Not much more to say about that, really. Except I sing that to myself (to the tune of “I Love a Parade”) every time I see one in my hotel bathroom. And I do kind of love a bidet. But the separate one? That, what, you have to sort of stay crouched and shuffle over to from the toilet? I have never really understood that procedure.

Anyway, away from the toilet and onto the food. Things are sort of looking up. I all on my own, not cribbing from any guidebook but using only my inborn restaurant Spidey-sense, found us a super-tasty place for lunch in a little village up in the mountains. It looked like a promising village because there were a bunch of small trucks sporting the names of different cheese companies, all with addresses there.

So we wound up with wild mushrooms, all sauteed till crispy and caramelized and drizzled with garlic cream, and some rabbit in an almond sauce and little chicken croquettes to die for. Oh, and extra-nutmeggy chicken croquettes. No green vegetables, but who needs ’em? Name of tiny town and restaurant available on request. (Oh please, oh please don’t tell me it’s already in Fodor’s…)

Then, uh, things got bad again. I stupidly followed the advice of the same book that had led me to the wicker-chair-and-foie-gras horror show. And for my trouble (and it was a fuck of a lot of trouble–there is no parking in Baza!), I got chicken soup that tasted distinctly of margarine. Beverly got some macaroni that was Chef Boyardee-like in its gumminess. And we both got disapproving glowers from the waiter who cleared our main dishes. They were just 10 percent eaten and the rest shoved under a pile of soggy fries.

The cruel part is that I stopped in what smelled and looked like a great restaurant to ask directions to the crappy restaurant.

There was another hideous lunch, too, but I think I’ve just blotted that out.

The last two days, we’ve skipped lunch altogether (I mean, except for that ice cream today…), mostly because I’m sensing a mutiny in the ranks. Beverly goes to bed every night whimpering about how full she feels and saying plaintively, “Tomorrow will be a light eating day, right?”

So I’m a little fried on the food front. Have seen neither hide nor hair of the tortillitas of Bittman fame. Am only semi-hopeful…

On the general charmed-by-a-foreign-land front, though, things are going well.

For instance, the pillows in Spain are all exactly as wide as the beds. Granted, I’ve only slept in twin beds–I don’t know if they expand on larger beds. But very comfy.

Also, in Spain, they have these ingenious electric heaters that fit into the base of a table, which you then cover with a heavy blanket, and stick your feet under the blanket and on top of the heater to get all toasty.

If I’d had one of those when I lived in Cairo, I might’ve actually sat and done my Arabic homework instead of crawling into bed to get warm and feel less depressed. In fact, all those places where they think the weather is balmy enough not to warrant proper indoor heating could benefit.

Finally, in Spain, as if it needs to be said, they are into the ham. Creepily so. I saw a cartoon mural in one town of a Catholic king and a Muslim emir sitting down to a giant pig dinner. Sort of malevolent, no?

More heartwarming, though, are the words I’ll leave you with. Overheard on a street one morning in Laujar de Andarax, from one old Spanish man in a cardigan to another old man in a cardigan:

“Eat some ham. It’ll make you feel better.”