Tapas, Tapas, Tapas

#8 #9 #10 Aguadulce

Sunday. First sleep. The sun rises here shortly before half past eight and shines until half past six in the evening. Everything starts later here and goes on longer. The shops, the restaurants, the whole life. That fits well with our accustomed rhythm.

late in the evening we took a walk on the beach with our Trio Infernale, so they can last longer in the morning. But around 10 o'clock they need to go out and wake us up. We only cross the street and we are at the sea. This time we are expected: Three dogs of about the same size as ours already romp in the sand, while the two ladies exchange animatedly about the latest news. They hardly notice Pipo, who dives headfirst into the crowd, or Berry, who carefully walks through the sand on his three legs, or Emmi, who goes on a treasure hunt with her nose to the ground, and I don't want to explain here in detail how broad the term "treasure" is for Emmchen ...

late in the afternoon, around 6 o'clock, we set out again to explore the area. The restaurants are just reopening. The end of the siesta here on the weekend feels like the opening of the Gäuboden Volksfest at home. Everything that has legs has to go there. The streets are buzzing with big cars looking for a parking space in the front row. Mostly young guys in fine suits are behind the wheel and young girls who have been sitting in front of the mirror since lunch for the make-up. We meet them again at the harbor, where the couples walk hand in hand along the docks in a show-off, the guys with proud chests, the girls with a shy look, very careful to survive the few meters to the next bar unscathed in their high, higher and even higher high heels. It's not always just nice to be young, it can sometimes be quite exhausting.

For us it was crucial that we quickly found the important contact points. Supermarket, pharmacy and vet for my Icke, café and tapas bar for me. Right in front of our door with a view of the sea, the Por un Beso invites you. For a kiss. What a name! What luck: open seven days a week, continuously from 8 a.m. to 12 p.m. I will never have to look for my cortado, a large espresso with a sip of milk.

And if the stomach starts singing a sad song, we make our way to El Tunel - the tunnel. The tapas bar is about a 10-minute walk up the beach. We found it rather by chance because on Sunday evening we were completely exhausted from our show-off sightseeing and couldn't go any further. We were hungry and ordered five tapas, not being quite sure what we would actually get because of the Spanish menu. The time until the food arrived passed quickly because Icke and I had to discuss thoroughly how confident we were. Icke's knowledge of Spanish deserves all due respect, but I was more inclined to expect a blind date. But whatever ended up on our table, we quickly agreed: it tasted fantastic. The waiter was amazed when we ordered a second round of five after the first round of five. He asked if we might need some tips. Icke smiled at him and said, "No matter, we'll eat the menu up and down."