A DRIVE THROUGH THE WHITE TOWNS OF ANDALUSIA
The white towns of Spain and Portugal offer a lifetime of memories that’ll be etched in vivid hues
Driving halfway up the hills, there are lines of white houses — like strings of pearls — amidst this dramatic Andalusian landscape. The canvas is straight from Claude Monet’s studio
O ne shouldn’t blame me for giving a hoot to traffic rules when (a) there are no other cars on the road and (b) there aren’t any cops around.
On the highway number A 2300 of Spain, there’s another alibi to take the wrong side and rash turns. A turquoise blue lake lies below shimmering in afternoon breeze. Hills of different shapes and sizes surround the vast waters and paint the horizon in shades of brown, grey and green.
Across the lake, halfway up the hills, there are lines of white houses – like strings of pearls – amidst this dramatic Andalusian landscape. The canvas, as if straight from Claude Monet’s studio, is so astonishing that I almost forget that my rented car is not at an authorised parking lot! (No, I didn’t pay any fine.)
Ten minutes later, we start climbing up the cobbled road that goes through this ‘white village’ with a fancy name – Zahara de la Sierra.
And when we reach the steepest part of the road, my wife cum navigator abruptly makes me stop, emphasising that we missed a parking space.
My driving skills have been acquired in Noida. I tackle cars rushing from all directions, jumping red lights and bovines blocking 70 per cent of the roads. It’s a cop-out that the Maruti school never taught me how to restart cars on a slope!
Every time I press the accelerator, my fat Citroën Cactus rolls down further. Finally, when it halts dangerously close to the brand-new BMW behind us, I
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