They call them the White Villages—but don’t be fooled. They are not peaceful. They are not “charming.” They are blindingly gorgeous, aggressively steep, and absolutely full of themselves.
And Glenda, of course, fit right in.
This is the story of how one woman set out to “connect with the land” and ended up emotionally exfoliated, culturally overwhelmed, and carrying €200 worth of olive-based beauty products she’ll never use. We began in Zahara de la Sierra, wandered into Grazalema, and finally unraveled completely in Ronda.
ZAHARA DE LA SIERRA
“Stunning. Elevated. And she refused to climb a single staircase.”
Zahara is what happens when a hilltop gets ideas. The entire village looks like it was curated by a celestial interior designer with a fetish for contrast—white façades against blue skies, stone alleys, potted geraniums, and the kind of silence that makes you think about your taxes.
Glenda arrived dressed like a linen-wrapped conquistadora. She declared she was here for “stillness and heritage,” then promptly refused to hike up to the castle ruins, saying “If history wants me, it can come down.”
We did an olive oil tasting hosted by a man who looked like he hadn’t blinked since 1997. Glenda nodded along solemnly and whispered, “Earthy. Honest. Slightly passive-aggressive.” We left with three bottles, a scrub that smells like pesto, and a moisturizer she now keeps like a relic—unused, untouchable, silently judging her from the shelf.
Why Visit:
- For the views that will make you cry (and not just from your calves)
- For the castle you’ll pretend you were about to climb
- To buy olive oil you’ll treat like a Fabergé egg
GRAZALEMA
“A place of mist, wool, and emotional vulnerability disguised as shopping.”
They say this is the wettest place in Spain. Naturally, Glenda wore sandals.
The village is greener than the others—fragrant with rosemary, dramatic with clouds. Glenda, already three olives deep into her transformation, adopted a scarf and a new persona: “A woman who knows things.” She kept saying she could “feel the stories in the stones,” which I assume was code for “I forgot to eat.”
In a shop selling hand woven linens, she ran her fingers along a table runner and whispered, “This reminds me of my grandmother’s sigh.” I didn’t argue. I was still trying to understand how a tea towel became €28 just because it was folded with sentiment.
We lunched in a plaza that smelled like goat cheese and resilience. A child stared at Glenda’s fan for too long and she gave it to him. Later, she mourned it like a breakup.
Why Visit:
- Because your soul needs mist and your wallet needs a beating
- Because even introverts crave drama
- For the chance to cry into a €9 cheese board without judgment
RONDA
“The gorge was wide. So were our delusions of dignity.”
Ronda is where Andalucía grabs you by the collar and says look. And we did—down into the ravine, across the cliff, and into every overpriced leather shop within 500 meters.
The Puente Nuevo looks like it was built by someone going through something. Glenda stood on it for ages, staring at the abyss, whispering things like “I’ve known breakups that felt like this.” She bought a fan painted with a bull and then said she found bullfighting “barbaric but emotionally textured.”
She refused to tour the bullring (“I’ve seen enough carnage in group chats”) and instead wandered into a boutique where she bought body lotion made from “ancient Andalusian olives kissed by the moon.” It has not been opened. It sits in her guest bathroom, just behind the L’Occitane army, pretending it belongs.
By sunset, she’d eaten five tapas, cried twice, and said “I feel spiritually nourished.” Then she fell asleep in the car while I navigated death curves and questionable signage.
Why Visit:
- For the architecture that stares back at you
- For the tapas that gaslight you into thinking you’re full
- To make peace with your inner matador—or at least buy his fan
A Final Note from the Driver’s Seat
We didn’t see a single bullfight. We didn’t conquer castles. We didn’t exfoliate with olive stones.
But we did experience something… between joy and heatstroke.
We left with sunburned shoulders, emotional clarity, and beauty products we will absolutely never use—but will keep, forever, as proof that we once wandered, dazzled and overwhelmed, through the white-hot heart of Andalucía.
And Glenda? She says she’ll return. Next time with a portable fan, fewer expectations, and stronger ankles.
But we both know… she won’t.
All Around The World 