From Garós to Barcelona

January 3 - 4, 2015

After breakfast,  on the 3rd of January,  Marta and I bid Teresa farewell and headed up and then down, down, down the road,  to Barcelona.  It was another sunny day, so our drive promised to be a beautiful one. It's nice when such promises are kept. 

We had come to Garós on the main highway, in the dark. We were now going to take the scenic route back to Barcelona during the daytime. Up we went to the Port de la Bonaigua

(Port = pass) .  The pass is part of the Baqueira ski area, so we were able to park and walk around  the restaurants located on the slopes.  The pass is the end of the Val d'Aran (d'Aran Valley).  At 2072 meters ( 6,798 feet ), it affords you a beautiful view. 

We pushed on and began our decent. The road was one of those iconic roads you see in advertisements for European sports cars.  It had twists, turns and switchbacks that went so far back, you were almost where you came from. We were now in the Vall d'Aneu, following the La Noguera Palladesa (river).  We stopped for a break just outside of Espot, which is a popular destination for rafting and kayaking.  We spent a little time at the waters edge enjoying the view and skipping stones before moving on. 

Our next stop was to be the village of Sort. The word "sort" is Catalan,  for luck. Needless to say, it's the place to buy lottery tickets. In fact, The Lottery shop has built an entire enterprise out of people coming  to Sort to buy lottery tickets.  The huge Christmas lottery had come and gone, but the big lottery for the Epiphany (day of the Three Kings) was still to come.  We wandered around town looking for the Lottery Shop, until we finally got some directions to it. It ended up being easy to find, since it was the only shop in town with a line of people at the door. It was lunch time, so the shop was closed, but apparently a chance to buy your lottery ticket in Sort, is worth waiting for. We opted to go for a walk in the hills rather than standing in line.

We discovered a trail that led us to an area of traditional hillside terraced gardens that were being protected from development, as a heritage.  A little something to show how people once labored at feeding themselves and others. The gardens were still in use, but as Marta pointed out, they weren't being tended by young people. No, these gardens and this way of life were things of the past,  being tended by those who's future is as dubious, as the gardens themselves. 

We hadn't made arrangements for the night, since we weren't sure where we would be come nightfall.  It was clear to us after we came out of the hills, that we needed to stay the night in Sort. There was a hotel directly in front of us as we came back into town. We checked its prices and moved on to the next one. The next one was just before the Lottery Shop and seemed to offer a fair price. Now it was time to visit the witch. 

Like most superstitions, there is an absurdity to it. The superstition of the Golden Witch of Sort is just one such superstition. For some reason you are to rub your freshly purchased lottery ticket on the nose of a golden witch statue located in the lobby of the Golden Witch Lottery Shop, which is adjacent to the Golden Witch trinket and doodad shop, which is  behind the Golden Witch Restaurant.  According to the owner of the Golden Witch enterprise, the witch comes from outer space and sprinkles lucky dust wherever she goes. This is just loony tunes enough to have people come to Sort by the thousands each year in hopes of hitting the big one. Dispute a good nose rubbing, our ticket didn't win. 

We headed up the hill to check out the third hotel. It was more than the second and not as much as the first. Back down the hill to secure a room at door number two. With our room secured we now had to ponder the car and the omnipresent question of parking. You wouldn't think that parking would be an issue in a little town on the side of the road on a Saturday evening. 

Sort is not only the Mecca for every wannabe millionaire, but also is close enough to some local ski areas to afford reasonably priced accommodations. As we stood there talking about moving the car closer to the hotel, if became obvious that the ski areas had closed and the throngs were now circling for parking. Giving up our parking spot in hopes for a better on would require a healthy dose of the witches lucky dust. We didn't see any dust falling from space, so we opted to schlep our bags from the car,  to the hotel. 

The schlep down along the river to the hotel was pleasant and gave me an opportunity to look over the kayak river course that ran from one end of town to the other.

Earlier, when we were walking,  I had noticed wires crisscrossing the river with a strange pattern of hardware. It finely dawned on me that I was looking at a kayak course arrangement that was pulled aside during the winter. Apparently the rapids that make up that part of the river, also make a nifty kayak race course and freestyle park. I can only hope that there is a witch with a golden kayak leading the way,  come race day. 

We settled into our room and set out in search of provisions. We had carted off the leftovers at Teresa's behest, but we were lacking in the bread and wine department. The saying goes that "man cannot live by bread alone".  So, get some bread, some wine,  something sweet for breakfast and while you are there, some local cheese would be nice.  Now we will live another day. 

The walk to the local you won't starve shop, led us up a stair case that had been built by the words greatest  mason.   He had not only built nicely curved stairs up the slope of  a  20 foot
(6 meter) embankment, but he had cast a slide out of cement on either side of it. Genius! Absolute genius! The slides were teaming with kids when we went up the stairs to the  store, but were free when we came back.  Down I went. Now it was Marta's turn. With a bit of caution she slid down. She had to come back up though and get the groceries,  so I could take another ride down the slide. Whoever thought of casting a slide into a staircase will be forever loved by children of all ages. 

