Brava Costas

In The Beginning there was Robert Ruark. North of Barcelona, in the Palamós of the early 1950s, he found an escape from modern civilization and wrote Something of Value. The only Spanish resort anyone had ever heard of then was San Sebastián on the Atlantic coast, and that was celebrated largely because of its proximity to Biarritz. On the beaches even the men were forbidden to wear topless swimsuits. Unmarried girls swam a discreet distance from the opposite sex, while hawk-eyed duennas patrolled the sands to see that the twain didn't meet.

But after Ruark came Ava Gardner, then the Windsors, Xavier Cugat and Artie Shaw. Finally, the deluge; from England, France, Germany, Scandinavia, the United States they poured in, first by the hundreds of thousands and then by the millions, bringing with them their tastes, habits and vacation apparatus symbolized by the bikini—with hardly a duenna in sight.

In 1965 alone, Spain hosted 14,000,000 foreigners—and nearly all of them headed for one or more of the Costas of the Mediterranean coast: the Costa Brava in the north, the small and puzzlingly neglected Costa Dorada south of Barcelona, the Costa Blanca in the middle and the Costa del Sol in the south.

The Costas stretch from Port Bou just below the French frontier all the way down to the Rock of Gibraltar, for 800 sun-drenched miles of sand and rock dotted with cities bearing such melifluous names as Tarragona, Valencia, Alicante, Cartagena, Almeria and Málaga. It's an area redolent with an aura of age-old cultures and past civil strife, but associated today with skindiving and water skiing along white beaches, pub crawling through night clubs open to the stars and amor, sports cars drifting through the dawn, passengered by tawny girls murmuring sleepy small talk in any one of a dozen languages.

This is a new mecca for international vacationers, who are thronging here in ever growing numbers—but don't be daunted by that touristic fact: Vast stretches of the Costas are relatively uncrowded and unspoiled, and the vacationers tend to be of the tonier, handsomer sort. Access to the Costas is easy. TWA and Iberia, for instance, fly daily from New York to Madrid at a round-trip jet fare of around $500. If you make use of the three-week excursion rate (going and returning in the middle of the week), it's around $340. Pan Am flies directly to Barcelona six times a week.

Those who touch down in Madrid must change planes to get to the Costa of their choice: winging to Barcelona for the Costa Brava and the Costa Dorada, to Valencia for the Costa Blanca and to Málaga for the Costa del Sol. But for those who have decided to cover the lot—a perfectly practical and, in fact, recommended decision—the way to do it is to fly to Barcelona and rent a car. Then, after driving to the Costa Brava in the north, one can make a sweep to the south, sampling the particular pleasures of each of the Costas in turn.

A 70-mile spin north from Barcelona to S'Agaró by the sea will bring you to the perfect starting point for a holiday on the Costas. Check in at the Hostal de la Gavina and enjoy the luxury of one of the world's greatest hotels. La Gavina was built in 1924 as the private villa of a wealthy miller. Today, with its breath-taking location, private beaches, superb cuisine and elegant clientele, it is a showcase for the hospitality of the Costa Brava. At about $30 a day for two (slightly expensive for Spain), you get your sumptuous meals, elegantly appointed rooms and a celebrity parade that may include ex-King Umberto of Italy, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and even the Burtons.

The first caveat, however, if you are to get the maximum pleasure from the holiday, is a drastic one. Spaniards, male and female, dress with conservative elegance in the evening and with wild daring during daytime leisure-taking. Take only a lightweight suit or two and a casual jacket and slacks with you, and then embellish your Stateside wardrobe with at-ease-wear from the local shops that dot the town.

When evening falls, you should be sitting in one of the cool sidewalk cafés that are the delight of S'Agaró. sipping a very dry Tio Pepe sherry. Sip slowly, because it will be a long time till dinner. The government has tried to persuade Spaniards that their traditional habit of eating lunch at three in the afternoon and dinner at eleven or midnight is an anachronism and a drag on the nation's progress; but Spaniards have too high an opinion of their own way of life, so the custom continues.

