I’m leaving you, Spain .
No, I’m not mad at you, I’m just disappointed. I think you’ve let a lot of
people down here. We (I) had high expectations for you, but clearly I should
have just set my sights lower. No no, don’t apologize, what’s done is done, and
it’s part of the past. With time I’ll move on, and maybe in a few years I’ll
see you again, but it’s a just little hard to look at you right now. And I mean
that in the most physical way possible, because I’d have to get up and walk to
the top deck. Because I’m on a boat. And I’m leaving you. On a boat. Just get
it, man.
Algeciras really
wasn’t what I expected. Sure, it had that is-that-urine-on-the-sidewalk? smell
to it, but not much more than the rest of Spain .
And other than that? An enormous letdown overall in terms of being a sketchy border
crossing. Let’s start from the beginning here:
1)
The ferry station is only a five minute walk
from the train station. I didn’t even have the chance to get ripped off by a cab driver, because I could see the loading cranes peaking over the
tops of the buildings. I knew from the instant I set foot in that city that it
wouldn’t be what I had expected (hoped?). I just followed the giant blue north
stars that load ships. And with what? At this point, I’d go so far as to guess that
they only contain officially authorized and declared goods. What kind of port
are you?
2)
Outside the ferry terminal, I was only offered
drugs four times. And not even
anything that would garner a serious jail sentencing. Where was the heroine,
the cocaine? The best you can do is hashish?
I didn’t even know what to say to that. I was speechless. Worst of all, the dealers
didn’t have goatees or gaudy sunglasses. They actually looked like they might
just be normal people, casually selling drugs outside of a ferry port. Not
sketchy enough. Not nearly sketchy
enough.
3)
There was not a single moneychanger. Not. One.
Where am I supposed to be given half of the acceptable exchange rate, if not at
the boarder? Please tell me, because I for one have no idea.
4)
I was only overcharged by five Euros for my
ferry ticket. Only five—that’s it. And how I know this, is what you should be
truly embarrassed about: your
seemingly-sketchy-ticketing-office-with-a-giant-yellow-English-language-sign-in-front
printed the actual price on my ticket and handed it to me. They gave me the exact printed copy of my ticket—directly
from the online site where they purchased it on my behalf. It even detailed out
specific charges: 20.43 Euros for the “Importe Tarifa”, 6.57 Euros for the
“Tasas + Sub. Combus”, and 3.00 Euros for the “Cargo por Emision”, all adding
up to 30 Euros. They handed this to me, and what did they do? Looked me dead in
the eye and said, “35 Euros”. I don’t know who you think you are. Where is the
vague tourist copy? Where is the fraudulent-looking “good-for-one-ferry-ride”
voucher that I half expect to get kicked off the boat for? Where? Where?
5)
Hoo-boy, and it only gets worse for you. The coup
de gras came once I had my ticket in hand, and made my way over to the
clearly-labeled-passenger-terminal: I actually felt safe. I might as well have
been in an airport for how clean and
homeless-person-free that place was. Sure, I had to wait there for two hours
longer than expected, but you had a bar, restaurant, and convenience store
onsite. And what was playing on the radio when I bought my (legitimately)
reasonably-priced bottle of water? Trouble, by T. Swift. Taylor .
@#$&ing. Swift. The real version too, as I was disappointed to learn, and
not even the goat parody (which I personally find to be a lyrically sound and
thought-provoking alternative).
So that’s it Spain ,
I’ve left you. I’m going to Morocco ,
and I’m not coming back. Like I said, maybe in a few years we can meet up again,
but for now, it’s too soon. I just hope Morocco
knows what it means to have a sketchy border crossing, because clearly you
don’t.
Hasta luego, not.
JHW
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