SPAIN DAY 2: DALI DAZE AND CASTLE NIGHTS 

We slept like we invented it after 36 hours without.  Breakfast at the hotel and off to adventure.  Mandy has always wanted to explore the Pyrenees and we set out to do so.  Our first drive takes us up and over the mountains to Port Lligat on the sea.  Readers of this blog know about our checkered history with rental cars and mountain passes, and this drive portends of an epic tale… tight turns through incredible elevations on two lane roads that are only a lane-and-a-quarter wide.  Unlike France, all the roads Google takes us on are named.  Unlike Italy, all the roads Google takes us on are paved.  Unlike Iceland, all the roads Google takes us on have guard rails and are not covered in snow in June.  But unlike all of them, virtually every curve is blind with the spectre of a head on collision looming large.  But it was beautiful, groves of olive trees, neat curtain rows of cypress, patches of grape vineyards, compact yellow villages and eventually, sweeping views of the sea.

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We drop into Cadaques, a bustling seaside town with tiers of white houses overlooking the Mediterranean.  It’s a week before the season begins in earnest but the town is already bursting with happy summer energy and cool European vibe.  On the other side of town lies Port Lligat, an isolated oasis with just one road in and one road out.  Port Lligat would have been all but forgotten, a tiny, hard-to-get-to beach village, except for it’s one resident of note, Spain’s most famous artist son, Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dali.  From the 1930s through his death in 1989, Dali redefined the art world by being a prodigious master of multiple disciplines while simultaneously thumbing his nose at the art establishment and creating “pop-art” to bring high-culture and peaceful political dissention to the masses.  An intentionally goofy, larger than life figure, Dali made the symbolism of melting clocks and cubist crucifixes understandable to the common suburban Joe. 

Our first stop today is to visit the house Dali shared with his wife of 52 years, Gala.  The house was the epicenter of Dali’s shenanigans, serving as his studio, backdrop of some of his most famous paintings, and launch pad/incubator for some of his wildest ideas.  The house is a peak into the mind of a larger-then-life creative, a cacophony of spaces, from the whimsical to the serious to the practical. 

Our favorite indoor space is the studio, where the intense master toiled long hours each day perfecting his craft by combining raw talent with tens of thousands of hours of practice, trial and repetition.  He designed a shuttle system so very large format works could be lowered through a slit the floor allowing him to work seated – lean forward, paint paint paint, lean back, assess.    Two unfinished works remain in the studio because when his beloved wife died in 1982, he could never bring himself to return to the home they shared together.

Our favorite outdoor space is the pool, where midcentury modern glam ran headlong into antiestablishment rebellion.  The space is fully appointed with high end amenities – fountains, wet bar, outdoor kitchen and manicured gardens.  Then Dali made this space a social commentary by adding pop culture references such as the four lighted Pirelli tire signs, dozens of identical soldier shaped liquor bottles around the fountain, the iconic plastic lips sofa and other kitsch.  My interpretation is that Dali was illustrating the fact that the commercialization of his art could buy the finer things in life.  Or maybe he was just being his goofy self and threw together a bunch of stuff he thought was cool.

Our next destination is about an hour away, and we left plenty of time to hit some wineries en route.  We know very little about Spanish wine and aim to fix that over the next two weeks.  Our first stop is an unfortunate bust, a lovely setting that confoundingly refused to let us sample any of their wines.  Ten minutes down the road, the next stop at the Empordalia cooperative was quite a bit more successful.  Empordalia was started as a collection of local vineyards and winemakers, pooling their crops and expertise to make the best possible vin while stabilizing revenue.  The shop has expanded to multiple locations and have added olive oil, skin care products, foodstuffs and glassware and other products made in the region.  Almost exclusively serving the local population, these wines are rarely shipped, but proudly shared.  Our hostess poured generous samples, discussing how the blends give the winemakers control and creative license over each year’s production.  We’re constrained on how much we can bring with us, so we settle on a few bottles of their super premium Icnos, a blend of their finest grapes of the season leaning heavily on the celebrated local black Grenache.  Only 2500 serialized bottles are made and it’s an absolute bargain at a mere $27 euros.  It’s also likely that the only place in the United States to find this particular gem will be at our house in Yardley, PA. 

