We have arrived in beautiful Montserrat, Spain -- a small settlement about an hour west of Barcelona, in the heart of Catalonia -- and we find ourselves staying in a monastery, not something we have a lot of experience with. This is a place first built in the 9th century and rebuilt from time to time as the invaders du jour took exception to the monks’ way of doing things. Let me assure you, I am confirming my loosely held belief that monks were not big on such things as jacuzzi baths or room service. No, this place is “monastic” as we tend to use that word. The beds are small, there’s no mini-bar, no tv. Hell, there isn’t even any soap. And, for what I believe to be the first time in my life, I have to sit sideways on the toilet which was obviously designed for the exclusive use of Toulouse Lautrec. But, all of this is amusingly inconsequential since whatever creature comforts it lacks is made up in the oh so continental charm of this place. Montserrat is carved into the side of a mountain which is literally dotted with towering, hooded rock formations that appear for all the world like giant penises brandishing themselves skyward toward the heavens. Seriously. The view from our monastery window is sublime looking down on the cobblestoned main square that is filled with playing children, an outdoor café, and a healthy splash of evergreens. Beyond, down the 4,000 foot drop below Montserrat, lie green valleys flecked with what I fondly imagine are vineyards. Every half hour the soul-throbbing, richly hued tones of the basilica’s bells chime in such a joyous way you’d swear they are announcing the end of war.
Although we’ve been traveling for more than 24 hours -- through three countries and three cramped airplanes -- we drop our gear at the monastery and head for the funicular which promises even grander panoramas from up the mountain. The path is steep. How steep? As we head up the mountain on the funicular, both Lily and I feel our butts slipping downhill over our seats causing us to use our feet to brace ourselves. Even the locally written guide warns that the mountain walkways are very “steepy.” The views do not disappoint as we wend our way back on foot to collapse for a well-earned nap.
Tonight: a visit to the spectacular basilica where we peek in on that night’s vespers, and then dinner in a cave-like 16th century building with rock walls and a low-slung arched ceiling. We feast on spinach salad, tagliatelle with pesto, a Spanish rosé, grilled rabbit, and a rich chocolate brownie with crème caramel.
Not a bad start.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Living the Dream
How often have you spoken the phrase “living the dream” and meant it to describe yourself? Hopefully, it’s often, right? For the next two weeks, we are living the dream. After considerable planning and an avalanche of anticipation, we have arrived in Collioure at the southwestern tip of France’s Mediterranean coast.
We have rented a house that might even raise the eyebrows of Brad and Angelina. It is located up in the hills that slide down into the Mediterranean Sea and is reachable only by a steep and tortuous ascent up a rocky and rutted path for cars and foot traffic alike with barely any signage that announces its existence. The house was first built in the 1700s and then added on to in the 1800s, and is now gorgeously updated for 21st century living. It is all stone -- the floors, many of the walls, sometimes giving it a cave-like subterranean feel. The many overhead spotlights bring it all to life. There are rough hewn timbers - sometimes entire tree trunks -- bolstering the ceilings. Befitting such an old and quirky house, each of its 5 bedrooms sit seemingly on different levels lending a sort of maze-like quality to the place. The couches are so deep two people can sleep on them (as two of the younger members of our group did). The Steinway baby grand piano awaits those more talented than we are. The stone sunroom has a long, gorgeous table that is cut from one huge slab of a tree complete with a million knots and age rings. It seats at least 13 and is impossible to lift. An apricot tree sits at our front door providing us with its delicious treats. There is a pool steps from the house, its floor tiled in a way that adds to the sparkle already provided by the sun. And, all this sits on a 23 acre private estate providing much room to roam and explore.
Sitting down the hill from us looms the most charming of chateaux, Disney-like in its appearance, rising above the surrounding vineyards like a mirage. Cinderella’s home, no doubt. And, the skies! They are the bluest of blues. As Henri Matisse said a century ago, “No sky in all France is bluer than that of Collioure. I only have to close the shutters of my room and there before me are all the colors of the Mediterranean.”
