Bilbao is basically a city of bridges.  Why that came as something of a surprise to me, I have no idea.  I mean, the map of this northern portion of Spain has more twisty rivers and waterways than my grandma’s legs had spider veins.  The local residents would need a way to navigate across all this water, right?  Particularly when they decided to build this busy city right on the biggest varicose vein around: the Nervión River, which eventually becomes the Estuary of Bilbao.  

Maybe that’s what Bilbao means in Basque: “basically bridges”?  The whole place is crazy with them!!  And, they are all works of creative architectural design.  The Spanish are not afraid to create functional art – let me tell you.  These aren’t simply structures designed to move people or cars over rivers, ravines, train tracks, other roads, etc.  Oh no.  Many were flat out awe-inspiring.  They were “OH MY GOD! Pull the car over, Stanley! I wanna take a photo!” creations.  Sometimes colorful, sometimes monochromatic.  Modern, traditional, gothic, adorned and plain – every single bridge we saw was unique.   In fact, I could spend this entire post telling you all about the many, amazing bridges we saw in Bilbao.  However, that would not do justice to all of the other fascinating and fantastic sights we saw while we were there.  So I will just throw in some photos and mention only one or two of our favorites.  Suffice it to say, if you go to Bilbao, plan to see some cool bridges, in addition to the Guggenheim, of course.  

We spent two whole days in Bilbao – the longest amount of time we planned to spend in any one place for this particular trip.  The biggest reason for the extended stay was the Guggenheim museum.  Those of you who know me very well are probably thinking “Really?!”. Anyone who remembers our trip to Madrid (¡Hola Madrid!) may recall that I am outnumbered by museum lovers in this family.  Such is my fate.  The decision to visit the Guggenheim, or “Goog” as I call it, was entirely Allita’s and primarily because of a dog.  Actually, a statue of a dog.  A West Highland Terrier, to be exact. A massive statue entitled “Puppy” that is made almost entirely from LIVE blooming plants that are somehow shaped in the form of a nearly 12.5-meter tall dog (more about Puppy).  It sits outside the museum.  The decision to go inside the museum was my mother’s.  These particular decisions I do not question, therefore I can only assume her rational was because it’s the Guggenheim.  I mean, come on.  Even I know that’s a thing.  

We stayed at the Hotel Bilbao Plaza.  It sounds more luxurious than it really is (“We stayed at ‘The Plaza’”- just has a ring to it, am I right?) and it was a nice enough place with an excellent view of the Estuary and the Udaletxeko Zubia (bridge).  All of the Bilbao bridges are named.  I guess if you are going to create something amazing like that, you should probably give it a name.  Also, if you leaned a little out of the window in our room and looked over the massive trees lining the promenade along the river, you could just make out the Zubizuri bridge, which was one of my personal favorites.  We chose this location because it was halfway between the Guggenheim and the Old Town of Bilbao.  The two main places we planned to visit.  Also, it was within easy walking distance of the Artxandako funikularra Geltokia, a.k.a. Artxanda Funicular.  It’s the single track funicular that takes you up Artxanda Mountain where you can enjoy a lovely park, some restaurants and, most importantly, the best view of the entire city.  

It rained on us off and on while we were in Bilbao.  The storm had followed us from San Sebastian and it hit hard the first night we were there.  Fortunately, as a result of a sudden downpour, we found ourselves eating dinner inside the most amazing Basque restaurant in Old Town – enjoying berenjenas rellenas (stuffed eggplant), marmitako (fish stew), pisto (ratatouille) and, of course, Sagardoa (apple cider).  Yum!  Allita decided that she does not care for sheep milk cheese, but I was proud of her for at least trying it.  What is a trip to Basque country without gastronomical adventure??  We walked to the Guggenheim early the next morning since we had tickets for the moment the doors opened.  Then we explored the nearby park and saw the Iberdrola dorrea (very tall building), the monument to the sacred heart of Christ, and more bridges (Euskalduna Zubia and Deustuko Zubia).  

Some of the exhibits in the Guggenheim are interactive. You are also allowed to take photos. However, the eagle-eyed docent was quick to advise us “no-no” in one special area. I managed to snap the shot before she pounced. Outside the Guggenheim, on a periodic basis, giant vents release misty fog along the ground that creates a very eerie atmosphere. It also made it hard for us to see the sometimes uneven ground. Yikes! One specific piece really pulled at my heartstrings – the colorful statue of a giant bouquet of tulips – my grandmother’s favorite flowers.

We spent most of our time on foot, but we did take one driving trip along the river and toward the harbor specifically to see the world famous Bizkaiko Zubia (Vizcaya Bridge).  The world’s first iron suspension bridge designed to carry people AND cars in a high-suspension gondola.  Again with the bridges.  I know.  But this one is fairly awesome and we just had to see it.  Although none of my compadres were willing to actually ride across this bridge, we did park the car and got out to watch it travel back and forth.  And, of course, we took lots of photos.  One interesting point about this bridge is that it was designed by a Spaniard (Alberto Palacio) who studied architecture in France under Gustave Eiffel.  Yeah, the Eiffel Tower guy.   It’s a completely cool design that allows ships to easily pass on the waterway as people and cars cross over it but doesn’t require great lengths of sloping roadway on each side in order to raise the people and cars to the necessary height.  In fact, the puente colgante (“hanging bridge”) gondola skims right above the surface of the water! Actually, here’s a link to the wiki page because my photos don’t really do it justice.

We left Bilbao in the early afternoon of what was technically our third day in the city but was only our second morning (think about it…).  The weather was nice – calm and mostly sunny – and we headed down the AP-68 towards Logroño in the heart of La Rioja, Spain’s most famous wine region.   

San Sebastián (Donostia in Basque) is a lovely little Spanish resort town located on the Bay of Biscay, very close to the French border.  Famous for its beaches, nightlife and classy Parte Vieja (Old Town) with upscale vintage/retro/hipster shops and pintxo bars for enjoying Basque cuisine and local wines, it is also home to a fantastic collection of bridges spanning the Urumea river, ornate buildings and a beautiful lighthouse on the tiny isle of Santa Clara that sits in the mouth of the bay around which this city is wrapped.  We were surprised to discover that the city hosts an annual international film festival (SSIFF) every September and it was ongoing at the time of our visit, so we were able to check out the red carpet and associated flamboyant ornamentation. 

Another interesting observation we made was the great number of surfers who were making the most of the gigantic never-ending waves at both Playa de la Concha (Concha beach) and Playa de Ondarreta (Ondarreta beach) and even in the mouth of the Urumea!  Many of them appeared to be quite experienced and the various shops along the Promenade San Sebastián gave the impression that surfing was rather commonplace in this ritzy locale.  

There were many parks and play areas along the boardwalk and on the beaches as is customary in Spain as far as I can tell.  At any given point, it’s never unusual to see children at play, adults exercising, dogs running and jumping, and older couples sitting in the sunshine on the little benches that frequent these areas.  Life here is pure enjoyment – every single moment of the day and each day of the year.  People bask in the sunlight, play music on the streets, sit and drink wine and coffee, savor tasty pastries and pixtos, smoke their hand-rolled, clove-scented tobacco cigarettes, laugh and sing and chatter without a care, and love openly and often.  It’s gratifying just to be among them – osmotically absorbing their joie de vivre and tranquility.  Thankfully happiness is contagious and we are not immune.  

Our first day in San Sebastián was our best day there.  We arrived prior to the rain following us from Pamplona and had many lovely hours to explore the city by car and on foot.  We drove through the streets to see the many architectural wonders (bridges, buildings, tunnels etc.) and explore as much as we could before checking in to our hotel.  We parked at La Concha garage under the SSIFF locale without even knowing it.  As a side note, Allita and I found the parking structure signage hilarious and we giggled about it off and on for most of the rest of our trip.   We eventually exited and walked along the beach under the watchful eye of security and local guarda patrolling nearby presumably for celebrity security although said celebrities were nowhere to be seen at that particular time.  Allita collected her requisite sea shells and splashed about in the icy waters while Mom and I watched the talented surfers riding the massive swells. 

