They really like wine in Spain, I had noticed. Walk into any convenience store or side stand and you’ll see racks of the stuff: Rioja, Secastillo, Tinto de verano, Sangre de Toro, in full view and right by the entrance. It pours forth at restaurants with a alacrity normally reserved for Bacardi Breezers at TGI Friday’s. The Mediterranean winds that kiss the tops of the cordilleras form hot, exotic climates, perfect for the ripe varieties of Ribera del Duero, Penedès, and Garnacha grown and bottled under the strict Denominación de Origen system. And that’s before one dives into the world of sherry, porto (from neighboring Portugal) and, of course, sangria and calimocho, the latter a 50/50 split of wine and Coke that reflects the Spanish ingenuity of mixing daring wine-based concoctions.
I may have been imbibing some myself when I conceived the idea at the last possible second. Our travel guide had, tucked away on page 116, a short one-paragraph blurb about a secluded resort town on the coast of the Mediterranean, up the Costa Brava (the “wild coast”) and neatly tucked away from civilization, where the mountains would soar, the wine would flow like waterfalls, the women would be curvy olive-skinned beauties and the roads would be free of diesel Skodas. “Just a short drive north,” our Eyewitness Travel Barcelona guide proclaimed. “One of Catalonia’s trendiest beach towns,” it continued. “The picture-perfect scenery will leave you speechless!”
“It’ll be fun!” I hammered incessantly to my parents, who were busy doing touristy things like fumbling with their maps in broad daylight and scoping out the nearest McDonald’s (of which I was guilty of, but only once). The Barcelona vacation was their idea, and they controlled the checkbook. But I was in charge of the itinerary, and there’s only so much Gothic Olde Worlde streets you can wear out your Skechers on before you complain about how tiny all the cars are and that you really crave a diet Pibb.
Eventually, they capitulated.
So on the fourth day of our whirlwind Barcelona vacation, my parents and I found in our possession an Opel Corsa D with a five-speed manual and a Garmin Nuvi GPS system, courtesy of the nice woman at the Hertz of Aeropuerto de Barcelona who had thrown in the GPS for free and saved us from having to eat each other once we wandered off into the Pyrenees. We would look for Cadaqués, the resort town by the sea, a favorite vacation spot of Picasso, Dali, and Marcel Duchamp. And I had left my license back at the hotel, but no matter: the coast roads of Catalonia were simply waiting to be conquered, atop my mighty 1.2 Ecotec steed.
Midday Barcelona traffic on the AP-7 was cramped but flowing, with a steady, unaggressive stream of traffic merging at 60kph. The motorway passed through central Barcelona and winded its way up north through tunnel after tunnel. Up ahead in one some truck had eaten it and was holding up the right lane: lights, high-vis jackets, the usual roadside panic. As traffic merged, I slowed down, downshifted, and clumsily stalled the car at 40kph in the middle of the crowded tunnel. Traffic piled on behind me. I fumbled for the keys, hearing the starter motor grind itself back into life, jamming the clutch down—stalling it once again.
If this had happened back home in Massachusetts, I would have been executed by firing squad. But no, the Spanish motorists behind me were, for reasons inexplicable to my cold and misanthropic heart, understanding and sympathetic, lining up behind me with nonchalant patience. The air was still with the sound of horns not being pressed. Traffic was still moving on the left lane, and after I had finally remembered the pedal/clutch relationship, the middle lane started moving again. We were finally on our way out of Barcelona proper, and on our way to getting spectacularly lost.
(Part 2 to follow…)
- Blake Rong
pictures dont work. great writing, waiting for the second isntallment!
Images aren't working!