Five of us went to the market today and we returned with twenty bottles of wine and food to suit your every fancy. Lily and Maggie teamed up to create some fabulous homemade hummus which they served to us at the pool with incredibly flavorful local, herbed olives, baguettes, and chopped vegetables.
I mean, really, does it get much better than this?
We have rented a house that might even raise the eyebrows of Brad and Angelina. It is located up in the hills that slide down into the Mediterranean Sea and is reachable only by a steep and tortuous ascent up a rocky and rutted path for cars and foot traffic alike with barely any signage that announces its existence. The house was first built in the 1700s and then added on to in the 1800s, and is now gorgeously updated for 21st century living. It is all stone -- the floors, many of the walls, sometimes giving it a cave-like subterranean feel. The many overhead spotlights bring it all to life. There are rough hewn timbers - sometimes entire tree trunks -- bolstering the ceilings. Befitting such an old and quirky house, each of its 5 bedrooms sit seemingly on different levels lending a sort of maze-like quality to the place. The couches are so deep two people can sleep on them (as two of the younger members of our group did). The Steinway baby grand piano awaits those more talented than we are. The stone sunroom has a long, gorgeous table that is cut from one huge slab of a tree complete with a million knots and age rings. It seats at least 13 and is impossible to lift. An apricot tree sits at our front door providing us with its delicious treats. There is a pool steps from the house, its floor tiled in a way that adds to the sparkle already provided by the sun. And, all this sits on a 23 acre private estate providing much room to roam and explore.
Sitting down the hill from us looms the most charming of chateaux, Disney-like in its appearance, rising above the surrounding vineyards like a mirage. Cinderella’s home, no doubt. And, the skies! They are the bluest of blues. As Henri Matisse said a century ago, “No sky in all France is bluer than that of Collioure. I only have to close the shutters of my room and there before me are all the colors of the Mediterranean.”
Five of us went to the market today and we returned with twenty bottles of wine and food to suit your every fancy. Lily and Maggie teamed up to create some fabulous homemade hummus which they served to us at the pool with incredibly flavorful local, herbed olives, baguettes, and chopped vegetables.
I mean, really, does it get much better than this?
Tales of the Oreo Express
As it happens, we have three rental cars in our group, two black and one white. Striking out for new adventures each morning, we form a small caravan, generally with Lily and me in front, Bob and Donna in the middle, and Maggie trailing. Sort of a black, white, black sandwich which I dub, “the Oreo Express.”
On our first day of serious exploration, we set out to find two Cathar castles each perched on a mountain top northwest of here. You might describe the Cathars as sort of a splinter group breaking off from the catholic church over -- how you say -- doctrinal issues. When the pope sent an emissary to quell the spiritual discontent, the poor guy was unfortunately executed leading to 300 years of mayhem as the pope launched crusades to put the kibosh on the whole thing. The Cathars, not to be taken lightly, retreated to their fortresses, lording over the region from the highest pinnacles of land this part of France offers.
What we found were the Chateau Queribus and the Chateau de Peyrepertuse, two of the craggiest, most magestic aeries you’re apt to find. Built in the 11th century, these magnificent testaments to human fortitude and dedication are reachable only through great and hair raising effort. And, this is by car! Arriving by a cliff hugging road about the breadth of a fat pencil -- often with no guard rail to discourage an unintentional descent into the valley many hundreds of feet below -- one is exhausted by the mere threat of such danger. For all the ridiculous effort it takes to get up to these retreats, I kept wondering aloud, why didn’t the Catholics just let the Cathars keep their castles and take over everything else. I’m just saying.
But wait. Once parked, now you must take on a vertical hike on pathways clearly unchanged in a millennium. To say they are rocky is to say there are a couple of holes in swiss cheese. One must climb up “steps” some of which seemingly require pole vaulting apparatus to be surmounted. And, once in the castles, you must negotiate skinny, spiral staircases that are helpfully assisted by a lighting condition one might best call pitch black dark.