I saw on youtube once how to open a wine bottle without a corkscrew. It involved smacking the bottom of the bottle against a wall. A stunt like that is bound to raise some eyebrows in a hotel. I decided that there must be a corkscrew somewhere in the hotel and I was brash enough to ask for one, besides, I knew this hotel had a bar. The receptionist immediately recognized my plight, and got a corkscrew and knife from the bar. I may have failed the always be prepared part of this in-room picnic, but there is a lot to be said for standing at the reception desk with an unopened bottle of wine in one hand, a loaf of uncut bread in the other and a tear in your eye. 

Another beautiful day. An in-room breakfast picnic and we were off to Barcelona. We hadn't gotten very far down the road when I spotted a large body of water.

Any lake of skiable size acts like a magnet on my psyche. Since I was driving, the urge to turn in and take a look was irresistible.  Pantá (lake) de Sant Antoni is big enough to ski on and according to the signs at the marina I pulled in to, you can rent water toys for powerboats. Waterskiing in Spain is also on my list of things I'd like to do. Not to put a feather in the cap I don't wear, but just because water skiing anyplace is always a pleasure.

No sooner had we gotten back on the road and I heard the sirens call from another body of water.   I like sirens, bodies and water. A sharp left and we were now at Pantá de Terradets,  a lovely little lake tucked in between a marsh and a stand of pines. The lake was absolutely still. Not even a ripple, so with the low morning sun, it was mirroring the landscape around it, in high definition.  We found ourselves completely captivated by it. 

Truly a siren.                                    

I tore myself away from the siren's grip and lashed myself to the steering wheel. Drive on and don't look back,  is what I was telling myself until Marta asked me to stop talking to myself and turned on the radio. It's amazing that she goes on road trips with me and let's me drive. 

The rest of the drive was as picturesque as any river valley and gorge could be. Then we popped out onto the wide open flat terrain that encompasses the land between the Pyrenees Mountains and Montsant Coastal Range. Before coming into Barcelona we stopped at a gas station/truck stop for gas and a bite to eat. 

We walked around the station a bit looking for a somewhat pleasant place to eat. No such luck. We were now where people come and disrespect their environment. The amount of litter was impressive, if litter can be impressive. I commented to Marta that the scene that we were now looking at reminded me of Southern California. I went there a lot as a truck driver and was always amazed at the amount of litter.  Not just around truck stops, but everywhere. It really is a shame that people all over the world can be so callous toward litter. As long as I'm on this little soap box, here is my rant about cigarette butts.

Think about it

For some reason smokers do not see cigarette butts as litter. Good people who would never throw a wrapper or any litter on the sidewalk will toss a cigarette butt down as if it were going to magically disappear, which they don't.  In fact it takes a very very long time for a cigarette butt to decompose.  Some cigarette butt materials never will. The next time you are going someplace with a smoker, take some tissue with you. Each time they toss a butt down, throw some tissue down. Let them see that you can litter too.  Fortunately,  your tissue will decompose long before that butt will. Maybe the smoker will think twice about tossing butts again.  A better idea might be to buy them a Butt Bin for their birthday.  If they keep smoking you'll get it back soon enough, so you can re-gift it.    

Me, my smile and the mountains of Spain

Ouch! Damn it !! I fell off my soap box, so on with the closing of the story. We had a bite to eat from our picnic stash, switched drivers and motored on down the highway to Barcelona. Marta had to attend another pound your head against the wall family meeting about her aging parents and I was headed home with a head full of wonderful memories. Some of which, I just shared with you.

The Pass

Looking back at the Pyrenees

Along the way 

Along the way

Along the way

NEW YEAR'S 2014/15 ~ Garós, Catalunya

MISERY with a capital W

During the winter of 2014 I was in Barcelona staying out of the misery that can be winter in a large part of the United States.  While I was in Barcelona I had come to know people who made the 2 hour drive to the Pyrenees Mountains to go skiing.   Although I was only able to go skiing in Colorado 5 days during the  winter of 2013/14, it still was 5 times more, then the skiing I did last winter while in Barcelona.  The winter passed and so did my opportunities to go skiing in Spain.  

I fully expected the same scenario this winter when I returned to Barcelona. That's what I get for having expectations.  First rule of The Traveler. Expect nothing embrace everything.  The opportunity for me to go skiing this winter came my way and I  wholeheartedly embraced it.   The opportunity came about at a dinner party hosted by Marta's friend Teresa.  Teresa and Patricia are old school chums of Marta's. During the course of the past winter and the following summer,  they had heard bits and pieces of my being in Barcelona from Marta. Now with my return this winter their curiosity had reached a level unattainable by any cat. 

A meet the Americano dinner was set at Teresa's house with Patricia, her husband Jose-Maria, Marta and me, the man from oohsaa (USA,  said as a word).  It was an interesting meal. It centered around a Swiss style of table cooking which uses a Raclette grill.  Patricia had brought a large grill capable of providing all of us with our own little hot plate of melted Racletta cheese,  combined with any number of Spanish culinary delights.  Of course there was  the fabulous La Merienda ( pre dinner hors d'oeuvres ) and wine. Teresa had just restocked her wine, so we were just kids in a candy store when she opened her cellar. The meal finished with desert and Cava. The Spanish version of Champaign. 

We waddled into the living room after our dinner feast. We all settled in to a chair knowing full well that once our food coma set in, we may never be able to get out of our chairs. Teresa, the consummate hostess saw the coma setting in. There is only one sure fire cure for the eleven o'clock  Food Coma. Gintonics. Yes, it's one word here.  Yep, that did the trick. Now I wasn't worried about falling asleep. I was terrified I would figuratively and literally fall on my face.  Not a good thing to do when you're  the new kid on the block. 