Allita and I left Mom in the room relaxing and we walked the boardwalk along the bay.  There was a playground area and a lovely little park dotted with dog walkers, ladies with prams and small toddling children and even a handful of teens playing sand volleyball.  Eventually we climbed the steep rock staircase that leads to the local palace and wandered the grounds and exterior.  The view of the island of Santa Clara and it’s lovely lighthouse was fantastic from the point (Pico del Loro) at the peak of the grounds overhanging the beach. 

We finally figured out how to descend through the fabulous Antiguako pedestrian tunnel (not uncommon in Spain) and walked along the street, carefully navigating down the huge staircase to the beach and picking our way across the rocks at the base of the royal grounds to “get to the other side”.  Miramar Palace, once a summer house for Spanish Royalty, sits on a huge hill which appears unexpectedly on the coastline.  The land just drops right off into the ocean right there.  BAM!  The rest of the bay area has wide expansive beaches on both sides of the palace stretching east and west at the base of the hill.  The palace grounds go south from the bay as far as you can see and they are very private.  It’s almost like the royal mansion is also being protected by the land should any invaders decide to raid the area.  That’s the perfect place to build a castle actually. 

We wandered through a variety of neighborhoods and communities as we made our way leisurely back to the hotel, stopping to shop for bottled water and something to snack on for dinner.  In the end, we were extremely grateful for our little pedestrian adventure because the weather finally caught up with us around 7pm that evening.

Our hotel was a much-researched affair and we were fortunate to, once again, hit a winner with the Ezeiza.   We intentionally chose a location in Antiguo (the oldest part of the city) on the less touristy Ondarreta beach with fabulous views of Santa Clara island, Bahía de la Concha and, in the distance, la Concha beach, the Puerto (Port) and the Aquarium.  The hotel provided us with an excellent corner room on the floor above the restaurant with wrap-around windows that allowed us to easily see everything to the north, east and west of the city – almost the entire bay of San Sebastián. 

When the storm finally hit, we gaped in awe at the angry breakers crashing into the giant rocks and wide sandy beaches, spraying sheets of salty bay water upwards into the downpour like two armies of water droplets clashing mid-air in unexpected encounter.  The skies morphed from slate grey to deep charcoal as saturated clouds rolled in, smothering the setting sun and bringing thunder and lightening which cracked across the heavens with a vengeance.  It came with the full force of an Atlantic coastal squall, complete with sideways rain and howling winds.  This was another one of those times when I said a silent “thank you” for all our our blessings, including being indoors and protected.  Truly, it was like watching a battle between sky and sea; it was terrifyingly awesome.  

We all enjoyed traditional Spanish breakfast the next morning at the fabulous hotel restaurant where we had previously enjoyed a delicious lunch the day prior.  The morning felt heavy with rain and smelled damp and misty so we knew without a doubt that this was only a temporary cease-fire and not a sustainable truce.  That said, we decided to see if we could once again outpace the bad weather and we departed much sooner than expected to make our way toward Bilbao.  

Oh!  One last item of interest is the port.  Puerto de San Sebastián is a small triangle-shaped affair with about 400 mooring spots, which are all permanently occupied.  In fact, the entire area is private and sale of fresh catch has to be arranged in advance.  It’s one of those “look but don’t touch” places.  Sorry Otis, you won’t find yourself wasting time on these docks pal.  

We departed Barcelona on 23 September 2020 for what we later learned was our last trip of the year.  Mom and I had planned a trip from Pamplona to Bilbao passing through Lleida, Huesca and Donostia-San Sebastian along the way.  We would then wrap up with a day in Logroño as a nod to La Rioja and, if time allowed, a quick stop in Zaragoza on the return home.  Somehow, magically, that’s exactly what happened and we accomplished every single thing we had on our “to-do” list.  It was the perfect trip to end the year, even if it was a few months shy of the actual year-end.  

We took the scenic route from Barcelona – catching the N-240 right away and proceeding almost directly to Lleida and then Huesca.  It was a lovely day and we must have passed literally every possible castle, church, tower, monastery, portal, convent, fountain, palace and/or historical or religious monument available in this region.  It was a tad overwhelming.  If you’re into that sort of thing and you have a couple weeks of life to spare, then I highly recommend renting a car and making this drive.  Plan to spend a lot of time finding a place to park and walking around, however.  Also, please note: traveling in this region of Spain in the late summer / early fall also generally means rainfall should be anticipated.  Pack an umbrella, a Mac and some hardy shoes for sure.  Kind of like any time you plan a trip to Great Britain.  (ha ha)

In fact, we stayed on the N-240 all the way to Pamplona.  What can I say?  It was a good route and we enjoyed all the twists and turns.  Since we left home fairly early in the day and we couldn’t check in to our hotel until the afternoon, we weren’t in a terrible rush to arrive.  Also, hello! V A C A T I O N = time away, so it’s not like we had a clock to punch. As it turns out, we could have been even more leisurely in our progress for the entire trip.  We had allocated more than enough time to see all the sights and we ended up wrapping up much earlier in almost every place we visited.  That never happens!  Go figure.  

Pamplona is so much more than a town where, every year in early July, the men try to play tag with toro bravo bulls running through the city streets.  Although, it is fairly obvious that El Encierro is a big part of the Old Town area as bullfight-related buildings and activities feature heavily on the tourist maps and in nearby shop displays. Pamplona is also the very beginning of the Basque region (located in Navarre) and the first place we noticed the Basque language, along with Spanish, written on signs.  Basque, by the way, is known as Euskara in the actual language and that word alone is an indication of how massive the difference is between Spanish, English and Basque.  Another sign of the lingual complexity is that you can’t actually translate the meaning of Euskal Herria into any other language, although outsiders generally refer to it as Basque Country.  This might be due in large part to the fact that the Basque are actually divided into TWO regions by the Pyrenees – with northern Basque in France and southern Basque in Spain.  Or it could just be that they like having a bizarre, unique language.  Who knows?  Either way, I’m glad that the Spanish government is now taking measures to help preserve this language where they once were much more like France in trying to eliminate it.  

So, what do you know about the Camino de Santiago?  Did you know that most people start their journey in Pamplona instead of St Jean or Roncesvalles?  I didn’t.  In fact, I have to say that I never really gave it much thought.  But as we wandered around the city of Pamplona, exploring the Portal de Francia, the massive, gothic Iglesia San Nicolás, Catedral de Santa María la Real, Plaza de Castillo, Ciudadela and particularly Jardins de La Taconera, we repeatedly noticed the Camino del Norte signs and symbols that indicated we too were traveling the famous pilgrimage.  That was an unexpected bonus. I also didn’t know that the Casco Viejo (Old Town) of Pamplona is a walled-city.  There are literally 5 Km of walls around the city and they are a well-preserved national monument in Spain.  How I missed that little factoid during our pre-trip research is something of a mystery. Pamplona is also where we introduced ourselves to Pintxos (or Pinchos), a tapas-like serving of the delicious, world-famous Basque food, at a lovely little local restaurant in Plaza del Castillo.  As Mr. Kool-Aid would say, “OH YEAH!”.  

I loved finally being able to wander up Calle Estafeta to Santo Domingo and see the famous city street first hand.  I could just imagine the people hanging from the windows and balconies and peering through the windows and over the fences as the runners in their white clothes with only red fajas (sashes) and pañuelos (neck scarves) come dashing past, being chased by and even chasing the bulls as they charge toward the Plaza de Toros.  Allita and I discovered the famous statue honoring the tradition (Monumento al Encierro) and she surprised me with a spontaneous burst of speed which I was lucky to immortalized on film.  She enjoyed visiting the Portal de Francia, the old city gate complete with drawbridge, and watching even the delivery trucks try to navigate through the tiny, torturous opening in the wall.  Mom’s favorite part of Pamplona was staying inside the walled-city, which was also a bit of a surprise to her, amazingly enough. 