But, the views! Ah, the views! Incomparable. If you cup your hands on either side of your eyes, you can imagine yourself flying. The valley is so very, very far below, the towns reduced to a smattering of red roofs. In the distance one way, the Mediterranean. In the other, the majesty of the Pyrenees that one can tell are even higher than you are. A lot higher. At the peak of the Chateau de Peyrepertuse, we experience the odd sight of seeing strands of our hair sticking straight up. Great gayety ensues. Many photos are taken. We conclude the static in the air is caused by gathering storms clearly visible from our perch.
Perhaps not the safest place to be in that moment.
On our first day of serious exploration, we set out to find two Cathar castles each perched on a mountain top northwest of here. You might describe the Cathars as sort of a splinter group breaking off from the catholic church over -- how you say -- doctrinal issues. When the pope sent an emissary to quell the spiritual discontent, the poor guy was unfortunately executed leading to 300 years of mayhem as the pope launched crusades to put the kibosh on the whole thing. The Cathars, not to be taken lightly, retreated to their fortresses, lording over the region from the highest pinnacles of land this part of France offers.
What we found were the Chateau Queribus and the Chateau de Peyrepertuse, two of the craggiest, most magestic aeries you’re apt to find. Built in the 11th century, these magnificent testaments to human fortitude and dedication are reachable only through great and hair raising effort. And, this is by car! Arriving by a cliff hugging road about the breadth of a fat pencil -- often with no guard rail to discourage an unintentional descent into the valley many hundreds of feet below -- one is exhausted by the mere threat of such danger. For all the ridiculous effort it takes to get up to these retreats, I kept wondering aloud, why didn’t the Catholics just let the Cathars keep their castles and take over everything else. I’m just saying.
But wait. Once parked, now you must take on a vertical hike on pathways clearly unchanged in a millennium. To say they are rocky is to say there are a couple of holes in swiss cheese. One must climb up “steps” some of which seemingly require pole vaulting apparatus to be surmounted. And, once in the castles, you must negotiate skinny, spiral staircases that are helpfully assisted by a lighting condition one might best call pitch black dark.
But, the views! Ah, the views! Incomparable. If you cup your hands on either side of your eyes, you can imagine yourself flying. The valley is so very, very far below, the towns reduced to a smattering of red roofs. In the distance one way, the Mediterranean. In the other, the majesty of the Pyrenees that one can tell are even higher than you are. A lot higher. At the peak of the Chateau de Peyrepertuse, we experience the odd sight of seeing strands of our hair sticking straight up. Great gayety ensues. Many photos are taken. We conclude the static in the air is caused by gathering storms clearly visible from our perch.
Perhaps not the safest place to be in that moment.
Ces Tours d'Epingle francais; Ils Sont Fous. (Those french hairpin turns; they are crazy.)
It all seems so innocent. You gaze at the map of the French highway system and see all manner of brightly colored strands wending their way through the countryside. Some are denoted in red, some in yellow, others in white. Very pretty. What these merry designations fail to reveal is the mayhem that lies beneath.
The Oreo Express has been in high gear these past several days. Crisscrossing Languedoc-Roussillon in search of castles, wineries, art museums, and walkable ancient towns has all led to an increasing storehouse of knowledge of French roads and the vehicular mortal combat they present. Take yesterday, for example. One of our nominal destinations was the Priory at Serrabone, a 10th century retreat with an excellent pink marble representation of Roman architecture. Sounds refined enough. Looking at the map, the Priory is only mere inches west of our house, a straight shot. As the crow flies. But, we are not crows; we rely on the automobile to get us from here to there. And, cars do not fly. To get to the Priory, we must navigate a road that on the map takes on exactly the same shape as my lower intestine, worming its way through the mountains in every possible direction except straight. As if by some rudimentary law of road physics, the more turns a road has, the narrower it is.
