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.
No comments:
Post a Comment