Enough time had passed and the gin was very good, so my fears were reduced to a pleasant gingrin ( that's one word here now too ).  Somewhere in the time we all spent sitting in the living room,  Teresa invited all of us to her family home in Garós .  A little village just down valley from the Baqueira ski area. The largest and considered to be the best ski area in Spain.   I didn't know all that at the time. All I heard was that I had just been invited to spend the New Year's Holiday at a house in the mountains, near a ski area!  The details were insignificant. I was in!  

This all took place just before Christmas, so I had time to get ready.   Getting ready meant cruising the second hand shops for some ski clothes. This was a mission all its own. The people of Barcelona and I've been told all of Spain, don't do second hand. When you are done with it, you throw it away, because no one is going to wear your old clothes. Apparently what people do in their clothes here can't be washed out.  There is nothing like the second hand shops that are everywhere in the States. It's not just Spain. Germany was the same. You don't wear someone  else's  clothes and you don't buy used things. 

Coming from a culture that has turned second hand into an industry,  to a culture where you have to search for a second hand shop in a city of two million people is a huge culture shock. I went through some of this last winter too when I went looking for used tools. Finding used clothes is hard in Barcelona. Finding used tools is akin to the proverbial needle in a hay stack. Unfortunately the biggest company in Barcelona that sells used clothes is apprently as greedy and corrupt as Goodwill Industries in the States. 

Humana is a company that sells second hand clothes and they have a few shops around the city. I got the addresses of the shops and set out on my quest.

 I had brought clothes that would suffice as ski clothes if need be, but having some cheap ski clothes seemed like a good idea. Primarily I was looking for ski pants, gloves and goggles. I decided that the coats and hats I had would be OK.   The Humana stores were a bust. Like all things Europe, they are  small and only trade in clothes. Like all clothing stores, that means 90% of the space is devoted to women. Not that I wouldn't wear a woman's s ski pants but women seldom come in extra large here and the few that do,  more than likely don't ski. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: While editing this text, I came across  allegations of corporate greed and corupption against Humana and Goodwill.  I have heard of the allegations against Goodwill in the past, but was unaware of the the same types of problems with Humana. In good conscience, it would seem that I can no longer do business with either company. Darryl, April 17, 2015

My good fortune was that there would be a flea market at the Estacion de Franca soon. It

is Barcelona's original train station that is still used for local trains but the modern station has moved further away from the old city center. Of course the original station is a beautiful old building representing an area when grand architecture was dominate. The new station by contrast is large,  functional and absolutely void of character. 

The flea market was a mad house. The organizers had allowed far too many vendors for the available space. It was a complete crush of people. I got in the flow of people going around and found it difficult to get out of the flow and look at what was for sale. Like the round a bouts that are the hallmark of European roads, I was trapped by traffic on the inside and I had to honk my way to the exit. Around I went for another look. Two more rounds later and I came out of there with a pair of ski pants and a pair of gloves. Oh, and a tool box. Not used, of course. 

The gloves I could try on.  The ski pants I should have tried on. What looks right and what fits right are two entirely different things. This was made very clear when I got home and tried them on. They fit, but I was going to need a corset to keep from popping them open. Since they came with suspenders, I figured I'd just ski with the fly down and endure  the ever diminutive breeze. 

Marta and her Singer to the rescue.  She took one look at my situation and took pity on my possible future discomfort. She added a bit to the girth of my ski pants in the hopes that I wouldn't need that corset.  Between the corset and that breeze, I was very thankful for Marta and her Singer. 

It was decided that Teresa would drive her car on her timetable. Jose-Maria and Patricia would do the same and Marta and I would follow in her car on the 30th of December.  Follow we did, right into a traffic jam.  A fuel truck had overturned  on the highway causing a jam that went on for hours.  We had been hopeful we could get up to Baqueira in time to rent ski equipment for me to go skiing the next day. Once we hit the jam, we were just hopeful we would get there that night.  

As it turned out we were near an exit, so not long after hitting the jam we able to get off

Teresa's Mountain House

the highway and get ourselves completely turned around and thoroughly bassackwards for a time. Once we got ourselves on the right frontage road going the right way, they opened the highway. Damn that Murphy!! - Ever look up where Murphy's Law came from? I did-.  See if you can find a better explanation. That night I didn't really care where the expression came from, I just wanted to get up to Garós!  The possibly of seeing the scenery on the way was now long past,  along with being able to save some time at the rental shop in the morning. Now it was just a drive in the dark to get to where we going.  

We got there and got ourselves settled in.  There was a fire burning in the fireplace lending to the ambiance of the mountain chalet. 

The fire place at Teresa's

Not having found used ski goggles in Barcelona, I asked Teresa if there might be an extra pair in the house. Twenty minutes later I was outfitted from head to toe. There was a complete ski outfit hanging in one of the closets.  Complete with goggles and gloves.  Now I would be a ski dandy rather than a ski bum.  

Garós  is located in the Val d'Aran (valley of Aran). A valley so deep and narrow it could easily rival any montage of iconic pictures used to represent the picturesque landscape of Switzerland.  

Val d'Aran

This view was what I saw as Jose-Maria and I took the shuttle bus from Garós  up to Baqueira  in the morning. We made our way to the rental shop and got me outfitted for what promised to be a beautiful day of skiing. 

