Unlike Forrest, I cannot simply point my bike home and go. I have three weeks left, and I am excited to see the south of Spain, Andalucia, full of history and a certain flamenco allure that inspires me. What has changed is that I am not going to bike to Andalucia. Instead, I will take a train there, then do a 2-week loop before returning to Madrid for the last week.
But this post, which I will try to keep to a manageable size, is not about what I am about to do, but rather what I have done. I think the trail left off at the Dali Museum in Figueres.
Thursday, September 20: Figueres - Camprodon
This museum was unique in that it opened before Dali´s death, so he played a major role in designing the museum, almost to the point where the museum itself becomes a work of art. An old theater-turned-museum, the building is full of strange nooks with Dali´s unique touch and some of his most famous pieces of art. You leave the building with a sense of having stepped into and walked around his head for a bit, a stark contrast from the Picasso Museum in Barcelona where you leave with a sense of having read a book about the artist´s life and development.
The road turned north, basically only for the explicit purpose of seeing what the French border was like. Would I be stopped at the border because of my stupid visa difficulties? Would I be allowed in by an unknowing officer, only to be denied re-entry into Spain later that day? Would there even be a problem? The tension increased with every kilometer, especially when I realized that if denied entry, I would have to return all the way to Figueres, tail between my legs, and basically a full day of riding to end up where I started. Comparing the distance markers on the road, my map, and my cyclocomputer, I realized that I was close to the border, and I could see nothing ahead but a long downhill and a bend in the road to the left. After the descent, the road turned slightly upwards, and there it was. A sign that one kilometer earlier had read "Coustouges a 6km" now read "Coustouge à 5km". That little accent was my first sign that I was in France.
Had this little accent presented itself months ago, my itinerary might have been different. I might have "snuck" into France and stayed there, practicing my rusty French. But like Frost´s poem, the road diverged a different way. I am sorry I could not travel both, but I am not in the least bit sorry that I took the one less traveled. That decision was the first moment of letting go, and letting the wind take me where it would. Since the accent mark came when it did, my stay in France would be short, a couple hours at most, but memorable. I traveled to the closest town, Amélie-sur-Tech, where I sent some postcards, bought a baguette, and traded bonjours with the locals. Really, though, it wasn´t significantly different because everyone spoke Spanish and Catalan as well, and apparently my skin tone and accent are a dead giveaway that I am not French.
France would not say goodbye without a memorable road moment. The maps I have been using are the equivalent of a Rand McNally US Road Atlas, but for Spain and Portugal. For France, they show very little information. So it was that I found myself fighting uphill in the late afternoon, unaware that there was a large mountain pass to cross in order to enter back into Spain. What I thought would be a quick 30km back to Spain turned into a gruelling climb with switchbacks reminiscent of stages of the Tour de France. The setting sun was hidden behind the mountain pass, and the shadows cooled the sweat on my skin. I could count and see the 6 switchbacks in the road before arriving at the top, where, again, there was not even a sign indicating that I had reached Spain. Only the marker that I had reached 1,500 meters and a closed tourist info center up ahead.
The sun had set, and with dusk lighting, I raced downhill to the first town in order to set myself up for the night. That turned out to be Camprodon, where I was happy to be greeted by a "Camping a 200m¨sign. Two hundred meters later, the campground was there, but it looked closed. Before continuing, I have to explain something about camgrounds in Spain, and what I assume is most of Europe. In Spain, it is illegal to camp on public land that is below 1,500 meters or closer than 1km to a road. Basically, it´s illegal to camp in the US sense of camping where you go down a trail and set up a tent in a clearing. Campgrounds, then, have to accomodate both the people who are camping in tents as well as those who are camping in campers and RV´s. And many of those people leave their RV´s and campers set up at the campsites year round so they can just come and stay there, almost like a country cottage. So, back to Camprodon, the closed campsite was actually full of campers and RV´s, but they were just all off and no one was around. So I assumed that it would be ok to set up a tent there, at leave in the morning.
With that security, I went into the town of Camprodon, got some food, talked to a Colombian lady at the supermarket, and even went to a bar for a beer before returning to the campground. I took a cold "shower", in quotes because due to my downright deathly fear of cold showers, it was really more splashing water on me than anything else. Then, I realized that if no one was around, the bathrooms were pretty nice, almost like a wooden cottage with ceramic tile floors. And it was pretty cold outside. And the bathrooms had electric light. And, again, no one was around. So I decided that, since no one would know, I would skip the tent and just set up the sleeping pad and bag in the bathroom.
