Menorca

 After some frustrating and expensive misadventures regarding the boat to Menorca I unexpectedly didn’t take, I was nonetheless able to get to the island around the same time I’d originally planned, arriving via a 40-minute flight rather than a 9-hour boat trip. And also arriving sleep-deprived, starving and smelly rather than rested, fed and eager to take on the day.

Ciutadella is a beautiful sun-washed town along the Mediterranean coast full of beautiful sun-washed people.

By the time I hit town, I was working on 3 hours of sleep. I was so tired that whenever I sat still, my eyes involuntarily closed and I started dozing off. But my room wasn’t ready yet, so the thought occurred to me that it would be a terrific time to rent a bike and head into traffic, and that’s what I did. Thankfully, that decision did not result in anything requiring hospitalization.

And then I decided to explore a little, just taking random roads and keeping the ocean to my left (a technique I used successfully for five consecutive days on my last bike trip). 

And only a few miles outside of town, I could see why people love this place.

Here’s a public swimmin’ hole, which I will swim in tomorrow if I can find it again. 

If you’ve ever in your life seen a picture of a house, thought the setting was too beautiful to be real and wondered where it was, it might have been here. The laughter and clinking of Zalto hand-blown wine glasses from behind the concrete walls only begin to suggest how delightful it would be to have these people as friends. I’m sure they were equally happy to see me riding past their houses, sweaty, smelly and staring at (yes, this happened) the dappled pony happily munching the grass on the perfectly manicured lawn.

Menorca is big on producing cheese so there are cows and cheeseries (my word) everywhere. I haven’t stopped in only because it’s really sunny and warm here and the idea of eating a big hunk of cheese and then getting back on the bike isn’t that appealing.

After a couple of hours of cycling, my internal systems started shutting down so I ate a bag of nuts, washed them down with a Diet Coke and took a nap, after which I ate my first real food for the day and am now going to sleep, planning for a longer bike ride in the morning.

And in terms of things happening for a reason, part of me was kind of hoping that I would get the news that the ferry I was unable to board yesterday sank in the middle of the Mediterranean last night, but I haven't heard anything yet.

The Island that Isn't Mallorca

 

I am headed for Menorca, an island that is close to, but isn’t, Mallorca.

I keep calling it that because when I tell anyone here that I’m going to Menorca, they almost invariably say that they’ve heard Mallorca is great. I used to correct them and say that Menorca is a different island, but now I mostly just say that I’ve heard the same thing. In reality, I haven’t heard anything about Menorca. I just saw some pictures of it on the web and it seemed like a nice place to visit.

There are plenty of nice boats in Barcelona that could get me there. I checked into it and you can charter any of the larger yachts for around $600,000 per week in the off-season. It seems a little steep, but YOLO, I’m thinking maybe we get a few friends together this winter and take a trip.

For this trip, I’m not taking any of them. I was going to take a different boat, but I missed it (long story, first-world problems) so now I’m taking a plane.

And by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll know if Menorca lives up to the expectations I’ve developed from everything I’ve heard about it.

Tennis

 I planned one thing to do today, but I did two things; being stranded in the desert hadn't been on my list this morning.

I hopped on a train to see the Madrid Open. I’ve never seen professional tennis in person before and it really was pretty cool. 

Madrid is a 3-hour train ride from here, and when I looked on a map to see how to get from the Madrid train station to the “Magic Box”* where the tennis tournaments are held, it seemed a bit convoluted and I couldn’t quite figure it out so I thought I’d just go and wing it. I forgot that 20,000 other people were also going to be going to the same place, so I ended up just following the crowds and it worked out fine.

This area, which has very little to do with actual tennis, is where people wait to see the players get dropped off to walk into the locker room, much like the stage door entrance at a Bruce Springsteen concert. 

And if you know who this is, could you tell me? Everyone went crazy when he showed up. 