Our hotel room had a fantastic view (including a nearby fountain) from its beautiful wrap-around balcony and was centrally located which made walking around the city so much easier.  In fact, I rarely do this, but for them I will make an exception:  if you are ever in Pamplona and in need of accommodations, I absolutely, highly recommend the Hotel Avenida.  They were exceptionally helpful, professional, courteous and went out of their way to provide us with an excellent stay.  Parking was secure and nearby, the room was fantastic, clean, well-stocked and ideally located, the price was very reasonable, and the staff were exceptional.   Allita was even able to attend online school classes from the little desk in the room and by using their internet service (excellent WIFI). Unsolicited endorsement concluded.  😉  

The trip from Lake Maggiore to the Italian Riviera and, finally, the French Riviera, lasted two, incredibly fun-filled days.  We left Baveno and took the A4 headed to Turin and eventually the E717 down toward Savona on the coast.  This route had us passing as close as possible to where Hannibal most likely traveled with his enormous mammalian circus on his way to Rome.  And I thought I had it bad driving this tiny car with 3 sturdy females and a trunk full of luggage!  

The Italian Riviera is quite different from the French Riviera (Côte d’Azur), although geographically they are extremely close together.  The most noticeable difference, in my opinion, is proximity of the mountains.  In Italy, it feels like the mountains go right up to the coastline.  You drive through a mountain, pop out in a small town and before you know it, you are back in a tunnel going through another mountain.  Often the transition happens so quickly that if you aren’t careful and “look fast”, you can miss the little village entirely.  We developed a system as we progressed down the A10.  One person would look left and the other right as soon as the tunnel ended and they would immediately point out any notable sights.  “Oooh, look at that house up there on the cliff!”  “Wow, there is a massive church steeple!”  “Hey, another waterfall!”  Meanwhile, I just listened to all this talk around me while trying diligently to keep up with the carefree Italian drivers sharing the high-speed motorway.  

Of course, they aren’t completely different, right?  The beaches are similar – some are sandy lagoons, some are rocky points and some are covered in smooth pebbles of various shapes and sizes that remind me of the river rocks we used in Tucson to channel water.  The towns are similar – a mess of villas, bungalows, palazzos, condos, townhomes and sometimes high-rises, swathed in warm Mediterranean colors and smashed together with tiny streets snaking chaotically in all directions.  And, finally, the people are similar.   The natives are small to midsized, tanned or olive-skinned with dark hair and eyes, suitably fashionably adorned and usually quite friendly and patient.   The tourists are generally the exact opposite in almost every way, usually in possession and use of high-quality technological devices (iphone, camera, Segway) and often flamboyantly parading around all over the place and generally mucking up traffic.  Sometimes, both natives and tourists are like us, driving their vehicles in all directions trying to figure out where they are and how to get where they want to be.  It’s a fantastic collection of sensory experiences.  

It took all of the first day for us to drive from Baveno to Nice.  On a map, it appears to be such a short distance.  In reality, it might be faster to drive the long way across Tennessee!  We detoured from the A10 right around San Remo.  Remember, the whole goal of this adventure is to experience the world?  So that’s what we decided to do.  See some of the famous Italian coastline, pass through the border at Menton, visit tiny Monaco – the second smallest sovereign state after Vatican City – and, finally, tour a little of Nice, my uncle’s favorite French city, where we were also scheduled to spend the night.  I have been to this section of France at least 20 times in my life but it always takes my breath away.  I love everything about Côte d’Azur.  If time and life allow it, at some future point, I would like to go there with Allita and stay for some weeks so she can explore Nice, Villfranche-sur-Mer, Antibes, Cannes and even Saint Tropez.  But that is for another post altogether.  Allita and I did spend some time visiting the beach just to the south of Nice, near the airport, where she found a tiny conch shell and learned how to skip flat pebbles on the ocean.  

Thanks to online social networking, I have managed to reconnect with a few very good friends from my teenage years living in Germany and attending the Frankfurt International School.  On the next day of our return trip, I was extremely excited to be able to visit, in-person, with just such a friend who happened to be spending her summer vacation with her family in their Port Grimaud home.  I spent the morning impatiently navigating us along the coastal highway through Cannes, Frejus and finally Sainte Maxime, reminding myself to enjoy the lovely views, point out the interesting and historically relevant sights to Mom and Allita and savor this time with my family, even as I counted down the miles to Port Grimaud.  Here is an important note:  if you are on a tight schedule, do not drive through Cannes.  Even in the middle of a pandemic with tourism at historical lows, traffic was bumper-to-bumper in Cannes and the streets were crowded with pedestrian tourists somehow unable to remain on the walkways.  In addition, whatever progress we might have made was virtually eliminated as our forward progression reduced to a literal crawl when the garbage truck entered the single-lane roadway ahead of us.  Instead of suffering from an anger-induced aneurism, which is a very real possibility when I am stuck in such traffic, I took the time to point out the incredible little shops lining the streets, the lively and vibrant colors of the city, the wide array of architecture and, of course, various and sundry entertaining tourists nearby.  

After hours of driving along the cost, popping in and out of little coastal towns and marveling over all the amazing sights, we finally found Port Grimaud.  We managed to locate my friend and her family in much the same manner that we located Lake Maggiore, Baveno and our little Italian villa B&B the day prior.  It was a combination of incredible luck and divine intervention.  Ha!  And it was an experience even better than I could have imagined.  I only regret that we couldn’t stay longer and enjoy more time with each other.  Sadly, we were due to arrive at a lovely little gîte in the tiny town of Vauvert right outside Nîmes for the night – about four hours drive away!  The following day was Allita’s 12 birthday.  It was that location she had chosen for us and there that we would start our celebration and the final hours of our trip.  

Have you ever gone somewhere completely unfamiliar with only a general sense of your direction and no specific route or detailed map to guide you?  Such carefree meandering can either feed your exhilarating spirit of adventure and ultimately create deep feelings of accomplishment or overwhelm you with stress, confusion and anxiety as you end up thoroughly frustrated and lost.  In fact, you might find you experience a combination of all these reactions during the course of a single journey. Or someone in the car with you might be experiencing one set of feelings even as you are on the polar opposite end of the spectrum.  I mention it only because this was the exact situation that occurred throughout most of our trip, but certainly never more than on the return leg of the voyage.  

Mom is typically our navigator.  She absolutely adores maps so this makes her ideally suited for the role.  In fact, she spent many hours pouring over maps and discussing various routes while we were visiting our friends in Switzerland.  We enjoyed a number of dinner table conversations related to tunnels – which is the longest, which is under construction, which is the busiest this time of year, which one dumps us out in the best place, which have we previously traveled, etc.  This led to reminiscing about days gone by and all sorts of tunnel-related memories.  Eventually, as a result of our ruminating, we each had a decent mental map of where we were going and how we might get there.  Of course, our maps were less like a Philips atlas and more like the Miller Atlas. A “60,000 foot” view (so to speak), but it was a decent overall idea of the basic route.  Actually, in the end, this was probably the only thing that saved us from a complete misadventure.  

We bade our German friends farewell in the morning and made our way steadily across the Swiss countryside on Highway 19, snaking through the Alps from Brig to Domodóssola.  We decided to take a route that did not include a tunnel as the weather was finally sunny and beautiful and we wanted to see as much of the countryside as possible.  Also, both Mom and I have had multiple prior life experiences that include being stuck in tunnels in Europe and none of them are positive.  In fact, the last time I piloted a vehicle in Italy, I ended up reversing through a tunnel on the freeway! That said, this was our first time ever traversing the Swiss Alps without driving through some famous tunnel.  Which means, we spent our time precariously hanging on to the surface of the mountains rather than taking a direct (straighter and shorter) route through them.  