We head up into the mountains joyously embracing the “charm” of the smaller roads. You know, that wonderful elation that can consume you when you’re “off the beaten path.” Almost imperceptibly, the road becomes steeper and, again, by natural law, narrower. The turns tighten. What was once a road that would reasonably accommodate two cars passing one another now devilishly morphs into spaghetti width trails, albeit paved. Every turn is now virtually 180 degrees. When an approaching car nears us, our backseat passengers, Hannah (Bob and Donna’s daughter) and Megan (Hannah’s buddy), audibly suck in their breath as if somehow this will facilitate the other car’s passing.
The coup de grace for all this is the fact that most of the way the only thing preventing one’s being catapulted down the mountainside is one’s overwhelming drive to live through this. Guardrails are clearly an afterthought in these parts. What started as a joyful jaunt now becomes a true white knuckling pursuit of staying alive. And, this is the scene for far too many kilometers. Lily manages to keep her screaming eruptions to a minimum, which is helpful. The backseat girls seem transfixed, perhaps traumatized. My white knuckle grip on the steering wheel goes unabated. When we arrive at the Priory, Bob immediately lays down on the grass, exhausted. I, semi-frantically, search out the toilette.
Are we having fun yet?
The Oreo Express has been in high gear these past several days. Crisscrossing Languedoc-Roussillon in search of castles, wineries, art museums, and walkable ancient towns has all led to an increasing storehouse of knowledge of French roads and the vehicular mortal combat they present. Take yesterday, for example. One of our nominal destinations was the Priory at Serrabone, a 10th century retreat with an excellent pink marble representation of Roman architecture. Sounds refined enough. Looking at the map, the Priory is only mere inches west of our house, a straight shot. As the crow flies. But, we are not crows; we rely on the automobile to get us from here to there. And, cars do not fly. To get to the Priory, we must navigate a road that on the map takes on exactly the same shape as my lower intestine, worming its way through the mountains in every possible direction except straight. As if by some rudimentary law of road physics, the more turns a road has, the narrower it is.
We head up into the mountains joyously embracing the “charm” of the smaller roads. You know, that wonderful elation that can consume you when you’re “off the beaten path.” Almost imperceptibly, the road becomes steeper and, again, by natural law, narrower. The turns tighten. What was once a road that would reasonably accommodate two cars passing one another now devilishly morphs into spaghetti width trails, albeit paved. Every turn is now virtually 180 degrees. When an approaching car nears us, our backseat passengers, Hannah (Bob and Donna’s daughter) and Megan (Hannah’s buddy), audibly suck in their breath as if somehow this will facilitate the other car’s passing.
The coup de grace for all this is the fact that most of the way the only thing preventing one’s being catapulted down the mountainside is one’s overwhelming drive to live through this. Guardrails are clearly an afterthought in these parts. What started as a joyful jaunt now becomes a true white knuckling pursuit of staying alive. And, this is the scene for far too many kilometers. Lily manages to keep her screaming eruptions to a minimum, which is helpful. The backseat girls seem transfixed, perhaps traumatized. My white knuckle grip on the steering wheel goes unabated. When we arrive at the Priory, Bob immediately lays down on the grass, exhausted. I, semi-frantically, search out the toilette.
Are we having fun yet?
Living on the Edge
The day didn’t start edgy. Truly. It began as a perfect example of what has become the routine around here. Adults up first; Bob trekking down the hill to pick up our daily delivery of baguettes and croissants; breakfast; check email; read a bit. Kids arise later. Much later.
Today’s plan called for the Oreo Express to journey west, this time to Villefranche, an ancient walled town buried in the foothills of the Pyrenees. There we would pick up Le Train Jaune (the yellow train) which would whisk us away closer to Andorra and then return. That was the plan.