The next winery we attempt is closed on Sundays, and our capitalist selves wonder why you would close on the day the most tourists want to taste wine.  We settle into the cultural differences and continue down the road to Figueres, stopping for a flat of roadside cherries on the way.  A town in transition, we find the bustling main street on the edge of the old city with the requisite sidewalk cafes and stop in for some traditional tapas, sangria and beer.  At 3:00 we head into the distinctive, egg-laden palace that is the Dali Theatre-Museum.  Dali himself devoted the entire 1970s to the conception, design and building of this museum, paying painstaking attention to even the smallest details in the most obscure corners.  We have not been to (or even know the existence of) another museum where the artist himself has had such intense involvement, and we can feel him guiding us through the experience.  My favorites are the extra-large-scale installations like the courtyard with the 40s Cadillac, tractor tire totem, bubbly busty statue and other non sequiturs arranged somehow into cohesive, immersive art.  In the grand lobby, massive painting at least 50 feet high and equally as wide is breathtaking for it’s sheer magnitude, forcing you to ponder the symbolism.  We continue on through the confounding (I never understood his fascination with cubism), silly (the sheer number of hours he spent on the joke that is his take on the Sistine Chapel) and the political (the series of statement pieces on Israel and the persecution of the Jews).  It’s been an intense one-day appreciation course of an artist.

Leaving the museum, we spend a few minutes wandering the narrows of the old town.  We always love losing ourselves in the labyrinth of these ancient cities, appreciating the architecture, the adaptations of the locals to the spaces and the modern shops at street level.  It’s been a log day already, so we head back for some R&R poolside at the hotel.

If the Theatre-Museum was some version of a Disney castle, dinner tonight is at the real thing, Castell Peralada located inside a 14^th century palace.  Pulling up the long drive has the desired effect of creating tangible anticipation.  The valet takes the keys and we walk the last 50 meters, the ivy covered turrets taking form deep inside the heavily wooded estate.  Entering the space reveals the sleek modern appointments, a stark contrast to the ancient walls.  Classic British rock further sets the mood, upscale, but not stuffy.  Before we order anything at all, our server brings bread with a selection of 4 different local olive oils and pours generous glasses of Cava, Spanish champaign.  The rose Cava isn’t so much pink as it is a stunning light purple, dry, crisp and cold.  Delving into the bread, we notice that the entire wait staff is treating the Cava like water in a Chinese restaurant, refilling it after virtually every sip.  We order the tasting menu, a ridiculous number of small plates designed to showcase the epitome of Emporda cuisine, reimagining classic regional dishes using the finest of local provisions.  They offer two wine pairings and the sommelier subtly steers us to the (significantly) less expensive local wine selection.  The pairing features a shocking 7 wines total, and all are poured with as much enthusiasm as the bubbly.  Course after course of deliciousness, with only one criticism from us – foam as a feature (in this case ham foam and seaweed sponge on separate dishes) is very, very over.  The highlight of the night, after a night of highlights, was the Cheese Cart.  I capitalize Cheese Cart, as this presentation deserves capitalization.  Not so much a cart as a cheese shop with wheels, the entire restaurant stopped and stared as the large trolley was pushed over to us by resident cheesemonger Toni Gerez.  Toni asked us about our preferences then proceeded to wield his knife and spear like a ninja, creating a clocklike presentation of 12 samples, placed in order from most mellow to most sharp.  Heaven, simply heaven.

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.

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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.

ZION BRYCE GRAND CANYON DAY 8 – EIGHT STRAIGHT (DOWN)

 

This trip has afforded us the opportunity to hike some of the most iconic trails in the USA.  Trails that attract people from around the globe and have done so for many decades.  Today, on our last of 8 straight days of hiking, we will attempt the most dramatic hike of our trip, the Kaibab Trail.  By the numbers, it’s similar to yesterday’s trek, 6 miles roundtrip and dropping 2200 feet below the rim of the Grand Canyon.  But it’s different, too.  The trail has very steep grades followed by relatively long flats, so we will get further towards the middle of the canyon, but the return will be more punishing.  Yesterday from Bright Angel Lookout, we were able to get a great photo of today’s trail.

We’re out early, but not as early as yesterday.  It rained a bit last night and the remaining cloud cover will be our friend today.  The wind when we start down the trail, not so much, blowing the fine sand into our eyes and mouths.  Fortunately, the wind subsided within the initial few hundred feet of elevation drop.  Just under a mile and we get to the aptly named Ooo-Ahh point (who said the 19^th century miners didn’t have a sense of humor?)  Instagram was pretty much invented for selfies here. 