Dinner at La Gavina may start with French onion soup, followed by cold, fat, tender asparagus with fresh mayonnaise or sauce vinaigrette, and then roast ternera—veal, which in Spain is generally of better quality than the beef. Finish your meal with fresh, juicy peaches and wash it all down with a jug or two of sangria, an ice-cold punch of Spanish claret (specify Marqués de Riscal or Banda Azul) laced with Cointreau, to which is added soda water, lemons and sugar.

Farther up the coast from S'Agaró, at Bagur, is an even more spectacular though quieter hotel, the Cap Sa Sal, which deserves a visit if only for a swim, a drink and a meal. Built on a rocky promontory, with an elevator cut into the cliffside to take guests from the hotel down to the sea, the Cap Sa Sal is one of the most modern hostelries in Spain.

Life on the Costas won't be this elegant again until you get all the way down to Marbella in the far south. The attractions in between are of a different order. But before you even turn south, and if you have time and the month is August, take the road 35 miles north of S'Agaró to Cadaqués. You won't find it on most maps, and nine out of ten tourist agencies will never have heard of it. But this little fishing port, almost entirely hemmed in by mountains, is the craziest and most intimate spot on the Costa Brava—just for this one month. Before and after August it is completely dead.

If you plan to go there, leave your bags at S'Agaró, pack a thin black sweater for the cool of the evening, and a toothbrush against the contingency of an unexpected overnight stay. Take the road north by way of Palamós, one of the last unspoiled fishing villages on the Costa Brava. Rising steeply from a tiny bay and dotted with lovely white cottages, Palamós is a place of rare and haunting beauty. From there you follow the signpost to Rosas, which has the finest beach on the Costa Brava. You are tempted to stop, but your destination is Cadaqués. After driving through town, make for the mountains—you can't miss them, there's only one road. You are now set for two dusty hours of hairpin, roller-coaster bends until you get to Cadaqués. The rigors of the drive are the main reason so few conventional tourists know about die town, and why tourist agencies don't want to know. But this is the land of Salvador Dali, and you can see why. Melancholy countryside, a light that turns from red to mauve at sunset and gentle, motionless olive trees; all offer a wraithlike setting that seems almost Daliesque.

Cadaqués is a tiny fishing village of charm but no great immediate visual distinction. Its beach is made of slate and is painful to the bare feet. Yet it is crammed with men, girls, Alfas, Jags and Mercedes. Like Portofino on the Italian Riviera and St.-Tropez on the French, its charms are in its flaws. Cadaqués is a mecca for writers, painters and magazine photographers who are bohemian enough to ignore discomfort but successful enough to afford holidays with English debs, French models and Munich movie starlets. The state of marriage is unheard of. Life here is for the purpose of dancing energetically, talking tirelessly—and mingling uproariously, continuously and romantically.

The first order of business on arrival is to head for one of the bars on the tiny plaza and order a refreshing drink. You probably will have made at least one distaff friend by the time you finish your first draught.

Should such a happy meeting take place, you may well find yourself still in Cadaqués at dawn, sitting at a bar or out on the beach listening to guitar music and breakfasting on sardines and gambas cooked over a wood fire, and wondering where the night went. Sleep is something the young things of Cadaqués do only under duress—maybe in a car or in somebody's rented cottage nearby, or occasionally even in their rooms at one of the town's four hotels. With luck, you may soon become a part of the chic Cadaqués "wolf pack," switching casitas as whim, or conquest, dictates. The headman of the pack is Alberto Oliveras, a top Madrid TV personality, whose stable of beautiful girls is said to be larger and more mettlesome than even those vaunted écuries run by Sinatra and Roger Vadim.