Sharing the narrow, twisty road with motorcyclists, tour busses, bicyclists and other motorcars was challenging enough, but when we started to encounter roller-skiers using their impressive thighs to power uphill in the sunny but freezing temperatures, I achieved an entirely new level of driving skill.  Probably this new skill level should be noted on my license and maybe even my resume.  I should also take a moment to point out that this particular carriageway does not have the comforting safety feature of a guard rail that I personally believe would be an excellent investment, if only for the tourists who admittedly do not have the same driving acumen as the locals.  I do not recall a time when, as the driver of the vehicle, I have actively wished for this specific restraint system more than on that one particular route.  Even if it only kept the Alpen cows from wandering across my path!! 

After a thrilling decent complete with waterfalls, cheese huts, fantastic wildflowers, wayward bovines and tiny picturesque villages, we popped out of the Alps into northern Italy.  It is at this precise moment that our adventure evolved into more of a “general-sense-of-direction” situation.  We planned to use the same tactic we had previously used on multiple occasions: identifying familiar destinations on the road signs and progressing forward by default.  Unfortunately, it turns out there is a great deal of difference in specificity between the 60,000-foot perspective and the actual, wheels-on-the-road level when it comes to navigating through northern Italy.  The towns listed on the map were not listed on the immediate road signs and vice versa.  In fact, we weren’t entirely confident of any harmony between our mental and physical maps. After a considerable distance, we might be fortunate to identify a familiar location by name which was usually enough to turn us around or to spur us on.  I reminded myself many times that the point of relocating to Europe was to “see more of the world” and that was exactly what we were accomplishing even if it was a little more granular than I had originally anticipated.  

I can not tell you much about where we were in northern Italy except to say that it was very lovely there.  We toured some farmland (likely on a private road) and wandered along a river (we were convinced it would take us closer to a lake) and through a variety of quaint small towns (each with so many traffic circles that it is a wonder we are not still there driving around in loops).  Somehow, miraculously, we arrived in Baveno and eventually, with our last remaining drop of luck, found the B&B we had reserved in the Italian villa overlooking Lake Maggiore.  We celebrated our accomplishments on the balcony overlooking the beautiful town and waters while Allita read to use about the historical significance of Palazzo Borromeo, visible on a tiny island in the distance.  All-in-all, the trip was “molto bello” and I felt like a modern-day Marco Polo audaciously and meticulously exploring a small part of our world.    

Photos by Allita Barefoot

It was primarily a lake trip.  We didn’t really intend for it to be a lake trip, but it certainly ended up that way. Our real goal was to spend three days visiting family friends who live on the Bodensee or Lake Constance in Switzerland before turning around and heading back to Barcelona.  Lake Constance (Bodensee) lies between Germany, Switzerland and Austria and we have visited our friends there in previous years (see Life on the Bodensee).  However, Allita has mostly flown into Switzerland and never explored any of the other lakes, of which there are many, so on this trip, we decided to do something new for her benefit.  We went lake hopping.  

Most of the lakes in this area can be attributed to the Alps.  Makes sense, right?  Huge chain of massive mountains and water runs downhill, so there should be streams, waterfalls, rivers and ultimately, lakes.  In fact, there are so many lakes that sometimes it’s difficult to remember just which one you are passing.  Because we have EU-only mobile phones, we were unable to use our cellular GPS devices in Switzerland, so our trip was conducted entirely old-school.  Thankfully, we had an excellent navigator (my mother) armed with an extraordinarily detailed map, so we were quite never as lost as we feared we were.  Additionally, the lack of computer-automated voice constantly chirping piloting instructions at me was a welcome relief and kept all of us on our toes reading road signs and looking diligently for street names and points-of-interest.  It was a game: the one who could spot the most useful information for the navigator gained the most points.  Usually it was Allita who, from the backseat was not hampered by other duties such as safe driving and had both greater freedom and flexibility for enhanced visual screening.  “I see a MASSIVE BRIDGE up ahead” or “I see ANOTHER lake in the distance!”, she would shout.  Mom would scan her map, identify the most likely name of said object and confirm that we were, indeed, headed in the correct direction.  This was particularly useful in Geneva when we drove through the city on some road we will surely never find again. Somehow, magically, we passed St. Pierre Cathedral, traveled immediately alongside the Rhône and over the Bel-Air bridge, past Pont des Bergues and straight to the Jardins Anglais crossing over the very bridge I wanted Allita to see (Pont du Mont Blanc).   We swept through town and finally stopped at the Geneva Water Fountain to catch our breath and marvel at our urban driving skills.  

What can I say?  I love Geneva.  I love to ride down the various quai (“docks” or water-front streets) that run alongside the massive lake.  To see things like Maison-Royale and other fabulous buildings, the various parks and beaches, the marinas and yacht clubs.  Why else do you drive to the lake, if not for the fabulous sights along the way?  Well, and the food, of course.  Lac Léman (Lake Geneva) is one of my very favorite places to visit.  We stopped for a short break to stretch our legs, share a small repast and absorb some culture in a tiny town named Thonon-les-Bains.  While there, Allita and I toured an old fishing museum dedicated to the history of fishing on the lake (Écomusée de la Pêche et du Lac) while Mom went people-watching at the Château de Ripaille park.  We enjoyed a miniature frozen treat on the walk back to the car.  I forgot how very small the scoops of ice cream and wafer cones can be in these villages.  Super cute and very refreshing!

 We spent our first night in a unique B&B overlooking the lake from the cosy town of Lugrin.  Our rooms were on the very top floor of the street-side building that took us nearly an hour to locate because of a gross lack of signage and ongoing construction.  However, the locals were extremely helpful and pointed us in the exact location.  The rest was fairly simple, except climbing four flights of stairs (no elevator!) with all the luggage!  Thankfully, although there was no air-conditioning, our rooms had doors that opened onto a front and rear balcony, allowing cool lake air to sweep across and throughout the suite and cool off the entire place.  Delicious!  

The next day, we woke early and took the scenic route, slowly winding our way through the mountains and valleys that always remind me of Heidi and Ricola commercials. We stopped in Grubenwald for an earlier-than-normal lunch at a typical Swiss chalet-style restaurant, Zum Schlössli. It was magnificent. We all ate too much. As we made our way , we passed the Thunersee, the Brienzersee, and the Sarnersee until we finally entered Lucerne. Mom’s very favorite place in all of the world.  What’s so fabulous about Lucerne, you might ask?  Well, really.  Have you been there?  It’s absolutely gorgeous and massive for the lakes in this area.  They don’t call it Vierwaldstättersee (Lake of Four Cantons) for nothing. 

Lucerne is a town made for walking.  There are bridges everywhere that cross back and forth over the Reuss (river) and some of them even have names!  We visited Spreuer Bridge and Chapel Bridge to name a couple.  Further, the tiny, winding streets of old Lucerne are really suitable only for pedestrians (although daring drivers in mini-vehicles are allowed!) who can easily and instantly stop and gawk at the amazing architecture and decorations sprinkled liberally around the town.  There are fascinating fountains, random sculptures, painted façades, elaborate signs, brick and stone work that is stunning and a wealth of other visual gems to see.  Also, there are plenty of clocks. The Swiss love their clocks! Suffice it to say, one single day in Lucerne is absolutely not enough time to spend there, but alas, it is all the time we had.  Still, we did park and we did walk and gawk and enjoy many of the city sights, smells and tastes before we made our way to Goldau for the night.  

Goldau is a lovely little burg snuggled in between Lake Lucerne, the Zügernsee, Lauerzersee and Lake Ägeri.  The biggest boast this town can make is the Natur- und Tierpark (Nature and Animal Park) located just outside of town.  Lynx, wolves and bears – oh my!  We stayed in an absolutely amazing B&B that was actually a private apartment attached to the equivalent of a Swiss mansion.  We had our own private entrance and parking plus our own private gardens that stretched from the front all the way around to the rear and included a lovely patio and huge grassy area.  If I weren’t exhausted, I’m sure I would have welcomed a game of football or frisbee as the location was just so perfect.  The icing on the cake was our hostess who brews her own beer!  Would we be so kind as to taste and offer our opinions on her ales?  A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E-L-Y!  I, personally, would never miss an opportunity to either 1. drink a beer or 2. offer my opinion about something.  She wanted BOTH and for FREE.  I mean, it was heaven.  With a lovely view of the Zügernsee from the front and a kitchen furnished with gourmet coffee and an espresso machine, I could have happily lived there for a month.  However, our agenda did not allow such dalliances.  The next day, we were scheduled to arrive in Rorschacherberg! Bodensee ho!

