Back in 2022, we took a trip to Lanzarote and stayed at the lovely HPB property, Santa Rosa, tucked away in Costa Teguise on the eastern coast
(You can get details of why I'm a Bondie here)
Now, you should know that since 2020, I’ve committed myself to running three times a week. I proudly decided that this holiday would be no exception. My logic was flawless, romantic, and highly practical:
Safety First: The streets had actual, working streetlights
The Vibe: I could run right alongside the crashing waves of the sea. (What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart)
Before heading out, I meticulously worked out a route. I’d jog into Costa Teguise, pick up the beautiful coastal path, and just follow the shoreline. Simple, right? I’ve literally just looked it up on Google Maps again while writing this, and on paper, it’s a foolproof plan
What Google Maps didn't explicitly warn me about, however, was a minor architectural roadblock on the way to the capital, Arrecife
Enter: Residencial Real de La Mareta
As it turns out, the coastal path doesn't run seamlessly all the way to the capital. Instead, it rudely terminates at a lavish beachfront property called the Royal Residence of La Mareta
For a bit of context I absolutely did not have at the time: this place has a serious pedigree. Commissioned in the late 1970s by King Hussein of Jordan and designed by the island’s renowned artist César Manrique, it was gifted to Spain’s King Juan Carlos I in the late 1980s. Today, it serves two main VIP groups:
The Spanish Royal Family: A holiday home for the King, Queen, and their guests
Spanish Prime Ministers: A favorite summer getaway spot for Spain's PMs (like Pedro Sánchez)
The Confrontation
Naturally, I knew none of this. I was just plodding along in my own little world, enjoying the sea breeze, when I noticed a police van parked outside this gorgeous villa blocking the path
Being a naturally curious person, I thought, “Ooh, what’s this very nice house doing here? Let me go have a closer look.”
Bad move
All of a sudden, the doors to the van flew open. A bunch of previously sleeping Spanish policemen bundled out like a disturbed hornets' nest and started aggressively shouting at me. Did I mention I had my headphones firmly glued to my ears? There is nothing quite like the sensory whiplash of transitioning from a relaxing playlist to armed foreign police yelling at you in rapid-fire Spanish
The Retreat
It was time for some Olympic-level groveling
As I yanked my headphones out and began frantically apologizing for existing, I distinctly caught a muttered comment from one of the officers:
“Estúpido turista inglés.”
Under normal circumstances, I probably would have agreed with him. I was being a stupid English tourist. But given the heavily armed audience, I decided to skip the witty banter, offer one final, deeply subservient apology, and make a incredibly sharp exit
Suffice it to say, my return jog back to the HPB apartment was a personal best time
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