Gibraltar, Part 2

With three American visitors this past week, one of whom was born in Gibraltar, the two hour car trip down was a must.  After several passport checks[1], some mishaps finding the car rental place, and lots of walking and sweating, we finally took off to Britain’s own paradise on the Mediterranean.

Some monkeys grooming in Gibraltar.

As we arrived to La Línea de la Concepción (the Spanish town right across the border from Gibraltar[2]), we opted to walk across the border.  Getting into Gibraltar can be done either by car or by foot, but I advised that we walk in, as the lines to enter by car usually move slowly and go on forever.  And of course, that day there was no car line at all.  Of course.

The walk across the border involves showing a passport or European ID card, to varying levels of scrutiny.  The Spanish authorities have never done anything but just nod at it, and the Brits have only stopped me once to scan my passport.  It’s rather laid back, as customs should be.  Heck, you hardly even break a sweat on the way in.

And after your brief walk and double ID check, you’re in.

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Once you cross the border, you immediately walk right across the airport tarmac.  Being a different country, this tiny peninsula created their own airport by reclaiming land from the sea. So on occasion, the border crossing closes down because a plane is taking off or landing.  We in fact got stuck in Gibraltar a good ten minutes in order to watch a Monarch flight land as we were trying to leave.

This being my third time in Gibraltar, and with three Americans accompanying me, it was finally time to pay the money and take the cable car up to see the monkeys.  Once up on top of the Rock of Gibraltar, you can see for miles.  Sights include Africa, the Strait of Gibraltar, Cádiz, and miles into a Mediterranean filled with ships.  Very picturesque.

Not so picturesque is what is actually on top of the rock.  The building the cable car arrives to is a mass of concrete surrounded by a concrete jungle of recent ruins reminiscent of my summer afternoons spent exploring abandoned buildings near the old quarry by my house.  It’s ugly as sin, as some Midwesterners might say.

Anyway, the monkeys did their best to be in places with terrible lighting for photographing them, but we got to see them, explore the strange old concrete maze, and gaze out for miles.

Monkeying around atop the Rock of Gibraltar (the monkey chose this lighting not me).

Poking around the abandoned concrete structures atop Gibraltar.

#moremonkeys

As we trudged back toward the border, sweaty but as happy as the European monkeys we had just ogled, we used some of the extra pound coins we had to buy some souvenirs and refreshments, cognizant of the fact that in just a few minutes (plus ten, with the flight landing), we’d be back to Spain and Euros.  Although intimate neighbors, Gibraltar and Spain feel the same and yet so very, very different.

[1] The first time I tried to visit I thought it would be cute not to bring my passport. Which meant I couldn’t get in. Which meant that to make up for driving four hours round trip we got to explore the nearby port city of Algeciras.  It was fine, just not all that different. Quite a “treat…”

[2] Most of the traffic signs near Gibraltar in Spain only mention this town, not Gibraltar, as Spain claims that Gibraltar is its territory.  A lovely bit of international passive-aggression!

Gibraltar, Part 1

Monkeys, pounds, and reclaimed land.  If that doesn’t sound like a party I don’t know what does.  The only place to hit up this party on the entire European continent is a tiny peninsula controlled by the British since the 18^th century, claimed by Spain, and riddled with the bizarre.  This is Gibraltar.

Aerial view of Gibraltar in the foreground and Spain behind.

Gibraltar, of Strait of Gibraltar fame (and sometimes known as “The Rock”) is a British Overseas Territory jutting out into the Mediterranean Sea from the Spanish province of Cádiz.  Gibraltar itself is a rather small peninsula, home to about 30,000 inhabitants, and principally comprised of an impressive mountain (this being “The Rock of Gibraltar,” as it were).  Aside from The Rock, its claims to fame are lax gambling and banking regulations, low tax rates, and the only remaining monkeys in Europe.  I warned you it’s strange.

Upon entering and walking down Winston Churchill Avenue, Gibraltar begins to feel like a strange compilation of southern Spanish Mediterranean and Great Britain.  There are British mailboxes, strikingly different architecture, and, on one occasion when I was visiting, lots of signs excited about the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.  There is a main street in the town of about 30,000 people which is lined with shops hocking electronics, jewelry, tobacco, and alcohol (low taxes).  In fact, people leaving Gibraltar most always have a bag conspicuously occupied by some form of alcohol which they got far cheaper there than in Spain.

Almost all shops and restaurants allow you to pay in Euros or Pounds.  That’s convenient, as long as they don’t screw with the conversion rate.  I was quite peeved when our lunch in Euros was calculated far above the actual rate.  How dare they try to rip me off while allowing me to pay in a currency which is not legal tender in their country.  How dare they.

In all, Gibraltar is an exceptionally interesting part of the world to visit and spend an afternoon in.  My trips mainly consist of marveling at its uniqueness—a little chunk of Britain sequestered in a sparsely populated area of the southern Iberian Peninsula.  I just hope someday Spain and the UK get the Gibraltar situation figured out so Spain can start attending official state functions in England again.

Check in on Thursday to see how four Americans enjoyed their time this past week!