Polly Evans - Its Not About the Tapas: A Spanish Adventure on Two Wheels

Table of Contents

To Mum and Dad

PRAISE FOR ITS NOT ABOUT THE TAPAS

A Spanish Adventure on Two Wheels

Shortlisted for the WHSmith Peoples Choice
Travel Book Award (UK)

A highly likable debutAs unpretentious as a tapas bar,
and as brimming with savory morsels." Kirkus Reviews

This story of a frustrated young editor who jumps ship
from her deadline-laden job in Hong Kong and escapes to a
biking adventure in Spain is spiked with moments of
hilarity and broad humor.Her odyssey of pedaling,
chowing and searching for quaint local color often reads like
a picaresque, and her book has the same penchant for sharp
caricature. Readers who enjoy this vein of humor will
delight in her book, and to her credit Evans often turns her
wit upon herself. Publishers Weekly

At her best when shegives readers the opportunity to
absorb the history and cultures of Spains diverse regions,
Evans eye records delightfully unique sights, such as a
group of vacationing female Spanish pensioners with their
uniformly black garb and their bright, colorful hair rinses. Booklist

Bicycle enthusiasts rejoice!Evans spices the account of
her agony with amusing tidbits from Spanish history,
culture, and cuisine. Its hard not to admire her nerve and
gutsy spiritnot too many women would travel on a bike
alone through Spain, even today! And in her most desperate
moments, her love for the country and its culture still
shines through. Library Journal

A hilarious account of an epic adventure around bike-mad
Spain. Daily Express Book of the Week (UK)

This true triumphant tale will appeal to anyone whos
eager for adventure. OK! (UK)

Combining history, travelogue, and much sampling of
regional cuisine, her adventures are related with an
infectious gusto and humor. Choice (UK)

Breaking the Chain

I HAD TO GET OUT of Hong Kong.

The city was going crazy, and it was taking me down with it. The second economic crisis in four years was looming. The property boom had bust; the stock market was plummeting and brokers without bonuses were hurling themselves from high windows and making a nasty mess on the streets below. On the pavements, the hordes scurried, shoved and elbowed their way through the summer smog, screeching into their mobile phones in high-volume Cantonese like slowly strangled turkeys. Over the border in big, bad China, the superannuated Party leaders looked on bemused at their new dominion, at this petulant beast called capitalism.

In the marketplace, fruit and vegetables festered. Fish flipped over the edges of their plastic washing-up bowls and writhed on the blistering tarmac. Tensions simmered and tempers boiled. The stallholders settled their arguments with Chinese kitchen knives, the chopper being the Hong Kongers second-favorite weapon after the pointy end of an elbow, while the triads nervously fingered their tattoos and lopped off the little fingers of those who annoyed them.

In the alleyway beneath my flat, my neighbors tried to improve their chances in these uncertain times by burning offerings on the bonfires of that summers Hungry Ghost festival. The stock market could no longer be relied upon to provide riches, so they turned to their ancestors instead. The smoke wisped its way past my windows and up to the spirit world, carrying the charred remains of paper money, paper sports cars, paper Nike sneakers, paper Big Macs and even paper Nokia 8310 phones, complete with paper batteries. Hong Kong is a material town, even in its spirit incarnation, and it doesnt do to antagonize the ghosts with last years model.

Over in the office where I worked, tucked away among the antique shops of Hollywood Road, life was no less colorful. I was working as an editor on a weekly magazine. We covered the action-packed life of that nonstop, neon-flashing city; we tried to be incisive, quirky, offbeat, ahead of the curve. It didnt always work.

This is the most fuckin godawful PIECE OF SHIT that I have seen in ten years, the publisher screamed at us one day, clutching that weeks offering in his hand and shaking it violently as though he were trying to break its neck. The glass walls of his office shuddered; we editors looked sadly at our feet. Most of the men in our office were either gay or in therapy, in many cases both. They werent afraid to find an outlet for their emotions, to clench their perfectly pert buttocks in indignation, to puff out their tightly T-shirted pecs, to squeal and stamp their cross little designer-shod feet. I was a straight woman; I couldnt afford a shrink. I dreamed of sitting completely alone under a solitary, leafy tree where nobody would raise their voice to so much as a whisper. One thing was clear: I needed a change of scene.

I decided to go to Spain. I knew the country and I spoke the language after a fashion, even if my attempts did make the locals laugh out loud. Id even lived there for a while when, as a university student studying Spanish, Id been required to spend a year abroad. I knew how to order a beer; I could even ask for different sizes depending on the level of alcoholic refuge the moment demanded. I vaguely understood the words on a menu. Spain would be a nice, restful destination, I thought. It would present nothing too difficult. It would be fun to go backit was eight years since my last visitand the fresh air and sunshine would do me good.

To ensure my recuperation, Id even take some exercise. I wouldnt just visit SpainId cycle around it. I set myself a target of a thousand miles and six weeks in which to cover them. Id start at the top, in the chic beach resort of San Sebastin, then work my way east, over the Pyrenees and down to Barcelona, where Id strut along tree-lined boulevards with the beautiful people. Then Id head south to Granada, and westward across Andalusia to Seville, before heading up into Extremadura, Spains Wild West. Id then pedal over to the historic capital of Toledo and finally end up in the modern hurly-burly of Madrid.

After six weeks of the cycling cure, Id be lithe, fit, suntanned. If my tour took a few ups and downs, if I felt the need to let out the occasional primal scream, well, in Spain nobody would notice. Theyre used to craziness in Spain. In fact, they positively celebrate it. This is the land of the delusional Don Quixote, the obsessive Queen Joan the Mad, and the stark, staring Salvador Dal. These are the people who have a festival during which merrymakers hurl truckloads of ripe tomatoes at each other, and another in which they run in the path of rabid bulls, all in the name of fun. They drink whisky mixed with Fanta orange by choice.

Cycling in Spain would be a hassle-free adventure. The Spanish are fond of cycling: it ranks as the nations second-favorite sport after soccer. They watch cycling, join cycling fan clubs, sponsor cycling and, yes, at the weekends they even go cycling. Spain, after all, is the land of one of the most legendary cyclists the sport has ever seen, Miguel Indurin. In 1995, Indurin became the first person ever to have won the Tour de France five years in a row. The Spanish, used to scant glory on the world stage, went completely crazy. The press started to refer to Indurin as a god; the nation duly worshipped him. In the summer of 1995, an estimated