connecting

Airplane flights allow you to find a personal link between the world you leave behind and the one you’re returning to. I don’t hate them in the way most people seem to. For me, they offer time: essential time during which you can reconcile world one with world two. To figure out how you can take the best from one place and make it your own in the next.

Oh sure, there are, so often, miserable moments to flying. For instance, the ventilation wasn’t working for the first hour as we sat in the airplane in Paris (where we connected to Detroit and then eventually to Madison). The hot, still air felt more oppressive than the hottest hours in Ghana. The plane was full. Everyone sat in silence waiting for that magic moment when we could take in cool air again. The minutes dragged.

But most air travel is mundane, straightforward and therefore, a good time to close your eyes and think for a bit.

I did that. Flying up and over Barcelona.





Flying into Madison.






The next morning, I wake up at the farmhouse, look outside and see the beauty of a sunrise over an overgrown with grasses and weeds farmette.






Today, my arms ache from pulling and tossing. Returns to the condo were easy. To the farmhouse? Hard, yet beautiful.





The music in my head is Abba (so popular over European airwaves) but the memory of speeding on the twisted roads to La Franqui beach in France, listening to Dancing Queen is tempered by news then from home. I didn't mention it much in my posts, but it wasn't always good news. One thing I will always remember from this trip is being insanely happy one minute, then thinking I should be home for those who needed me to be home.

Barcelona

Google map – I don’t know how you do it! Who put all that information into your system? Did people send you maps from around the world and you masterfully memorized all the street names and their direction? I mean, I really cannot fathom how many things work – that’s an Ed strong suit – but neither of us can understand how it is that we can so easily route our traveling destinations.

The drive from the Costa Brava into the city of Barcelona is a breeze. Once we get past the traffic jam.

We pull up the little car to the door of our hotel for the night – the very very excellent Hotel Villa Emilia (don’t let names deceive you – this is no old fashioned sachet and chandelier place -- it’s a smart, modern little hotel and if you’re as lucky as we are on this day, you’ll get the corner room, with large windows out onto the busy world of Barcelona).





And now comes the task of unloading it all: the suitcase, the backpacks, the canoe. The drysacks, stuffed still with camping gear. The wine box, the beach bag, the loose odds and ends, packed so tightly into the back (where, really, there’s only room for one small suitcase) that if you open the hatch, you run the risk of setting off an avalanche of objects.

We’re efficient. Ed leaves me with the mountain of gear and drives off to return the car. The desk staff of the sharp hotel never bats an eye as I move the not so smart bags and sacks from outside to the elevator and then, in batches, up to our room.


The idea is to spend the day sorting through museums we hadn’t time for before. And to explore the less familiar neighborhoods. But we haven’t the energy for it just yet. We drift into sleep and only when it is very late in the afternoon do we nudge each other to get going.

We put aside ambitious plans. And in a way, that's too bad. The more straightforward alternative – a walk to the port of Barcelona puts us in the thick of such crowds, noise and traffic, that we are rather overwhelmed.

The walk itself ends up being long – very long. Four hours. Five maybe. We do pause for a coffee and a Catalan vichy...





...and then, too, in the Museum of Maritime History and that would be a great choice considering Ed’s love of boats and history, except that the main collection is under renovation and so we see an abbreviated version of what is inside.

Oh, here you can see me – the immigrant, smiling broadly. I’m sailing to America! Happy Fourth to you too!





And then we walk the boardwalk to what appears to be mall on the waterfront. With cafes that tempt me not at all...





...and too few quiet spaces like this.





Off the boardwalk, we’re in the beach area of Barcelona. A place of tight houses and tired faces, of few flowers and too few people picking up the litter that accumulates in the space of a day. Or week. (At least in this block, the Catalan banners add a bit of flair:)






The beach itself is okay – in an urban sort of way.





Neither of us is tempted to step in the sand.

