SPAIN DAY 1 – MISSION IMPROBABLE

I admit that I latch on to things.  Obsess may be too strong a word, but then again it might not.  I’ve gone on 2 cruises, both with (and planned by) Mandy, high end, amenity filled, luxe affairs with full drink packages and fine specialty dining.  I’ve enjoyed both but I hoped for a more vibrant (read “less blue-haired”) demographic among my fellow sailors.  So when Richard Branson announced his all-adult Virgin cruise line, promising exercise days and boozy nights in da swank (floating) club, I wanted on.

Spain has been on my list for a long time, but it’s been on Mandy’s list longer and in greater detail.  Our typical 2 weeker in Europe involves immersing in one place for 3 or 4 days then driving to next locale.  But Spain does not lend itself to our version of immersion excursion, the distances too far between our desired waypoints, so we’re going to change it up.  TAP, the official airline of Portugal, flies every route through Lisbon or Porto, and gives the option of a free layover up to 5 days so you can explore their country.  A sucker for a good bargain, I’ve been keeping this factoid in the holster for a couple years now.  Covid is winding down, we’ve gotten a few trips in, so the preparation begins a year in advance.  The plan is to hit Lisbon for 3 days, Barcelona for 5, then explore the Spanish Isles in true pirate fashion from the deck of that adults-only Virgin cruise ship I’ve been obsessing about since their inception.

Man plans, God laughs, Omicron hits.

“What if we can’t get into Spain from Lisbon cause of the Rona?” wonders Mandy aloud in that perfectly logical way she has about her.  TAP flight becomes airline credit and we book Iberia, the national airline of Spain, direct from JFK to Barcelona.  A few weeks before departure, the new-travel prep begins as every entity has their own self-certifications so you can prove you’re not Typhoid Mary.  Spain has SpTH, an app that give gives you a smiley QR code that means you’re okey-dokey.  Virgin has the Voyage Well portion of their app to make sure you’re not the Super Spreader.  Hmmmm, 3 days before and still nothing from the airline… we should call.  The cheery man on the other side of the line politely informs me that Iberia has canceled our flight.  Not the entire flight, just ours.  “But I have credit card receipts and a confirmation number” I say.  “I’m sorry sir” he replies.  “I’m sorry to hear that.  Thank you for your time today” I respond.  (by some accounts, that last part may have actually have been a string of obscenities damning his shaming his hateful employer and hanging up, but other accounts have it the other way, too, I swear…)  Scramble, thankfully we were able to book United nonstop from Newark within 20 minutes.  Pshew.

(click on the image for full size pictures)

Departure day, the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, traffic is non-existent on the NJTpk and we make record time.  Bag check is a breeze as is security, just in time for torrential thunder storms to completely shut down operations on the tarmac.  Delay text after delay text from the Friendly Skies people.  The United lounge in Newark’s Terminal 3 is pretty sad, but there’s promising French and Italian cafes in the terminal.  You read that correctly.  We stuck to the basics, but the wine, Niçoise salad and pomme frites were a surprisingly good way to kill an hour or so.  Two and a half hours late, and against all odds, we leave the confines of gravity and head into the fog, literally and figuratively.  Throughout the 7 hour flight we’re in dreamland, some weird place between reality and disbelief, a long sleepless, overnight dream.  Barcelona International went smoothly, 30 minutes to get through customs, but our health check QR codes worked, our bags were there and no line for car rental.

Driving the cobalt Blue Audi Q3 down the Spanish highways after being awake for 36 hours straight was probably a bad idea, so we wheeled off an exit in search of strong coffee.  We find some version of a bus terminal / train station in the little town that has a basic lunch counter and great coffee machine, the stiff brew finally pulling us back to consciousness.  Highway becomes local road becomes twisty mountain road as we wind our way up into the Pyrenees, the mountain range shared among the French and Spanish border.  We arrive at the Can Xiquet Hotel, a boutique resort in Cantallops with sweeping views of the Spanish countryside and framed by the mountain chain.  The view is reminiscent of Tuscany, a landscape of neat farms with orange roofed stone houses dotted with tall, skinny cypress trees.  Checked into our two-level suite, we retire poolside for a well deserved nap.

Showered, we set out for dinner, heading down from our mountain perch.  At the bottom is the commerce center of the town we’re staying in, a sharp contrast indeed, with busy outlet malls and truck stops dominating a few square miles.  We’re not terribly surprised to see the number strip joints and sex shops typically found where truckers gather, but we are amazed to see the number of hookers openly plying their trade in broad daylight.  It’s a odd microcosm, and once we’re through, the scene returns to beautiful rolling countryside.

We arrive in Boadella I les Escaules in about 30 minutes, a charming village, for our reservations.  We have a few minutes so we wander and wonder.  Almost to the restaurant, we see a small park with kids playing and parents sitting at random folding tables around the concession stand.  Wait, does that concession stand have a full bar?  Yes, yes it does.  It’s 7pm, warm and sunny and we realize this is how the townsfolk end their days when the weather is nice.  The embodiment of community, men and women, old and young, just hanging together, sipping drinks and chatting about work, family, whatever.  I convince Mandy that we need to join, and join we do.  Walking up to the bar, we felt like the cowboy who just rode in and pushes through the swinging saloon doors, all eyes on the “outsiders”.   I order the red can of beer most of the people are drinking and the barkeep suggests a Milos Rossa for Mandy, a smooth red vermouth, a signature Spain.  Language barrier be damned, we pantomime and try our best, and the couple behind the bar make us feel welcome.

Dinner at El Trull d’en Francesc is even better than their 4.7 star reviews suggest.  Foie gras and watermelon gazpacho followed by suckling kid and duck all paired expertly with local red.  The lovely views were only outdone by the top-notch service.  Sated, buzzy, we sleep the sleep of the dead.