When a fundamentally uncomfortable village such as Cadaqués—or Portofino or St.-Tropez—acquires this special social cachet, it invariably stems from some powerful intellectual influence, and Cadaqués is, in effect, the creation of Salvador Dali. The Hotel Rocamar, the principal hostelry of the village, has a collection of Dali canvases depicting Don Quixote, painted specially for the establishment. His home, the Casa Dali, lies a mile and a half north at Port Lligat, not far from the French border. It is a wonderful place of carefully planned chaos, on many levels and in many styles. One of the rooms, designed by Dali's Ukrainian wife, Gala, reproduces the atmosphere of a Ukrainian nomad's tent. Standing in the entranceway is a huge, medal-covered stuffed bear which guests use as an umbrella stand. Dali guards his privacy when he is in residence, but when he is away, as he often is, his staff is sometimes permitted to show visitors around.

Assuming you are strong-minded enough to tear yourself away from Cadaqués, don't regret leaving your companion or companions behind; there are plenty more ahead. Take the road back to S'Agaró, pick up your luggage and head south to Barcelona. En route, you will pass siren signposts urging you to turn off to other Costa Brava resorts such as Playa de Aro, San Feliu de Guixols, Tossa de Mar. Lloret de Mar and Blanes. These places have become popular thanks to the tourist explosion and are badly overrun, partly by French campers, but mostly by package tours. Nevertheless, if you feel your education demands that you blanket all the Costas, you will not go entirely unrewarded. Playa de Aro has the Club de Aro, which is a beach club by day and a night club by night. The Mar y Tu snack bar in Lloret de Mar is popular for a young hip set that cannot be bothered to waste time on endless Spanish lunches. We recommend the Club Mayaco, a cabaret-bar in San Feliu. Tossa de Mar still has a certain class. It boasts two night clubs for dancing, the Don Quixote and La Paleta, both in converted fishermen's houses, which may remind some of the more widely traveled types of the Cellar in Liverpool, where the Beatles began. (continued overleaf)

All of these spas enjoy a plethora of English girls, mostly secretaries, who are friendly, fun-loving and almost uniformly attractive. One of the enduring mysteries of life is where English girls got their reputation for being buck-toothed and cold-natured. It's a reputation that flies in the face of what all English writers—from Chaucer and Shakespeare, through Fanny Hill's John Cleland, to the present-day Angry Young Men who, at least, aren't angry about that—have been trying, to inform posterity. One trip to the Costa Brava should succeed in happily certifying what six centuries of deathless English prose have failed to do.

Just before you leave the Costa Brava, you enter Calella, which, more than any other town in Spain, shows the impact of the tourist explosion. Seven years ago it was a small industrial town of 8000, with a beautiful stretch of beach. Its two hotels catered to a clientele of industrial salesmen. Today it has as many hotels as Barcelona, which has a population of 2,000,000. Every summer, Germans pour down to Calella in stolid armies. In what were once quiet bodegas where Spanish businessmen sipped sherry or vino tinto, German beer now flows into great steins. The menus are in German. The food is German. Man Spricht Deutsch signs have become all but unnecessary. But occasionally you find a plaintive sign in a window stating Se Habla Espanol.

Even so, Calella deserves a look. At the Hotel Calella, one of the best in town, you can have a good room with bath and three meals for five dollars a night, and a liter of wine free with each meal. On weekends you see something unique to the four Costas, the Spanish jet set arriving from Barcelona in force, by automobile, motor scooter and train. Except in the tiny emancipated world of the arts, it is a rare Spanish gentleman who manages to sleep with his fiancée before marriage; as a result, the bordellos in all major Spanish cities do a thriving business during the winter. The sporting-house scene slackens considerably in the summer, however, when the young señores come to Calella to spend a weekend with the uninhibited German girls.

But on, beyond Calella, past inns marked Gasthof and boardinghouses with the words Zimmer Frei in the window, past "English tea shoppes" and "snack bars," you find refuge in the beauty of Barcelona itself. This is a lovely city and, even for someone arriving in Spain for the first time, surprisingly un-Spanish, with the air more of France or northern Italy.

