Part 3: From the Mar Cantábrico to the Mar Mediterráneo

The small country of Andorra(J): a place that Tom had always wanted to visit. Who would have known? We are in perfect position to make a detour through this mountainous and little-known principality and looked forward to an additional stamp on our passports. You have to be curious about a land-locked county of only 180 square miles that is ruled by co-princes, the Bishop of Urgell, Spain and the head of the French government. Yes, that's Prince Hollande, if you please. The language is Catalan and the euro is king. I mean prince. [I thought cardinals were known as princes of the church! wonder if they are jealous of the bishop!]
At least that's how it seemed. The fog was so thick it was like swimming through skim milk, but the entire country seemed like a series of enormous shopping malls separated by serial ski resorts, the first humming with activity and the later deserted. Andorra la Vella, the capital, had many small hidden parks and plazas, each with a sculpture or other work of art. Sadly, no passport control. The mountain roads are so sinuous that long tunnels have been built to make travel easier, but several of the tunnels were closed. Not many photo opportunities. Can't truthfully say there was much to recommend Andorra, but maybe we were getting a bit road weary.

Flag over Andorra la Vella

We left the snows of Andorra behind and made our way over many windy roads through Puigcerdá (K) toward the sea-side town of Cadaqués (O), which turned out to be a little bit of heaven. Perfect weather, beautiful clear water and excellent swimming, all in a town so picturesque it almost seemed like a movie set. The whitewashed houses with red tile roofs and colorful shutters are perched along narrow and steep cobblestone lanes that are not accessible by car, so we were grateful to leave the car parked and walk everywhere. We swam twice a day, ate delicious grilled local sardines, slept with the windows open and delighted in the blue, cloudless skies and clear turquoise water.

From 1930 until 1982, Salvador Dalí lived in Port Lligat, just outside of Cadaqués, in a home he and his wife/muse Gala designed.  We highly recommend the short tour and particularly liked the pool. (Stock photos, although photography is permitted in the house.) If you enlarge the photo, you can see that their chairs were more like thrones! Kinda goes with the bed decoration.

 

 We were looking forward to our next stop, the French seaside town of Collioure (N), where we planned to spend time with Yves and Dany, friends of our good friends Steve and Linda. They were gracious, warm and welcoming and walked us up and down the colorful streets of Collioure.

Artists as diverse as Andre Derain, Georges Braque, Matisse, Charles Rennie Mackintosh and Picasso all fell for the 'allure of Collioure'.  Yves and Dany took us to a locals bar where painters (even Picasso) settled their outstanding tabs with their artwork, now displayed on walls of the bar. In fact, art is a big part of the town. There are bronze picture frames mounted in various locations throughout the town and when you peer through the frame, you see the same view that Matisse, or Derain or an equally skilled artist painted. There are reproductions of famous paintings of Collioure hung at strategic spots throughout the town. 

 We enjoyed a weekly Farmers Market and noted the similarities between the Aptos and downtown Santa Cruz farmers markets and delighted in the very Frenchness of the food selections and the atmosphere. Note the red checked table cloth under the sausage! There was a pan of paella as large as a fountain, exotic sausage/herb combinations, and beautiful mushrooms. Ellen started to long for a kitchen that offered more possibilities than the microwave/hot kettle combo in most rental units.

But you don't have to be an artist to love Collioure, literary types love it too. The Spanish poet, Antonio Machado fled to Collioure during the Spanish Civil War and Patrick O'Brian of  the Master and Commander British Navy series called Collioure home.

We swam every day, ate fabulous French food, walked to our heart's content and made plans for a return visit to Collioure. 

The days were flying by now...only 2 days left before our departure from Barcelona. We decided to drive back into Spain so the Barcelona airport would be an easy trip. The descriptions of the seaside town of Calella de Palafrugell (P)seemed enchanting, but would we be disappointed? Not at all! The town was charming and full of sandy coves and bright clear water. Tom found a small and very curious octopus in the sand at the water's edge who wanted to explore his toes. And the humans were friendly too!

 On the outskirts of town, the beautiful gardens of the Jardi Botanic de Cap Roig and their stunning coastal vistas were a wonderful treat and put us in a relaxed state of mind for the 2 hour drive to the Barcelona airport.

And so, we return to our home, our real, honest-to-goodness nest, our terroir in Santa Cruz, after 5 months of living as Spaniards. If I ask myself how I feel about our trip, the strongest emotion is gratitude. I was able to experience so many different cultures, in 5 different (sometimes very different!) countries-Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Andorra and France, no small joy in and of itself. As Mark Twain said,

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.
We are in metaphysical debt to our great and good friends David Fenimore and Amy Horne, who made this trip a reality and who were thumping great roomies in the bargain. Open another bottle David!

I am unspeakably grateful to have had the opportunity to experience another culture from the inside, not as a native certainly, but not as a tourist either. Maybe we were some kind of a hybrid of the two conditions. Maybe the best analogy is that of a fruit tree with successful grafts; our grafts onto the Spanish tree were unqualified successes.

I remember meeting an American couple outside my gym in Bilbao one day. They were visiting for 3 days, a pretty typical time span for tourists as most calculate that they can see the high points of Bilbao in that time: the Guggenheim and Belles Artes museums and the Casco Viejo. Who was I to tell them they'd be missing the bullring with the taxidermied bull heads or the bike ride along the river or the Thursday night jazz or the beautiful stained glass at the train station?

When they learned I had been in Bilbao for almost 5 months, they were astonished and asked, "What do you find to do during the day?" I'm sure that my response, which incorporated going to the gym, the dry cleaners, the library and the fruit store, didn't seem like much fun to tourists. But to me it was heaven learning to navigate life in a 'parallel universe' and in Spanish. So much the same, but so different. I already desperately miss the exchanges in the markets:

"¿Quien es la ultima?"

"Soy yo."

"Entonces, estoy detrás de ella."

And finally, I am sincerely grateful to all of you who read these blog posts, offered encouragement and/or suggestions or said how much you enjoyed them. Muchas gracias!

Hasta la próxima, amigos.