A pretty good day

So, after posting a bunch of stuff this morning, I went out on the town. Town being Porto, Portugal, of course. First, I gotta tell you about this room. It's a tiny, dingy room on the top floor (4th, but 5th to all you yanks,) of this rat trap of a fleabag hotel in downtown Porto. The toilet is down the hall, but it's missing a light, so I use the one on the 3rd floor. The shower is on the 3rd floor, too. Shared with who knows how many people. The manager told me to lock my moto to a tree out front on the sidewalk so it doesn't get stolen. Last night, there were a bunch of idiotic tourists (I assume,) screaming at the top of their lungs at 3am. (Why do idiots insist on proclaiming their stupidity so loudly?)

Anyway, this morning, I left the hotel and headed for the Casa da Musica. It's a new concert venue designed by Rem Koolhas, and it really is great. Stainless steel all around, with curved glass walls, stone, and colored paving. Hi tech all the way. and beautiful. They even have an area where you can make electronic music on your own, and cut a CD of it, too. I may go there later for a latin music concert with Chuchu Valdes.
After that, I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art. The museum is great, but the major part of the exhibition was devoted to a video artist of some repute. Sorry, the emperor/artist isn't wearing any clothes. Boring waste of time. Not so for the grounds. A beautiful park/farm in the city with some cool art, too.

After that, I zipped down to the coast and checked out a bunch of surf spots. I found one with some real promise, called ironically, English Beach. It looked so good, I beat feet back to the hotel, grabbed my gear and raced back to the beach. I was putting on my fins when the lifeguard came and tried to talk me out of it. He _really_ didn't want me going out. The surf was almost head high and broke off some rocks at the edge of a small pocket beach. He talked about the current, etc, yadda yadda, but he said he couldn't keep me from going out. So I went out. The waves were OK, a bit mushy and not really steep enough faces to bodysurf, but I caught a couple of fun ones. Just getting in the water with energy was great. After 40 minutes, 4 other surfers came out and told me the whole beach was concerned about my safety. hmmpf. One surfer said they called the cops. After an hour or so, I swam in. When I hit the beach and came in through the 4' shorebreak, there was applause. It seemed really silly, so I jumped back in the water and did some stupid pratfall stuff. The lifeguard, a city official, and a lady psychologist talked to me about my experience. The woman was really impressed that being a waterman was so easy for me. (Seems a bit weird for us BSers, I know.) The lifeguard eventually said I could have been arrested, because there was a blackball, even though he said he couldn't stop me earlier. I asked him if he was concerned about the boardsurfers, too, and he mumbled something.

After I left the beach, I rode back to town and found a little place called Vinologia. It's a bar that specializes in port wine. Being a port novice, I tried the top end 3 glass taster - white, tawny and ruby. That was so good, I had to have another glass of good tawny. The waiter/owner told me a bit about port wine and put a bowl of a dried apricot, chocolate, and a prune on the table to go with the 3 glasses. It was delicious. I'm now hooked. While I was drinking, 3 people came and sat next to me. Two ladies from Santa Rosa (one a winemaker,) and a Portugese man who makes port wine. In the next half hour, I got a lesson in the port wine industry.
In any case, I am now 19 Euros lighter and tipsy again, but really happy, too.  ;-)
So I think I need to get some food in me and maybe go listen to some good music.
Later.

2 views from my hotel room. The door on the right is the toilet.

 The Casa da Musica:

Scenes around Porto:

 Vinologia:

On riding in Portugal

Portugal is nice. I like it. But traveling in Portugal isn't the joy that riding in Austria, Italy, Corsica and France was. Because I've been horny for surf, I've stuck pretty close to the coast, and that is pretty heavily developed. There are towns every few clicks, so there isn't a lot of empty country to ride through. There definitely are some fine stretches, but they don't last long. So what I've been stuck with are a ton, no, make that thousands of tons of speed bumps. And speed bumps here can be a little different. Often, they are wide, from 5' to 20' wide, encompassing a pedestrian crosswalk. But there is this other, sneaky little thing that is used in many places. It's a radar traffic signal. The speed limit is set at 50kph, and the light will turn red if you go much faster than that. The light can be in the middle of nowhere, not at an intersection or crosswalk. It's just to slow you down and it only stays red a few seconds, but it's a pain in the butt when there is one every 1/2 mile. So, you're stuck with going slowly on the back roads, or hitting the autopista, where the speed limit is 120kph, but many people do 120_mph_. It's a little strange to be doing 95 in the slow lane and get passed by someone doing 120 or more. But the autopistas are boring, so it's a tossup between that or piddling along at 30mph through town after town, most of which look pretty much the same. And along the coast, that means little beach towns much like SoCal. But much prettier.