Barcelona is a curiosity in the world of a Costa vacation. It is the largest city on the Spanish Mediterranean coast; yet, in its beauty and mature dignity, its culture and history, it stands aloof from Costa life. At the same time, Barcelona plays a vital part in the leisurely life of the veteran of Spanish vacations; and a stay in the city, however brief, is a must. For one thing, it has the only real night-club life in Spain. Its so-called Chinese Quarter, the barrio chino, sprawls in a rough triangle to the right of the great avenue, the Ramblas, as you walk toward the waterfront. It has everything—except Chinese. There was a small colony of Chinese merchants in the 19th Century; hence the name. Today it is a riot of sailors' bars, night clubs, cabarets and brothels.

Barcelona boasts the most varied and sophisticated eating in Spain. To the left of the Ramblas, on a picturesque narrow street called Escudillers, named after the potters who worked there, is Los Caracoles, which specializes in superb seafood. If you continue down to the waterfront, turn left at the statue of Christopher Columbus and stroll to the port area, which is called Barceloneta. There you will find a score of seafood restaurants, all looking the same, all serving typical local dishes and all half empty—except one. The exception is the Costa, a favorite among Barcelona gourmets, who feast on its specialty, parrillada, a dish of 12 different fish cooked on an open grill.

At number 97 Casanova is a restaurant called the Guría, the like of which you probably have not encountered before. For one thing, it has the prettiest waitresses in Spain. They live on the restaurant premises and are trained in cuisine, good service and languages. But they are not allowed to date the customers. If you can bring yourself to concentrate on the food, you will find that the place excels in seafood from the Atlantic cooked Basque style, with a characteristic base of red and green peppers. The Guría is elegant and, for Spain, expensive. Dinner for two with wine will cost $12.

If you have that all-American urge for steak, take another walk along the Ramblas to a little restaurant called the Hostal de la Gloria, which has the best beef in town. Other restaurants recommended to lovers of good food are Siete Puertas (the Seven Doors) and the Parellada. Any taxi driver will know where they are.

In Barcelona there is also bullfighting. The aficionados say that the art of the corrida, like so much else, has been degraded by tourists, by foreigners in-capable of judging the true from the counterfeit, and by toreros who take advantage of the fact to screen their own incompetence. Nevertheless, it has to be seen, if only for the spectacle of the audience; for the children, solemn and black-eyed, taken by their parents as if to Communion for the spiritual fusion of themselves to the red of blood and the mystique of death. There is also the sight of lovely Spanish women, gazing with hard eyes and curled lips, as bad bullfighters are covered with boos and humiliation. You would expect to see a trace of feminine sympathy for the poor fellow, but knowledgeability overrules compassion.

If you happen to be in Barcelona on a Sunday, ask your concierge if the Barcelona soccer team is playing in town. If it is—especially if it is playing its chief rival, Real Madrid—this is an occasion not to be missed. Join the hundred thousand others who will be present to watch that idol of Barcelona, the great Di Stefano, against the equally brilliant Ferenc Puszkas of Real. Puszkas is a former Hungarian army officer who was known as "the galloping major" in the great period before 1956, when Hungary swept the world in soccer. He escaped in the revolution and has played ever since for Real. Every week he receives over a hundred letters from Hungary begging him to come home. Puszkas is 37, Di Stefano, 38, and both maestros are in the twilight of their careers, with only a season or two of great soccer left. If you get the chance, by all means watch them before their luster passes forever.