When our oohing and aahing subsides, we continue on to the first narrow ridgeback, about 2 feet wide along this section’s top spine with steep drop-offs on either side and sweeping 270 degree views.  It’s exactly what you hope for when you think hiking.  We’re taking in the enormity of the scene while doing our best to not lose focus and accidently step into thin air.

Another steep decline and we reach the 2^nd ridgeback at Cedar Point, half the way down now.  It’s just as exciting to traverse as the first and even more picturesque.   Across the ridge, the trail circles the peak we have been approaching this whole time.  Around the other side, we arrive at Skeleton Point, marked by a carved wooden sign and our furthest point out today.   Thanks to a chatty hiker we met along the way, we know to duck left behind the unmarked donkey hitching post.  Just as our momentary friend advised, we are rewarded with the most amazing views of the Colorado River we will have during this trip.  There are three flat tiers like stadium seating and a few people scattered about, all snacking, resting and generally appreciating our place in time. 

We start our way back up.  Today is mentally easier because we’re not worried about sun and pretty much know what to expect from the trails.  We’re better equipped to absorb what we’re seeing and notice how oddly lush the landscape is here.  Our expectations were rocks, dirt and dust, but a wide variety of flora has figured out how to make this place home, dense arrangements of yellows and greens with the occasional accent splash of tiny, brightly colored flowers.  We take special notice of the tall, skinny seed pod plants with the base that looks like banana yellow aloe.  If there’s a bit of soil and even a hint of water, there is a plant that will figure out how to survive there.

We make it back to Cedar Point and stop for lunch, or whatever you call a chicken Ceasar wrap and an orange eaten at 9:45am.  There is no potable water along this trail (or any water for that matter) so we’re hydrating but rationing and rationalizing some.  Water is heavy, like fuel on an airplane, so like that fuel, you calculate, add a safety factor and decide how much to bring before you take off.  But any pilot will tell you that every flight is running out of fuel at all times.  We push a few yards back past OohAhh, now crowded with picture takers, and set our sights on the final ascent of the trip.  We apparently saved the steepest switchbacks for last, when we’re most tired, most sore.  Great planning.  We finish our last sips of water as we broach the canyon rim, feeling like Rocky finally making the top of the Art Museum steps, triumphant horn section music playing in our heads. 

It’s only 11am and there’s still plenty of park we want to see, so we drive up to The Village and the start of Hermit Road, the shuttle-access only lane with 9 scenic overlooks.  Just as we get to the start of the line, we hear the clang-clang-clang of the crossing bells and we watch the approach of the fabled Grand Canyon Railway train, historic locomotives and passenger cars smartly dressed in the line’s silver and yellow livery that looks as close to my childhood HO train set as I could have ever hoped for.

We have the DSLR and are hoping for one more photo get – the elusive California Condor.  We score at our very first stop, Maricopa Point, a big specimen preening in the noon sunshine.  The bus driver has never even seen one live before, throws the shuttle into park and joins us for a look.  The big 400mm lens is at its limits trying to reach the bird on the far-away cliffside and we can get a few grainy pix, so mostly we just use the camera as a telescope and watch the creature being him (or her, it’s hard to tell) self. 

We get a bit of rain during lunch, the first and only precipitation we’ve seen on the entire trip.  The light shower passes quickly and is gone before as we get back to the Village.  This time we’re here to see the legendary El Tovar Hotel, the crown jewel of the historic National Park lodges.  Designed by Charles Whittlesey as a mash up between a Swiss chalet and Norwegian villa, it was considered the most elegant hotel west of the Mississippi when it opened in 1905.  The lobby is festooned with huge taxidermy mounts, elk and ram and buffalo, a reminder of the days when every gentleman of means had a trophy room of his own and his wife was cool using big, smelly, dusty animals as décor. 

Shower and well-deserved nap.  We head back into the park for sunset and choose Mather Point, close to the Visitor’s Center parking lot.  At first, we’re disappointed that we’re not going to actually see the sunset, the horizon obscured by the tall pine trees.  We stay because I’m here, Mandy’s here, the Grand Canyon’s here, and we’re glad we did.  Turns out that here, the sunset isn’t so much about the sunset, but what the sunset does to the rocks and valleys.  As many times as we promised ourselves we were done taking pictures of rocks, here we are, taking dozens more.  It’s why our grandparents and parents and we come here.  It’s why our children will bring their children and grandchildren here.  It just doesn’t get old.