Street scenes in Cascais:

This is a neighborhood trash bin/recycle pickup. The trash truck hooks up an air hose and the whole thing raises to allow access to the bins underneath:

more route points

6-8 tue
Le vigan - D999 - D7 - D65 - Cornus - Fondamente - D93 - Le Clapier - D393 - D902 - Ceilhes - D8 - D35 - La Tour sur Orb - Bedarieux - D908 - Lamalou - D22 - St Gervais sur Mare - D22e - D922 - D622 - Murat - D162 - Rieu - D62 - D169 - Fraisse - D169 - Col de la Bane - Col du Cabaretou - D907 - St Pons - D612 - Courniou - D920 - Usclats - Col de Serieres - Col de Salette - D620 - Lespinassiere - Caunes Minervois - D620 - Carcassonne

6-9 wed
Carcassonne - D42 - Palaja - Arquettes - D310 - D110 - D114 - Clermont - D56 - Villardebelle - D129 - Col de l'Homme Mort(1:02:48  of gp194) - D70 - D54 - Valmigere - Missegre - D129 - Buc - Villebazy - Gardie - D151 - D104 - Limoux - D118 - Couiza - D613 - D14 - Le Mas - Bugarach - Gorges de Galamus - St Paul - D7 - St Martin - Col de Roque Jalere - Prades - Catllar - Prades

6-10 thu
Prades - D27 - Abby St Michel - Vernet les bains - Castail - Mariailles - Vernet - Sahorre - D6 - Col de Mantet - Sahorre - D27 - N116 - Joncet - Olette - Evol - D4 - Tourol - Ayguatebia-Talau - Col de la Llose - D118 - Mont Louis - D618 - Font Romeu - Egat - Estavar - LLivia - Gorguja - Saillagouse - N116 - Prades

6-11 fri
Prades - N116 - Bouleternere - D618 - Amelie les Bains - D115 - Prats de Mollo - Col de Ares - Camprodon - Sant Joan de las Abadesses - Ripoll - N152 - Collada de Toses - Puigcerda

6-12 sat
Puigcerda - col de Puymorens - Port d'Envalira - Canillo - Ordino - Andorra La Vella - la Seu - Adrall - Sort - Llavorsi - Port de la Boniagua - Vielha - Bossost - Les - Bossost - Bagneres de Luchon - col de Peyresourde _ Arreau _ St Lary

6-13 sun
St Lary - Col d'Azet - Loudenvielle - Estarvielle - Bagneres de Luchon - Col du Portillon - Vielha - El Pont - La Pobla de Segur - Tremp - Isona - Benevent - Isona - Col de Nargo - Vilada - Les Llosses - Ripoll

6-14 mon
Ripoll - N260 - Olot - GI524 - Sta Pau - Banyoles - Esponella - N260 - Ordis - N11 - C260 - Castello - GI614 - Cadaquez - GI614 - C260 - N11(past Girona) - C65 - LLagostera - Veinat de St Lorenc - Sant Grau - GI682 - Tossa de Mar - N11 - Barcelona

6-15 tue
Barcelona on foot

6-16 wed
Barcelona on foot

6-17 thu
Barcelona - AP7 - L'Hospitalet de l'Infant - A7/N340 - L'Ampolia - AP7 - A7 - Alicante - Elche/Elx - Santa Pola - Torrevieja

6-18 fri
Torrevieja - National road to - Cartegena - Mazarron - Aguilas - Vera - Garrucha - Carboneras - A7 - Almeria - N340 - Benehadux - A348 - Canjayar - Fondon - Paterna del Rio - Bayarcal - A337 - Laroles - Mecina Alfahar - Mecina Bombaron - Cadiar

6-19 sat
Cadiar - A348 - Torvizcon - Orgiva - Lanjaron - A44 - Granada - Armilla - A338 -Alhama de Granada - ventas - A402 - A7204 - Periana - A356 - Casabermeja - A356 - Colmenar - A7000 - Malaga - A7 - Fuengirola - A7 - Marbella - San Pedro - A397 - Ronda

6-20 sun
Ronda - A374 - MA505 - Benaojan - Jimera de Libar - A369 - Benadalid - A405 - Jimena - Gib - N340 - CAP2216 - Bolonia - N340 - A48 - Jerez - NIV - Sevilla

6-21 mon
Sevilla - E1/A49 - Ayamonte - E01/IP1 - Tavira - 125 - Faro - E01/IP1 - Guia - 125 - Sagres - Belixe - Sagres - Vila do Bispo - 268 - Praia do Amado - 268 - Vila do Bispo - Raposeira - Zavial - Raposeira - Sagres

6-22 tue
Sagres - Belixe - Vila do Bispo - Praia do Castelejo - Bispo - Amado - Sagres - Zavial - Amado - Sagres

