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?