About 1o minutes later, the bubble that carried this lovely idea was burst when an elderly woman walked into the (men´s) bathroom, and scandalized, kept asking "hombre, que haces aqui?!" Then the screams turned to "que miedo! que miedo!" I managed to calm her down, and explain the situation, that I was traveling by bike, that it had gotten late, that the campground door was open, that it was too late to look for other lodging. After about 15 minutes of pupy dog eyes, she agreed to let me stay and pitch my tent, saying that I needed to be out by 9am because that´s when maintenance people were coming to do some work. She also took my passport and signed me in at the office, but was gracious enough to charge me nothing.
After she left, even though I had been warned about the maintenance people, I insisted to myself that if the bathroom would be unused for the night, there was no reason to stay outside as long as I was out by 9am. So it was that the bubble with my idea reappeared, this time to stay. Nine hours later, at exactly 8:17 am, the bubble burst again when I heard a car pull into the campground and two, distinctly male, distinctly maintenance workers start muddling around. My heart raced, and I proceeded to start packing up everything to try and sneak out without being seen. I don´t know why I was afraid to be found, perhaps in fear that they would be surprised to find me and ask me to stay until they verified that I was allowed to stay there. Or perhaps my fear was that the woman from the night before would find out and call me out on the fact that I decidedly disobeyed her by staying in the bathroom. Either way, the consequences were not grave, but at the time it felt important to leave unseen. In a record-breaking packing job, at 8:31 I was putting the last of the bags on my bike, when one of the men walked into the bathroom. Because of the layout, he could not see me. I heard him walk around, then pull up to one of the urinals, relieve himself, and, satisfied, walk back out, unaware that he was being listened to. A few minutes later, I snuck out as quietly as one can while guiding a 28-lb bike with 25-lbs of cargo that rattle around on dirt roads. Unseen, I headed back into town where I had a lovely breakfast before hitting the road.
Friday, September 21: Camprodon - St Lorenc
The memorable few days between Barcelona and Camprodon were a highlight of the trip, with lots of stops, museums, and adventures. However, I knew that if I wanted to make it to Pamplona by the weekend, I had to put in some miles. So I hit the road hard, due west. It wasn´t long before I realized that hitting the road that hard was not worth it, so I took it down a notch, winding my way up and down mountains. It felt great to be in the routing of cycling 30-40km at a comfortable pace, then stopping for a bit, a stretch, and continuing. The only catch is that the routine had to sync with a good place to stay, which that night, meant St. Lorenc de Morenys. This proved to be an ideal place, a fantastic little mountain town set in some mountains at the base of a ski resort and a bunch of mountain bike trails. St Lorenc also had a campground, but this one was not closed. I had the fortune of walking in at 6pm right when the owner was leaving, and he was taken by the story of my trip, tha he offered me a parcel for free. Even though it was a Friday and the campground was busy, it was heading into the slow season
and he was happy to let me stay the night.
Absolutely tired of the bike, after setting up the tent and taking a shower, I decided to walk the 2km into town. During the walk, the church bells rung 7pm just as a few drops of rain hit me, reminding me that we were in the mountains and that rain comes in and out without warning. Pulling out my long sleeve shirt, I wished that I had put on wool socks with my Crocs. It was cool, and getting cooler. But the rain went away, leaving me to breathe a sigh of relief. I walked around the town, found a market to get ingredients for a sandwich, and went to a bench in the middle of town to have dinner. People-watching is a wonderful way to pass time. There was a couple sitting on a nearby bench, making out, the girl obviously worried that her dad would see her. A family pulled up in a car, got their kids out of the back, and as the mom was leaving, she told me to enjoy my dinner. An older man was walking a little dog, and the dog was quickly drawn to a little girl, obviously the daughter of some tourists in town for the night. All of this happened while the sky grew dark, trading the bleak gray light of a cloudy evening for the hazy, yellow tones of the town´s streetlamps reflected on stone. I also put in a good effort on my new book, Jose Saramago´s Blindness. At about 9pm I finished dinner, and went to a bar for a beer before heading to bed.
I woke up at some point in the middle of the night. After losing my heart reate monitor on the first day of biking, I was left without an alarm and without any sort of time telling device with backlighting, so in the dark of the tent it was hard to know what time it was. I could rely on my digital camera or my cyclocomputer, but inevitable neither was near. It didn´t matter. The sounds that had awoken me became clear. Cats meowing, dogs barking, roosters crowing, and the sound of cowbells actually on cows. The animals were having a party! Well, not really, but they all seemed to sense something similar. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the pitter-patter of raindrops on my tent made everything clear. I had been in this situation about a month earlier, in a tent, waiting to see how the rain would affect my night of sleep. Happily, other than the pitter-patter sound, which was annoying but eventually manageable, the water did not make it into the tent. This night alone made the investment on the tent worthwhile.