The snow was exceptional for so early in the season, the sun was brilliant, not a cloud in the sky and to top all that, it wasn't windy or cold.  We came to ski and ski we did! Teresa, had decided not to join us, so it was Jose-Maria, me and occasionally we came across someone he knew.  His family also has a house in Baqueira , so he had friends and family that we met up with during the day. Jose-Maria, knew the mountain from many years of skiing there, so all I had to do was follow him. That was not as easy as it sounds. 

He is a very good skier, who skis very very fast. I didn't need my goggles to combat adverse weather conditions.  I needed them because we were skiing at the speed of light. The only reason he slowed down a touch,  came later in the day.  We had stopped to take a picture of a magnificent view.

I worked my way to the rope that served as the area boundary and a demarcation between life and death.   I set up to take the picture by firmly planting my poles and putting my gloves on them, so my hands would be free to operate my phone/camera. 

Jose Maria and me

Remember I said it wasn't windy that day?  Well it wasn't until I was taking my pictures. I felt a puff of wind  pass over me and then I heard a strange sound.  The sound was strange because I had never heard the sound a glove and ski pole make as they are sliding to their death. I watched helplessly as my glove and pole began to slide over the edge.  It was like watching Willy Coyote take one of his falls off the cliff. The sound of a whistle getting softer followed by a thud was ringing in my head as I watched Willy Glove and Pole slide their way out of sight. 

I showed a black dot at the bottom to Jose-Maria when he had finished his photo session and explained my new predicament. Fortunately the coat that I had borrowed

The Magnificent View

from Teresa was like all costs that fit me in the shoulders.  It had enough sleeve length to turtle my hand up in it. Now I would finish the day's skiing with a glove and pole in my right hand and a sleeve with no hand on my left. Taking pity on  my situation Jose-Maria, skipped a triple diamond run and slowed down to a manageable Mach 4.  

I could try to explain how the rental shop return system worked, but even though I understand it, I don't understand it. Suffice to say that unless we waited for the shop to reopen after the lunch break we would need to explain the missing pole at a later time. I wasn't keen on going back and sorting out the missing pole, so I opted to wait for the shop to open.   This decision   
                                                                           set a series of calamities into motion.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
The ladies had prepared a nice lunch/dinner that was now on hold because I was standing in front of a locked rental shop. This decision also caused us to miss the shuttle bus, which would substantially delay the meal, since the next shuttle wouldn't leave for an hour. Now I was in hot water for sure. Jose-Maria to the rescue. We got to the shuttle bus station and saw two buses waiting there. They both were there for the end of the day rush. He went up to one of the drives to see if the driver was leaving soon. He wasn't, but he said so in a French accent, so Jose-Maria switched to French and proceeded to explain our plight. The driver told the other bus driver he would be back in time for the rush and chauffeured us back to Garós .  All the while carrying on a conversation with Jose-Mari in French. The driver seemed happy just to have someone to talk to. 

What became of the ski pole problem, you ask?  The employees of the rental shop all spoke English, so I was ready to explain the missing pole and see what the consequences would be. Before I could get started though, Jose-Maria was explaining to the attendant in Catalan what had happened. I don't know for sure if my English would have garnered the same outcome, but Jose-Maria's Catalan got a smile out of the guys behind the counter and a wave of the hand as they dismissed the loss of the pole.  

Keeping up Jose-Maria

Out of trouble and seated at the table, thanks to Jose-Maria. I was now explaining over a very nice lunch, how one goes about loosing a glove and a pole. Fortunately I was able to balance this blunder against my harrowing tales of skiing with Jose-Maria, at mach 4, with only one pole. It wasn't a particularly good balance, so I went back to eating.  It's important to remember that lunch in Spain is from 2:00ish, until 4:00ish. Today's lunch was now around 4:30. Not to worry though, because the New Years Eve dinner hour would be around 10:00 and last until midnight. At which time the parties start. This timetable is in stark contrast to the American timetable, where the party ends at midnight and everyone goes home. Except the guy passed out in the bathtub. 

Our after lunch walk was on a walking path that ran about 3 km between Garós  and Arties.  The path was up on the hillside away from traffic and wide enough for a mini plow to keep it clear. The sun was still up and the walk was very nice despite the fact that my socks were now holding in the jello that had become my legs. 

  

We got back to the chalet in time for our naps. The night was going to be long and eventful, so everyone felt a nap was in order. I guess everyone. I don't remember because my eyes closed when I pulled off my socks and my legs teetered me into bed.  

Teresa was off to dinner with friends of the family who also had a house in Garós. Jose-Maria and Patricia were also off to have dinner with friends, so that left Marta and I rummaging around for a New Years dinner from the bags of goodies we had brought with us. We managed a nice dinner and a toast to 2015. 

New Year's Day was to be devoted to sleeping in, since the party kids had been out way past their curfew.  That was the plan, but like most plans, there is bound to be a glitch. The walls of the chalet were made out of wood, which gave the house a great look. They also lent nothing for sound dampening. This and the fact that the bathroom was immediately adjacent to all the bedrooms. There is a brief window in the timeline of life when the bathroom is no longer used by children and adults getting up at night.  All of us had passed that window long ago, so the bathroom served no only its purpose, but as an early  morning wake up call that no one wanted. 