P.S. Allita totally trounced us on the navigational assistance game. We gave up tallying after she gained a massive lead. Also, I learned this is an excellent way to keep her interested in her surroundings while in the car for many hours! BONUS!!

“I’m a little baby in a barrel just taking everything in. I’m just so fortunate to do whatever I’m doing.” LaKeith Stanfield

https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3147751/bio

In mid-July we watched with some trepidation as news of increasing coronavirus cases in Spain began to spread.  Although the case numbers were higher, the percent positive of the total tested was relatively flat.  Scientists were cautioning politicians not to overreact. They perceived this to be a logical and even predicted increase in some populations of data.  However, local Catalan government officials jumped into action with revised quarantine requirements, social controls and a “recommendation” to stay home except in cases of urgent need.  We were advised that if you were stopped by police on the roadway, you could expect to be turned around and sent home if they decided your “need” wasn’t sufficient.  On the day we snuck out of Barcelona, the French government cautioned citizens against travel to Spain, particularly Catalonia and Aragon.  We fully anticipated our trip to be forcibly aborted by the powers that be – either at the rental car agency, police on the Spanish highway or agents at the French border.  We had resigned ourselves to expect failure.  Imagine how shocked and delighted we were at our success!  

Sidebar:  As someone who has spent a lifetime reviewing and analyzing scientific data, test results, investigations, protocols and reports, I am skeptical of everything.  I assume facts are fiction unless I am proven otherwise.  Heck, I took 3 O.T.C. home tests and got a blood test at the doctor’s office before I believed I was pregnant.  Never mind any ancillary evidence that might have supported the obvious outcome.  Make no assumptions and don’t jump to conclusions!  These are important lessons I have learned.  So, the decision we made to travel in the middle of a pandemic even as news of increasing case numbers was reported was not made lightly.  In fact, I spent two weeks pouring over every single source of information I could find and monitoring outlets for new data that might cause me to change our plans.  I never found conclusive evidence to confirm, at that time, we were on the cusp of a massive second wave and, therefore, at risk of imminent infection should we travel.  The reality is we are alive and, yes, there are dangers in this world.  If I live my life in fear of every single danger that exists, I will not truly be living.  If I live my life with complete disregard to danger, then I place myself at high risk and probably won’t be alive very long.  So, I try to make decisions that result in an outcome somewhere in the middle.  Somewhere between agoraphobia and hospitalization.   Looking back, the choice we made was a good one – the outcome was fantastic and the timing was excellent.  WINNER!!

On 21 July 2020, we loaded up the rental car and made our way toward Lyon, France.  After we successfully crossed the invisible border between Spain and France, we stopped for lunch in Fitou, France.  Fitou is basically nowhere.  Their wikipedia page (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fitou) literally has two sentences: one about the commune of Fitou and one about their wine (naturellement).  However, the view of the Mediterranean is absolutely lovely from the picnic area at the Aire de Fitou (rest stop) on the A9 and it made a lovely first stop for us to stretch our legs and take a breather.  

It was a long day in the car.  560 km of driving and a total of about 7 hours on the road because we hit the most nasty Stau (traffic jam) outside of Montpellier.  We were literally at a stand-still; parked on the autoroute for 20 minutes at a time, off and on, over the course of an hour.  We never saw an accident or any indication of the cause for the massive congestion.  It’s likely we will never know what happened to cause the delay.  Although it is interesting that later in the day, when I mentioned we had driven through traffic in Montpellier, a local scrunched his face as though he had a bad tasted in his mouth or was smelling something unpleasant.  Makes you wonder, right?  

Our destination for this first day of our adventure was a lovely little gîte rural (cottage or lodging) located on a working farm, including vineyard and orchard, in Chanos-Curson, France.  This little village is situated in the Rhône-Alpes region, obviously named for the Rhône river and the Alps, and is home to some of the most amazing farms and beautiful countryside.  We passed countless fields of bright, yellow sunflowers, hillsides covered in vines hanging heavy with grapes, and rows and rows of orchards filled with apricot, apple, pear, walnut and other trees often cordoned to large stakes in a traditional espalier design to allow for maximum productivity and ease of harvesting.  This area is also well known for its cheese and, of course, Côtes du Rhône wine!        

We found La Ferme des Denis quite by accident when Mom and I were first planning this trip.  In times past, we would routinely strike out in the car and drive as long and as far as we wanted.  Then we would stop for the night at some cute little pension or attractive auberge located in a tiny burg nestled along the route.   We never made reservations and seldom did much planning except to review a map so that we had a general idea of the names of the towns we might pass or places we might see.  The pandemic has created a situation where all of that is changed.  We can no longer be as carefree as we once were.  Who knows if there will be a pension even open and available?  Many have closed due to the pandemic and the resulting poor economy. Staying in a hotel means a big town or city near the major highway and makes it difficult to explore the country on rural routes. Plus, it compromises our social distancing as we would have to share public spaces (lobby, elevator, hallway) and be forced to eat in restaurants.  So, for this trip, we decided to plan in advance. We chose lodging that afforded us privacy and a variety of amenities but did not compromise our safety.  Additionally, we packed plenty cleaning and disinfection supplies so that we could be sure to sanitize all the surfaces we would routinely contact during our stay.  Therefore, we relied heavily on Air B&B to locate unique and personalized destinations.  One of these was an actual barrel.  

Denis and his wife had their barrel gîte made from the exact same wooden slates that are used to construct wine barrels in this region.  The little cottage is so unusual and precious tucked away behind the massive old farmhouse and sprawling courtyard that, at first, it looks like a toy.  However, it comes equipped with a full kitchen (refrigerator, freezer, microwave, stove, coffeemaker, etc.), dining table and chairs and a sofa that is easily made into a bed.  There is a raised platform in the rear where a permanent double bed is located and next to it is the full bathroom with shower.  The window in the rear is the only one that officially opens completely but with the front door open, there is sufficient breeze to freshen and cool the air.  Should it be unusually warm, there is also a little air conditioner that drains through a tiny tube to the outside.  Should it be unusually cold, there is a little heater and fan, plenty of thick, down comforters stored in the tiny closet and a heated towel rack in the bathroom.  It sounds much larger than it actually is.  Less than 30 feet from the front door to the back wall and 10-12 feet in diameter, it is bigger than our RV but not by much.  I could have lived in this cozy space for months, it was so perfect.   

Denis and his family are absolutely lovely people.  He is the 19th generation to live on this farm and the main house itself was built in the 1400s.  They speak only French.  This was not a problem for me as French is one of the four languages I speak.  Mom took French in High School and Allita takes it now.  So, we were all able to fumble along quite nicely.  They invited us to enjoy their covered, outdoor pool and they gifted us a bottle of white wine from their vineyard.  After we got settled, we took a short drive into Tain-l’Hermitage, a nearby town of some significance in that it is big enough for a supermarché (supermarket).  We saw the Église Saint-Julien (church) and crossed the Rhône on the magnificent Passerelle Marc Seguin (bridge).  The river was massive but beautiful and there was at least one tour boat running with a few passengers.  Many people were out and about, walking and shopping and traversing the city, but very few, if any, wore facemarks or any other form of P.P.E.  After we finished our brief visit, we purchased some supplies for dinner and returned to the safety of our little barrel home.  

It rained all night long and the music of the rain on the curved metal roof of the barrel plus the cool air wafting through the open window was enough to ensure we all rested very well.  The next morning, we enjoyed petit déjeuner (breakfast) provided by Denis and his wife at the main house in the open-air kitchen off the courtyard.  He baked a special traditional bread in the outdoor oven and she offered us fresh preserves made from the fruits of their orchard plus some fresh squeezed apricot juice.  What a delicious start to the day!  All-in-all, our night in the barrel was an amazing opportunity and an excellent beginning for our adventure.  Yes, we too felt fortunate for our experience, Mr. Stanfield.    