6-23 wed
Sagres - Cabo de Sao Vicente - Sagres - Bispo - Amado - Aljezur(castle) - Odaseixe - Praia de Odaxeixe - N120 - Brejao - Praia do Cavalhal - Zambujeira do Mar - Cabo Sardao(bird nests) - Almograve - Milfrontes(statue) - 390 -Brunheiras - Malhadunha - Porto Covo - Sines - 261-5 - Brescos - Praia do Santo Andre - 261 - Melides - Comporta - 253-1 - Ferry to Serubal - 379-1 - Arrabida - 379 - Cabo Espichel(church) - Aldeia do Maco - Alfarim

6-24 thu
Alfarim - 377 - 378 - Fernao Ferro - 378 - 10 - Corroios - Almada - bridge(toll-free) - A5 - Carcavelos - Ave. Marginal - Cascais - 247 - Guincho - Malveira da Serra - Guincho - Cascais - A5 - Belem - A5 - Cascais

6-25 fri
Cascais - Guincho - Malveira da Serra - Pe da Serra - Colares - Galamares - Sintra - Castelo dos Mouros - Autodromo do Estoril - Alcabideche - Amoreira - Alcabideche - Malveira da Serra - Guincho - Cascais

6-26 sat
Cascais - Guincho - Cabo da Roca - Sintra - Ericeira - Ribamar - Sao Pedro da Cadeira - Silveira - Porto Novo - Casal Nova - Lourinha - Peniche - Baleal - IP6 - A8 - Tornada - 8 - Alcobaca - Batalha - Leiria - Ortigosa - Monte Redondo - 109 - Tocha - Praia de Mira - (back road?) - Cabeco de Mira - 109 - Aveiro - A25 - A29 - Vila Nova de Gaia - Porto

Cascais, etc.

6-24-10  Now I’m in Cascais , a suburb, more or less, of Lisbon. I passed right by Lisbon today without stopping, but I’ll see it tomorrow. Today, I checked the surf in the local hotspot – Guincho. Of course it was lousy. Waist high onshore slop. I watched for 40 minutes looking for an edge I could ride for more than 3 seconds. Nada. Even the 10 board surfers were pulling out after 5 second mush rides. Oh well, I didn’t expect much anyway. But a guy can dream, right? So, after tracking down a cheap bed for the night, I backtracked into Belem, another suburb. It’s most famous for a 150 year old pastry shop that serves a little cream pastry with sugar and cinnamon on top.  There is also the Monastery of the Two Jeronimos, and a few museums, one of which is the Berardo Collection of Modern and Contemporary Art. I checked out the Monastery and the Art museum before scoring my pastries. The Monastery dates from the early 15^th Century, with lots of modifications since then. It is beautiful. What you’d expect of a medieval church with stained glass, ornate stonework, and carved woodwork. Impressive. Of course, the woman I saw wearing a stylishly flimsy summer dress was at least as beautiful as anything in the building, I thought. The art museum was interesting. I’ve seen 2 other well known modern art museums this trip, but this was the best, by far. I’m not impressed by the art& language movement, but the collection had some really interesting pieces. There were several other special exhibits as well as one floor dedicated to a broad display of their permanent collection, from the surrealists (Dali, Picasso, Miro, etc,) to Andy Warhol’s soup cans, Dan Flavin’s neon lights, and the South American primitive submarine recently shown at the SD downtown Contemporary Museum. I finished off the day with a superb dinner by the sea back in Cascais. A lemon flavored fillet of fish with a side of tomato rice with shellfish after a nice fish soup. Desert was the house special – slices of pecan pie and pumpkin pie with dollops of strawberry and banana ice cream, all smothered in whipped cream. Washed down with a small bottle of white wine, of course. And that makes me done for the night.

Me at the MCA, listening to a tape of foreign sounds on a rickety ladder:

 I also went to Sintra to visit the Palace there. Cool place, but the President of the country showed up, too. I wondered why there was a band playing Sousa marches. The president is somewhere in the crowd.

Stuff...

6-24-10 “Made from typical autochthonous grapes…” Hell, I don’t know how to pronounce that, much less what it means, but it was written on the bottle of wine I drank last night. That was at dinner where I got charged .60 Euros for butter, 1.50 for a little pate’, and .65 for the bread they put on my table. I still haven’t got used to paying extra for the little stuff they put on your table, even though you didn’t order it.  They also put bottles of olive oil and vinegar on the table but didn’t charge me for that. I dunno.