But, things happen. The Yellow Train looked great. Like something Charlie Chaplin might have ridden. Maybe W.C. fields. It reeked of Disney. It came complete with an open air car that seemed perfect for optimal viewing as we steamed through the countryside. But, sadly, this train was not the engine that could. Barely a mile or two out of the station, it quit. Finito. We returned to the station, got our money back and drove on. And, this is when it got interesting.
Just last night we talked about the possibility of riding the train for an hour or so, getting off, having a couple of beers, and then riding back. Simple enough. Certainly pleasurable. But, no, we couldn’t leave well enough alone. Instead of the beer, we drove to the Gorges de Carança where we were promised “death defying” footpaths. The hike up was steep, very rocky, and, at times, very challenging. But, then, just when the path leveled off, we knew why people come here. Certainly for Americans it was something you would never, ever find in our country because the liability concerns would be overwhelming; indeed, prohibitive. What we came upon was a narrow path, maybe 3 feet or so across that was literally etched into the side of a cliff several hundred feet above the valley below. And, there was no guardrail! The path was devilishly uneven with large rocks making certain you would never be entirely comfortable with your footing. All that kept you from running away screaming was a cable bolted into the side of the cliff that gave you a degree of confidence you would not hurtle to your doom with one slight misstep. Some of us gripped the cable as a drowning man might grip a life preserver thrown his way. We proceeded, our group of twelve, perhaps gaining a measure of confidence borne out of some weird sense of shared insanity.
As if to taunt us, the gods whipped up a breeze and rain, and, finally, flashes of lightning to fan the flames of our increasing doubts. While a few of us wanted to venture onward if only to see what madness might lurk around the next bend in the mountain, cooler heads prevailed and we headed down the ridiculously steep and rock-filled paths now increasingly slippery from the rain.
Exhilarating to be sure, but not what you might call a day at the beach.
Today’s plan called for the Oreo Express to journey west, this time to Villefranche, an ancient walled town buried in the foothills of the Pyrenees. There we would pick up Le Train Jaune (the yellow train) which would whisk us away closer to Andorra and then return. That was the plan.
But, things happen. The Yellow Train looked great. Like something Charlie Chaplin might have ridden. Maybe W.C. fields. It reeked of Disney. It came complete with an open air car that seemed perfect for optimal viewing as we steamed through the countryside. But, sadly, this train was not the engine that could. Barely a mile or two out of the station, it quit. Finito. We returned to the station, got our money back and drove on. And, this is when it got interesting.
Just last night we talked about the possibility of riding the train for an hour or so, getting off, having a couple of beers, and then riding back. Simple enough. Certainly pleasurable. But, no, we couldn’t leave well enough alone. Instead of the beer, we drove to the Gorges de Carança where we were promised “death defying” footpaths. The hike up was steep, very rocky, and, at times, very challenging. But, then, just when the path leveled off, we knew why people come here. Certainly for Americans it was something you would never, ever find in our country because the liability concerns would be overwhelming; indeed, prohibitive. What we came upon was a narrow path, maybe 3 feet or so across that was literally etched into the side of a cliff several hundred feet above the valley below. And, there was no guardrail! The path was devilishly uneven with large rocks making certain you would never be entirely comfortable with your footing. All that kept you from running away screaming was a cable bolted into the side of the cliff that gave you a degree of confidence you would not hurtle to your doom with one slight misstep. Some of us gripped the cable as a drowning man might grip a life preserver thrown his way. We proceeded, our group of twelve, perhaps gaining a measure of confidence borne out of some weird sense of shared insanity.
As if to taunt us, the gods whipped up a breeze and rain, and, finally, flashes of lightning to fan the flames of our increasing doubts. While a few of us wanted to venture onward if only to see what madness might lurk around the next bend in the mountain, cooler heads prevailed and we headed down the ridiculously steep and rock-filled paths now increasingly slippery from the rain.
Exhilarating to be sure, but not what you might call a day at the beach.
Dali is Da Man
It is hardly an original thought of mine, but I earnestly believe that Salvador Dali either had more fun than any man alive, or he was seriously in need of deep psychotherapy. I tend to go with the former.