Long story short, I think I enjoyed the practice courts more than the main stadium. I could see different players in more intimate settings and they looked like people I might know, in t-shirts and baseball caps banging the ball around. It's like if you just went to a neighborhood court to hit a few balls with a friend if your friend was one of the best tennis players in the world. Like Raphael Nadal, below.

Two minor observations about Rafa's pratice:

1. He was there with his coach. Every once in a while the coach would step in and say something. Every time he did that, I wondered what advice anyone could possibly give to one of the greatest players in the world. But I guess that's why he's the coach.

2. At one point during the practice Nadal gestured to his hitting partner to hit topspin balls to a specific spot on the court. For the next few minutes, whatever Nadal did, his partner hit perfect topspin balls to that exact spot. It's too late for me to ever get remotely close to that.

But I also watched a couple of matches in the main stadium, and that was pretty great too. 

All in all, a good day. Until I hopped on the train to get back to Barcelona. About 2 ½ hours into a 4 hour ride, the train stopped and the conductor announced that there was a fire on the track and we’d be stopped for about an hour. Which turned into two hours. We were in the middle of nowhere, in a place that looks exactly like the outdoor scenes in Breaking Bad. Nothing but dry dirt and scrub as far as you could see. They let us out of the train in groups of 20 or 30 to get some fresh air once in a while, kind of like prisoners who get to go out in the yard for a few hours each day so that they don’t become disruptive. And neither did we.

*That’s actually what it’s called in Spanish “Caja Majica.”

Snorkeling

 

Have you ever kayaked and snorkeled in the Spanish Mediterranean? No, I thought not. 

My lifelong dream today was to get out amidst the rocky outcroppings, jump in the water and see an octopus because there are so many in the Mediterranean and I've never seen one.

So I did. The water was cold enough to significantly shrink body parts, but I hung in there. Did I lose all feeling in my face and feet? Sure. Was I unable to curl my fingers around my paddle whenever I came out? You bet.

Did I see an octopus. Nope.

And allow me to be serious for a moment. Via an incredible stroke of luck or coincidence or whatever you want to call it, while I was standing on a tiny beach in S'Agaró on the Costa Brava packing my stuff to go back to Barcelona, I actually ran into someone who lives here and whom I know from my very first coastal bike ride out here six years ago. It was so powerfully joyful; a personal contact from across an ocean that means maybe this really is the beginning of the end of something bad and the beginning of something better.

Day 3

 Today I actually really did do pretty much nothing.

I started with a run along the Mediterranean coast, where I discovered that despite all the fretting I’ve done over the last two years, both the beach and the ocean are still there.

The same can’t be said for the King of Shrimp II. During past trips I often wondered if that guy was
aiming too low. King, sure. But of shrimp? And not even the first one? Today my instincts proved correct. The place is for rent.

I feel like if you’re going to be the king of something, go big like this guy did.

Then I went back to my place, took a shower and asked myself if there was any reason I couldn’t just keep wearing the same t-shirt I first put on three days ago before heading to the airport. Hearing no objection, I got dressed and headed out.

I was wandering around and happened across the very first house designed by Antoni Gaudí. He was, of course the architect who was a member of the Barcelona-area artistic royalty group that included Picasso, Miró and Dalí. He went on to design many iconic buildings in Barcelona, including the Sagrada Familia, which is still being built despite the fact that Gaudi died a hundred years ago.

Anyway, I also designed a house so I figured I’d check it out and see, you know, from an insider’s perspective, how he did.

Honestly, the color palette was a little exuberant if not chaotic. And there wasn’t much thematic consistency from one room to the next. 

It wasn’t really obvious what that house wanted to be – a get away? A place to raise a family? A model home? It’s no wonder it was turned into a museum; I’m not sure anyone would have wanted to live there. But not bad for a first try.

Then I went back to my place, realized that I really haven’t quite adjusted to the time change yet, and fell asleep for two hours, which felt terrific.

Day 2

Today my plan was to do nothing, so that’s what I did for about twenty minutes until I decided to visit the Monserrat Monastery about 20 miles outside of Barcelona.