Sometimes I head down a road just because it look interesting, not knowing what’s there or why I’m going. Sometimes it surprises me. Like yesterday. It was getting late in the day and I needed to find a place to stay. The ride out of Setubal was a lot of fun with twisties right next to the sea. I passed up Sesimbra and headed out towards Cabo Espichel. There’s no surf, but I figured I might find an interesting surf break anyway. It was a lot farther than I thought and it became obvious that there weren’t going to be any hotels out there. The landscape was pretty barren, all low shrubs and no trees. I was about ready to turn around when I went over a rise and saw a lighthouse off in the distance and an amazing majestic structure near it. Hmmm. As I rode up to it, an old shepherd moved his flock off the road so I could get by. I parked my bike and walked up to see an old church with two long buildings facing it, creating a long courtyard. The buildings were all closed up and deserted. It was eerie. I thought of Sergio Leone and his spaghetti westerns and the place would have made a perfect set for the final showdown. The wind was blowing, the sun was low, and the sea was just behind the church below sheer cliffs that were several hundred feet high. Desolate and spooky.  To add to the strangeness, there was a chapel with a hershey’s kiss roof not far away with a marker that said dinosaur tracks could be seen going from the beach up the cliff.

Things I learned in Sagres…

1. Cabo de Sao Vicente near Sagres is the most south-westerly point in Europe and was known as the End of the World to Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, and everybody else in Europe until the 15^th Century. The reason is because up until the invention of the caravel sailing ship, it was almost impossible to sail upwind. And since the prevailing winds around the cape are almost always southerly, anyone sailing past the cape had no assurance they’d ever come back. The invention of the caravel was a major factor in the great Age of Discovery in the 14^th and 15^th Centuries. It meant the Columbus had some hope of being able to return from his trips to the unknown. It must have taken incredible courage to set off on those trips with so little chance of success.

2. The word “ton” derives from the word tun, (tonne) or barrel. The barrel was the common storage container on early trading ships, and ships were described by the amount of barrels they could carry – 20 tonnes, 50 tonnes, etc.

"The last hotdog before America" at the Cape:

Back at the beach

OK, it only took a few good roads and getting back in the ocean to get my mind off the mindf**k of Barcelona. Being the victim of a crime is not healthy for the mind or soul, but I'm enjoying life again. Andalucia really does have some beautiful country. The beaches don't impress me much, mainly because they are all covered with tourists from Europe, the States, and everywhere else, but the inland & mountains are cool. And now that I'm in Sagres, Portugal, it's back to surfing safari time. Sagres is like so many other surf destinations around the world. One, the second language in Portugal is English, not Spanish as I expected. And if you've been to any surf destination, you know what this place is like - surf shops, cheap hotels, and lots of cool dudes who know what the stoke is all about. I imagine this place has been surfed since the mid-sixties, maybe earlier.
I've found a half dozen breaks, all beach breaks at the bottom of 100' cliffs. The problem is wind. It howls here. I mean, REALLY howls. It's bad news when you see wind energy machines all around you. But there are some breaks in the lee, and a couple where the wind is offshore most of the time. The other problem? Well, if you've seen Endless Summer, you know what people said when I showed up last night before sunset. I saw some waist high waves and asked some locals about the surf. Yeah, right: "Ya shoulda been here yesterday." So, this morning, I ot up for an early surf check, and sure enough, it was flat. Oh well, I got in the water anyway and caught a tiny mushburger of blown-out beach break, but what the heck, it's one more country I can say I've surfed in.
And there's no such thing as a bad day of surfing, right? And yes, there are naked boobs on the beach.
So, life is good again.

The Bullfight

Sevilla, 20 June, 2010. First of all, it was like an NFL game, but with considerably more at stake than a point spread. It was a social event with glamour and spectacle, music, food and drink. There were old men, young studs with trophy women, families with young children, and tourists. I went with a Russian guy I met at the hostel. It was a bit confusing buying tickets, because there were so many gates, but only one ticket office. Tickets ranged from ~7 Euros in the sun up high, to more than 50 Euros for good seats in the shade.  We found a guy dumping tickets and bought two 34 Euro tickets for 25 each. They were great seats on the front aisle with only 3 rows in front of us.

The first thing I noticed was the dirt was domed. The center of the ring was perhaps a foot higher than the edge. There were two red circles in the dirt not far from the edge, I assume to let the matador know where he is. The dirt was clean and groomed, like the infield of a baseball game, with a crew keeping it nice between bulls.