The plan for this leg of the journey was to drive through Figures, hopefully find a place to park, and see the Dalí museum.  The building is famous architecturally in addition to being the final resting place of much of Dalí’s art and the man himself.  I had researched Figures online and determined it would be easy enough to park near the museum and possibly stretch our legs for a bit.  However, we soon discovered that Figures is a mass of tiny, one-way streets that twist, turn and, often, unexpectedly dead-end.  As I mentioned previously, the GPS is not able to keep up with your car when you are maneuvering through these tiny city streets so our phone maps were next to useless.  At one point, my mother, who is frustrated by Google Maps on a good day, threw up her hands in exasperation and cried “Even this stupid phone doesn’t know how to get there!”  To make matters worse, there is very little signage in Figures, so we were not able to rely on a blue or brown marker to point the way.  Finally, with all of us working diligently to translate and navigate, we somehow arrived at the museum!  We recognized the eggs on the roof immediately. The very same roof-top eggs we saw at Dalí’s home in Port Llegat (see Quirky Cadaqués).

Because of the pandemic, the museum was closed when we arrived so we decided to do a slow drive-by instead.   All of the photos I have of the museum were taken by Allita who hung out the rear passenger window, snapping shots like mad and shouting directions at me – “Pull over!, Stop a minute!, Go forward just a little!, Wait! Go back!”  I felt like I was driving through a photoshoot with Annie Leibovitz in the backseat. 

By now, we had gotten our fill of navigating downtown Figures, so we took the quickest exit towards Esponellà.  Actually, we took the quickest exit and hoped we were headed the right way.  It wasn’t for another hour that we decided all was well with our navigation.  Ha!

We made our way through the tiny towns of Navata, Pompià and Crespià on a winding country road that took us past fields of farms and ranches, ruins of structures (churches? castles?) from long-ago days, and over a multitude of creeks and streams at the base of the Pyrenees.  Finally, we crossed the river, El Fluvià, on a tiny one-lane bridge controlled by traffic light (thankfully) and arrived at Camping Esponellà, our destination for the next two nights. 

Camping Esponellà is another resort-style campground with a variety of fantastic activities including mini-golf, foosball, swimming pools, table tennis, a bar and a restaurant all situated right along the banks of the river.  Unfortunately, their proximity to the river also means mosquitos.  Many mosquitos.  However, they were a good deal less aggressive, persistent and annoying than their cousins in Arizona.  The Spanish have polite mosquitoes – why does this discovery not surprise me?  Still, we were able to set up our tent and get the car unpacked before the rain started.  This was quite a fortuitous accomplishment because when the rain came, it came in with a grand entrance.  In fact, it made quite the statement most of the night.  

We had planned for rain.  Well, ok, not exactly.  We saw only sunny skies for our trip when we left Barcelona, but Mom, who is our resident weather expert, reported in Platja d’Aro that there was a chance of rain for the next two days!  So, I drove us to a store on the way out of town and we procured a plastic drop cloth to fashion into a rain fly for the tent/canopy.  We actually bought two because the puny things were about 2mm thick and we did not expect one to last through a storm.  Needless-to-say, we were pleasantly surprised and delighted to discover that our 4m x 5m thin plastic sheet was quite suitable and did a fantastic job of keeping the tent and all occupants dry from any rain that tried to penetrate the roof. 

Thus, on our first night in Esponellà, I was able to sleep inside the tent, with all our belongings piled all around me on every possible plastic item we had (inflatable rafts, the shower curtain floor, one inflatable air mattress, etc.) so that all would remain as dry as possible.  Mom and Allita slept on a single inflatable twin mattress inside the back of the van.  See?  Renting a van WAS a good idea after all.  And yes, I did preen for a bit the next morning.  

The next day, Allita and I decided to make a trip to the Haribo factory in Banyoles.  How often does one have a chance to visit the place where Gummi Bears are made?  We left Mom at the campground, reading a book in a sliver of sunshine and talking to the mosquitos, and drove down another fabulous, winding country road through downtown Esponellà and Melianta until we reached the autoroute just outside Banyoles.  We missed our exit the first time, so we had the opportunity to do a Spanish u-turn, drive through four traffic circles, and then finally arrive.  The factory has considerable security restrictions, not all of them due to Covid-19.  Sadly, we were unable to take any photographs.  We were, however, able to make full use of the company store, where we applied our 20% discount coupon from the campground and made off with giant bags of candy like thieves in the night.  It was fabulous!  Further, we ate as much of our bounty as we dared in the car on the way back to Esponellà and nearly ended up making ourselves sick in the process. 

To ease off the sugar rush, we parked in the tiny medieval town and wandered around, exploring passageways and narrow paths that, on more than one occasion, took us into someone’s backyard!  Two resident chickens pointed out the folly of our ways and directed us toward the route back to the van.  Finally, we returned to the nearby campground, confessed our sins to GG, and eventually embarked on an afternoon foosball and mini-golf tournament.  Before the end of the evening, we swam in the not-heated-very-much-if-actually-at-all pool and enjoyed a lovely meal at the poolside restaurant.  All-in-all, it was an excellent venturesome day!  

We left Esponellà the following morning and slowly made our way back to Barcelona via Manresa.  The first leg of our return trip took us through Parc Natural de la Zona Volcànica de la Garrotxa.  Volcanic cones, lava flows, nature reserves, medieval castles, acres of farmland and the lovely Pyrennes filled our view for miles.  Also, we crossed the river, El Fluvià, so many times, it became a joke.  Every time we saw a bridge ahead, someone would shout “It’s El Fluvià” and we would all laugh ourselves silly. 

About mid-way, we passed through Vic, a mysteriously backwards town that I have long wanted to visit.  In the winter, Vic is almost continuously covered by fog.  Due to the geography of the area, the little town sits smack in the middle of a thermal inversion.  How cool is that?  Puns aside, Vic is interesting because it is one of the few, rare regions in Spain where the climate is not wholly Mediterranean.  Actually, I’m sure it’s interesting for many other reasons – probably some Roman, some religious, and some cultural or economic – but for me, it’s the creepy, persistent fog that makes Vic fascinating.  Regrettably, the fog is a winter treat only, so we didn’t spend any real time in Vic other than to pass through on our way to Manresa.  

We entered Manresa with very little idea where we were going and what we would do there.  I had researched the small town but had not decided on any particular place as our destination.  In fact, our plan was more shoot-from-the-hip than normal so we wandered a bit here and there before we finally discovered a parking spot suitable for the van.  Serendipitously, the spot we found was just at the base of the famous Collegiate Basilica of Santa Maria, or La Seu, which is also the principle monument of Manresa.  

The church sits on top of the tallest hill in the city and from the yard, you can easily see the famous Roman bridge, Pont Vell, with its peaked shape (one long arch in the center and several other arches in symmetry on either side), and the nearby medieval walls that once surrounded the city but now remain only in well-preserved sections.   It was breath-taking – both the hike up the never-ending staircase to the church base and the well-earned view from the grounds overlooking the old city. 

Next, we decided to embark on a walking tour of old town Manresa.  The city was celebrating their Festa Major so the streets were decorated with banners, flags, bows, streamers and a variety of other traditional ornaments.  In one small square, we discovered the perfect outdoor restaurant for a late lunch.  Finally, and with very little aplomb, we departed Manresa, completed the return trip to Barcelona and brought an end to our first 2020 summer adventure.  It wasn’t nearly as rough as I had feared and we all enjoyed a lovely week exploring the Spanish northeast.