Iglesia de Arties

With the morning stupor cured with tea, coffee and a bite to eat, we set out on a walk along the path to Arties again.  Only this time we were going into the village and do some exploring.
Exploring in an old village, will undoubtedly lead you to the old church (iglesia).  Not having suffered the ravages of the countless wars that have destroyed so much of ancient Europe, this Romanesque Period church was free to fall down on its own.   It hadn't yet, but it was clear that the design flaws of  Romanesque Period architecture, would not have stood the test of time with this little church had it not been for some improvements along the way. These improvements had made it possible for this old church to keep its doors open to welcome parishioners and tourists alike.  

Iglesia de Arties - nave 

It's not hard to come away from a trip to Europe wishing you never saw another old church or museum again. I've had that feeling a couple of times, but the old little Romanesque churches have a warmth and serenity to them that the more prevalent Gothic churches can't begin to match. Maybe it's because in the Romanesque Period, and before, Christianity was still young and comforting to the poor souls who lived and toiled under conditions that are unimaginable today.  By the time the great Gothic churches were being built, Christianity had been hijacked from the people it was intended to comfort, and had been turned into a force to frighten and control them, thus adding even more misery to a life rife with misery. 

It was another beautiful day which added to our nice walk through the village.  We stopped for  a glass of wine outside in the sun, before getting back on the path for home.  There was to be a  marvelous lunch that day, so getting home took on a singular importance.   I had been assigned the task of procuring the lamb ribs for the lunch among a few other things for the goody bag. This allowed me to do one of my favorite things here in Barcelona. Shopping!  

Inside the Santa Caterina Market

I say that with no sarcasm whatsoever. I really like shopping at the markets here, because I have almost no idea what I'm doing.  That's because when I go to the market, I'm going to a market and not a grocery store. I've been to many grocery stores throughout Europe. Give yourself a few minutes and you will be able to sort out what you are about to buy. You may not know what that particular cheese tastes like, but you know it's cheese. You can stroll through the isles, looking at labels and generally figuring it out.  The markets on the other hand are completely different. There are no pictures and labels to help you.   I like to go to the Mercat de Santa Caterina that isn't far from my flat.  

Rather than having big open air street markets, Barcelona has a few big beautiful market

Mercat de Santa Caterina

buildings scattered around the city.  Most of them were built at the turn of the century (1800 to 1900) to house the open air markets. These markets are a crush of vendors and shoppers with everything behind the counter. Now you have to not only know what you want, but how to ask for it too.  Everything is fresh and right in front of you.  In addition, every vendor is a specialist in what is sold. It is so different that I'm mystified and terrified at the same time. 

I  was to get lamb ribs for a party of five. Not ever having lamb ribs before, I was entering into uncharted cuisine.  I wandered around the market until I had the gumption to try

this particular butcher. He was a nice man with a very big meat ax. He and I concluded after a quick game of charades and linguistic decoding, that I wanted five lamb ribs per person. He took up his ax and wielded it like a surgeons scalpel.  A stop at the cheese ladies stall, the veggie guy and the wine cellar and my market experience for that day was over. 

The ribs were well received and I was complimented on my choice of butcher.  I took the compliment. How do you tell someone you chose the butcher by the size of his ax?  The ribs were cooked over the coals in the fireplace. I had appointed myself the keeper of the flame. The others just called me the fireman.  The firewood was downstairs in the garage, which required a trip down the narrow spiral staircase to fetch and a much more difficult accent back up the narrow spiral staircase laden with firewood. I immediately seized this chore, because the reward was building a fire. You know you're still a boy at heart when you will navigate a spiral staircase with logs poking you, just so yo can build a great big fire. 

It was a delightful lunch that left none of us in want.  A little rest  and we were off again. This time up to the village of Baqueira.  Like most ski towns, Baqueira  was just a little mountain village just doing its little mountain village thing.  So it was until 1965.  Then it became a ski town with all the trappings.  We took Marta's car because we had to transport the 5 of us and the ski gear that Teresa and I were going to rent for the next day. We walked around town for a bit, got our gear,  and crammed it and us back into the car. A quiet evening at the chalet around the fire led to an early nights rest. Besides the missed sleep-in that morning, Teresa, Jose-Maria and I were going to get up early and catch the first shuttle bus to the slopes. 

Jose-Maria &Teresa

I had a pair of gloves, two poles, rested legs and the hope that Jose-Maria, would slow down for Teresa and me. That turned out to be a silly notion. Teresa is an excellent skier and had no trouble skiing at the speed of light. Which is handy if you want to cover the entire Baqueira  ski area in one day. It's a very big area with a wide variety of terrain and we had another beautiful day to attempt just that.  With Jose-Maria in the lead, we rocketed ourselves from one side of the area to the other, all the while following the sun and avoiding the crowds. We had a late lunch reservation at a local restaurant in Garós so,  we would be returning the ski equipment while the rental shop was closed for lunch. There would have been no way to retrieve my street shoes. The solution was to spend the day skiing with my house slippers in my pockets. 

At the rental shop, you put in the secret combination, that apparently a lot of people know, put your ski gear in the locker, check out all the other gear, steal what you want and then leave. I didn't see what I wanted, so I pulled my slippers out and thankfully put them on. Thankfully because there are two great tactical experiences in life and taking off your ski boots at the end of the day, is the other one. 

