Pink Sneakers on the Go: 2019

Scooting across the runway in Gibraltar

Posted by Nora K ,

“Hey, you fancy dashing across an airstrip for a Guinness?”

An odd question, to say the least, but then, one never knows what sort of hair-raising excursion Travel Bud Oz is apt to suggest. The incessant rain in Spain had been trailing us for three weeks straight and I was a discombobulated mess, whose level of stress had come close to the edge. The daily deluge of hail and sleet had taken its toll on my formerly sunny self and I was desperate to escape the cascading buckets of rain.

One more drop and I’ll surely go insane.

So, why not lift one’s spirits and jaunt into another country? After all, Gibraltar was a stone’s throw away from Algeciras and it would be a hoot to scoot across the runway from Spain into the UK.

You’re kidding, right?

Nope.

You have to skedaddle across an airstrip in order to get into Gibraltar. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes and hesitantly placed my pink-sneakered foot on the runway, I wouldn’t have believed it either! The airstrip is closed several times a day in order to accommodate airplanes that either take off or land on the runway. Uniquely shared by both pedestrians and aircraft, this landing strip is definitely one of a kind!

Yikes!! Exiting the bus in the Spanish border town of La Linea, about a 45-minute journey from Algeciras, I came face to face with the white lettered sign strategically placed at the entrance to the runway, advising pedestrians to “please cross quickly”. Needless to say, I was both intrigued and intimidated by the red plaque, warning unsuspecting jaywalkers to be on the lookout for airplanes.

AIRFIELD AHEAD. You are now crossing a live runway. Pedestrians are to keep within the white lines. Please cross quickly.

Trying to outrun the incessant rain in Barcelona, Alicante and Algeciras, I now faced the challenge of having to also dodge oncoming aircraft! Could it get any worse? Yep, it could and it did, as the second that I disembarked from the bus, I was submerged by a monsoon of a tsunami and drenched from head to toe.

There was no escape. The rain in Spain had once again stalked me all the way from the plain.

A soaking mess, I was a damsel in distress as I had neither wellies nor a slicker to shield me from the elements. My flimsy protection was a battered and broken brollie that had been hastily salvaged from the rubbish bin.

Should I stay or should I go? There was no other option, only one, and that was to R.U.N.!

Scanning the open runway for oncoming aircraft, I practically broke the sound barrier as I hightailed across the pavement, lingering only long enough to get my passport stamped at the border.

Whew!! Safe from wind shear and low-flying planes, my mood brightened as I scanned the multitude of pubs, fish and chip stands and shops that lined the streets. I could feel my heart rate accelerate as I spotted the various British goods for sale in the shop windows. Look...there’s Marks & Spencer’s and the ever so trendy Top Shop, a favourite haunt of Kate Middleton. By crossing over into this British colony, I had now saved myself a ton on airfare, as I didn’t have to jet to London to indulge in my shopping addiction, as these labels were readily available to me right here and now.

Amazing how the allure of a new, limited-edition designer handbag can elevate one’s mood and transform one from a miserable drenched rat to a most agreeable and fabulous travel companion. Here’s to enjoying that Guinness and spending every last sterling pound!!

Come skedaddle across the runway to Gibraltar and discover a flavour of Britain in the rain-soaked Mediterranean...

A few fascinating Pink Sneaker tidbits of info about Gibraltar:

The 1713 Treaty of Utrecht handed Gibraltar over to the British, giving this Spanish territory monarchist allegiance to the Queen.

This narrow peninsula is less than 4 square miles and is called “the Rock”.

The massive limestone Rock jutting out of the Strait of Gibraltar is an impressive 1400 feet high.

Spain and Gibraltar have a somewhat uneasy alliance as this uniquely British colony is situated on the edge of the Mediterranean and is surrounded by Spanish territory on all sides.

The Rock is home to the famous tail-less Barbary apes and according to legend, as long as the apes inhabit the Rock, so will the Brits.

We were advised not to feed the apes and to watch our belongings as the apes loved to snatch tourist’s sunglasses, handbags and anything that they could get their grubby hands on. It was good to know that I wasn’t the only one who had a satchel hoarding issue!

If planning to stay overnight, bring British three-pronged electrical appliances, as your European two-pronged ones will be useless and will not work.

Exchange your Euros for British Sterling and Pounds.

Bring your passport with you, as it is required in order to cross the border into Gibraltar.

This British colony is a VAT and tax-free shopping mecca, catering to your inner shopaholic desires!

Last but not least and most importantly...don’t shuffle or saunter at a leisurely pace when dashing across the airstrip!!

Next post: Mid-November.
Adventures and escapades in the UK and Ireland coming soon!
Stay tuned!!

2 comments

When the sidewalk disappeared - A sprint along the Autostrada.

Posted by Nora K ,

You couldn’t exactly call it a promenade. This was a trek, an amble of a meander that veered off the beaten track - a slight diversion to our long-anticipated excursion of hiking and sightseeing the trails that lined the Amalfi Coast. We were on a journey to appreciate and explore, get off the grid and bathe in soothing limoncello rays. So what if Google maps inadvertently propelled us in a far more challenging direction, on the path to somewhere but in actuality to nowhere?

It all depends upon your definition of nowhere, as nowhere is a destination all of its own, with maps and signage all in its own foreign language – a discourse of which we were not privy to, as it was terminology unknown.

So there we were, two middle aged women psyched to walk from Piano di Sorrento to Positano, a 9 kilometre sojourn from Point A to Z. A leisurely two hour stroll - if that. Or, so we thought. Little did we know that we would spend the next couple of hours skirting trucks and buses, pawns in a deadly pinball game of traffic dodge-ball. One point for side-swiping, two for colliding and three for flat-lining. The bulls-eye prize for a dead-on hit to be awarded for the trucker splat of the day.

