4- Catalonia

Hello Friends,

Spain's northeast corner is ferociously independent. In fact, it enjoys a different relationship to the central government compared to other  areas, and it boasts madly of its own dialect. For a rich descriptive book on this area of Spain during the 1930s civil war, read George Orwell''s Homage to Catalonia.

We followed the Mediterranean Sea northeast on our first full day of bicycling in Spain. Not before stopping at a huge supermarket, the French Carrefour, where we stocked up on food (including peanut butter!) and found fuel canisters and new bungee cords--yea! There were  bicyclists out in abundance that day, a few teams training, but many  just on a recreational ride, and most wearing helmets, surprisingly.  Finally we turned inland, and up, of course. Not steep, just noticeable, and constant.

At one corner I noticed a woman with high heels sitting by herself on a  chair. I thought it odd. A kilometer or two later, I saw another. By  then both Lowell and I had figured it out. This was Catalonia's method  of marketing prostitutes. Young women (some very young) were scantily dressed, often standing or posing with a chair nearby, a bottle of water, and always a cell phone. Rarely was there a car in evidence, so we presume that a pimp dropped them off at these wide spots in the  road so that they could attract business. We never saw one talking to a  customer. And I must say, I never saw one smile or look the least bit  happy. A sad way of life.

We did benefit from a tailwind that day, and we enjoyed seeing the farmland and vineyards in the spring sunshine. As we neared Girona, our directions to a campsite were unclear. We stopped at a hotel, where two  enthusiastic young staff people graciously made copies of maps to guide  us to the facility. The directions were flawless, but sadly, the  campground was closed. So we found our way into the town of Girona, and with the help of our guidebook, located a small hotel willing to let us  carry the unloaded tandem up one flight to a small storage room. There is virtually no other space in these old towns. Narrow streets, with  barely enough room for small European cars to meet, and sidewalk space  for the significant number of pedestrians, all squeezed in between four  and five-story stone buildings, means that space is at an absolute  premium. Our room had a very small balcony, maybe only 20 feet to the balcony across the street!

Girona is a charming town, with a beautiful cathedral requiring steep  climbs up cobblestone streets, remnants of Roman baths, and a lazy river around which there is a lively outdoor life. Plenty of people were eating outdoors, but as the evening got rather cool, we opted for  inside. It was our chance to try some local specialties, paella, steamed mussels, and Catalan creme for dessert. Yum!

Our next stop was Figueres, on tourist routes for only one reason: Salvador Dali. He was born there in 1904, and in the 1960s, he renovated into a museum for his own works an old theater, which had been burned  at the end of Spain's civil war. The displays began with an old Cadillac, reputed to have once been owned by Al Capone. The car sits under a rowboat, onto which hang numerous blue blobs, and which sits  high atop a pile of old tractor tires. From there it could only become  more bizarre, and it did. Our favorites were the pen and ink drawings of strange human/animal creatures, full of surprising odd curlicues, combinations, and curiosities. All deliciously and predictably strange.

We left Figueres the next morning for the coast again, stopping for a  last cup of coffee before winding our way up and over the cliffs to  France. We'd been watching the Pyrenees in the distance for the past  couple of days. So for us it was "Adios" to Spain, and "Bonjour" to  France.

Love, Ellen & Lowell