Cadaqués is a typical Mediterranean post-card town with a multitude of white-walled buildings stacked precariously in uneven rows along a ragged coastline. A smattering of which sweep upwards into the hillsides filled with olive groves of all ages.  To get there, you either need a small yacht or a dependable vehicle unafraid to traverse the winding road painstakingly built along the rocky, steep terrain. There is only one main highway, GI-614, allowed to go into and out of Cadaqués.  There are other routes, but they don’t qualify as roads – more like lanes that often converge into single status in order to cross a bridge or round a sharp corner, of which there are many.  This is the nature of the Costa Brava – the wild coast.  The land appears to have pushed it’s way from the very center of the earth before it finally, gradually allowed life to grow upon its surface.  It is the epitome of wild.  It is random and rough and, at times, scary.  For this reason, the tiny city of Cadaqués is a hidden little gem that miraculously appears out of nowhere when you creep around the last corner and find your way suddenly in the main traffic circle.  It surprises you like that last little Russian doll nesting in the set.  Ta-da!  

To get to Cadaqués, we drove around the large, bustling yet beautiful city of Roses.  We actually spent plenty of time driving around Roses as we passed it on the way into Cadaqués and again, on the way out!  If you do decide to explore the Costa Brava from the oceanic perspective and are therefore in need of a respectable craft, Roses is the place for you!  Never have I seen such an outstanding collection of procurable sea-faring vessels all snuggled together in one place.  Some for sale, some for rent, some for trade, etc.  I imagine the options are as limitless as the supply.  In fact, the one single scenic overlook on the GI-614 headed towards Cadaqués provides an excellent view of the vast marina that is Roses.  Also, every now and then, you might see some actual roses growing in the orchards and vineyards along the way.  I presume, however, they are present to encourage bees more than sailors.  

Allita was able to successfully navigate us around the town of Cadaqués and to the Camping Cadaqués campground I had previously identified as a possible overnight location for us.  Sadly, this particular campground closed in March due to the pandemic and has not since re-opened.  Given the strict requirements for reopening such a business, it seems reasonable, if disappointing, that some might not afford a positive cost-benefit analysis.  So, we drove back into town and decided to explore our options.  

At this point, I will remind you that I had rented a van for this trip.  We were supposed to be camping and we needed the extra space in the event we had to sleep inside the vehicle, for whatever reason.  So we had a rather large minivan (which sounds like an oxymoron).  A van is not a typical Spanish vehicle.  One does not see many SUVs, minivans, trucks, or large, 4-door sedans driving around the Spanish countryside.  In these little towns, even the delivery vehicles appear to be skinnier designs that can barely carry two passengers and have magical, Mary-Poppins-esque cargo areas capable of transporting more goods that seem physically possible.  These are people who drive small, thin cars because they drive on small, narrow streets.  In some cases, they aren’t actually streets, they are more like paths that have been worn over time and are now part of the regular thoroughfare.  Many of them are paved, some are cobblestone or rock, and a few are just dirt.  Almost none of them have street signs that provide any sort of identification and you can forget using your GPS.  

So, here I was driving this robust van through the tiny, winding rastells of Cadaqués so we could “get a feel” for the place and “look around a little” (I’m quoting my mother, by the way) before we finally settled down for the night.  The van came equipped with a navigational assistance feature that I could not figure out how to disable.  This feature is accompanied by an in-dash camera system that displays the outside peripheral view and also has a digital outline of the vehicle that lights up using a color-coded scheme to warn you when you are approaching something the sensors can detect.  It could be a bush or a building.  It could be on any side of the vehicle as the system covers the entire perimeter!  The car can be in drive or in reverse.  As long as the vehicle is in gear, the system is functioning.  Also, the system will emit a loud “beep” to remind you of impending doom in case you missed the flashing, color-coded lights and the camera image.   The beeping becomes more insistent the closer you get to the object the sensor detects.  I confirmed this through repeated testing.  In fact, driving this van through downtown Cadaqués was a little like playing a video game inside the car.  There were frequently flashing lights and lots of beeping, and I was cursing while Mom and Allita laughed and pointed at things nearby.   Fortunately, there were no lost lives, but I surprised a number of people, including one waiter who popped out in front of me while I was trying to squeeze the van between his restaurant and the outdoor tables.  Honestly, I was on the road.  I swear it.  

[rastell: a street with a steep slope which is formed with pieces of slate stone placed in a vertical position] 

Finally, when I had experienced all the driving fun I possibly could, we adventitiously arrived back at our origin and I created a parking spot in front of a lovely-looking hotel.  We remain disappointed that we were unable to camp in Cadaqués because we now can not proclaim this a “camping trip”.  Still, in retrospect, I have to admit it was nice to spend one evening in a complete room with a semi-solid mattress and a tub in the bathroom (see Roughing It – Platja d’Aro for related details).  Not to mention the air conditioning.  The hotel manager was even kind enough to store our small cooler bag in her kitchen refrigerator overnight so that we didn’t immediately need ice.  Finally, the location of our hotel was also excellent and it included a private and secure parking lot.   In the end, I was delighted to walk a short way to the marina, locate a lovely restaurant right on the waterfront and enjoy some tapas and Tinto at the end of a very long day.   

Early the next morning, after a light breakfast, we walked through Cadaqués to the neighboring village of Port Lligat where Salvador Dalí had a beach home that is now a museum.  This was actually one of our main reasons for being in Cadaqués.  Yes, the Casa Blava is pretty and blue.  Yes, the Church of Saint Mary is large and lovely.  Yes, the marina is quite picturesque.  And, certainly, Dalí isn’t the only notable visitor to Cadaqués.  Pablo Picasso, Joan Miró and Walt Disney were also here – to name a few.  In fact, this little city is so quirky and unique, so like Dalí himself, that it seems appropriate it be linked to him in our minds.  One store we passed sold only pots – no seeds, plants, books on gardening, watering containers – nope, only pots. A local restaurant had repurposed old tractor parts as tables and chairs. They even have a statue of Dalí standing with his back to the marina and beach, looking up at the little town and smiling his strange smile.  It was a fantastic walk, up steep slopes, down rocky trails and through narrow alleys overlooking houses and yards.  We were able to see so much of Cadaqués that our walking tour felt almost personal – like we were sneaking through someone’s backyard – and, in a way, we were.  Every house was built up the hill so that each ended just as another started and they were stacked, literally, one on top of the other.  The best view of the city was found standing in the middle of an olive grove just as we popped over the top of the last hill. 

The first time we left Cadaqués was to travel to the point of Cap de Creus which is the eastern-most point of the Iberian peninsula.  Another good reason to be in this area.  This drive was not unlike the drive into Cadaqués although the road was more narrow, which is a feat I did not previously think possible.  Just as we came around one particularly perilous corner overhanging a shear drop-off, we met a massive RV!  To this day, I have no idea how we survived that moment.  Furthermore, I have no idea how either vehicle got through unscathed and continued forward as though nothing of any great significance had occurred.  Thankfully I returned to my corporal state quickly enough to resume management of the vehicle and pretend all was right with the world.  The inside of the van was eerily quiet until Mom announced “Well, we’re officially on vacation now!”.  She was making reference to a nearly identical experience we had on a trip we made many years ago to Portofino, Italy with my uncles, Larry and Jim.   Portofino, Italy is like Cadaqués in that it is also built on the side of a steep mountain that ends abruptly in the sea and possesses only one narrow road into and out of the town.  I met a city bus in a hairpin turn and we were in the inside lane with the mountain on one side and the bus on the other.  Just like the last time, I didn’t even slow down when I saw the RV – I just said a little prayer and hoped for the best.  Another once-in-a-lifetime experience that I have repeated.  Go figure.  

We enjoyed our visit to Cap de Creus.  Mom didn’t leave the car, but Allita and I got out and walked around the lighthouse, saw the official “eastern-most point” marker, took some photos and left.  We ate lunch and then hit the road to Figures.  This would be the last time we would leave Cadaqués and drive around Roses.  It would also be our last view of the Costa Brava as we made our way in-land to the official home of the Dalí museum (where the man himself is buried) and eventually through the Volcanic National Park to Esponella.  Thankfully, the roads evolved into highways with multiple, wide lanes and no cliffs. What a relief.  