This place, which is on the top of one of the mountains that surround Barcelona is a working Monastery (assuming “working” is the right word to use for this sort of thing) and you get there by taking the Metro beneath the city until you emerge in the country and then take a cable car up through the air to the mountain. The symbolism of this is not lost on me.

When I got there it was cold and drizzly, so I bought a poncho. Between the blue plastic flowing behind me, the large hood and my beard, I really fit right in. However, lacking the necessary credentials, I opted not to bless anyone, assuming that’s a thing that monks do.

But it was very beautiful . . .

and I hiked higher up the mountain for a while, which provided some amazing views of the countryside. If I were a monk, I’d definitely want to be here, especially if I could skip the services most of the time.

And a note on Spanish coffee. I’ve never loved the coffee here but didn’t really pay that much attention to it. When I bought some yesterday at the supermarket to make in my apartment, I noticed that the package said mezcla, or mixture. I was curious about what that meant. Here’s what an online gourmet Spanish food store said about it - "Every bar and restaurant in Spain uses a mezcla of natural roast and torrefacto beans, in their own secret proportions. The torrefacto secret is glazing a percentage of the beans with a fine sugar mist before roasting which reduces acidity and bitterness."

Then I read this from a food writer – “Sipping a café solo in Spain is often like swilling hot, black acid. Bitter, harsh and acrid, with hints of paint thinner. I’d started to suspect a link between torrefacto mixed in the blend and the fact that the local coffee was stripping my esophagus. The run-of-the-mill stuff at your supermarket is generally a nipple-hardening 50/50.”

Turns out that torrefacto, which has sugar sprayed on the beans before roasting, is something Spain has been doing since the Spanish Civil War, when the country was out of everything. Back then, spraying the beans with sugar before roasting them allowed the beans to be kept longer without going bad, hid the flavor of inferior beans and added weight so that the stores were essentially selling burnt sugar at coffee-bean prices. 

There you go, another fantasy destroyed. You’re welcome. 

Tomorrow my plan is to do nothing.

Day 1

I typically arrive in Spain having had 2 or 3 hours of sleep. I wander around in the sun all day then hit a bar for dinner, at which point my ability to speak Spanish (and English to a large extent) is pretty much out the window.

But I’ve been taking Spanish classes in Barcelona (remotely) for the last year and half. Two hours at a time two days a week. I have had quite a lot of Spanish practice since I was here last and I wondered if it would change how the sleep-deprived version of me speaks. 

When I checked into my apartment, I had been on two flights and a train with virtually no food or sleep between Saturday and Sunday, so I was pumped for this. At the apartment office, I opened my mouth and a blizzard of Spanish words emerged. What did I say? I’m not exactly sure but the guy showed me my apartment and told me to have a nice day so I shall call it a win. I also managed to say to him in Spanish that my brain wasn’t working very well, and I felt pretty great about that too.

My apartment is on the “third” floor (tercero), which is Spanish for “fifth floor.” So you get into the “elevator” and push the button that says “3” then you go up 5 floors. “So sue me,” Spain would say. 

While the “elevator” technically does elevate you, it is only the size of one pair of feet and the capacity is one person. And when you want to get out, you push the door open. And it moves very slowly and jiggles when you get in. I will never ride that “elevator” without a fully charged cell phone and some bottled water. 

I wandered around this neighborhood of Barcelona for a while and was thrilled to find it pretty much exactly how I left it two and a half years ago. 

I don’t know what I was expecting, but I feel like I don’t know what to expect anymore. And thank God El Flako the hipster cereal bar is still around. I swear, when I saw that pop up when I was here in 2018 I didn’t think it would last a month. Shows how much I know. 

And at this point, many hours later but not late enough to go to bed, I feel like one of those guys in the movies who gets shot or maybe is really cold and someone else says “whatever you do, don’t fall asleep” because they’ll die. But in my case if I fall asleep I’ll wake up at 4 a.m. with a hankering for some mussels and wine.