It has been noticed more than once by my male friends that girls like to travel in packs. Admittedly, it is not safe to travel alone as a young woman, especially in a foreign country. That day I didn't care.
Everybody wanted to go to the beach that we had gone to the first Sunday in Spain - a gorgeous place called Nerja. I begged and pleaded with my friends in the hopes that someone would go, but everyone turned me down. Not to be discouraged I determined to go anyway. I did not tell the class sponsor as she would not have allowed me to go.
The morning of the trip, I caught the 7:00 am bus and stretched across the back five seats, sleeping all the way to La Línea, where I disembarked and walked to the British Border. I could see the Rock rising above the town and I was actually giddy with excitement. Gibraltar is a British Protectorate and so I needed to have my passport with me. Being Canadian, they hardly glanced in my direction as I went through security. It's nice being universally loved.
I walked across the military airstrip and into Gibraltar, where I immediately began looking for a bus to take me to the top. I saw a map station and bought a map, but it didn't have bus routes on it. So I asked in the stores and gas stations, using both English and Spanish. You'd think that people who lived in Gibraltar would know how to get to the top of the Rock. Nope. It took me an hour to find a city bus that I thought would take me to the top. It didn't. It took me to a very large but quaint plaza, surrounded by little shops and restaurants and a men's vocal quartet singing in the center. I love Europe.
As cute as it was, I really had no idea where I
was or how to get to the top of the Rock. And it was already noon. I was lost in a (supposedly) English speaking country (Province?
Protectorate? I know not) and it was starting to make me mad. So I walked into
the nearest bar and asked for help. They pulled the chef out of the back of the
kitchen to talk to me because no one else spoke English and I was too flustered
to formulate any kind of sentence in Spanish. They pointed me in the right
direction and I sat down on a bench to wait for the bus. It was almost twenty
minutes and I was beginning to wonder if there were no buses running to the
top. Finally, the bus arrived and I rode it for another twenty minutes until it
stopped and I was told to get off. I was nowhere near the top.
Instead of standing on the edge of the cliffs, I
was standing at the bottom.
At first I was very frustrated and I immediately looked for a way to get to the top. But I rethought and realized that the lighthouse in front of me was beautiful. So I took some pictures, smelled the sea breeze, watched the gulls and listened to the tourists and the birds squawking with equal vigor. As I turned to begin the attempt for the summit, I saw a beautiful mosque - white and green, with spires and domes and intricate lattice work on the windows. I was amazed, intrigued and a little intimidated by the idea that popped into my head. I wanted to go into the mosque and pray. Could I? I could try.
I walked over, put on my jacket to cover my tank
top and wished I had brought my skirt. But I slipped in the gate, which was
open a crack, and slowly tip toed inside. It was almost like a regular Western
building inside. A mint and white hallway, filled with Arabic scroll work
stretched in either direction. I turned right and found the library. The walls
and the room were lined with orderly rows of dark wooden bookshelves and every
shelf was full of thick, gold embossed, Qu'ranic inscribed tomes. The spines of
the books lined up to spell Arabic words and if one spoke Arabic, you could
have walked up and down the aisles literally reading the shelves. I pulled one
book out and opened it. The soft green pages were full of more Arabic script
and the borders were fancy letters. It was art - simple and useful but
beautiful to behold. I slipped back out of the library and down the hall in the
other direction. I found a door to what must have been the main worshiping
room, but all the lights were off and I didn't want to invade or be
disrespectful. So I sat on a chair in the hallway, communed with God for a
while and then stole back outside and down the road. I still don't know if I
was supposed to be there, but I know God was supposed to be there. And He was.
At first I was very frustrated and I immediately looked for a way to get to the top. But I rethought and realized that the lighthouse in front of me was beautiful. So I took some pictures, smelled the sea breeze, watched the gulls and listened to the tourists and the birds squawking with equal vigor. As I turned to begin the attempt for the summit, I saw a beautiful mosque - white and green, with spires and domes and intricate lattice work on the windows. I was amazed, intrigued and a little intimidated by the idea that popped into my head. I wanted to go into the mosque and pray. Could I? I could try.
I walked over, put on my jacket to cover my tank
top and wished I had brought my skirt. But I slipped in the gate, which was
open a crack, and slowly tip toed inside. It was almost like a regular Western
building inside. A mint and white hallway, filled with Arabic scroll work
stretched in either direction. I turned right and found the library. The walls
and the room were lined with orderly rows of dark wooden bookshelves and every
shelf was full of thick, gold embossed, Qu'ranic inscribed tomes. The spines of
the books lined up to spell Arabic words and if one spoke Arabic, you could
have walked up and down the aisles literally reading the shelves. I pulled one
book out and opened it. The soft green pages were full of more Arabic script
and the borders were fancy letters. It was art - simple and useful but
beautiful to behold. I slipped back out of the library and down the hall in the
other direction. I found a door to what must have been the main worshiping
room, but all the lights were off and I didn't want to invade or be
disrespectful. So I sat on a chair in the hallway, communed with God for a
while and then stole back outside and down the road. I still don't know if I
was supposed to be there, but I know God was supposed to be there. And He was.
So there I was, standing at the base of the Rock of Gibraltar, the
cliffs towering above me and I really had no idea how to get up there. The
other tourists from the bus had long since left and I had to decide between
turning left (back inland) or right (toward the sea). I chose to go right, as
it took me nearer to the rock. Perhaps there was a path I could hike to the
top. I stopped a lovely couple and asked for the route, they pointed me in the
opposite direction and said it would be at least fifteen minutes before I made
it to the trail. Not the top - the trail.