Slowly, we make our way back through the old town, past the wide boulevards too, packed, really packed with people, but that is to be expected. It is summer and the residential neighborhood where we are staying is emptying out as people leave for vacations, to be replaced by the likes of us, the tourists, wanting to taste the racy rich foods and pleasures of Barcelona.

We walk, too, through the ethnically diverse neighborhoods – Moroccan, Indian, Pakistani. And through blocks where stores are still open at 9 and cheap wine is sold straight from the barrel.











Here, the bars are crowded and Ed comments – where are all the old people?





Gone. Hiding. I don't know.

You might think that my love for Barcelona is dwindling. An intense rush of affection that trickles and morphs into bitterness and resentment. Not so. But just at this moment, I am more in love with the two blocks around our hotel. They offer nothing unusual, except a cool room in a cool hotel, a quiet neighborhood and a wonderful restaurant (La Clara), where our superstar desk clerks send us for a late night meal. We eat a superb dinner! Barcelona comes through after all. From mussel appetizers to Catalan creams, with the effervescent Cava throughout.











A short while later, in the wee hours of the morning, we are packed and dragging cases and totes and packs up six blocks to the square from which we catch a bus to the airport.

by the sea, one last time

We leave the Languedoc region of France Sunday morning. Good-bye vineyards.






Hello Spain.





Cheaper gas, different language, no baguette habits. Why do bread eating styles not cross borders?

We are utter imbeciles at finding our way to the quiet little hotel (Mas Ses Vinyes) on the outskirts of Begur, Spain. (Why there? Well, it’s just a couple of hours north of Barcelona and we need to return the car early the next day. And it’s a snap to get to the sea – the Costa Brava. And the rural inn prides itself on being a quiet place. We’re still in a quiet zone in our state of being. We're bracing for Barcelona the next day.) True, there are fifty google steps to take to get to the place, but at least the last one – “drive up 300 meters to the Mas Ses Vinyes” should have been obvious enough.

We stop at the gates where there is a sign “Ses Vinyes.” No one’s around. Ring the bell, I tell Ed. Nothing. I don’t believe he pressed hard enough. Do it again. Silence. A place of real silence.

Maybe they’re out. What now?

I peer through the crack in the gates. You know, I don’t think we’re at the right address.

We retreat.

But five minutes later we do finally locate the Mas (rural inn) and are given a delightful corner room where the winds blow through and make you feel almost as if you’re in a tent (I tell Ed).





There is time for one last swim in the sea.

We drive to the nearest beaches, even though we’re told they’ll be crowded. A Sunday in July, after all.

First beach. Not too crowded at all and why should I be surprised – it’s a nippy and gray day. Any other time this little cove would draw us.


 



Today, we look at each other and shrug. Pretty. Very few people. Want to go? Maybe we should look at some of the others...

We snake along the rocky coast,  past Begur, up one hill, over the next...





...and it really isn't all that long -- a few kilometers, no more than that -- before the landscape flattens out and the shoreline turns into one long strip of golden sand. The beach here is crazily packed at the entrance point. But as we walk away from the road, the sandy shore thins out.

As does the attire. Nippy as it is, this Roca beach is for those who hate the encumbrance of swim suits. Nakedness is the norm. A father and son kick a soccer ball, a couple plays a sporting game of badminton, a mom and dad try to coax their little one into the water – all, or at least most are clothesless and normally I would think – oh, fantastic! Peel those layers off on this hot hot day, except that today is not a hot hot day. Indeed, I kind of am missing my sweater.

Surprisingly, the water is quite warm. I am almost tempted to go in for a swim. Almost. But the thought of coming out of the warm sea into this chilly air gives me pause and I opt instead for wading knee deep in the choppy waters of a rather agitated Mediterranean.

Ed feels the water with his toe and says – I’m going in!





No hesitation there. He emerges once with a big grin, goes back in, comes out, goes back in, diving, surfing, doing all sorts of acrobatics, happy as the dolphin that he is.


