Benidorm, Costa del terror

Over the last year it's suffice to say I've travelled. A lot. Living in north-east France made it easy to visit Luxembourg, Belgium, Germany and Switzerland easily. I visited 5 more countries in Central/Eastern Europe in March and even made it to Italy for the first time in May (worth it for the food alone). Now living in Alicante, it's harder to jet-set across Central Europe, so being the traveller I am I do my best to explore the surrounding area. The resort of Benidorm lies a mere 70 minute tram ride away from Alicante, so it was this town I cautiously chose to explore one afternoon two weeks ago...

In a nutshell

Benidorm. Beni-York. Beni-Vegas. The most popular holiday resort in mainland Spain. Population: 100 000 (swells to 300 000 during the summer months). Benidorm boasts over 300 days of sunshine per year thanks to its 'Mediterranean microclimate'. It also boasts over 140 skyscrapers (buildings with over 20 floors) -more than anywhere else in the world if you exclude New York. Over 90% of people who travel to Benidorm will revisit at some point. Over 40 000 hotel beds (3rd highest amount in Europe after London and Paris). Over 800 bars. And a ridiculous amount of Brits.

After reading the statistics, I was curious. The rise of cheap package holidays and guaranteed sunshine tempted the Brits (and the Germans, Dutch and Scandinavians) and why wouldn't it? However the vision I'd had of Benidorm in my head was of red faced Brits getting pissed for less than 5 euros, cooked breakfast in tow. Was the stereotype true? And why do people keep going back to the jewel of the Costa Brava?

Upon arrival in Benidorm I was surprisingly optimistic. A new place to explore, maybe it wouldn't be as bad as the image I had in my head. 20 minutes later I was ready to leave again. All I could see were ugly buildings, buses, beer and Brits- far from idyllic. However it wasn't always like this...

In the early 1950s Don Pedro Zaragoza, mayor of Benidorm had a vision: to transform the sleepy fishing town into a tourist metropolis. Apparently his idea to build hotels upwards were to please the people and ensure that everyone would have a sea view (definitely not for financial gain then...). Zaragoza famously drove the 300 miles to Madrid on his Vespa to personally get Franco's permission so that ladies could sport bikinis on the beach (the first place in Spain that allowed this, interestingly). Regardless of his motives, old Zaragoza's plans were successful. Benidorm as we know it was born. The rest, as they say, is history.

Over 50 years later and there are still bikinis on Levante beach (which is surprisingly pleasant if you ignore the skyscrapers that surround it). There are also thousands of British people- red faced as they forgot the Ambre Solaire, wanting 24 hour entertainment and a decent cuppa. A mini England in the Spanish sunshine- Benidorm was exactly how I imagined. After wandering up and down the main 'strip' full of souvenir shops and British bars (I even found a Geordie bar, much to my amusement), I was ready to return to the safety of Alicante.

Now living abroad for the past year has definitely taught me not to pigeonhole and stereotype, 'don't judge a book by its cover' blah blah blah. Yet the all too negative stereotype other Europeans have of 'Brits Abroad' was unfortunately confirmed in Benidorm. I felt ashamed to be British as I witnessed my fellow compatriots drinking, shouting and swearing in the streets at one o'clock in the afternoon.

A moment of respite

A 5 minute walk from Levante beach, central Benidorm

As I walked uphill at the top end of Levante beach I turned a corner and found a cove, just moments away from the hustle and bustle of Benidorm. Barely anyone was there- British ignorance at its best, yet for me it was the only redeeming feature of the entire city. Maybe it's only a matter of time before 'Bradley's British Beach Bar' opens and the peace is gone...

P.S. This Benidorm article is great from The Guardian (where else?)

It's nearly over...

In 10 days time the amazing experience that is the 'Year Abroad' will all be over. What then? Answers on a postcard please.

Enjoy this. The song that sums up the amazing year I've just had. Discovered it lying in the Retiro park last June and am still playing it constantly. Seeing them live in Luxembourg in April 2011 with 2 great friends made it all the more sweet.

