Sunday in Sorede

This is how it goes: a few walk over to the edge of the village square. The music is playing. A few more join. And still others. And they join hands and start the dance.





The Catalan Sardana. I’ve heard it referred to as non-performance dancing. The music is steady, the steps follow their own pattern, not oblivious of the music, but in a subtle reaction to it.

I’ve seen it in Sorede on St. John’s Eve. And I saw it again this Sunday.


I hadn’t yet studied the village calendar and so I hadn’t quite clicked onto this day’s dancing. Ed and I simply had a late start to the day and our walk into town for a pain au chocolat, taken to a café bar for an accompanying grand crème brought us to the square exactly at the moment just before the dance.

Our walk was lovely – blue skies, pink flowers against yellow walls.. or was it blue flowers against yellow walls?








...then a quick dash to the bakery and yes, they still had a couple of pains au chocolat left...





... and now we’re on the square, the lesser square, the one below the great square and we see the small gathering of people.





Obviously ready for a Catalan moment.

No, this is not for show, for tourism, for the likes of me or Ed. They do it for themselves. The sense of Catalan pride that runs through these mountain villages is strong. It’s not aggressive as it may appear south of the border. But it’s there. The donkey pasted to the fender of the car (in a push back against the Spanish bull, the Catalonian people adopted the donkey as their own), the Catalan stripes everywhere. In solidarity. And the dance. Children learn it, adults know it, the elders will not ignore the call when the band starts to play.





At first, only those in Catalan dress dance. But in the next round, many of the villagers come to the circle and join in. And soon there is a circle within the circle.





We sit at the café facing the square and watch. People from the village watch as well. Some start their own circle to the side.





Why is this so emotional for me? People having a good time, very informally, without great pomp or ceremony, children, adults, bouncing fluently, without hesitation, without missteps... I am like my grandmother: everything sincere and from the heart makes my eyes spill over.


 



We leave before noon. I've put off buying the local fruits and I know our grocer will be closing her shop within minutes. We pick up peaches, strawberries and local eggs. All her stuff inside the store is organic. The outside crates are a mix.











In the late afternoon, I suggest a tame mountain climb. We are at the foot of the Alberes – the eastern hills that form part of the Pyrenee range.


 


The mountain right behind us has a pretty abbey near the summit and quite lovely views of the Canigou peak and the stretch of the Roussillon plane to the north.

Oh, it’s a lovely first hike! Not demanding – one and a half hours up, one hour down. But every step is exhilarating. The flowers, the Mediterranean cork oaks. The rosemary and lavender, sweet pea and jacob’s ladder. The butterflies.














You can visit the old abbey, purchase its wines, refill your bottle of water. We top ours. Ed pets all visible cats.





The abbey also has a picnic table at the back and a boisterous group of young adults, some with babies, some not quiet there yet, gather there for a Sunday picnic lunch.




A passing hiker shouts to them – don’t eat too much! They retort – then come join us!

How is it that the French are so good at using leisure time well? I know, I know, they have lots of practice days to get it right.

Ed and I continue up, not super high, no, just to this point (as usual, the photo of me at our highest point).





We sit on the cliffs for a while and look out to the range that spills to the south – to Spain, and to the east – toward the sea, which right now, merges with the sky so well that you cannot tell which is which. We see the occasional hiker here too. It's a holiday week-end (no work tomorrow, I can't keep track of all their official days off, so I can't tell you why this particular long week-end, but one must take note, because stores will close... except for the baker: there will always be someone baking bread on every day of the year). Engaging in le sport is part of the routine for a great number of those who live here.





It is one of those splendid moments when you understand that, no matter what, your life has been one hell of a lucky ride.




It is evening. We're back in Sorede.




I ask Ed – do you still want to go to the sea? It’s reasonably warm – seventies maybe, but I know the sea can be cool at the beginning of June. Sure.

We drive the short distance to my very favorite beach (well, truthfully it’s in a tie with one further north, but that one takes 45 minutes to get to and this one is a mere 15 and it’s that long only because you have to weave through another village, a complicated coastal one, to get there).

Le Racou. Oh, you’re lovely as ever! Small beach cottages line your sandy stretch, the hills are visible to the south, the waters are clear and calm.





And cool. I ask Ed – you’re swimming, right? In an uncharacteristic move, he takes steps toward the water, then pauses. I point to one person swimming. Still he hesitates. And then he takes the plunge.

I walk up and down the water’s edge, noting that there are many things that are so obviously French (I did not say nakedly French, although I could have) that they fit the stereotype because they’re true.









Ed comes out and I say – that’s it? And he notes that I’ve been strolling and he asks – should I go in one more time for a photo? And I could laugh at that, but I say, sure. And I take the photo of the great porpoise with the wet curly strands of hair falling down his face in the clear waters of the Mediterranean.





The beach is nearly empty now. We leave too. No need to linger. We’ll be back many an evening.





We eat dinner at the pizza place across the street. I know, I know, second day in France and we’re still on pizza. But this is what we do here, at Le Racou. The pizza place is outdoors and terrifically fun and the people watching is good and besides, the wood fired oven gives it a special taste and I pick different topings and drink a rose from a small pitcher rather than the sangria of the previous nights.





The ride home is a balm of familiarity. Of weaving through the labyrinth of streets through the village by the sea, of heading out for the short stretch into the countryside, of oaks and cypresses, of vineyards and the occasional olives.