Twenty-eight miles south of Barcelona, there is another surprise awaiting the motorist: the quaint old Costa Dorado town of Sitges. Although its normal population of 10,000 increases to 30,000 in the summer, it seems curiously detached from the tourist flood, which elsewhere carries all before it. This is because it was fashionable as a retreat long before the explosion began. Spanish millionaires and old English families keep homes on the promenade. There are fewer bikinis on the beach, and more marqueses on the golf course. The wildest thing that happens in Sitges is an antique-car race every year at Carnival. But after the lustily sleepless nights of Cadaqués, the ear-splitting Germanic cacophony of Calella and the big-city atmosphere of Barcelona, you may feel like resting for a night or two at dignified old Hotel Miramar or the Platjador for about seven dollars a day. A livelier hotel is the El Cid, catering to a Spanish clientele rather than to the foreign "in" group which drifts around to La Cabaña Club, an open-air discothèque, and to the Casa del Mar Beach Club, where you swim, water-ski and sun-bathe during the day and frug at night.

From Sitges, there is a hard drive of nearly 200 winding miles to Valencia, northern gateway to the Costa Blanca. Valencia is an architectural treasure with its baroque public buildings and Moorish private homes. It is also the home of the best-known of all Spanish dishes, paella, the classic dish of saffron-flavored rice cooked in a heavy pan with shrimp, chicken, mussels, clams, pimentos, hot sausages and artichokes. (continued on page 212)Brava Costas!(continued from page 100) The best paella in the world is in Spain; the best paella in Spain is in Valencia; and the best paella in Valencia is served at the Real Club Náutico in the port area. Almost as good a restaurant, and rather more colorful, is Marcelina on the beach at Playa de Levante. Both restaurants are slightly out of town, and if you are uncertain of your direction, park your car and take a taxi. You are advised, however, to savor your food here and now, because farther south the weather will be getting too hot for heavy trencherman work. You will notice that the food has been changing gradually as you motor south, from the near-French cuisine of Barcelona and points north to the strictly Spanish paella of Valencia; and it will continue to change, until in the south you come to the home of the cold gazpacho soup of Andalusia, with its base of raw tomatoes, green peppers and oil.

The Costa Blanca stretches a little over 100 miles from Valencia to Alicante, with principal resorts at Benidorm, Calpe, Altea and Punta de Moraira. This is also German country, not quite so gross as in Calella, but enough that the menus are in German and dining rooms are overflowing at 8:30 with men in Lederhosen and portly Hausfrauen in picture hats.

Benidorm, like Calella, throngs with German girls; but because it is so much farther south than Barcelona, you'll encounter less competition from vacationing Spanish men. The German girls, like their Anglo-Saxon cousins up in Tossa de Mar, are eager to make friends. Many enjoy practicing their English and they are easy to meet.

Start with drinks at either the Piano Bar or the Toni Bar, both colorful and reasonably cosmopolitan. Because the chefs of Benidorm have had to unlearn much in cultivating the knack of Knackwurst and Sauerbraten, most of the tourist restaurants should be avoided. You are always safe in ordering fish and seafood, which Spaniards usually cook well, and fortunately Benidorm has one of the best seafood restaurants on the Costas, El Hogar del Pescador. For dancing and atmosphere there are El Burro, the Club Europa and El Pirata.

But because German girls seem to find it even easier to say yes than English girls, a certain warning is appropriate here, as elsewhere along the coast. While bikinis have long been tolerated—on foreigners—any plan to remove one for a nude dip at midnight should be carried out with the utmost discretion. There are few experiences more unsettling than to find yourself being watched flagrante delicto by a Guardia Civil, standing motionless and silent, a shadow among shadows. Also, if you return to her hotel, be sure to get out before morning. Spanish hotel maids start work early. They are endlessly curious, and their righteousness in the presence of alien misdemeanor is towering. Out-raged, they call the concierge, who calls the desk clerk, who calls the manager, and they all close in on the den of iniquity, behaving the way you think Latins always behave, but usually don't. Not even the most tempting Teuton is worth such an assault on one's dignity and amour-propre.