Bous a la Mar, Dénia

Uncomforta-bull??

Being fortunate enough to spend the summer in Spain means I've been fortunate enough to witness traditional Spanish fiestas. After the madness that were Las Hogueras in Alicante, I got to experience Dénia's Bous a la Mar festival, a.k.a. 'Bulls to the sea' if you translate from Valenciano.

After an early start and a 2 hour bus journey, we arrived in Dénia around 10h30, knowing our bus back was at 22h00. Nearly 12 hours in a small Spanish town with, quite frankly, not a lot to do. After stumbling upon the tourist info and discovering that the festivities didn't kick off until the evening, we wondered if we'd made a mistake. After a quick walk along the seafront, like the naive tourists we were headed for the nearest café and proceeded to spend the next hour and a half chilling outside with fanta lemon and the strongest homemade sangria I've ever had the pleasure to taste. How many hours left??

Biding our time...

Luck was not on our side- in Alicante the main attractions in the town are the beach and the castle, and the same goes for Dénia. After walking uphill in 32 degree heat we reached the castle only to find out it had closed a mere 10 minutes before. Bof, alors. Healed the wounds by going for food...

Nevertheless time soon started to pass on, had a nice few hours on the beach, swimming in turquoise sea and drinking the favourite Tinto de Verano (like sangria but with Fanta lemon) at the beach chiringuito (bar). Before we knew it, it was time for Bous a la Mar.

Now I should probably explain what Bous a la Mar is, given that 'Bulls to the Sea' is a bit of a vague title. Bous a la Mar is Dénia's week long annual festival in honour of the Santisima Sangre (Holy Blood) which commemorates a monk who allegedly saved the town from the plague in 1633 by getting townsfolk to redistribute their bread (hola Communism). Highlight of the year is 'watching bulls run down the main street Marqués de Campo, only to be chased into the Mediterranean sea by those daring enough to enter a makeshift bull ring with them'. The makeshift bullring is open on one side, so people can try to tempt the bulls to jump into the sea. Enough said really.

Seeing is really believing. At 7pm prompt, 5 bulls were let loose in the town centre, running through the packed-out streets down to the port and into the makeshift bullring (Plaza de Toros). Much like Pamplona's now tourist-driven San Fermín festival (otherwise known as the Running of the Bulls) people can choose to 'run' through the streets with the bulls, which can sometimes lead to serious injury, etc. Naturally the girls chose to spectate while the guys stupidly/bravely ran with the bulls. Bulls can run BLOODY fast. After waiting half an hour or so for the bulls to run past us they had disappeared in a flash. We headed to the bullring. Our friends were still alive...

Waiting for the bulls to run past us.

After piling into the Plaza de Toros we waited for the first bull to emerge. Our friends decided to participate in the bullring (slightly worrying). 99% of people in the bullring were male, 50% were probably drunk, 100% fascinated. After the first bull steamed around the Plaza, huffing, puffing and charging anything that moved, it was clear that this was going to be a long evening. I'd originally presumed watching the bulls jump into the sea would be a 20 minute affair, but no. Bulls are clever, we should give them more credit.

Anxious moment when the second bull that came out 'to play' (and also the most fierce) jumped onto what we thought was a safety platform where our friends were. One guy was covered in blood after trying to outsmart the 3rd or 4th bull that came out and a few others were injured. It was both fascinating and uncomfortable to watch. And yes, by the end of the 2 hours, all 5 bulls had jumped into the sea, much to the delight of the spectators.

I still can't quite make up my mind about the festival. It's a tradition, definitely more Spanish than Pamplona with its hordes of American tourists desperate to be the hero for 15 minutes. It confirmed what I knew all along- that the Spanish are crazy! This kind of event would never happen in Britain- animal rights groups would kick up a huge fuss and it would be a nightmare for health and safety. Bous a la Mar is cruel- I felt sorry for the bulls and sometimes it was difficult to watch- don't know if I could go to a corrida (bullfight). At least the bulls didn't die in Dénia, I don't know who fished them out of the sea but someone did...