We have been exposed to Dali of late through a museum dedicated to his work in Figueres, Spain -- just a bit over the border from France -- and at his seaside home in Cadaques, Spain, a gorgeous village also just south of the border. What I came away with was this was a man whose middle name should have been “whimsy” and who likely giggled and winked his way through life. In some afterlife, somewhere, he is likely sharing convivial, drug enhanced, conversation with Mark Twain and John Lennon, explaining how on earth he could grow that zany mustache of his that jutted outward like two pencil thin skewers.
His house is so fitting. Its whitewashed, serene exterior belie the mischief awaiting inside. His studio, for example, features a pulley system that allowed him to raise or lower his large canvases to a floor below so that he could sit in an overstuffed chair and never have to move no matter how large the canvas he was working on. The outdoor pool area has a sofa shaped as a set of bright red, puffy lips. Multiple statues of the Michelin Man dot the gardens. And, one room is perfectly round with built-in couches all along the periphery. The ceiling is domed. If you stand in the middle of the room, you can hear your voice resonate as if you were shouting into the Grand Canyon. Yet, if you move two feet from that spot, all sounds normal.
The man was not shy either. It seems as if his image is featured in half of his works, from soaring ceiling frescoes to three dimensional holographs to paintings of himself from the vantage point of his feet so that as you gaze upward you are struck once again by that crazyass mustache.
It is said of Dali that he once had an epiphany that the railroad station in Perpignan, France was actually the center of the universe. In that moment, perhaps in an acid driven fog, he wrote, “Suddenly before me everything appeared with the clarity of lightning.”
Really, Sal? Really?
We have been exposed to Dali of late through a museum dedicated to his work in Figueres, Spain -- just a bit over the border from France -- and at his seaside home in Cadaques, Spain, a gorgeous village also just south of the border. What I came away with was this was a man whose middle name should have been “whimsy” and who likely giggled and winked his way through life. In some afterlife, somewhere, he is likely sharing convivial, drug enhanced, conversation with Mark Twain and John Lennon, explaining how on earth he could grow that zany mustache of his that jutted outward like two pencil thin skewers.
His house is so fitting. Its whitewashed, serene exterior belie the mischief awaiting inside. His studio, for example, features a pulley system that allowed him to raise or lower his large canvases to a floor below so that he could sit in an overstuffed chair and never have to move no matter how large the canvas he was working on. The outdoor pool area has a sofa shaped as a set of bright red, puffy lips. Multiple statues of the Michelin Man dot the gardens. And, one room is perfectly round with built-in couches all along the periphery. The ceiling is domed. If you stand in the middle of the room, you can hear your voice resonate as if you were shouting into the Grand Canyon. Yet, if you move two feet from that spot, all sounds normal.
The man was not shy either. It seems as if his image is featured in half of his works, from soaring ceiling frescoes to three dimensional holographs to paintings of himself from the vantage point of his feet so that as you gaze upward you are struck once again by that crazyass mustache.
It is said of Dali that he once had an epiphany that the railroad station in Perpignan, France was actually the center of the universe. In that moment, perhaps in an acid driven fog, he wrote, “Suddenly before me everything appeared with the clarity of lightning.”
Really, Sal? Really?
Basquing In It All
So. We finish up here in San Sebastian along the north coast of Spain. We have never been here before although we did find ourselves in Biarritz 33 years ago just up the coast and over the French border. The two places, sometimes home to the glitterati over the decades, are like bookends -- jeweled, exquisite bookends. Two towns that enjoy a magnificent shoreline and just scream picture postcard. The curve of the wide sandy beach here is ringed by a broad promenade ideal for strolling and people watching, perhaps with a gelato in hand. The luminous blue of the cove is dotted with white boats; throng of people do their beach thing. It is serene, slow-paced, and for us, a stark contrast from the immense energy, speed, crowds, and cacophony of Barcelona which we just left. Here in San Sebastian is a place where you stroll the old city that is not unlike the narrow alleys of so many European cities, and enjoy the shopping, the ubiquitous dog walkers, and the young children who provide a wonderful and stunning contrast to the ancient steps they play on.