Set aside one night for digging one of the most exciting local products. Drive to nearby Alicante, to La Taberna del Castillo, a club that has been fashioned from part of the old castle. The main attraction is an evening filled with wildly abandoned flamenco dancing. For daytime activities there are skindiving and water skiing. Frequent sailing races can be watched from the shore. Or you can browse among the excellent antique shops. Benidorm is also bull country. You can even learn to fight a bull yourself. There's a bullfighting school for tourists and, with progress, you can get into the ring to practice on young cows—which is tougher than it sounds. A less athletic afternoon can be enjoyed by driving up into the mountains of Guadalest for a picnic, or to stroll through old, winding streets such as the Calle de Virgen and see the Moorish ruins.

The Little Germany of the Costa Blanca, then, is not to be lightly dismissed; but the veteran of the coast will not dally too long—not if he seeks quality to add to the quantity. He will bid auf Wiedersehen and head south, fast, where the real Spanish action begins again. An early-rising driver could make Málaga, gateway to the Costa del Sol, in a day, but early rising is just what you are not likely to be contemplating on this holiday, and Málaga is 300 coast-line miles of undulating mountain roads away.

Instead, you would be better advised to enjoy a last leisurely breakfast in Benidorm, and then stop for luncheon at Puerto Lumbreras, 100 miles south of Alicante. When you arrive, ask for the parador. Parador is a generic name given to government-owned tourist inns set up all over Spain for travelers. For food, cleanliness and smiling service, they are far superior to much of the roadside commercial competition. Or if you don't wish to linger too long over a Spanish lunch, all towns have merenderos, which are not really snack bars and not really quick-lunch counters, but places where a Spaniard likes to leisurely enjoy a sandwich or ice cream between meals.

From Puerto Lumbreras you can head over the spectacular Sierra Nevada to Granada, and make a tour of the Alhambra, one of the world's most glorious buildings, or else follow the rather inferior coast road to Almeria. Either way, you should stop overnight before moving on to Torremolinos.

Torremolinos is a hot, unlovely resort in which speculative building has all but obliterated the pretty fishing village it was a few years ago. There is nothing about its first appearance to give you any idea of what it really is: the wildest, most cosmopolitan holiday community in Spain, at once the enfant terrible of the Spanish tourist business and the watering place of the most knowledgeable fun-seekers in Europe and America.

Check in at one of the proliferating new "luxury" hotels, or at the Tropicana, which is older and less unfinished. After the long drive, and in view of what lies ahead, it would be a good idea to rest up until eight. Then shower and put on your most dégagé Spanish sports clothes and make for Pedro's in the central plaza. Pedro's is the número uno rendezvous of all the Costas. It's "home" to movie stars and smugglers, heiresses and the disinherited, the eccentrics and the ephemera of five continents. Despite its name, Pedro's is run by an American, Peter Kent, a former Madison Avenue huckster.

Never will you have seen such a massed gathering of sheer beauty, of golden tans, of sun-bleached hair, of defiant navels below short boleros, or heard such a proliferation of accents, ranging from New York through Mayfair to Paris, Hamburg and points north. You will have found what you have been seeking over these sometimes grueling 800 miles. This is what a prospector searching for El Dorado would call pay dirt. As soon as you can break through the sights and sounds that blanket you on entering, order a drink and make it a dry martini. If you have been wise, this will probably be the first time you have had one since S'Agaró. You will notice that it is as impeccably mixed as any in America, a feat beyond most Costa bartenders. Then move over to the candlelit patio for dinner. The menu will give a delightfully eerie feeling of déjà vu. After all that yellow rice, paella, fish, seafood and uncertain Spanish meat that you have been living on since S'Agaró, you will find yourself ordering, incredulously, barbecued steak, baked potato, roquefort salad and hot garlic bread, washed down with beakers of aromatic red wine. The cost, if you have struck up acquaintance with a distaff Pedrophile quickly enough to make it dinner for two, should not exceed seven dollars.

In constrast to the surging internationalism of Pedro's, you can dine at two places that are so insularly French as to make you wonder dizzily if you have not taken a wrong turn and arrived on the Côte d'Azur rather than the Costa del Sol. One is the dining room of the Tropicana hotel, and the other, Chez Lucien. No Frenchman considers that anyone other than a Frenchman can even boil water, and so it is inevitable that, when in Torremolinos, all Gaul divides itself between the two restaurants that are as genuinely French as Pedro's is American.