Perhaps we were too enamoured by the aquamarine sky that we paid scant attention to the trail we were treading. A painted kaleidoscope of intoxicating hues and scents – violet and fuchsia inked bougainvillea as far as the eye can see, fragrant blooms mingling with ocean mist, trees dripping olives and lemons the size of grapefruits…

The gravel road had morphed from a pathway into a death-defying highway, lined with concrete railings and signage cautioning way-ward wanderers to beware of plunging 1,000 foot cliff-drops below.

Vrrrrroooom! Boom! Schreech! Get out of the way!

Vespas, cars and trucks accelerating towards the finish line, tour buses navigating treacherous hair-pin curves, the startled stares of the tour bus drivers juxtaposed with the image of a pair of idiotic marathoners clinging to the railings in an effort to shield themselves from oncoming traffic – just a few snapshots of the sights and sounds of a fortuitous day in May when we stumbled onto the freeway.

It goes without saying that we were in quite the pickle, seconds from being taken out by a gigantic truck. In hindsight, perhaps we should have taken the advice of the astonished Italian pensioner who had stopped to offer us a ride at the very start of our journey. Speaking minimal English, he shook his head and declared that we were very “AT-LE-TI-CA” to embark on such a sojourn. In actuality, it was more like “ST-UUUP-IDO”, if one must know.

We cringed in terror as every car, truck, bus and vespa tore on by, mercilessly spitting gravel upon us. What had initially commenced as an “up close and personal” view of the spectacular panorama of the jagged vertical cliffs and azure sea below, had quickly turned into a nightmare of our own making. Sensing that it was futile to continue our trek, we entertained the thought of thumbing a ride with anyone who would stop and offer us one. Wise old man, where are you now? You were right to shake your head in disbelief upon hearing our ridiculously absurd plan to soldier onward towards town, a feat so incomprehensible that it was one that only dim-witted adventure seekers would venture to undertake.

Screech!!

Rescued! And just like in the movies, a knight in shining armour via a sleek and shiny convertible rolled to a stop and commanded us to get in the car. Pronto! Should we stay or should we go? Our choices were few as we only had two. Stay put and we’re guaranteed to be annihilated by a mega tour bus or take a risk, ditch the highway and hitch a ride with a virtual stranger. We didn’t think twice as we clamoured into the vehicle, grateful to make the acquaintance of Tony, on his way to Positano to meet up with the grandkids.

Fortunately for us, he was the real deal, a charming Italian gent, whose good deed of the day just spiralled him up the karma stratosphere.

So concerned was Signore Tony for our safety, that he volunteered to drive us back to Piano di Sorrento at the end of our sightseeing day. We politely declined his gracious offer, insisting that we had learned our lesson and had already booked tickets on the mega bus. After all, we were anxious to witness first-hand the skill and fortitude of the bus driver as he navigated the twists and turns of the snaking lane-ways, all the while keeping an eagle eye out for idiotic tourists out for a stroll.

Just another action packed day on the Autostrada.

Starting out - road is manageable at this point.

What happened to the sidewalk?

Autostrada, here we come...no turning back now!

Appreciating the view whilst on the lookout for trucks!

In Tony's convertible - almost in Positano!

Yippee! Worth the precarious trek to get here....

Next post: Beginning of September – the weekend of September 7th, if not a tad earlier. Stay tuned!

2 comments

Krakow: Cobblestones and history - It’s raining cats, dogs and pigeons!

Posted by Nora K ,

If it’s not bone-chilling drizzle and torrential downpours that cascade unwelcome buckets of H20 upon my long-anticipated holiday, then it’s the droves of pigeons that scout me out and zoom in for the kill. I could not re-count how many hours I’ve spent dodging squalling hordes of flapping wings of prey, only to end up cowering and crouching under a random table, praying that my circling tormenters give up and find another place to play.

But no such luck, for I’m their hapless victim, easily targeted from miles away.

Perhaps my feather tarred frenemies are as enamoured of architectural masterpieces in medieval town squares as I am, history buffs appreciative of centuries old works of art, and it’s just happenstance that we find ourselves congregating in the same old spaces. Not likely, and their motives are questionable at least. Perhaps it’s the intoxicating aroma of a mélange of brews and spices that entice them to the table, ravenous to inhale whatever crudité is on offer on any given day.

With palates ranging from garbage to gourmet, these squawking trashcans are far from picky. Anything is up for grabs and if it even remotely resembles an edible crumble, no time is wasted on scrutinizing and within seconds flat it is gobbled down splat. No matter how repulsive the odour and grime, why take a chance on dinner disappearing, and try your luck on hopefully yummy grub by ingesting a few snails swimming in a gravy of slime. Muck with a whole load of yuck!

These birds with guts of sludge are far from shy, a skilfully organized swarm of thieves. If one of the bunch eagle eyes a meal, it’s a sure-fire guarantee that an army of feathers instantaneously dives in for the steal.

So, there I stood, in Krakow’s cobblestone lined square, decked out in my inclement weather armour, on the lookout for hovering flocks of prey. Dismal and grey, the heavens were rumbling and drops the size of marbles splattered mercilessly on the rocks. My sneakers were soaked, streaming tributaries with every drenched step. A few degrees short of sleet, the incessant rain was an unwelcome tempest of twister and typhoon, a drain on my psyche as I lamented on having bailed on a beach holiday in tropical St. Tropez.

To make matters worse, there was nowhere to hide, as the instant a bashful ray peeked out from behind the mist, the horde descended and a flood of chaos set on in.

Two-legged bandits, beaks crammed full of rubbish, sprinting on towards me.

Pigeons. Or was that Pink Sneakers? On. The. Run.

Next post: In three/four weeks, the weekend of July 6th/13th or thereabouts. Stay tuned!