And now, one last photo from the beach...





by the sea, by the sea... And off we go, back to our corner room with the billowing winds.

The post should end with mention of great food and a sound and restful sleep, but actually, the food at our rural inn is surprisingly tame. I’ll highlight the best of the bunch – a rice and seafood dish...





Maybe it’s that we’re spoiled now, terribly terribly spoiled by a month of great pizzas, salads, ducks, shrimp and pain au chocolat. And don’t forget the mille feuille. So that a reheated this or that and a limp whatever just seems so unfortunate.

As for the sleep – well, I suppose it’s our own fault. The idea of breezes blowing through the room all night long was so alluring that we left the windows wide open. During the entire month, we’ve had no real run ins with mosquitoes. But on this night, one made it into our room and it takes only one to keep you from sleeping well. I’m not an inept bug chaser, but the tall timbered ceiling and various nooks in the room stacked the deck against me. Near five in the morning, one slap by Ed finally put an end to things, but this was only a small victory since we were by then just a couple of hours short of our wake up and get going time.

I refuse to end the post on the mosquito hunt though. Instead, let me say that even as the inn puts too little effort into the food, it surely makes up for it by having lovely flowers.













And, finally, I do want to say that I hope your Fourth was a happy happy Fourth of July. Ours just ended, in Barcelona. Crowded, lively, noisy Barcelona. I’m sure to have more to say on that once we haul ourselves and all our olive oils, rosés, mustards and jams across the ocean. Right now, it's time for us to pack up and head home.

water music

I'm drying myself after a long soak in the bathtub at a rural hotel in northern Spain. When was the last time that I had taken a bath? Ten years ago? Longer?

Why is it that at times water is so pleasurable? Has there been even a day this past month when we haven’t searched for it, thought about it, played in and around it? Canoeing around the lake in the Languedoc. The sea – that, of course. Then on the river – oh, the drama of it all! And now we’ve moved on to the canal. And after, in our final moments on this side of the ocean, we’ll be back, fleetingly, to the sea, only on the Spanish side. By the sea, the sea, the beautiful sea, you and me, you and me, of how happy we’ll be...

But let me pause by the Canal du Midi for a while, because that’s really all that we did all day Saturday.

We're spending the week-end in an interesting place: it’s ever so close to the Canal du Midi, that most serene and alluring stretch of water that extends over 240 kilometers from the Mediterranean Sea to the Garonne River, ultimately providing a waterway that connects the Mediterranean with the Atlantic. (A feat for 1681!) And not only are we close to the Canal, but we’re also close to the intersection of a small feeder canal and the rushing waters of a river, so that you can walk to a point where the Canal is above the river and the little canal is off to the side and if this is just too much detail for you, follow along with the photos and you’ll understand.

And so in the morning, we leave our little hamlet...





...and stroll along the small canal that feeds the larger Canal du Midi. It’s a mesmerizing walk: the Platain trees line both canal and tow path, the breeze plays with the grasses and reeds, and the ducks squawk at each other in the way that ducks do. I actually make a small film clip of it, because at the moment, I think that no other set of sounds and movements could be as soothing as this. (Even as I know I will never watch it because the fact is, pleasing sounds can be found in all corners of the farmette back home.)






We walk to the place where the river flows under the canal...






... and then along the grand Canal du Midi, first one way, then the other...













...until we reach the little village of Le Somail.













There’s a grocery barge there, and I buy Languedoc acacia honey (a small jar... really super small, tucked in anywhere). And melon jam. Random, perhaps, but in the end, so oddly appropriate. We had the idea of lingering over an ice cream “boule” (scoop) in the village, but the café-restaurant was full of serious lunch eaters. It seemed unfair to use a table for lingering over an ice cream. A few steps further, we pass a shed where a young man is selling regional fruits – peaches, melons – and wines. Ed suggests we buy peaches, but the melons look tempting as well. We buy both.