The matadors and their assistants entered to a fanfare from the brass orchestra.  They marched across the ring and paid honor to the dignitaries under the Spanish flag. The horsemen then left and the matadors tested their capes. Then all fell silent as 3 banderilleros took their place around the ring near the outer circle. The trumpeters (separate from the band,) blare a fanfare and the gate opened. It was a few seconds before the first bull entered the ring, but enter he did – with a charge that made people gasp. More than half a ton of an angry fighting bull is an amazing sight up close. He was fast, powerful, and quick to turn. The three banderilleros tested the bull, using their capes, but not getting too close. Eventually, they went behind the wall and the matador went to the center of the ring. He made some nice passes, and the crowd showed its appreciation. Then, to music from the band, two picadores entered. One stayed near the gate, while the other circled toward the official’s side.  The bull was enticed closer to the horse, and when he saw it, he tried to gore it, but the horse was heavily padded. The picador jabbed the bull near the spine with his lance. The lance has a plate so it can’t go too far into the bull, but the object is to weaken the bull.  Once the picador had jabbed the bull twice, he left the ring. Then the banderilleros had their turn. Each had two banderillos for a total of 6 to place in the bull. It was the only time when the band played while action was taking place. There was much style and drama since they are one-on-one with the bull and no cape to distract the bull. They must reach high and get close enough to place the banderillos in the back of the bull while it is charging them.

Then it was the matador’s turn.  While the banderilleros distracted the bull, he offered his cap to someone in the audience, and prepared his cape. It was a smaller red cape, (as opposed to the pink and yellow capes used earlier,) and he used a sword to hold it wide. When ready, he advanced to the center and faced the bull. By this time, the bull had been jabbed twice with a pic and poked 6 times with banderillos, and had made numerous charges at everyone, so he was obviously more tired, but still had a lot of energy. The matador worked him closer and closer, making him turn tighter and tighter. The bull came within inches of the matador, but eventually he faced the matador head on, just feet away, stock still. The matador walked away and exchanged the sword for a different one, this one for killing. (I don’t know the difference. Perhaps Jerry can explain.) He went back to the center of the ring and made a few more passes, each getting closer and closer, while the bull’s head was dropping lower and lower. Finally, he faced the animal which had entered the ring less than 30 minutes before with such fury, with the cape near the bull’s nose, close to the ground, and the bull quiet. The matador tugged at the cape, the bull charged once more, and the matador raised up on his tiptoes and forced the sword into the bull’s back, up to the hilt. The bull staggered but stayed on his feet. The 3 banderilleros came close and waved their capes at the bull, keeping him contained until he dropped to his knees. One banderillero came close with a thick dagger, made a quick jab to the spine behind the head, and the bull was dead. There was applause for the matador while a team of three horses came in and crew hitched the bull to the team and they pulled the bull out of the ring. More crew cleaned the dirt.

This was repeated until 6 bulls had been killed. It wasn’t always the same. The 3^rd matador was tossed high by his bull, twice. He was gored near the groin so bad, he couldn’t fight his second bull, but was replaced by one of the other matadors. Another matador was tossed twice, too, while trying to kill his bull. He landed on his head, but went back to continue. Once, a matador poured water on his red cape, I imagine to make it heavier.  Several bulls were difficult to kill, because the matador couldn’t find the right spot to place the sword. One bull seemed lazy and reluctant to charge, but that made him more dangerous and he was one that gored a matador.

It was obvious that the matadors displayed great courage to face such animals, and some excellent skill with their capes to get the bulls to charge so close, yet avoid death. It was interesting to see the spectacle and know there must be so much tradition with every move and ritual. The stances and expressions were classic. One fight took place within 30’ of me, and to hear the bull snorting and grunting while twisting and trying to gore, while watching the matador’s eyes focused on the bull, well, it was intense. And when he had the bull stymied, he tossed the cape aside and went to his knees in front of the bull, as if to say, “go ahead, try to kill me.”

BTW, the camera battery went dead before the first picadors went to work. Dammit.

Spain Sucks

6-18-10
OK, it’ not because I got ripped off here. That certainly didn’t help. But it goes far beyond that. Here’s the litany:

They smoke. A lot. There are some non-smoking restaurants, but they are few and far between. There are very few public places that are non-smoking. Even places that have “No Smoking” signs have ashtrays. I’ve inhaled more smoke in the last week than the last 25 years combined. It’s making me physically ill.  There are some cultural events I’d like to see, but I know I’ll be surrounded by chain smokers.

The food. I’ve had one good meal in a week. In Italy or France, I could walk into a restaurant and see a dozen things on a menu I could eat. Here, I see maybe one. If there is a menu. You can walk into a restaurant here and ask what they have. They tell you what they are making that day. I say I eat no meat and they ask if I’d like a salad. But a salad here is just a pile of chopped vegetables. No dressing, no salt, no pepper. The rest is overcooked, bland, stale. Topped with tobacco smoke.

The style. Call it moffles modern. You know, the style of the muffler shops in Tijuana? There are pockets of traditional Spanish architecture in small villages, but they’re overwhelmed by the concrete block and plaster style you see so much of in border Mexico. Coastal development is a stretch of hideous 6 story apartment buildings for mile after mile after mile. It’s depressing.  (BTW, in Barcelona, several of the Gaudi buildings are undergoing or closed for renovation, but if you want to see the Sagrada Familia, Casa Battlo and La Perdona, it will cost you almost $50 in tickets.)

