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Saturday evening, I reach son, Eric’s, house in the Girona suburb of Sarrià de Ter. He’s informed me this is not the week he would have picked for my visit. He’s trying to organize his contractor for a full roof replacement, executing major related home improvement projects, training for his upcoming hard-core bike tour guiding in the Italian Dolomites, and girlfriend Gemma is coming home Friday, at which point he would like me gone for privacy reasons. They haven’t seen each other for a month.
I’ve got a number of things to accomplish this week but it will also be a kick back and slow down time. I get set up in the guest room and start planning my tasks. My major one is to get the Berlingo inspected before I leave Spain. It’s not due for a few months but I’ll be out of the country and there’s no grace period. If I hadn’t spent 10 months in New York, I’d have plenty of time left, but I did, so I’ll have to get it renewed prematurely. I ordered a set of 4 tires from Amazon Spain in March and Eric had those mounted for me just before I arrived from New York on April 1. Sunday, with everything in Spain closed, the only progress I can make is to replace my smashed but functional right tail light with a unit I ordered from an auto parts site a while back. Other than that, I just sit in front of the computer, scrounge a couple of meals, and take it easy. During the afternoon, there’s a clamor in the street below. A raucous crowd of jerseyed athletes and onlookers are marching and cheering. Eric explains it’s the Sarrià de Ter handball team. Handball is a big deal in the town because a town native coached Brazil’s handball team to a silver medal in the 2016 Olympics and the Spain team to European championships in 2018 and 2020. City hall, normally shut tight on Sundays, is opened up and the team, almost certainly a local one, stands on a balcony and is cheered by the crowd. The level of enthusiasm is far greater than I ever imagined handball merited. For that matter, I’ve never understood how spectators, who don’t play, can be so rabid about a team, but I guess I’m missing an important gene.
Monday morning, I walk to the nearby dentist to get an appointment. I have a little work to be done and, luckily, they have an appointment for Wednesday morning. Next up is windshield replacement. It has a couple of small cracks that are only significant because they will fail the inspection. My auto insurance covers the replacement fully, and Eric had made a number of appointments while I was gone but never managed to get the car to the glass shop. When he called a few days ago, the shop manager had enough and just refused to deal with him. I figure a new face might fare better, so I make the short drive and, without further ado, I get an appointment, also for Wednesday. Now, I should have no problem escaping town by Friday.
I find out that I’ve had misconceptions about horchata, my favorite drink. In the U.S., it’s often available in Mexican restaurants. I always thought of it as a rice-based drink but when I first bought it in Spain, I learned it is always made from chufa (tiger nuts), a nut-like fruit largely unknown in North America, so I assumed my earlier rice idea was incorrect. In fact, some weeks ago, my host in Valencia, Spain went out of his way to take me to Horchata Avenue, a street celebrated as the center of chufa-based horchata drinks. Today, I bring some home from Aldi and Eric enlightens me that horchata is not one drink but a class of them — sweetened water extracts of a variety of plant materials. So, yes, the Mexican version is made with rice, the Spanish version is almost always chufa. In other countries, the base can be barley, melon seeds, sesame seeds, and a substantial variety of other substances. The word itself derives from the Latin word for barley. Orgeat syrup, used in the U.S. as a cocktail flavoring, is an almond-based horchata and the two words have a common etymology. So now you know much more than you ever wanted to about horchata, and only because I love to drink it.
My appointments arranged, Eric suggests a modest hike to a nearby hilltop ruin. It’s only about 4 miles round trip and the air temperature is moderate but the weather is 100% sunny and at midday there isn’t much shade, so it takes some effort on my part to ignore my thermal discomfort. I go into cockroach mode, as usual, scurrying across sunny stretches from one spot of shade to the next. The ascent of the hill is along an old road, so it’s a substantial but forgiving grade. We emerge at the top at an old church. Its cemetery has been in use from the 8th to 21st centuries and is currently under archaeological excavation.