Saturday, September 22: St Lorenc - Tremp
The next morning was a slow start, dealing with the wet tent fly, and also fighting the inertia of knowing that my morning would consist of climbing over the mountain that is the ski resort. On the way up, I stopped to chat with an Australian couple touring on mountain bikes that agreed with my assessment that such a climb early in the morning is a tough shock to the system. Once at the top, though, I got a sense that the worst was over, and the day would be good. I was right. Also, it was Saturday, and that meant there were lots of other bikers out, making my day more interesting, if only to provide eye candy. On more than one occasion friends have noted that I gawk at bikes the way some guys gawk at women.
My sense that the day would be good held true. The roads were beautiful ridge roads, with scenic overlooks, few climbs or descents, and little traffic other than ocasional compact european cars or touring motorcycles. All that, however, ended abruptly in the little town of Organyà, where tourists were sipping their afternoon coffees and I was left looking for the road that appeared on my map, but not in real life. I asked around, to no avail. A topographical map of the area that was placed in the center of town showed the road, but it seemed to indicate that it wasn´t paved. Just when I was about to change routes, I saw a small sign, more akin to something scratched on the side of a building, pointing me in the direction of the route I wanted to take. Again, adopting the spirit of letting the wind take me, I let this sign be a... well, a sign that I should go this way. Bad idea.
Twelve slow, windy, uphill and poorly paved kilometers later, I found myself at a place where the road ended, giving way to an unmarked dirt path. Do I follow the dirth path, or descend to the town, eliminating all the uphill progress I had made? The dirt path was unpleasant, and I had no idea where it was leading me, but each moment I tried to convince myself that it was better than going back. Going back is almost never good. Then I would hit a big bump or a big rock, and worry that my rear wheel would break another spoke. (I think I forgot to mention that I broke a second spoke outside of Barcelona...) After a solid hour of battling with the dirt, sometime walking my bike, the road returned to a paved road. I flagged down a car to ask them where I was, and they gave me the good news that I was on the western side of a pass. At least the dirt road had gotten me over the mountain. But now I had another problem, which is that the road had delayed my progress, and I would not make it to the nearest town with a campsite.
I arrived in the small city of Tremp, which I am uncertain how the locals pronounce it because I heard about four different varieties while I was there. It was a weeked, and the tourist info center in town was closed. There had been no marks of a campground nearby, and I began to grow worried. I asked around at hotels, and they all quoted me in the 40€ ballpark for the night. Finally, I was told to ask for a room at a restaurant, a pensión. For 24€ that night I had a buffet dinner, a bed to sleep on, and a place to watch the Barcelona soccer game that night. After my up-and-down day, both physically and mentally, because the degree of the terrain has a direct effect on my mood, I was happy to sleep indoors. I kicked back a beer after dinner while watching the game and having locals explain to me all their gripes with Barcelona. Soccer is undoubtedly the biggest sport draw here, Barcelona being arguably one of the best teams in the world, and people worship Ronaldinho, Deco, Messi, and the rest of the gang. But I couldn´t stay up to watch the end of the game, which would be after midnight, so I tucked in when the score was 0-0 at the half. I did not hear the celebration when Barcelona won 2-1.
Sunday, September 23: Tremp - Sariñena
A common thought in this trip has been about why I wanted to do this long bike ride. Usually my gut reaction is to remember the monotony of the routine of waking up and going to the office to see the days fly by, melting away one into the next, somewhat empty and without any markers to refer to and say, "remember that day when..." Those kinds of markers were reserved for nights and weekends, which also seemed to be scheduled in and losing authenticity. Well, today was one of the days that will stand out in my mind, like the day that I tried to go really fast into the town of Fallon, Nevada, or the day that I biked to Cape Ann trying and failing to do a century.
It began with the road. The road was the kind of road that people pick to take a drive through because the road is so beautiful. Immediately out of Tremp there was some climbing, followed by a ridge road that gave way to some awesome gorges. Then, following the sounds of a nearby river, the road plunged slowly down, into an landscape that reminds me of my visit to North Idaho, where you are somewhere between mountains and plains, somewhere between pines and farmland, somewhere between the air above and the water below. The road was full of fun tunnels through sides of mountains, none very long, but all a reminder that I was leaving the mountains and changing landscape. And just like that, in about 30km of descent, I was out in a vast plain, part of the dry Ebro River valley.