There are two redeeming factors. The people and the roads. The people are good, nice people and the roads are ALL clean and new. I haven’t seen any place with roads as bad as San Diego’s, but Spain has a reputation for the best roads in Europe, even on the tiny country lanes, and it’s true.

So, I’ll just be on my way, looking for surf and hoping Portugal has better food.

6-21-10
OK. I wrote that when I was feeling pretty down. I'm feeling better now, but still not great. It'll take a while to get over that ripoff. Still, most of my comments above stand. Maybe I'll edit it again later.

Alan Jay Lerner was flat out dead wrong.

The rain in Spain does NOT stay mainly in the plain. It stays in the friggin mountains, where you’d expect it to be. And where I should have expected it. But, noooo, I just blithely expected MY path to be clear and easy. And it was, while I followed a suggestion by one of the UKRMers. The road from Bouleternere to Amelie les Bains really is a blast. The sort of twisty, turny road you can really get into a rhythm while riding. It wasn’t until I crossed over into Spain an hour later that the rains started in earnest. Earnest – that’s a euphemism for cats, dogs, elephants and orangutans. It poured. I found out my waterproof gear lost its waterproofness a while ago. It was all fine the first few weeks of the trip, through a lot of rain. But this stuff was a flood. And it soaked my boots, my socks, my gloves, and my crotch. So much for the great Helly Hansen rain trou. I was so miserable; I stopped in Puigcerda at 4:30 for the day. I took a siesta in a hotel and woke up around 7pm. I figured I’d take a walk around the town. Puigcerda is a Spanish town on the French border not far from Andorra. It sits on a little hill in a valley surrounded by the Pyrenees. So I walked into the center of town, through some narrow cobblestone alleyways, and turned the corner to find a square that overlooked the valley.  Wow! The skies had cleared and the entire range was in view. Incredible.

The next day, I rode to Andorra, which is a modern fairy tale principality. Beautiful alpine views of snowy peaks above, coupled with duty-free shopping everywhere else you look. It’s a motorcyclist’s dream, because every maker of bikes or accessories in the world has an outlet there. I found a supermarket of moto gear and bought new gloves, boots and rain trou. Just in time, too, because as soon as I left Andorra, it started to rain again. Solid rain, off and on until I reached Barcelona 2 days later. Which may not be on the plains, but it ain’t in the mountains, which is where the rain stays, mainly, in Spain.

I took the day off today…

6-10-10

Well sorta. I still rode 120 miles, but that wasn’t my intention. When I woke up, it was raining, windy, and blah-ful. I trudged 50 meters down the street to do laundry. While waiting for the machine to stop going round, I dropped in a café and had my morning brew. (Ya know, as good as coffee is here, I still miss my good ol’ American cuppa Joe at the Pannikin. There’s nothing like a big full cup of tasty caffeine. Somehow, this stuff doesn’t get me going.) At a nearby patisserie, I bought a delicious raisin roll and an apple turnover for later. Then it was off to an Internet café to check emails. By that time it was after noon and the weather was clearing.

I figured I’d just ride up the hill and see what the valley looks like from above. Yeah, sure. By the time I stopped, I was at the top of a 1700 meter pass. 1761, to be exact. It was really chilly up there, but clear and beautiful. There’s still snow on some of the mountains. I took the long way down the hill, and the next thing I knew, I was looking for another fun road. I found a little town called Evol. It’s on the list of “Most Beautiful Villages in France.” It is very nice. Flowers everywhere, and a nice stone ambience.

After that, it seemed easy to go farther West. There’s a little piece of land in a valley not far from here that is an anomaly. It’s part of Spain, but totally enclosed by France. When borders changed eons ago, somehow this little piece was forgotten. There are only a couple of towns. The main one is Llivia. I figured it might make it on my list of tiny independent countries to visit. That was only a hop, skip, and a jump further than where I was.  OK, so it was also over a 1866 meter pass in more cold rain, but what the heck. Finding that gas is 30 cents a liter cheaper there helped. It’s a tiny place, just a few miles square, but it really is Spain. Things look just the same as the rest of the valley, but the language is different.

Taking the highway, it was only an hour back to Prades. I finished off the day with another fine meal, this time at El Patio. Fish soup and a green salad with a pichet (small carafe) of red wine. The fish soup was outstanding, and the salad was just a pile of the freshest little lettuce leaves and an oil & vinegar dressing, but with some special herbs mixed in. Just right.  Oh yeah, I got back to town just in time to pick up desert at a choclatier I found, so that was waiting in my room. A decadent cake of raspberries covered with chocolate.