A little further on, at the top of the hill, are the excavated ruins of a Roman fortress named Castellum Fractum. This hill, overlooking the surrounding region, has been so strategic that it’s been occupied since prehistoric times, successively by the ancient Iberians, the Romans, the Visigoths, the Catalonians, and now by a rich guy’s nearby hotel. There are many interpretive displays to explain what we’re seeing.-
The return trip is a long walk down the access road. At the bottom we stop for lunch in a Romanian restaurant before walking the last mile home, in the sun, alongside a busy highway.
Tuesday, I’m sedentary, while Eric generates intense rock dust on his unfinished top floor, exposing hidden stone in his renovation. Wednesday, I go first to the dentist. She examines my month old x-rays and says my main cavity needs a root canal. This was not what the New York dentist said, but even if I accepted the need, there’s no time to do the work before I leave Friday morning, so that’s in abeyance for now. Next, I drop the car off for the windshield replacement. That goes perfectly except my German eco-sticker is destroyed, despite their promise to restore everything. I’ll just have to buy a new one next time I enter a German eco-zone. From, there, I go straight to the inspection station. As I’m getting ready to pay, the clerk points out that the current inspection doesn’t expire until mid-October, by which time I’ll almost certainly be back. For months, I thought it would run out well before that while I’d be still out of Spain. With that new info, I cancel the inspection. This means the windshield replacement was unnecessary. Although it cost me nothing out of pocket, if I pick up just one chip over the next 5 months, I’ll have to replace it again. Thursday, I organize my stuff for packing the car. It’s more crowded than before because on my first departure I accidentally left several bulky items behind, including my shovel — an omission that became significant when I got stuck in Spanish sand three weeks ago.
Friday morning, I load up and head north toward France but first a modest detour to the Catalonian village of Sant Llorenç de la Muga, an area that appears to have some nice hiking. Arriving, I park and head uphill on a small road to begin my planned 4 mile loop up to a ridge almost 1,500 feet above me. After two thirds of a mile, the trail leaves the road. I know I’m right because there’s an official trail sign, but just a hundred feet along there’s a fenced property barring progress. The French owner happens to be there and he makes it clear that I can’t enter. In fact, he claims there’s no trail — clearly a lie, but I have no choice but to turn around and walk back down, still in the sun, and choose a different route. This one is about 3 miles, but with much less elevation gain. It’s a nice uphill walk to a watchtower (reputedly Roman) guarding the town and valley. The tower has been renovated and I can climb to the top to appreciate the broad vista. The descent on the other side is along a forest road, and I return to the car via a riverside promenade. Not what I expected, but very nice.
Since my hosts in France are not expecting me for several hours, I detour a bit to a Citroën dealer in nearby Figueres to buy a small part that popped off and causes stress on my side window. They sell me the part, but when I ask for installation instructions, they tell me to have their service department install it — yeah, right. I don’t want to turn a $10 part into a $200 repair. I’ll figure out the technique for attaching it. From there, I head north, avoiding very expensive French toll roads to reach my next Servas hosts in Narbonne, arriving at 6:45 PM.
Jérôme & Marie live in a very nice home with an enormous yard, within blocks of the city train station. Their property is surrounded by 3-5 story apartment buildings, which makes its pastoral nature very unusual. They have two pre-teen sons, Felix and Julius. Julius has very long hair and soft features and as I’m introduced, I mistake him for a girl. I get straightened out the next day and apologize to him but apparently others have made the same mistake, so he doesn’t seem to take offense. Jérôme started out as an agricultural engineer and worked for many years in wine and beer making. He traveled widely, including living in Réunion island, an overseas French region in the western Indian Ocean. Unfortunately, he was diagnosed at way too young an age with Parkinson’s disease and had to retire and deal with its progression. Eleven years later, he is still independent and quite active, despite noticeable effects. Marie is an educator who creates special projects and trips for students having trouble with the standard school routine. She loves being an organizer. Shortly after I arrive, two German women, Gischi and Ully from Hamburg, appear as well. They have a recreational vehicle — although not one of those expedition-level, go-anywhere converted military trucks that are common among German world travelers — but have pedaled over from their camping park. We all have dinner together and decide on a bike ride to the coast tomorrow. I’m nervous because my bicycling skills are unsophisticated and rarely practiced, but what the hell.