This is where that Forrest Gump feeling set in. The drastic change in everything from the mountains to the plain made everything become clear. I had overcome, I was on the other side. It´s tough when you have to push hard on a small gear to go 5mph on a windy road in cloudy weather. It´s another feeling altogether when you hardly push and you´re going 20mph on a beautiful, straigh road, blue skies, and farmland as far as the eye can see. I felt that the road was with me, the wind was behind me, my fitness had improved drastically, and I was somewhat transformed. Pushing hard was no longer difficult, and I made the 140+km day to Sariñena with ample time. Sariñena, again, was a town without camping, but I decided this would be my stay for the night, and I would be able to find a place to stay without any problems.
I found a 16€ pensión that suited the bill, and ate a pizza for dinner. Still hungry, I repeated with burger and later a beer while I watched a Real Madrid soccer game. The town was celebrating an agrarian fair, so there were lots of people out and about, and although I talked to a few, I continued to enjoy people-watching more than anything else. That night I went to bed with a smile on my face, a full stomach, and had the first full, uninterrupted night of sleep since I left Burgos almost two weeks ago.
Monday, September 24 and Tuesday, September 25: Sariñena - Zaragoza
The plain road into Sariñena is exactly like the one out, into Zaragoza. Flat, straight, and downwind. Really nothing to tell until I get into the city. Zaragoza is Spain´s 5th largest city, and it´s growing in size, population, and importance. Strategically located at the intersection of three rivers, and also almost equidistant between Madrid and Barcelona, it´s always held an important place in the Iberian Penninsula. Although there are only about 700,000 residents, the city is counting on growth, parth of the same growth that is overcoming most of Spain. The International Expo Zaragoza 2008, I think roughly a descendent of the World´s Fair, is also making the city a focal point for the country. The theme of the Expo is water and sustainable development.
One of the most striking things about Zaragoza is that it´s a city where you can see the layers of development. Long before the Romans settled here in the first century BC, humans had settled here on the banks of the river. But it was the Romans who made it a major city in their empire. The Moors later also made it a capital of their Iberian expansion, a time when the city was apparetly a paradise for thinkers, scietists, and artists from all creeds and languages. It was later the capital of the Aragonese Kingdom, which when it merged with Castille became just Aragon. The city architecture reflects this history, but to see it you need look no further than its name: Romans named it Casaraugusta after Emperor Augustus Ceasr, Muslims phoenetically renamed it Ca-Saragussa, then the Aragonese called it Çasagoça, and from there, it was only a small, Castillian step to Zaragoza.
Zaragoza was also site of my first CouchSurfing adventure. CouchSurfing.com is a internet service that aims to connect backpackers looking for lodging with like-minded people able to host them on couches. I signed up for the service about a month ago when my friend Tim informed me about it, and I haven´t used it so far because I have been going through places too remote to have a good CouchSurfing community. However, I have heard from other travelers that they have traveled cheap all around Europe using this service, which surprises me because I hadn´t heard about it until recently. Anyways, though the service, I found a guy in Zaragoza who has hosted several travelers, and I simply wrote him asking if he would host me for a couple of days, especially worried that it might be difficult for him to accomodate my bike. I received a prompt reply saying it was all no problem, and I should give him a call when I got into the city. That easy.
It´s that easy because Jorge is an awesome guy. He´s single, 33, self-employed with a background in marketing and business, and he has done a fair bit of traveling himself. We agreed to meet up on Monday night, and he easily spotted the guy with the bike. Easygoing and interesting, we went out for a bite and some beers, and got along well. We shared stories about traveling in Colombia, which was a stop on a trip he took around the world a few years ago. He speaks perfect English from having lived in London for a bit, but we stuck to comfortable Spanish and also talked about his work, my work, etc., etc. He provided me with a bed, and a bedroom, and a light fare breakfast. This was undoubtedly about as good as first experiences can be with this service, and I look forward not only to using it again, but also to being able to return the favor, if not to Jorge, then at least to some future traveler I might be able to host.
All this brings me to where I am now, in an internet cafe, waiting for the time to arrive when I have to catch a train to Madrid. Before signging off, I want to leave some thoughts I have jotted while on the road:
- the nicest places i have see are usually also those where people use the horns in their cars almost exclusively for greeting others.
- i have a new understanding of "carpe diem", which is not to try and do everything there is to do, but to try and make each day meaningful.
- being devoid of music, especially my music, is tough. but when i catch a brief earful of something familiar, whether blues, latin, jazz, whatever, it fills my heart with joy and brings me close to home.
- i now understand why in Spain I speak Castellano (castillian) and not Español (spanish).
- being disconnected from world news makes me wonder if people in the little towns that i go through are also as disconnected.
- traveling at this pace allows you to see how physical traits, especially those on faces, migrate and diffuse.
- if you see a biker on the road, especially if it looks like they are on a touring bike, and especially if they´re going uphill, give them encouragement. honk lightly, give them a thumbs up, open the window and say something or applaud them on. it will make both of you feel better.
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