We take our fruits and find a spot on the banks of the Canal. Ed whips out his Leatherman knife and cuts open the melon and we eat the sweet pulp, letting the juice dribble down freely, not caring really, because, after all, who would even notice.






Though there are others who inhabit the river bank.

A goose family approaches us and I wonder if they’re after a handout, but no, they continue to slowly eat their way towards us (fresh green shoots of grasses or flowers? Bugs? Don’t know...) until a dog saunters over, sending the whole flock hissing and scampering into the water.





You could spend many hours just watching boats drift by and ducks and geese go about their daily chores. (The scene where the mother duck is teaching her babies to scramble up the bank is perhaps the most heartwarming.)

Ed wonders if we should go back for a second melon – it is that delicious. I return to the shed and tell the young man there that we’ve been enjoying all his great fruits by the Canal and he asks if I have ever eaten this melon – picked just this morning! – along with a Muscat wine? He smacks his lips in that quintessentially French manner that we think is only done in movies. He pours me a glass of it and I tell him I am only sorry that I cannot purchase any. I have, by last count, seven wines, two olive oils, some mustards and honeys and now jams – to fit into a suitcase that is thin and is already overstuffed with camping gear.

The fruit seller asks me where I am traveling back to. The United States. United States? I adore the United States! Even though I have never been there...

The lure of the new, the wildly energetic, the incredible great hunk of a country across the ocean. To a young person whose life is moving at the slow pace that I find so endearing, America surely seems like an escape into a better, richer, kaleidoscopic future.

Or maybe he just wants to surf on the beaches of California – who knows. (French people seem to love California best of all the states. Especially northern California. They think it feels most like home.)

(I confess to also buying an olive oil from him: it’s a cold press of luque olives, done in the old fashioned way! Surely there will be room for this treasure. Maybe in the folds of the canoe?)

The fruits were to be our lunch. Ed asks – does this mean we shouldn’t stop for ice cream? It does not. Almond milk for Ed, and fig/honey nut and also rose petal (both made of sheep’s milk) for me.






We walk back toward home again along the canal.


 








Barges move across this water road, ducks use it for whatever it is that ducks do, but are there fish in it? I pass a young boy who has, indeed just caught one.





As I take the photo, he says – oh, but this is nothing! You should see the size of the one I caught several hours ago! He reaches proudly into his case and pulls out the impressively large fish. But as he does this, the fish makes one last effort to set herself free and she succeeds! She slips from his hands even as he struggles to hold on and she falls right back into the Canal. Sorry, young boy! You’re welcome, fish!

We continue.






Past the vineyards... I stop to take a photo. Ed rests by the Canal.












And back along the smaller canal. No less pretty though. Boys are building dams where the water streams by, two girls sit to the side talking, looking at each others phone screens.















A day along the canal. And it doesn’t end there. In the late afternoon, we set out to look at the canal locks. There six in a row, just a few kilometers from our hamlet. There isn’t much traffic here now, but we do stumble upon the passage of one yacht with a multigenerational crew that hadn’t yet gotten the hang of things, offering for the onlookers some amusing moments of dropped lines, missed opportunities and general mishaps. Only the grandfather chuckled through it all.





We stroll through the village that abuts the locks, just to see what’s there.


 


And perhaps you’ll have predicted that we find a bakery. No, no mille feuille this time. Just biscuits to munch on.





Madame tells me I should take photos in the morning, when her shelves are bursting with baked goods!

In the morning... where will be the next morning? In Spain already?

This village is quieter, undisturbed by the flow of tourism. Ed stops to pet a cat. A dog looks at me as if to ask -- why does he prefer cats?













In the evening we eat at a restaurant just two kilometers outside the village. It is a good choice for a last Languedoc dinner. I eat tiny shrimp in avocado sauce and then once more the cuttle fish – bigger this time and prepared with a pesto sauce. Delicious.





Ed drives us back to the village. I say a silent evening goodbye to France.