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.