And, the tapas! We had read that San Sebastian is a rising star in the culinary world, but the staple here is tapas -- those fabulous small bites that show off the creativity and culinary history of this region. Tonight, we spent an evening in one such place -- Bar Aralar Tatetxea in the old city just up the way from the beach promenade. It has the feeling of an Irish pub in a way -- friendly, crowded, noisy, but lighter and with more color. The ritual here is to work your way through the crowd, find a table (or not), and ask for a plate. The tapas are arranged in platters on the bar like some sort of red, brown, green and yellow jewelry display. You inch your way along pulling on to your plate whichever morsels you care to sample, order your drinks, and then pay before retreating to your table.
And, there the fun begins. Maybe it’s stuffed squid in a spicy garlic sauce, or octopus in oil and paprika. Maybe you would like a ball of deep fried mashed potatoes and egg, or cured ham, goat cheese and a plump sundried tomato all atop a baguette slice. Or, as we had tonight, marinated artichoke wrapped in a smoky ham and topped with a shrimp. As the saying goes, it’s all good.
Then there is Victor Omar Torres. The world is full of street artists, some great, some not. Tonight we were wildly entertained by Mr. Torres whose gift is to paint scenes - local and imagined -- on pieces of tile. The magic is that this guy does it all without a brush; his fingers and a sharp knife are his only tools. His fingers moving at warp speed, Victor spreads his paint with such assurance, such precision, and so flawlessly, it suggests he has done this thousands of times. He manages to create nuances in shades and texture that are so mind boggling you find yourself either staring agape or giggling. To create the finest lines, as with a tiny boat mast, he merely uses his fingernail to sweep color upwards to create the mast’s illusion. By rolling his thumb, he creates depth of color that make me wonder whether a paint brush could ever achieve the same result. He flicks his sharp knife to remove color leaving behind the roll of a wave or a small building on the shore. And, it’s all done in literally the span of two or three minutes. I’m telling you, it’s brilliant and it’s magical.
Lastly, there is the sunset. Sunsets make almost every scene more beautiful, but to fold in the grandeur of a sunset into a scene that is already awash in beauty, is almost unfair. The sun sets late here this time of year. Around 10 p.m. As the sun sets around the town’s surrounding hills, the sky turns an electric turquoise and pink with thin strands of rose colored clouds running through it all. The Atlantic waters take on the same coloration especially at the water’s edge where the reflected pink is as stunning as the sky’s. And, the many boats sitting calmly in the cove become almost blackened silhouettes, a sharp counterpoint to the waters they sit in.
Not a bad way to tie things up.
And, the tapas! We had read that San Sebastian is a rising star in the culinary world, but the staple here is tapas -- those fabulous small bites that show off the creativity and culinary history of this region. Tonight, we spent an evening in one such place -- Bar Aralar Tatetxea in the old city just up the way from the beach promenade. It has the feeling of an Irish pub in a way -- friendly, crowded, noisy, but lighter and with more color. The ritual here is to work your way through the crowd, find a table (or not), and ask for a plate. The tapas are arranged in platters on the bar like some sort of red, brown, green and yellow jewelry display. You inch your way along pulling on to your plate whichever morsels you care to sample, order your drinks, and then pay before retreating to your table.
And, there the fun begins. Maybe it’s stuffed squid in a spicy garlic sauce, or octopus in oil and paprika. Maybe you would like a ball of deep fried mashed potatoes and egg, or cured ham, goat cheese and a plump sundried tomato all atop a baguette slice. Or, as we had tonight, marinated artichoke wrapped in a smoky ham and topped with a shrimp. As the saying goes, it’s all good.