It’s nine, but the sun hasn’t set yet. It will soon, but this is June and its long stretch of light may be the reason I love June like no other month of the year.

arrival

Snapshots for you today. Fleeting observations.

For instance this: Ed is catching up on sleep a lot. So that the goal of rising early and getting a good morning’s walk in Barcelona fails. Instead, we barely made it out for a stroll in the neighborhood. Not that this was lacking in pleasant vignettes.

The shops. This one subscribes to bold advertising.




The park. Miro park. Where wild parrots nest in the palms and make screechy noises when you disturb them with your presence.




You know how occasionally, you like to take a photo of your partner and he’ll do the same for you and its all so convivial and sweet? Here we are: the compliant one and the difficult subject.









And then it’s noon and we pack our bags and walk the long long four blocks to the car rental place. To clarify: long, because when the two of you are lugging two packs, a suitcase and a foldable canoe (with paddles, etc.), each block is like a mountain.

And we get our wish: the smallest of small cars, the Smart for Two. The agent looks at our bags, looks at the car, looks at the bags and says – it is a small car. Yes, yes, we know. That’s why I took a thin suitcase. If we set the canoe sideways, and the bag next to it and one pack on top... No, that didn’t work. How about if we put the suitcase on its side and the canoe underneath and one pack on its end... Better. We tell the agent: it’s only for a day like this. She waves us on.

We head north. Out of Barcelona. City of balconies, right?




...and of buildings that make you take note.









Ed’s feeling sleepy again. We switch drivers. Radio’s on, the road’s familiar, two hours later, we cross the border. And the music changes. To French. Cherie FM...

And because we are staying in the foothills of the Pyrenees not too far from the Spanish border, it doesn’t take long to pull into the big grocery store just outside Sorede. Ah, changes. The big grocery store is now bigger. More aisles, more grocery carts, new systems in place. Even more rosé wines to choose from. We buy the wine, the apple juice (like no other), the juice from wine grapes (which is different from grape juice or wine), and the cheese. Necessities.

And now we do the final couple of kilometers along the country road to the village.




Yes, here at last. So darn familiar! Park the car, go to the favorite bakery. This late, you’re hoping there’s bread left. There is.





...and yes, still a mille feuille remains. Just for you Ed. Thank you for agreeing to come back.




This time we’re staying toward the hills some. Up there, past those houses.





It’ll be a twenty-five minute walk to the center of the village, but I would do much for such a walk in my everyday life.

Gunter and his wife (our hosts) are waiting: here’s your apartment (It’s the back side of their house), all is ready.

We unpack in this lovely little space that’s so clean (so different from last year’s!), where the Internet works (so different from last year’s!) and there’s space to settle in (so different from last year’s!).

In the evening, we walk down the hill, passing the wee vineyard...




dazzling, still dappled by the fading sun...



...and the village houses. Ed notices the cats, I notice the dogs, nothing’s changed, all wonderfully reassuring.












On the main square, the Bar Pizza place, THE Bar Pizza place is alive and noisy. A family next to us: one boy is a little on the ill side, his sister doesn’t like the lack of attention. She goes off, as she can, and sits at the other end of the square.





People watching. I look over at another group where, in my eyes, she looks like a portrait Renoir would have painted.




More people watching. All under the canopy of flags, Sorede flags, or really French and Catalan flags and European Union flags. Little dancing flags, like children dance, so do flags, out in the breeze of a June night.





A pitcher of sangria (a beverage we can share!) – this one is spicier, more tart with citrus, equally delicious. A pizza, mine with anchovies from nearby Couilleures, a salad – huge young greens – wasn’t there a drought here? No, not here, more in the east of France.






Sorede. It’s been such a crowded year. It’s so good to breathe the air of a village where nothing seems particularly crowded or rushed.

Barcelona

Night in Barcelona. Just one night. After the long trip, Ed falls asleep the minute we reach the hotel.

The skies are cloudy and the temperatures have dropped to the cool sixties. Eight o’clock, nine, nine thirty. Ed, we cannot pass on a dinner in Barcelona.

A night meal in the city. Hundreds of places to choose from. Last year, Ed took on the task of picking with a zest. Tonight he’s still groggy from travel. I have some ideas, but nothing fixed. He searches, we confer reviews, confer some more. Got it. Just a two kilometer walk toward the center. Taller de Tapas.

Barcelona in the late June evening, just a little wet, just a little cool. Men wear scarves, women – eh, women, they wear all sorts of things. Me too. I clash colors here, because it’s crazy fun to not harmonize, not be perfectly in order.

Balconies. The city of balconies.





Then of course, tapas. Catalan food is at the top of the best, in my book. Tapas let two people run through a lot of food. There are the wild mushrooms. The greens with bits of cheese. And anchoivies on eggplant and peppers. And langoustines in saffron. And mussels. And a pitcher of sangria. Ed, who drinks maybe a beer every two weeks at home, pours sangria as if it were water. Delicious, zesty fruity...








And when you think I'd had enough, I point to the scrambled eggs with prawns and seasonal vegetables, and what the heck, it’s small plates, so that too.

Barcelona. Something about this place makes you let go. Eat with spirit. Then walk home in the warm light rain, in the shadows of the night, while others keep on eating, drinking. Seductive city. Almost dark now. Almost.