Our reservation was at a local restaurant serving local cuisine. Although we were technically still in Catalunya, we were really in an enclave, that has its own native language known as Aranese and it's own way of doing things. One of those things is not speaking Spanish. It's a bit like the French, they know how to speak English, they just don't. In some parts of Catalunya the disdain for the central government in Madrid, is palpable.  

The restaurant is noted for its family style complete soup known as Olla Aranesa. Not being familiar with this soup, I elected to have it. To make it in the traditional fashion of this restaurant,  you use every portion of everything. Thankfully some components of the

Marta~Teresa~Jose-Maria
Patricia ~ Darryl

pig are left out of the soup itself, but I have no doubt they were put in the rendering pot for the broth. The one thing they could have left out was pig ear.   It really could have stayed in the rendering pot. I tried it once. Now I've tried it once.  Later when I was talking about the soup with Marta, she asked me if I had noticed that she was the one who always served the soup from the large pot that had been put on the table. I noticed she had served the soup, but not that she had made a point of being the official soup server.  She said it was because she never had any pig ear in her soup!  When eating Olla Aranesa, follow Marta's example and serve yourself. 

The meal was menu style with two courses and desert. The wine was chosen by Teresa and Jose-Maria and the tasting honor was bestowed on me. The guy with damaged olfactory senses.  With the wine having passed my test and the first bottle having passed our lips, then came the second bottle and my toast.   It had been decided in high level secret meetings, that Teresa's meal would be divided between the four of us, as a token or our gratitude to her for inviting us all to her home.  A simple round of thank you's  would have sufficed, but I was compelled to step out from my normal non verbal existence and toast not only Teresa's hospitality, but the good company I had found myself in.  Teddy Roosevelt said to speak softly and carry a big stick. I say drink wine, put the damn stick down and speak up.  

Our time at Teresa's was coming to a close. Jose-Maria and Patricia packed up and bid us

Marta~Darryl~Jose-Maria~Patricia

farewell after lunch. Not wanting to drive back to Barcelona in the dark and miss the scenery a second time, Marta and I elected to stay the night and leave after breakfast. With our departing chores done and and breakfast in our bellies, it was time for us to say good by to Teresa and her lovely home in Garós. We were headed back to Barcelona, but ours would be the slow road. Complete with beautiful scenery and a Golden Witch. That story comes in the next installment. 

This paragraph couldn't find its way into the story, but it will explain the picture of this amazing little snowman. While Teresa, Jose-Maria and I were out skiing, Marta and Patricia went for a walk.   While they were walking the came upon an open field in the sunshine that called to them to have a seat and enjoy the view. It was here that Marta got the inspiration to build a snowman. When she was done, she had created one of the nicest snowmen I have ever seen and now you have seen it too.

NOVEMBER 17 - DECEMBER 31 2014 ~ BARCELONA

I wouldn't call it writers block. After all, don't you need to be a writer to get that?  No, it's more like trying to find something interesting in what I'm doing.  Why would people bother reading about my everyday life, when it compares to their own?  

As of late my days and weeks would simply read like diary inserts.  Dear Diary, today I got up at noon. You Slug! Go brush your teeth and do something!  In fact, the thought had crossed my mind that I would start a daily diary as a New Year's Resolution. However, that would require a level of discipline that I simply do not possess. My current level of discipline is getting out of bed before noon.  So, no diary, no discipline and no exciting tales to tell. Not even some exaggerations or lies. The best I can do now is to write in some form of streaming consciousness.    Take this paragraph as fair warning. From here on, this story may go completely arseways.  An enchanting term I learned in Ireland. 

Speaking of Ireland, which I wasn't until 7 words ago, I'm thinking of going back there in May. My reasons are 2.3 fold. My friends Bruce and Mary, who live there have repeatedly invited me back. That may be due to the fact that when I was there last year, I busted out my Sponge Bob Custom Dish Sponge and cleaned the dishes, after the meals that Mary so wonderfully prepared. I'm sure they have done the dishes since then, but you haven't seen clean, until you've seen Sponge Bob clean.
 
From my side,  it's because you can see Ireland, but you can only live it with the Irish.  Bruce and Mary may be American transplants but they have always known there was a Leprechaun in them trying to get back home. That's where they hide.  In the Irish at Heart. The next time you meet someone who is Irish at Heart, just squeeze their leprechaun and you'll hear it yelp, just before they knock you unconscious. 

The .3 is that I can't be here, but I want to be here, but they won't let me be here, so I have to be here some other way, but that can't happen, yet, so I have to be here yet another way that requires scheming and deception. That can't be a good way, but it seems to be the only way, for now since trying to be here the right way was not possible this year.  A flight to Ireland and back will allow me to visit my friends, do a little Sponge Bobbing and maybe, just maybe, get me three more months of allowed time in Spain.  Or I could end up being the Head Dish Washer at the Spanish immigration prison.   When you've got a Sponge Bob Custom Dish Sponge in your pocket you move to the head of the wash line. 

Barcelona Dryer

My segue from wash line to wash line would appear to be seamless, but they are two different types of wash line. This one is where I dry my clothes. It is perfectly acceptable to hang your wash out to dry here. In fact, it's the way most of Europe dries their clothes. My apartment, which I will from now on call a flat because I have a lazy finger and flat saves me typing 5 letters, which I can now save for a very long word.  My flat has a balcony but no contraption. I have a drying stand for drying clothes indoors.  A device that most Americans have never seen. Think of a miniature clothes line with legs that fold up, so it can fit in your miniature closet. 