Then there is Victor Omar Torres. The world is full of street artists, some great, some not. Tonight we were wildly entertained by Mr. Torres whose gift is to paint scenes - local and imagined -- on pieces of tile. The magic is that this guy does it all without a brush; his fingers and a sharp knife are his only tools. His fingers moving at warp speed, Victor spreads his paint with such assurance, such precision, and so flawlessly, it suggests he has done this thousands of times. He manages to create nuances in shades and texture that are so mind boggling you find yourself either staring agape or giggling. To create the finest lines, as with a tiny boat mast, he merely uses his fingernail to sweep color upwards to create the mast’s illusion. By rolling his thumb, he creates depth of color that make me wonder whether a paint brush could ever achieve the same result. He flicks his sharp knife to remove color leaving behind the roll of a wave or a small building on the shore. And, it’s all done in literally the span of two or three minutes. I’m telling you, it’s brilliant and it’s magical.
Lastly, there is the sunset. Sunsets make almost every scene more beautiful, but to fold in the grandeur of a sunset into a scene that is already awash in beauty, is almost unfair. The sun sets late here this time of year. Around 10 p.m. As the sun sets around the town’s surrounding hills, the sky turns an electric turquoise and pink with thin strands of rose colored clouds running through it all. The Atlantic waters take on the same coloration especially at the water’s edge where the reflected pink is as stunning as the sky’s. And, the many boats sitting calmly in the cove become almost blackened silhouettes, a sharp counterpoint to the waters they sit in.
Not a bad way to tie things up.
Looking Back. What I Loved.....
Herbed olives from the local market; Jesse comfortably speaking Spanish with the locals; sopping up the amazing sauce from the stuffed squid tapas in Barcelona; Dali’s mustache; the incredible blue of the Mediterranean; my gnocchi, pesto, pancetta and vegetable dinner; the incredible industry and dedication of the ants who hung out at the pool; the lily pond at our house; the views from the mountaintop Cathar castles; the tree canopied heart of Cerret; the sunsplashed brilliance of Cadaques; seeing the Valmy castle as our beacon guiding us home; the crispy “pork tower” I had in Girona; the croissants and baguettes that Bob faithfully retrieved every morning from down the hill; drinking beers and playing speed scrabble at the beachfront café in Collioure; the low lying clouds that drifted below the peaks of the Pyrenees; Lily’s drawings on old tiles she found on the beach or on hikes; the little carousels in Collioure and San Sebastian; Maggie’s epic turns as my sous chef; the incredible white wine from the Valmy vineyard; strolling La Rambla in Barcelona with Lily and Jesse; Jamie’s earnestness; sweet apricots from the tree at our front door; the all-consuming organ music at the Palau de Musica in Barcelona; the Oreo Express; crossing the Greenwich Meridian in the middle of nowhere Spain; Brendan’s ability to swim three laps on one breath; Donna’s ipad; the hike above the monastery in Montserrat; Lily and Maggie’s homemade hummus; the flea market in Cadaques; Picasso’s painted bowls of bullfights; cassoulet; Hannah’s incredible energy; the delicious dinner Lily and I had in the cave-like dining room in Montserrat; hearing Matt idly trying his hand at the grand piano; the admiring way women looked at Lily’s dresses in San Sebastian; the coastal drive from Cadaques to Argeles-sur-Mer; Donna’s wonderfully unrelenting enthusiasm for taking group photos; the death defying cliff hugging hike we took at Gorges de Carança; Lily's blue hat; the fabulous outdoor dinner we all enjoyed courtesy of our husband and wife team at “Le Marilyn” in Cap Leucat; Donna’s goat cheese salad; the incredible bells of the Montserrat basilica; magnum ice cream bars; the amazing artistry of Victor Omar Torres; the electrified hair of all those standing atop the Chateau de Peyrepertuse in the (literally) electrified atmosphere; old men playing bocce; Jesse’s amazing father’s day card for me (and the personally formatted Cds); and….
Mojo’s entire body wagging when we arrived home.
Mojo’s entire body wagging when we arrived home.
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