. And boy did we walk.

I then drove to Lagos, Portugal. Our strong desire to see a touch of southern Portugal was more than worth it but added about 340 driving miles. Upon arrival in Lagos, you guessed it: We walked. Even on our relaxing beach day, we walked 11 miles on cliffs.

Next was back to Spain, to Seville. I drove. Then—surprise—we walked!

After several days in Seville—you’re getting the gist here—I drove: To Madrid. Then—utter shocker—we walked.

Apparently my wife walks about 100,000 steps every day or something. I do not. I now realize several things. I cannot just push a button any more: Body, go there! The body often will not. Also, I’ve long known cross training is fine, but at some point you have to do the activity you’re training for. And I’ve snobbily looked down on walking.

Man, I was hurtin’. I tore my meniscus a few years ago in my right knee, and I had a knee sleeve at times. I’d sometimes switch up pairs of shoes. I then just sat down a lot when she wasn’t looking. I play tennis (singles, hard court, 90-degree heat three-setters, but it still ain’t walking), and when she would show irritation at my fatigue, I would sometimes blurt out something absurd like, “Let’s get on the courts, and we’ll see who’s boss!” Vacation bliss!

I’d drive a few hundred miles, park, and then I’d be forced onward, stumbling through the wonderfully labyrinthine streets of Cordoba, Malaga, Lagos, Seville, and Madrid. At Caminito del Rey, I even fell down some steps. Luckily, I had a British chap behind me for encouragement: “Thanks, mate, for showing me what not to do.”

So “My Extreme Vacation”? Okay, it’s not like we hiked Kilimanjaro or biked across Asia, but in 13 overall days, including travel, we walked 83 miles according to her Apple watch, and I drove 1,400 miles.

I foolishly whined about “My Extreme Vacation” on social media, and my wife wrote, and I paraphrase, “We shall repose when we are no more.”

 

Scott Warnock

Scott Warnock is a writer and teacher who lives in South Jersey. He is a professor of English at Drexel University, where he is also the Associate Dean of Undergraduate Education in the College of Arts and Sciences. Father of three and husband of one, Scott is president of a local high school education foundation and spent many years coaching youth sports.
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