My Drying Stand

The problem with a drying stand is that it may take days for your clothes to dry. If you wait until you are out of underwear before doing your laundry, you may have days of going commando ahead of you. Now you have to plan not just what to wear, but when you can wear it. Put a sheet on the drying stand and the entire laundry enterprise is shut down for days.

So far I have lived in three different flats in Barcelona,  which has brought about three different solutions to drying the laundry. Flat number one was the bug infested tomb that Bonnie and I first rented in Barcelona. It had a bunk bed, but the bottom bed was independent of the top bed. If I pulled the bottom bed out I had what the college kids call a dorm bed. An elevated bed with a work area under it. Sounds like a good idea until you find yourself rolling out of bed in a drunken stupor.  Suddenly and painfully,  having a bed 6 feet (2 meters) off the floor just made as much sense as another drunken stupor. 

Not to worry though, I was on the bottom bed and Bonnie had no time to party, much. So as I was saying before I interrupted myself; with the bottom bed pulled out I could use the frame of the upper bed for hanging clothes. We had two portable electric heaters, with fans, as our heat source for the flat, so I would put them under the the bed and then use a sheet or towels, depending on what was wet, to enclose this little drying room under the top bed.  This arrangement took on the look of children building a fort in their bedroom out of sheets and towels. Of course a child wouldn't do that today without watching the 10 (first page, I checked) Youtube videos on how to build a blanket fort. After all, why use your imagination when someone else already has.  For this flat, the look was perfect. 

The next flat was Virginia's apartment. I can't call this one a flat. It was just too big and in the end, too nice to be simply a flat.  Here we had two drying stands and a big terrace. This was production drying. If the terrace was cluttered, as it often was in the first phase of construction, there was still room indoors for at least one stand. A drying stand is not just a utility appliance, it becomes furniture. 

The flat I'm currently living in has brought about yet another solution. There are clothes dryers, but hanging your wash out to dry is the most common way. In my case that would require some type of drying contraption on my balcony. Of course you can always string up some clothes lines in your flat and go for the Chinese Laundry look, or if you prefer, the Hobo Village look, but I have a nice flat and neither of those looks really works with the decor. The flat came with not only a drying stand tucked nicely into the closet, but it also has a nice portable fan. Just right for putting under the drying stand. This was my arrangement until Bonnie stayed here a couple of days while I was gone over the New Year. More on that adventure,  somewhere in this stream or one yet to come. 
She had taken the portable electric heater that serves as my heat source, should I need one, and put it next to the stand thereby turbocharging the drying process. And to think she did that without watching a single Youtube video ! No commando, no damp socks, just dry and ready to wear clothes in less than a day. Genius!  

I don't have a segue now, so we'll just go free form until I find something to ramble on about. Oh!, I could tell you about the time I witnessed a crime. Yes, that is where we'll go next. 
So there I was walking down the street when I stopped to look in a store window. I was on the hunt for a French swimming pool tea cup and this shop had cups in the window.  I turned back around after concluding for the umpteenth time that I wasn't in France and was about to start walking again when I saw this guy come running up behind this women and snatch her necklace.  She started screaming, the guy took off running with another guy and a man lit out after both of them. I have seen enough cowboy movies in my day to know that the bandits now had a posse on their trail, so I took off around the bend to head them off at the pass.  If they took the  fork in the road to the left, we should meet at the pass.  They did and we met up at a little plaza. I yelled at them to let them know I was stupid enough to confront them. It was then that they threw, what I took to be the necklace at me. They turned and ran, but unfortunately, the posse hadn't gotten there yet, so they made a clean getaway, while I looked around for the necklace. 

They had thrown the worthless pendant at me and made off with the gold chain. About the time I had sorted that out, the posse came puffing up. He was an older man, about someone else's age. He was either British, or he had been taking English lessons there.   The bandits had picked their quarry well. An older woman and gentleman would pose no threat to them. And so it was. The Brit and I scoured around for the rest of the necklace before concluding that the good bit was officially stolen.  My takeaway from this was that when I confronted the bandits, I should have started yelling THIEF!, in as many languages as I knew. At least then the bystanders would know that the men they were looking at were thieves  and perhaps call them out, should they return to that neighborhood.  
With my attempt at being the Lone Ranger of Barcelona, foiled, I went on with my tea cup search. You will be happy or completely indifferent, to know that my search ended with my obtaining a pair of French hot tub size tea cups. Apparently if you really want  swimming pool size tea cups, you need to go to France.

Not to long ago I was invited to join Marta at a get to know me dinner at her friend Teresa's home. The party would consist of Marta, Teresa, Patricia, her husband Jose-Maria and me. Teresa's home is located in El Masnou, on the coast, direction France, about 30km (18 miles) from Barcelona. Teresa and Patricia are old school chums of Marta's since 1st grade. A friendship that had seen them through school and now serves them well as a diversion from everyday life by way of good company, food, wine and laughs. 

