Hasta la Proxima

Two days wandering around Barcelona, dinner with a friend, one last run through the park, an all-day film festival yesterday in Sitges, and it’s just about over for now.

The Sitges film festival has been going on for almost 60 years and this year they showed close to 100 films over eight days. I had tickets for four films yesterday (purchased weeks ago) but given my inability to sit still, could only manage to watch two. This is one of the four venues.

And from the last two weeks:

In a tiny, ancient village, this permanent plaque is in memory of the past Jewish residents, expelled by
the so-called “Catholic Kings” who also funded Columbus. Sixty years ago, you could be imprisoned or disappeared for making a sign like this, or a similar one for Muslims, or anyone else who wasn’t white and Catholic. You go, Spain!

Unlike in the US, hormone-filled Spanish boys can’t just go to a Walmart and buy a gun, so instead of bullet holes in the rural road signs, you get a lot of this. 

Another sign outside of another small town (and most towns) saying that sexual aggression isn’t tolerated. Sure, it’s just a sign, but it does send a message. How hard would it be for us to do that?

Every tiny village and rural gas station has at least a couple of electric car chargers. I was talking to a guy in Zaragoza who owns a Tesla and he couldn’t believe that the US doesn’t have chargers everywhere, like Spain does. 

It’s not much of an alley, but it’s been my alley for almost ten years’ worth of these trips.

And now a little music to take us out. 

Zaragoza to Barcelona

I have spent a lot of time on this trip alone in places where even an introverted curmudgeon like me would have appreciated seeing another human, and the drive to Zaragoza wasn’t an exception. Every now and then I would see a lone person on a bicycle and wonder what they were doing out on a deserted road miles from anywhere, and then realize that other drivers were wondering the same thing about me last week.

Zaragoza remedied that problem very quickly. Turns out that the annual, weeklong Festival of Pilar honoring (what else) the patron saint of Zaragoza, with concerts every night, parades, mountains of flowers and wild festivities ended the night before I got to town.

Undeterred by the truckloads of dying flowers being swept up all over the main plaza by the cleaning crew and sleep-deprived American tourists heading out for one more Starbucks, I woke up early and went for a run. And surprisingly ran into my buddy, the Ebro River, which actually did finally part ways with me, this time in the most stunning way possible.

And then a train to Barcelona, where I am staying for a few days. On one hand, my apartment is on the top floor of a building and has a private terrace overlooking the kind of famous Santa Maria del Mar church. On the other hand, it is the size of a large walk-in closet and I have to hold my arms at my side to turn around. There is no place I’d rather be.

 

Belchite

Spain may be a great place to hang out these days but it has an extremely problematic past going from hundreds of years ago to fairly recently.

In the late 1930’s Spain’s progressive, democratically-elected government was overthrown by Francisco Franco who, after a three-year civil war, ruled Spain as a fascist dictator until he died in 1975. During his decades in power, he cleverly promoted Spain as a fun international vacation destination while tourists were largely unaware of the fact that anyone who criticized him was liable to end up in a mass grave or spend years in prison. I know someone in Spain whose best friend was born in prison in 1973 because her mother was arrested for political activism while she was pregnant, and being pregnant is the only reason she wasn’t executed.

During the civil war Franco aggressively went after any cities that opposed him politically (sound familiar?). Guernica was one of the victims and another was Belchite, where a battle was fought in 1937. A combination of Spanish fascist forces and Nazi airplanes demolished the city. Instead of rebuilding the old city, the people rebuilt about ½ mile away and left the old town as it was after Franco’s assault. It’s still there today as a testament to the brutality of fascism. I made the trip out there today.

Last week on my bike ride, I rode past a building on the Ebro River in the middle of nowhere that the map identified as a prison for pro-democracy fighters who had been captured during the war (pictured here).

At dinner that night, I explained to the Russians what the purpose of the building was, explained that Spain has only been a democracy for 50 years and told them that before that it was a brutal dictatorship. The father shrugged his shoulders and said “Russia has always been a dictatorship and it will never change.”  It’s a big world out there.

Logroño to Monasterio de Piedra

From my room overlooking the cloister in a 12th century monastery, today's 3-hour drive through uninhabited scrub land feels like a distant memory. 