For a change of diet—and decor—try La Penca, a fine Spanish restaurant, or Miguel's. The Delfin, another native café, is situated in a romantic setting some 20 minutes' drive from town.

At midnight a dozen night clubs and discothèques offer themselves. Two of the liveliest—El Dorado and E1 Mañana—are in the center of town. But if your companion is a Torremolinos regular, whisk her out of the village to the rather more urbane atmosphere of the Tres Carabelas night club, about two miles away. There is a reason for this abduction. Only in this way can you be sure of keeping her to yourself. In the heart of Torremolinos, everybody knows everybody, and some old friend is always arriving from London or New York, or some mysterious smuggling venture out of Gibraltar. Delighted exclamations of greeting rend the night air, and companions can be lost as quickly as they are acquired. At Tres Carabelas you can dance the whole night away, watch a superb display of Andalusian flamenco dancing, drink as much hard liquor as a gentleman should be able to hold, and still have change from a ten-dollar bill.

If you drink Scotch, however, insist on brand names. The bartenders are not beyond passing you a Spanish whiskey called Dyk, which is quite light and pleasant, like Japanese whiskey, until the next morning, when you sit up in bed—and zonk! Spanish brandy, on the other hand, is recommended, but stick to the finer brands such as Carlos Primero or black label 103.

Next morning—or, more likely, early afternoon—as you begin to come around, it may well be that something is nibbling to your Mediterranean tan, one of the principal items you intended to take back to the States? A little water skiing with a Fräulein back in Benidorm has been almost your only exposure to the sun so far. Have patience. An hour or two each afternoon spent lounging and beachcombing from pool to pool will bronze you quickly. The sea water is great for swimming, but since the Mediterranean is tideless, there are no waves—which can be rather dull. But it is pleasant, after stepping out of the water, to stop off at the stall of a beach vendor for a snack—a fresh sardine or two cooked on a skewer and a glass of sangria. The Spaniards make a point of never swimming before the Feast of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist on June 24 nor after the Feast of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary on September 8, but most Anglo-Saxons find the swimming comfortable as late as November.

The Mediterranean coast is not really great fishing country, but almost anyplace where there are fishing ports you can enjoy an unusual fishing experience. You might prevail upon the proprietor of some waterfront seafood restaurant to ask the local fishermen to take you out with them when they sail after their dawn catch. You'll find it an excellent way to clear your head after a day and night of welk-in-ringing. By nine o'clock, glowing with health and deliciously weary from honest toil, you throw yourself onto the bed and sleep until lunchtime, Spanish style.

By now you will have noticed that Torremolinos is like no other place you have ever visited, with a kind of raffish individuality all its own. It is probably the only resort in the world to erect a statue to the Unknown Tourist—which suggests a municipal sense of humor of a rather high order. In Torremolinos, you have, perhaps, discovered the secret of Spain that has been attracting this golden horde of tourists. It is not so much that it is cheap; there are many pleasant places in the world that are still cheap—Greece and Mexico, for example. But in Spain, you can do what the United States, Britain, France and Italy have demonstrated is difficult at best: You can live well and graciously on very little.

But Torremolinos is dangerous, in that it is habit-forming. Stronger men than you have succumbed after less than a week there. They have turned their backs on the U. S., on career and fortune, and settled for la dolce vita which, in Torremolinos, can be had for as little as $200 a month. A modest beach pad can be rented for $60 a month, and a dollar will buy a three-course meal with wine anywhere except in the tourist places.

When you've had your fill, pack up and head down the coast to Marbella, a two-hour drive, and several notches up in the social scale. At Marbella the cement jungle of speculative apartment building abruptly stops. Marbella is Torremolinos with a New England accent, but with a more intensive night life. It is the spiritual home of a rather "in" group which derives its enjoyment from private house parties. Social life is centered around the Marbella Club of Prince Max von Hohenlohe-Langenberg, a few miles out of town.