And now to bed.

And yet more food...

About European restaurant service… Americans sometimes trash European restaurant service. I’ve had pretty good service here. You have to understand, it’s different. Many Europeans think the American way of, “Are ya all right? Can I get you anything?” constant doting on the customer is intrusive and rude. They prefer a waiter who knows that food should be savored, and that dining takes time to enjoy without interruption. A European waiter will almost never ask if the food is OK, or if you need anything else. And if you want to sit for half an hour after your meal is over, letting it digest, he won’t come to your table and ask if you are ready to pay. Don’t think of it as slow service, rather considerate and unobtrusive.  Of course, I’ve had 2 or 3 who were rude, even by European standards, or were just trying to rip me off, but those incidents were glaringly exceptional.

About bread. For a while, I thought things had really gone downhill. In Italy, whenever bread was put on the table at dinner, it seemed always to be stale and day old. Then I crossed the border into France. Immediately, the bread put on the table was fresh and delicious. Dunno why. Also, in Italy, often a waiter would put bottles of oil & vinegar on the table with a basket of bread, but nothing else. I could not figure out how to use the o&v. Pour it on the bread or what? There was no plate or bowl. Beats me.

More good meals…

In Vallon, I found a great little place called Le Point D’Interrogation. An interesting name. The ambience was also interesting – a mix of subterranean vault and a collection of all kinds of bric-brac, from old radios to dolls to tools, you name it. The food – A very nice green salad with tomatoes and other veggies. The entrée was a delicious 4 cheese pizza, accompanied by a half liter of good rose’.

 

In  Carcassonne, I went to Robert Rodriguez’ restaurant, but it was closed for the night. Across the street, though, was his little café with the same menu. A sweet lady was my host, who I found out later is Mrs Rodriguez. The appetizer was a plate of 3 hard boiled eggs, halved, topped with a spicy white sauce(mayo?) and sprigs of bean sprouts. Yum. The entrée was a salmon steak, covered with a wide variety of sautéed vegetables. Just a little of each veggie, but very fresh and tasty. Beans, peas, asparagus, tomato, potato, etc. The chocolate mousse for desert was perfect – rich, but not overpowering.

Madam Rodriguez:

Last night I went to the Café de la Paix here in Prades. First course was a plate of 10 small mussels with dabs of both a red pate (tomatoes & ?) and a white cream sauce, broiled. The entrée was whole trout accompanied by sautéed veggies with a cube of spicy herbal mashed potatoes and a small salad. Desert was an incredible Napoleon-like dish with an amazingly intense fresh strawberry flavor. And another half liter of fine white wine.

Yes, the quality of food on this trip is finally living up to expectations. Heh heh heh.

The Way It Works

OK, when I had only a bunch of ADAC maps, I’d pretty much just try to do all the roads they recommended on my way through an area. Since Corsica, I’ve been following the Michelin maps. I get a fairly detailed map of a region (say, 1:200,000,) which shows all the minor roads, and highlights nice roads with a green line. I’m not sure what their criteria are, but they’re good at it. The maps I have show just about everything down to a logging road. I look for the real squiggly green lines and try to put a few together on my way to a general destination – say, Barcelona. Since I have no real timeline, and no hotel reservations, I make spur of the moment decisions about which turn to take. If the friggin’ low fuel light goes on, I’ll make new decisions based on where Michelin says the nearest gas station is.  If the weather is good & I feel like it, when it gets late in the afternoon, I’ll start looking for a campsite. Otherwise, I start looking for a hotel.  After a while, you get a feel for where you’ll end up and where there might be a nice place to stay. Lonely Planet comes in handy. I’ve usually been pretty lucky in finding good places to stay. (Not like some other trips. In Morocco, I once slept in a dumpster.)

More Genova

I think I'll try to film a walk around the old city today. It reminds me of Middle Eastern cities, the way the streets turn into alleys and tiny paths. They call it Porto Antico, as in ancient. Cobblestone walkways under 5 and 6 story buildings with wooden-shuttered windows. Tiny balconies with iron railings where laundry hangs to dry. It's a tourist area, but it's still a working port with lots of immigrants. You hear Arabic, some African languages, and Eastern European languages. There are groups of men who obviously aren't tourists just hanging around, perhaps waiting for their ship to sail. At night, there are times it seems like a scene from The Third Man, just the place for a Graham Greene adventure.

The 2 guys in orange work at a fruit and veggie shop in the old city.

This is at the entrance to the old city. These swat team guys did NOT want their picture taken. Beats me why not. There are surveillance cameras everywhere in Genova. I was being filmed by 3 that I saw when I took this pic. See the post above the van.