Now and then I would pass through a small town and stop. Once, I made the mistake of driving in, which exposed me to streets like this, which are about two inches wider than a car. Combining the facts that I had no idea where I was going and that I don’t know the rules of the road in this situation made it slightly nerve wracking. For the villages after this one, I parked outside and walked in.

That's all behind me now. These monks had it pretty good. Not only is the building very luxurious but the grounds are incredible, proving again that God wants the Catholic Church to always get the best real estate.

The monastic park, which stretches for many acres, includes an incredible landscape full of cascading water, streams and beautiful lakes around which the boys could contemplate their relationship with God in between naps, drinking wine and eating the meals prepared by their servants.

Reflecting as I walked the grounds, I was consumed with a theological dilemma: why be a hermit when you could be a monk? Judging from the picture of the hollowed-out hermit cave I posted last week, any rational hermit would realize that living here is like hitting the jackpot. Or even if you wanted to be a hermit, why not dig yourself a cozy little cave here so that at least you could walk around the waterfalls periodically and maybe check in with the fellas once every couple of years. This theological paradox will have to remain unsolved because my entry ticket for the park is only good for one day and I have plans for tomorrow.

Laguardia to Logroño

I spent one more wine-filled morning in Laguardia (for other people, not me) before heading out to the big city. The vinotecas open at 11 and everyone (except me) was in full swing by 11:15. If you head to the bar first thing in the morning and order wine for breakfast, you might have a drinking problem. But if you go to a vinoteca first thing in the morning, order a gran reserva rioja, swirl it in the glass and savor its complexity, you’re a connoisseur. There were lots of connoisseurs in Laguardia today.

When this town was built in the 1300’s this spot wasn’t just a great place to admire the sunrise, it was also a good place to fire canons from. However, not too many canons because there are so many wine caves carved into the rock below the streets, there was concern that the whole place could collapse if there’s too much weight up above. To this day, very little parking is available in town for that reason.

In the afternoon, I arrived in Logroño, the jumping-off point for my next stop, and realized that this is where the Ebro River and I part ways for good; it to head southeast to the ocean and me to head south to do some other things. It’s been fun, Ebro, or should I just say “bro.” 

Logroño, a city of 150,000 is the largest dose of urban life I’ve had on this trip so far. I kind of enjoy the chaos and the traffic. Tomorrow, I am leaving civilization and heading back into the wilderness.

Ride Day 6 - Haro to Laguardia

I spent last night in Haro, the capital of Rioja. The town is full of vinotecas, little wine shops with hundreds of wines to taste. These places were of course full of riojas and even the best ones rarely cost more than 5 or 6 dollars per glass. Since I still had a day of riding left, it would have been a good night to exercise discretion but hey, you only live once. 

My last day of riding today ended, appropriately enough, with a steep ascent up the town of Laguardia, still in the heart of wine country.

This part of Spain reminds me of Napa, California. Farms and fancy wineries everywhere, the mild smell of rotting fruit in the air, and lots of tourists crisscrossing the landscape visiting wineries. . . .

. . . including me. The wine theme is pervasive in, for example, my hotel, which offers wine mud baths, wine facials, grape exfoliation and “lymphatic drainage,” whatever that is, which I sure hope is preceded by wine. There’s also wine soap and shampoo in my bathroom – which is quite luxurious so I’m not complaining. 

Almost every weekend in Spain is a religious holiday honoring one saint or another and this weekend is no exception, so the town I’m staying in is packed with people here for the holiday. After 5 days of being more or less alone, it’s now hard to walk around without literally bumping into someone. 

In addition to wine and people, Laguardia also has this. Despite the fact that this clock is one of the town’s main attractions, everyone knows that it is about 5 minutes fast. So if you want to see the show, you have to get to the square early. 

Ride Day 5 - Frias to Haro

Because I spent virtually no time researching what my ride (called “La Rioja – The Descent of the River Ebro”) was actually going to be, I had assumed all along that I would be spending a week in Rioja, the royalty of Spanish wine country. I pictured myself at some trendy, sophisticated wine bar every night, sharing backslapping stories with new Spanish friends and buying everyone another round.