Tradition. Part of living abroad is experiencing local and national traditions, customs and holidays. Yes, sometimes they conflict with your beliefs, but surely that's partly why they're so interesting.

Another Year Abroad anecdote.

Oh and our friends were fine :)

An update.

Without realising, this blog has morphed from 'Musings about France' to a standard travel blog. Thought I'd give you an update on life in Southern Spain.

Spain is going well. After an initial shaky start- disappointment that my work experience turned out to be a bit of a con/ doubt whether I could find work, I finally have more of a routine. Teaching English in an international consultancy firm (get me) 5 hours a week and practicing English with 2 adorable Spanish kids in a nearby town. I basically run around playing volleyball/hide and seek/football/tennis/go swimming with the children whilst speaking English. Yes, I'm not working terribly hard but at least I'm working and now earning some money (which makes me feel a LOT less guilty whenever I walk into Zara and inevitably end up purchasing something).

Aside from my lessons, I don't speak English here which is great, HOWEVER over the last few weeks I've spoken more French than Spanish. Which isn't a huge problem for me to be honest- after all I'm studying more French next year. My Spanish is better than when I came, so despite the initial work experience disappointment, all is not lost!

Nevertheless home is a mere two and a half weeks away and I cannot wait. Maybe it's because of the heat (at least 30 degrees every day- I haven't worn jeans/a hoody in weeks), maybe it's because I've realised I couldn't live in Spain. Little things that have started to annoy me about the Spanish- not clearing up after themselves in fast food restaurants, general loudness, rudeness whilst queuing for public transport, etc. Or maybe it's because of something else. Yes, Spain is a beautiful country with great weather, food, amazing parties and spectacular landmarks, but why couldn't I see myself living here?

Maybe because it's not France...

Las Hogueras, Alicante 2011. A pyromaniac's paradise.

I've been meaning to blog about the craziness that were Las Hogueras for a while now but haven't got round to it funnily enough.

After 4 fantastic days in Madrid, followed by a 6 hour bus journey I arrived in Alicante tired and, well, ready for bed. Cue my complete surprise when I turned into my street to find an open air restaurant banging out 'pimping tunes' literally outside my front door. Not only that but there was a huge statue which was attracting a ridiculous amount of Spanish children to say it was nearly midnight. It was to be the start of a LOUD and tiring week...

My street, upon my return from Madrid

Every year the Hogueras de San Juan (or Fogueres in Valenciano) are celebrated in various Spanish towns on the 24th June. Alicante is renowned to be the best place to experience the fiesta and quite rightly too. On the weekend preceding the 24th June, statues are erected throughout the city. These statues are meant to be ugly and many of them satirize the news/polititians/popular media figures. Throughout the week, the statues are left to revel in their own ugliness, before they are all burnt to the ground at midnight after 24th June, a public holiday here in Alicante. You'd never get that in the UK, health and safety risk, etc, etc, blah blah blah.

Wandering around

In the week preceding 24th June, there are daily mascletas-public fireworks which took place a mere 5 minutes from my front door. I've never really understood why fireworks are necessary during the day- you can't see anything! You could bloody hear it all over the city though, felt more like a war zone than a celebratory event. Naturally, I made the most of fiesta week (I wasn't working which made it easier) so went out every night. Open air clubs were set up (they were about 3 big ones in the city), my favourite being Havana Club leading from the centre down to the port. Made a nice change from Alicante's Carpe Diem bar where we go dancing every weekend anyway.

Crowds for the daily mascleta

On the 23rd June, there was the international parade, whereby international communities living in Alicante and the surrounding area showcase their talent- this year there were mariachi bands, flamenco dances and Brazilian drumming (my personal favourite).