When I left Genova, I went up into the hills above the city. I met this older cyclist. (There are TONS of cyclists EVERYWHERE.) He pointed out that the point below us is the northernmost point of the Mediterranean Sea.

Random stuff again...

Lessee...
The ticket - came within a half hour of entering France. I was getting ready to pass a slow driver and saw three cops by the side of the road, one signaling me. They were nice 'n all, explaining that you don't cross a solid white line in France. Ahhh. In Italy, bikers don't pay much attention to laws at all, certainly not white lines on the road. OK. The first thing the guy said was, in good English, "You must pay 90 Euros, right now. If you don't have 90 Euros, in cash, we will take your motorcycle." Then he hands me printout that explains the government policy of extracting a deposit from foreigners with no French address to cover the fine. OK, so I paid. Then got a couple of photos of them, and one of me with the cop's Yamaha FJR. Before I left, one of them warned me about other cops up the road. Heh. That's the road to the Col de Tende. A busy road. I counted at least 5 cop patrols in the next 20 miles, and a couple of hundred bikes along the route. That's more cops in one area than I've seen on the whole trip.

That same day, I rode off and forgot one of my good padlocks. Pisser, but I do have a spare. The worst thing that day was when I reached the campsite that night and opened my big bag. A bottle of laundry soap had cracked and spilled, getting a lot of stuff all gooey, including my collection of local maps. Now THAT pissed me off more than anything. AAARGH! Senility is a real bitch. I knew the cap was broken, but I thought the plastic bag would hold the soap, or didn't bother thinking about the possibility, or whatever. So far, I've left the camera lens sitting on the back of the bike, forgot the padlock, lost a good ADAC map, the soap, and a couple of other things I've forgotten. I can see Alzheimers creeping in, but there ain't much I can do about it. Every time I get on the bike, I think, "Have I forgotten anything? Did I take care of everything?" But when something happens, it seems there was just a vacant hole in my consciousness at the time.

Oh, and the knife. I bought this nice knife in Italy. It's a sandwich knife, serrated with a round end, so you can cut tomatoes and spread mayo. It's really sharp, but it didn't come with a sheath. I keep putting it in my tank bag and trying to wrap it, but for some reason, every time I reach for it, I get cut. I mean it's silly, a slapstick comedy bit. Every time. I have a dozen cuts from the knife. It really is sharp. I finally went to the pharmacy yesterday and bought a roll of bandages to cover the cuts, and a roll of tape to make a sheath for the knife.

So, the good stuff...
more good food. More good wine. More good pastries. And more good roads.
I found a tiny little road that Michelin said was "difficult and dangerous," but it turned out just to be narrow and steep, a fun bit down a pretty mountain. At the bottom, the road ended at Le Pompidou, a little village. A few meters away, I saw a group of bikers sitting outside a bar. I pulled over and ordered a cafe au lait. They asked me about the helmet camera, and then told me I was lucky. The local Prefect was coming soon to declare this bar, a "Biker's Bar." Motorcyclists in France are activating, trying to wield more political power. One way is to get local businesses friendly to bikers to declare themselves. Soon, the Prefect showed up on a GoldWing, and a few local Gendarmes arrived, and a few other bureaucrats, and they all went inside. The prefect made a speech, some others talked, and then they all signed a document. Interesting. I was a definite outsider, but welcome. I shook the Prefect's hand, and the cops', and the officers' of the local bike club chapter. Then I rode off down the road. Well, that's when I found out what those guys deal with. What a road. Wow. D9, The Corniche des Cervennes. What a fabulous road. About 30 clicks of wide open sweepers - fast, clean, smooth, through beautiful countryside, but who's looking at the view when the ride is so fun? One great road. You just put it in 3rd gear and go, rarely using the brakes, just flick it and ride. And at the end is a little river with rocks and pools to swim in.

Why the heck am I smiling?

Up on the Col de Tende. THE tightest, steepest, twistiest road I've ever ridden.

The biker bar meeting:

The Prefect:

Yeah, they go the same place, and they're the same distance, but D21 on the left goes over the Col di Turini, which is one heck of a ride.

This is a little piazza in Sospel. Some of these little places look like stage sets out of Shakespeare.

More mountains:

So, I was riding on this deserted road for a while, and decided to take a break for a snack and a drink:

It was out in the middle of nowhere, and I hadn't seen another vehicle in ages. I mean, an hour or so. I started thinking about the cyclists and all the names I'd seen painted on the mountain roads, and I figured I could write my name on the road, too. You know, like writing your name in the snow kinda thing. So, I whip it out and started writing, and got the "T" done, when a car comes by! What the hell? Hey, lady, can't you see I'm busy here? I just started on the "K" when _another_ car came by. Then a cop car. Geez, people. Can't a guy do his business in peace?