Had I read the description, I would have noticed that it is a ride to Rioja, not through Rioja. During the first four days the route snaked its way through valleys, over mountains and alongside pastures in the most remote areas of Cantabria, Castilla y Leon and País Vasco. Even in the roadside posadas where I stayed, there were no restaurants or stores, let alone wine bars. The people who owned the hotels would go in the back, make basic food and slap it on the table. In most places there was no choice. The rooms were very simple and small and unless you are fascinated by cows and sheep, there was really nothing to do after dinner. For some people this is a dream vacation. After a couple of days, I need a little more action.

Today, the last long ride of my trip, I entered Rioja. As if in a movie, barely 50 feet beyond the “Welcome to Rioja” sign, all I could see in every direction were grapevines. 

The small town I’m staying in has hotels, restaurants, wine bars and trendy tourists, many of whom are walking cute dogs. My room has dependable wifi, hot water, a comfortable bed and a plush bath towel. All of these things for the first time in a week. I have to say that I had not realized what a snob I’d become. But as I sat at a table on the main plaza sipping my Rioja, allowing the tourists walking by to acquaint me with the latest fashions and appreciating the good fortune that brought me to this place, I did realize what a snob I’ve become. Let the back slapping begin.

Ride Day 4 - Medina de Pomar to Frias

Despite having had a short conversation with the Russians, I wasn’t quite ready to make us a party of four. Nonetheless, the guy at the hotel last night sat us together for dinner. On one hand, he figured that since we were the only people in the entire town and were more or less travelling together, it made sense. On the other hand, he clearly didn’t know me.

It turned out to be fascinating. We actually got to know each other somewhat and despite significant limitations in the only language we both knew, we covered a lot of territory. Most of which I am not at liberty to disclose in this publicly accessible blog because, you know, Russia. But it was very interesting to get the perspective of some regular Russians (although probably pretty wealthy by Russian standards) without the filter of our news media. It was doubly interesting because the parents had very different opinions about current politics than did their teenage son. On to the ride.

The very first thing my navigation app said this morning was "Today, you may want to buy food and bring it with you for lunch," which told me everything I needed to know. I followed, crossed and sat by the Ebro many times over the course of the ride, most of which was spent in, shocker, isolated places. Every time I went from the river at the bottom of the valley back up to the top of the cliffs and saw eagles flying below me (yes that happened) I would think "I guess that's why I'm a little out of breath."

Speaking of isolated places, if you, like me, thought hermits only existed in Monty Python movies, guess what! They not only existed, but one of them lived here along my ride. After the heyday of hermits, this cave remained uninhabited for hundreds of years until the 1950’s when some Portuguese laborers building a hydroelectric dam were “housed” here. Not to be judgy but it seems like that should be sort of illegal.

Then on to Frias, a medieval town near the end of the ride. I could have taken the regular road but chose to use the original bridge. The tower in the middle is a toll booth, but I didn’t have to pay a toll because the guy who worked there died 800 years ago.

Ride Day 3 - Zamanzas to Medina de Pomar

Last night I decided to talk to the Russians. We’ve been eating dinner ten feet apart every night and it seemed un-American not to strike up a meaningless conversation. They were eager to talk and in the first 90 seconds asked my why I was travelling alone and how old I was, thereby confirming every stereotype we have about how Russians communicate. Then the woman typed something into her translation app and said “When I am 60, I want to do what you are doing.” Score one for the western alliance.

Since I spent last night on the banks of the Ebro, today unsurprisingly started with a ride over a mountain.

Along these mountain roads I was totally isolated – no people, cars, stores, nothing but many great views. It was exhilarating and also made me pray that my bike kept working, which thankfully it did. 

Sometimes, even in the most remote areas I would look across the valley and see something like this – a tiny sign of civilization perched on the edge. Not that it would do me any good if I got a flat.

Based on a recommendation from the guy at the mill last night, I made a 15-mile detour to stop by this town, Puentedey, to see this geological structure. The town’s name is a shortened version of Puente de Dios or God’s Bridge, since only God could have made this. Or I guess possibly erosion could have done it. But then, who invented erosion?

No time to answer that question, I had to ride back to original route and get to the hotel so that I can rest up for another ride over a mountain tomorrow.