So, on the evening of 24th June, the ugly statues get burned. At midnight la Palmera (palm firework) is launched from the Castillo de Santa Barbara (castle). This is the signal to start burning the statues, beginning with those in the Plaza del Ayuntamiento (town hall square). It's a busy night for the firefighters who have to hose down all of the statues, as well as soaking all the public intelligent/crazy/delete as appropriate enough to stand close to the inferno. As I said to my friend 'It's a pyromaniac's paradise'. After watching la Palmera from the beach, we quickly moved into the Plaza del Ayuntamiento to witness the burning of 2 statues. Got a bit wet...

Let the burning commence...

The day ended up in Havana street disco, had a fantastic night singing and dancing and reveling. Now as this is Spain and not the UK, the fiesta did not end there. There were fireworks on the beach the 5 nights that followed the 24th. Fan-bloody-tastic! 20 minutes of ooh-ing and aah-ing every night- think I've had my firework fix for the year anyway.

Ready for fireworks on the beach.

Las Hogueras. Had I not come to Alicante, I would not have known anything about it. This is one of the things I love about Spain-towns and provinces have different fiestas, different public holidays, different things to experience. For tourists/travelers like myself it's great to witness, yet it explains why Spanish national identity is at the forefront of politics in this country- there's so much regional pride that it is often hard to visualise a united Spain. Of course this is more apparent in Catalunya and the País Vasco (Basque Country), but coming to Alicante (part of the Valenciano Community) has made me realise regional pride is everywhere. And why not celebrate it?

Tabarca

Arriving on Tabarca.

One of the most pleasant surprises I had when I came to Alicante was that it wasn't, well, ugly. I'd always been a bit presumptuous when it came to Spain's Costas, thinking that they were full of sunburned and boozy Brits abroad. Just the kind of people I wanted to escape from, to be quite honest. Hence my surprise as I wandered round Alicante's barrio, or old town as I discovered quiet little squares, colourful houses and not a Brit in sight.

Fast forward 6 weeks and it's still the same. I think Benidorm just up the coast houses all the Brits on the Costa Blanca as I rarely speak English here. In fact, I haven't even had a conversation with a British person here, I hear the occasional voice on the beach but there are far more Germans and French.

Yes, I am not oblivious to the fact that Benidorm and such resorts do exist. However the province of Alicante is famous for its beautiful villages, which I need to start exploring. I started by visiting the Island of Tabarca (or Isla de Tabarca for all you Spanish nerds) last week.

A bit of a history/ geography lesson for you now. Tabarca is the largest inhabited island in the Valencian community and lies a mere 11 miles south east of the brights lights of Alicante. Its population is around 100, which can swell to 3000 during the summer months. Although peaceful nowadays, Tabarca's history is fascinating- in the 18th century, the king of Tunisia invaded the island and took as his prisoners the people living there. In later years pirates used the island to attack the Costa Blanca in the 18th century. Ooh-arrrr!

So after a pleasant 70 minute boat trip from Alicante, we (myself and 4 French) arrived on the island which is just beautiful! It was relatively quiet for a summer day, so we headed straight to the beach armed with home-made sandwiches, fruit and a ridiculous amount of crisps. One sandy picnic later we were ready to hit the water- naturally we spent a few happy hours splashing/swimming around, loving the fact that we could see our on feet beneath us through the clear sea. Absolutely beautiful, peaceful and great for diving/snorkeling too!

After our 3 hour stint on the beach, we started to explore the island, marveling at the sea (which seemed even clearer from a height), walking on coastal paths, eating a much deserved ice cream and annoying the cat population of the island. I felt like I was on a Greek island- beautiful white-washed houses, peace and quiet. Definitely worth the 18 euro boat ride.

Hope you enjoy the photos. My only regret is that we didn't get to sea the island at sunset. I'm a sucker for a beautiful sunset. The trip to Tabarca proved to me that there is much more to the Costa Blanca than obese, red faced Brits demanding a pint and a cooked breakfast. Proof that we really shouldn't judge a book by its cover...

Swimming in crystal clear waters. Bliss.

Escaping the sun.

Leaving Tabarca.