On Monday, 29 June 2020, after I taxied down to the train station, retrieved the rental van and disinfected the entire interior of said van with Sanitol (a.k.a. Lysol) wipes, we loaded up all our bags and camping equipment with the help of our friendly concierge, Antonio, and began our journey up the Costa Brava.  I had printed some navigational instructions for Allita so she could assist me in the journey without getting “bored” (since iPads are verboten while traveling via car, bus or train).  She was working in harmony with Mom who was manning the map notebook – the kind of map that is ring-bound and has numbers on all four sides of the page so you know where to turn to next depending on which direction you’re going.  The plan was fairly simple: Go north. Follow the coast highway. See the Costa Brava.  Find a place to camp for the night.  Done!

We spent many hours driving up the coast.  The views were amazing.  We traveled through small beach towns with fantastic homes and businesses lined up right along the side of the highway which also traveled in parallel with the train tracks (Vilassar de Mar).  The road is on the west side of the train track and the beach is on the east side.  So in order to reach the beach, you have to find a parking spot (this is a big challenge) and then a passenger tunnel or bridge (boardwalk) in order to cross over the rails.  More often than not, the paths were tunnels marked with a little blue sign of a person descending a staircase.  That was an interesting discovery since it was not identified once during the hours of study of Spanish road signs I had previously undertaken.

I had actually done a tremendous amount of research prior to our trip.  I’m sure this comes as no real surprise to anyone reading this who also knows me well.  I like to gather as many details and facts as I can before I make a decision about any action I’m about to take.  I have not always been this fastidious.  However, prior life experiences have shown me that “Oh man! I can do better than that! Here, hold my beer!” is definitely not the best approach and something a bit more organized and deliberate generally has a better outcome.  All that said, I already had some ideas about where we might spend our first few nights.  Also, at this point, I would like to mention that navigating in Europe is much easier if you know the name of the town where you are headed.  Or, better yet, the names of various towns along your route.  This way, you can simply point your car toward the path marked by the sign with a town name you recognize and not worry about pesky details such as road numbers or global direction.  In the end, the signs will lead you to the place where you want to be.    

We finally stopped for lunch in Sant Pol de Mar.  We took the first exit into town.  The sign indicated the beach was nearby.  We drove through the little town a ways and Mom pointed out a parking lot sign.  I could not see how to drive the van into that particular lot until after we zipped past the entrance.  Dang!  I assured everyone that I would find another parking lot somewhere up ahead and we would make it to the beach easy as pie.  Yeah.  Famous last words.  I ended up navigating this huge mini-van down the narrow winding streets of this tiny little burg, swearing at the stupid “navigational assistance” system every time it beeped at me to warn that I was “too close” to something and was likely in danger of hitting it (by-the-way, this includes plants and humans as well as structures like cars or buildings).  The stupid thing was beeping like a video game.  Meanwhile, I felt like I was trying to drag a massive carry-on bag down the isle of the coach section of a 747 without hitting any of the seats on either side.  It was nearly impossible.  If ever I needed a glass of Tinto, it was certainly the moment when we popped out of downtown Sant Pol and eased into an actual parking spot.  I felt everyone in the car exhale.  Like we had been holding in our collective breath to “suck in” the sides of the car and squeeze through town.  Ha!  Unfortunately, by the time we finally found an actual parking spot, we had climbed the hill to the top of the town and the beach was a VERY long trek down a VERY steep hill, which wasn’t nearly as worrisome as the return trip.  After some mental calculations, we decided to pass on that particular location. However, you will be delighted to know, that within less than a mile, I found another suitable parking spot with an easy and only slightly downhill walk to the sandy coastline.  Yeah, that’s Costa Brava.  One minute you are at sea level and the next minute you are looking through the clouds to see Mother Earth.  No kidding.

After a leisurely lunch and some time in the sand, we packed up again and headed north to Tossa de Mar (the blue paradise).  At this point, the road had metamorphosised from a sunny, leisurely coastal highway to a winding mountainous trail with hairpin turns, narrow lanes and hair-raising cliffs.  It was fantastic!   I, of course, was not driving fast enough for my mother who learned to drive a Ford Mustang on roads identical to these in western North Carolina.  However, I was driving waaaaaay to quickly for Allita who was hanging her head out the window trying not to lose her lunch every time we made a corner.  Poor kid.  She’s from Arlington, Texas remember?  She prefers flat, fast highways.  I enjoyed the drive, regardless of the grousing from the audience, and made a point of stopping at every scenic overlook (marked by a sign with an image of an old-fashioned camera).  Driver’s privilege!  So I have lots of great pics taken from the scenic green route on Mom’s map notebook.  Thank God I used my phone so the GPS knows where we actually were.

We arrived in Platja d’Aro and thanks to Allita’s keen navigating, we found the campground and were able to secure a spot for two nights.  Camping Reimbau is a lovely resort campground in Platja d’Aro.  It’s near enough to the beach that we can easily walk and yet far enough away that we aren’t only focused on “beach”.  There are lots of ancillary activities including several pools, playground, table tennis, mini golf, exercise classes including an entire room dedicated to spinning (on bicycles, unfortunately), tennis courts, basketball courts, a bar and a restaurant.  There is also a shopping market, a store full of interesting African-influenced native creations, a laundry mat, and the requisite bath houses/showers hidden among the many camping sites.  The campground is hidden in a field very near a wild animal adventure park (?!) and what appears to be the ruins of an old castle.  That’s actually more common than you would believe here in Europe.  Pretty much every town has some old ruins somewhere.  

Camping in Spain is a thing.  By that, I mean, it is a very popular activity!  Many families camp and they have serious camping equipment that they set up and leave in their campsite for, what appears to be, long time periods.  Perhaps even the entire summer?!  Campsites are rented by the night, week, month and season.  Furthermore, there are campgrounds all over the place – on the coast, in the mountains, near cities. Wow!  When we arrived at Camping Reimbau in our overstuffed rental van and started to make camp using a bottom-less tent (a.k.a. canopy) with a plastic shower curtain for a floor, I’m sure the regulars were thinking “There goes the neighborhood!”.  Ha!  Still, we had not one single problem sleeping on inflatable mattresses in our little tent.  The store supplied us with ice and we were able to keep our coolers plenty cold.  We enjoyed a couple meals at the restaurant but for the most part, we made do with what we packed.  Eating our meals at the campsite and roughing it in the “resort” atmosphere, we made the Girl Scouts proud. 

We spent two days at the lovely Camping Reimbau.  We walked 2 km to the beach and discovered it nearly abandoned.  A large group of yoga moms and kiddos were just leaving as we arrived.  Except for a few small families spread many meters apart all down the beach, we were alone.  No worry about social distancing here!  (Later, Mom discovered that the beach didn’t officially open until the following day, thus explaining the lack of goers. Oh well!) The beach had more pebbles than actual sand and Allita discovered that it was impossible to build any kind of sustainable structure – other than a massive hole, into which she almost fell later, as we were leaving.  (Grace is not her middle name!)  All told, we stayed at the beach for about an hour.  Mom and I watched two men and a backhoe position signs all down the beach indicating where the First Aid and WC were and reminding people no cameras or dogs are allowed.  Cameras are not generally allowed on Spanish beaches because many of them are topless and some are nude.  I suppose they don’t really want to be seen on social media or in someone’s “travel blog”.  Another observation to make: most Europeans are comfortable with nudity.  In fact, one lady at the campground swimming pool was topless all day long.  That was a bit surprising to me but nobody else seemed to notice.  Even at the family beaches, it’s quite common to see people strip all the way down while they shower off the sand at the completely exposed beach shower.  They eventually redress in something simple and usually dry, but if you’re not prepared for it, you can absolutely get an eye full.  Incidentally, Allita finds this horrifying.  

We enjoyed nearly every single amenity that Camping Reimbau had to offer before we rolled out around noon on Wednesday, 1 July, wandered our way through the downtown streets of Platja d’Aro and did a little shopping before we hit the road again.  This time, we were headed to Cadaqués and Cap de Creus – the eastern-most point of the Iberian peninsula and nearby the summer home of Salvador Dalí (Port Lligat).   Onward – ho!