At the Club you can have a room or a small garden chalet, plus meals, for less than ten dollars a day, and once installed, it is unlikely you will ever set foot outside this richly romantic place. It consists of nine cottages and a main building with a curious circular tower illuminated like a lighthouse. The tower houses the dining room and bar. Attached to the Marbella Club proper is the Sea Club, which you reach by way of a garden full of banana, fig, olive and cypress trees. Along with La Gavina at S'Agaró, it is the most elegant of all the rendezvous on the Costas. The Pedro's crowd comes here when it feels like behaving itself, and even the French, from the Tropicana, are somewhat subdued. They come to swim, or to go cantering on horseback along the beach. Horses can be rented from the local gypsies. At lunch there is an excellent buffet, and at night a dinner by candlelight, where black tie is appropriate though not required.

As a guest of the hotel, you have automatic access to the Sea Club and its private beach. Here you can skin- and scuba dive and water-ski an entire holiday away. In fact, the only blandishment missing is a golf course, but the Club secretary can arrange that, too, at links a few miles down the coast at Guadalmina. If you are interested in that kind of thing, you might find yourself teeing off behind the Duke of Windsor.

There remains, if you feel like it, Gibraltar, a historic place of steep, winding streets, and a paradise of duty-free cameras, perfumes and cashmeres. But go there between meals. The cuisine in the restaurants has been geared to the peculiar tastes of centuries of British army sergeant majors—tea and chips with everything. But then flee back to Marbella, pausing for lunch at the Hotel Reina Cristina in Algeciras, on the Spanish side of the border.

In Marbella you may relax in the knowledge that you have finished the tour the way you began it at S'Agaró, in an atmosphere of unhurried and privileged hedonism. Between times you have savored a coast line unique for its variety of physical and social as well as geographical scenery. You may, perhaps, have been oppressed here and there by poor plumbing, and irritated by some slow service; but having traversed Spain from the green north to sleepy Moorish Andalusia—not, perhaps, in the steps of Don Quixote, but, one hopes, with a worthy approximation of his gallantry—you have found yourself swept up in a shimmering kaleidoscope of multinational femininity.

But something is missing. What ever happened to Spain? Somewhere in this tremendous tourist invasion, much of the traditional magic of Spain has been lost. Rare, indeed, although it still happens, is the sight of young lovers kissing furtively through Andalusian grilles, or of a handsome, somber Spaniard strolling on the promenade with one hand chastely on his wife's shoulder.

Where has it gone, that grandiose Spain which moved Charles V of France to declare that he spoke German to his horses, French to his soldiers, Italian to his mistresses and Spanish to God? The English complain that Spain has become "Americanized," as though that were bad. What they call Americanization is, in fact, the 20th Century, which America discovered first, and Spain is just beginning to discover two thirds of the way through it.

You will have noticed that you have made friends with French, English, Americans, Germans and Swedes; but since Cadaqués, you have met precious few Spaniards other than a waiter, bartender or gas-station attendant. Until a few years ago, few Spaniards ever went on vacation, and even the rich, after leaving Eton, rarely ventured further afield than the Riviera or Paris. Spaniards are only now starting to take holidays in their native land.

Foreigners may not like what they call Americanization, but most Spaniards want more of it. And why not? National character does not change, and a Spaniard will remain a Spaniard even when he owns a stereo.

The Costas have brought a new wealth and energy and a vast tide of visitors from the outside world to the most insular people in Europe. The holiday you spend there will have enriched both sides, yourself and Spain. And if it is rewardingly experienced, the Spaniard you may be lucky enough to meet will be happy to bestow on you his—or her—ultimate benediction, "Salud, amor y pesetas, y tiempo para gastarlas"—Health, love and money, and time to spend it.