I gritted my teeth and started walking. I walked for at least half an hour and
finally found the road that lead to the top. It was steep, and the sun was
right overhead. I put one foot in front of the other and began the climb. I
hiked for another hour, and saw no end in sight - the road was endless. I was
sweating and panting as though I had just finished a set of dive lines at
volleyball practice. My body burned. If I made it to the top, it was going to
be the only thing I did that day - and I had a list to complete! So, I did the
only thing an intelligent, single woman travelling alone in a foreign country
does: I stuck out my thumb and prayed for a ride. Four or five cars passed me
and my hope was wearing thin, when a small, beat-up blue car pulled alongside
me. A middle-aged man sat in the driver's seat. He smiled and motioned for me
to get in. My stomach jumped, but I ignored every screaming message my brain
was sending me and climbed into the passenger seat.
His name was Bessi and he had moved to Gibraltar from Africa. He worked as a tour guide, had a wife and kids and was hoping to get a new car in the near future. We chatted amiably as we drove, ever higher, and I finally asked him how far he was going to take me. He replied, "As close to the top as possible." We passed police officers and signs that declared no private vehicles were to go beyond this point. Still we drove. Finally we came to a gate with a police car parked out front. He stopped and I got out, thanking him profusely for driving me so far. Slipping through the gate, I watched him turn around and drive back down the hill.
I walked on for another fifteen minutes or so and found the tiny footpath that led to the summit. It was covered in loose gravel, no more than 50 cm wide and over-arched with lemon and tamarind
trees. Tropical birds danced from the ground into the trees and back. Finally, I broke into the open and disappointment washed over me. This may have been the summit, but it was not the furthest point - the very tip, were the ancient Greeks would have stood to watch the ships come in from the far flung Atlantic. That point, that destination, was behind a barbed wire fence and a stone wall.
There was no way I was going to have climbed all this way and risked my life to not stand on the furthest point of the Rock of Gibraltar. I saw that the wall was built against a bank of rocks, so I threw my bag to the top, hiked up my jeans and climbed up. Perching on the wall, my feet dangling over the edge of the cliff, I looked out at the ocean and watched the birds playing tag with each other. The wind whistled past my ears and made my eyes water.
I gritted my teeth and started walking. I walked for at least half an hour and
finally found the road that lead to the top. It was steep, and the sun was
right overhead. I put one foot in front of the other and began the climb. I
hiked for another hour, and saw no end in sight - the road was endless. I was
sweating and panting as though I had just finished a set of dive lines at
volleyball practice. My body burned. If I made it to the top, it was going to
be the only thing I did that day - and I had a list to complete! So, I did the
only thing an intelligent, single woman travelling alone in a foreign country
does: I stuck out my thumb and prayed for a ride. Four or five cars passed me
and my hope was wearing thin, when a small, beat-up blue car pulled alongside
me. A middle-aged man sat in the driver's seat. He smiled and motioned for me
to get in. My stomach jumped, but I ignored every screaming message my brain
was sending me and climbed into the passenger seat. His name was Bessi and he had moved to Gibraltar from Africa. He worked as a tour guide, had a wife and kids and was hoping to get a new car in the near future. We chatted amiably as we drove, ever higher, and I finally asked him how far he was going to take me. He replied, "As close to the top as possible." We passed police officers and signs that declared no private vehicles were to go beyond this point. Still we drove. Finally we came to a gate with a police car parked out front. He stopped and I got out, thanking him profusely for driving me so far. Slipping through the gate, I watched him turn around and drive back down the hill.
I walked on for another fifteen minutes or so and found the tiny footpath that led to the summit. It was covered in loose gravel, no more than 50 cm wide and over-arched with lemon and tamarind
trees. Tropical birds danced from the ground into the trees and back. Finally, I broke into the open and disappointment washed over me. This may have been the summit, but it was not the furthest point - the very tip, were the ancient Greeks would have stood to watch the ships come in from the far flung Atlantic. That point, that destination, was behind a barbed wire fence and a stone wall.
There was no way I was going to have climbed all this way and risked my life to not stand on the furthest point of the Rock of Gibraltar. I saw that the wall was built against a bank of rocks, so I threw my bag to the top, hiked up my jeans and climbed up. Perching on the wall, my feet dangling over the edge of the cliff, I looked out at the ocean and watched the birds playing tag with each other. The wind whistled past my ears and made my eyes water.
I jumped down on the other side of the wall and began running, up, up, up. I didn't stop until there was nothing between me and the sky and the ocean. So many sensations flooded over me in that moment. Wonder at the beauty of the earth, awe at the grand scale of nature, fear for humanity's part in history and insignificance at my small, single self. And then I felt pride - I had done it! I was standing on the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, a place I had only dreamed about until this moment. Now I was living my dream.
A lot more happened that day, including
selfies with apes, war forts, a rain storm, the Pillars of Hercules and the
most amazing sorbet I have ever tasted. But the crowning achievement was
standing, with my back to the railing, my arms outstretched, thunder rumbling,
lightening slicing the sky, wind gluing the hairs to my face, looking at the
same sea, tasting the same salt as Odysseus and Perseus and Jason.
Living your dreams isn't something that
only happens once or twice. It can happen every day if you want it to. Dream
big. And dream small. Let the little victories taste just as sweet. Or salty.