The Community of Catalunya

The evening went well and by the end of the evening, Teresa had invited us all to join her over New Years at her family's home in Garos.  Garos is a small village located just a little down valley from Baqueira, which is considered Spain's largest and best ski area.  It is located in the very Northwest corner of Catalunya, west of Andorra. A few days later it was set. We would all be going to Teresa's home in the Pyrenees Mountains.Expecting a segue to the mountains now? Nope. Now it's the time leading up to the mountains. Think of it as literary foothills.  


Did you know that Europeans lace their shoes differently than Americans?  Did you know that there are no less than 6 different ways to tie your shoes? I didn't.  Just when you were sure of the world around you, you notice someone do something as simple as tying their shoes in such a different way that your sense of normal is forever changed.  I would describe how after fifty plus years of tying my shoes the way Mommy showed me,  I now tie my shoes, but I'm still trying to get my fingers to play along. I'm not sure my fingers will be willing to try typing it.     Why bother you ask?  Because it really does work better than my old way. 

Did you know that men's underwear has now joined the seemingly endless array of ever changing fashion?  It use to be that there was only a choice between whitie-tighties (briefs) and boxers.  Old School boxers where the kind of boxer that constituted enough cloth to make an arm sling out of, should you break your arm while putting them on. Stuffing the wad of cotton, that made up old boxers,  into your pants,  left you looking like you inner Leprechaun was living below your belt. Best not squeeze that Leprechaun though. Boxers worked much better when trousers use to be baggy. 
The Whitie-tighties have given way to style, type of cut, colors, fly or fly-less.  I went shopping for skivvies (anyone remember that word?) before I left this time for Europe. That process turned into a quest to sort out just what had become of boxers and briefs. I bought representatives from different companies and styles. 

I now own what can only be called training boxers. Too big to be briefs, but too small to be big boy boxers.  The boxer for the man who wants to swing free in tight pants. The briefs are a mixture of full cut and what I can only describe as "manties".   My future as an underwear model will be limited to the blind, but as a product tester, I'm well on my way. 


Although the trip to Garos/Baqueira technically started on the 30th and falls within the timeline of this story, I've decided to give it, its own story. Now it's time to see if I have any more stream in my conscious.   Ah, here's just a  little stream to finish this update from Barcelona.  

In my story,  A Yellow Brick Road, I went into detail about my trials and tribulations over trying to get an extended visa for my stay in Spain. I said in that story I would try to apply for that visa while here in Spain. To that end, I went looking for a lawyer who could help me through the process. When in Rome, get a lawyer. I joined the American Society of Barcelona for a number of reasons, but one of them was to find an English speaking lawyer. I went to the society's meet up with that as part of my agenda. I was also looking for work and to see about their monthly hikes.

The hikes haven't panned out, there weren't any contractor types in the crowd, but there was a lawyer. I did the card swap with her and emailed her the following day. That lead to a meeting with her and her associate. At that meeting she assured me that I could apply for the visa now that I was technically living in Spain. This ran contrary to what Bonnie's lawyer had told her when she had looked into getting a visa. While Bonnie was double checking with her lawyer about my situation, I was scouring the Internet for immigration lawyers in Barcelona who had English as an option on their website. 
My search led me to three lawyers who returned my email inquiry. They all told me that it was not possible for me to apply from Spain. Bonnie's lawyer joined the chorus, making it four nays to one yes. The Yes was saying I could get it and it would only cost me 900 euros ($1,100.00). 


 When I asked for a money back guarantee, that she was right, I got a bunch of mumble jumble about honesty and professionalism.  I didn't need mumble jumble.  I needed confidence in her stated position that I could apply for the visa while living in Spain.  In the end, or so I thought, I sent here a short three sentence note thanking her for her time and that I would not be moving forward with applying for my visa from Spain.  I thought that would be that.  I was wrong.  I should have expected the need of a female lawyer to get in the last word. I tried to gently close the door on our relationship with a short and sweet  goodbye email. Since she wanted to open the door, I felt compelled to see if she wanted to go for one more last word. Here is that final exchange. 

RE: Hiring an expert lawyer in Spain 

RE: I do understand your doubts 
RE: Answering to your questions 
RV: Re: On behalf of Ms. Celsa Núñez, Lawyer

Dear Darryl, 

Thanks for your message and I am sorry that you got cold feet and are not pursuing your visa. I wish you the best with your endeavors and if you are ever in need of legal services in Spain, I hope you will contact us again.

Best regards,

Celsa

Dear Celsa,

My cold feet could have been easily warmed by one simple statement. It would have looked like this. 

Mr. Kimmel,

I understand your dilemma. I can assure you that I am correct in my opinion that you can apply for your visa while you are in Spain. I recognize that a number of my colleges have told you otherwise, but that is not the case. I am so sure of my opinion, that if your visa application is denied based on your application being submitted in Spain, rather than from the United States, I will gladly refund your fee for our services. 

This statement would be fair and reasonable, yet you could not nor would not make it. I was not doubting. I was asking for confidence in your position. If you have no confidence in your position, then how can I?  

Sincerely,

Darryl Kimmel 

There you have it. I will now be applying for my extended visa from the United States again. Since I have tried to do it once, I should be able to sort it out this time and be successful. It will require me to live in Los Angeles for a short time, but, it will be winter and it's warm in LA during the winter, so the nuisance factor is greatly reduced.   

My stay here in Barcelona might just echo everyday life, but not any life I have lived before. Being here continues to be as interesting as life can be. There will be more to come.