As the two are preparing to bicycle back to the RV park for the night in the dark, Gischi’s bike pedal falls off its mount. Somewhere along the line the fastening bolt has worked loose and dropped off. They make it to the park anyway but will have to go to a bike shop in the morning before we can set out.
Saturday morning, to get a bit of practice, I accompany Jérôme to bike over to the downtown farmers market. Avoiding bollards, street grates, pedestrians, and oncoming bicyclists in the narrow streets is a challenge, but I manage ok. Before noon, bike repairs completed, 6 of us set out for the coast. The initial route is through downtown Narbonne, then a commercial strip, but we soon reach a canal towpath which serves as a bicycle route. Although unpaved, it’s just sufficient for my skills. There are occasional mud spots but since the whether has been dry they are rutted but hard packed. The trail has many protruding tree roots, both parallel and perpendicular to my travel, and each one of those requires care and faith. The towpath is distressingly close to the canal for my skills and I know that one moderate mistake at the wrong moment and I, and the bike, could be in the water. I do all right, though, despite the sun beating down on my hat and long sleeves, until we come to a double rut portion. Here each trail is as little as 6 inches wide with tall grass between and the canal on the right. It’s quickly evident that my steering skills are inadequate for that narrow width and, before something unpleasant happens, I dismount and walk the bike a few hundred yards until the track widens out a bit. There are occasional trees overhanging the path and I stop a few times to take advantage of the shade.
Jérôme, despite his muscular unsteadiness, does as well or better than I do. I have to credit his determination to succeed. After about 5 miles, our route leaves the canal and heads into open agricultural fields and wetlands without a hint of shade. About a mile into this, I decide I’ve reached my turnaround point. We’ve only gone about halfway to the beach, but I decide it’s not safe for me to do the full double distance. The rest push on as I turn back. To my surprise, son Felix turns back with me. I’m wondering if his parents ordered him to accompany me, but it later turns out he is bored with the trip and wants to go back. The return ride is a retrace, with the same difficult points as before, but I’m hotter and more tired than on the outbound trip.
I endure until we finally reach home, and I’m glad to get off the bike and rest. Bicycle riding for me is always a tense endeavor. On pavement, there’s vehicle traffic to deal with, not to mention the terrifying prospect of having to make some sudden maneuver in an emergency (which can be as simple as the person in front of me stopping) without damaging myself or others or the equipment. The knowledge that one steering flaw at the wrong moment could cause an injury accident is always on my mind. Today’s excursion over rough, gravel and dirt trails is pretty much a continuous white knuckle experience, but I did successfully bike those conditions for 12 miles and I can’t complain at all, although the activity was much more a matter of grim determination than carefree fun.
Sunday morning, I’ve booked a cheap hotel room near Perpignan, about an hour backtrack toward Spain. Starting before I left Eric’s 5 days ago, I developed a somewhat disturbing digestive condition. To avoid possibly causing you to lose your lunch, I’ll elaborate no further. By today, I decide I need some time without social obligations to see how it works itself out. Since there’s a slight possibility I’ll have to see a doctor, I figure going back a little toward Spain, where I at least speak the language, is not a bad idea. I’ve booked a room in a French beach town for the very reasonable price of $28 per day.
On arrival late Sunday afternoon, I am very pleasantly surprised. The “hotel” is actually a converted residence with 4 guest rooms, a fully equipped kitchen, adjacent living room, along with a tiny balcony. Owner, Pascal, does all the maintenance and housekeeping himself and lives in a private space in the house. The place is delightful and I immediately ask if I can stay a second night. All the rooms are booked for tomorrow but Pascal says I can have his bedroom.
My digestive problem is solving itself, so Monday morning I drive to Aldi and get enough food to cook some meals. This is the first commercial lodging with a kitchen on this trip. Of course, it’s also only the 4th day of commercial lodging of any sort. My next goal is to ferry to the French island of Corsica, so I have to figure out how to do that at a reasonable cost. In my relaxed surroundings, I find that most of the fares are around $150, but I find one voyage for only $65, so I jump on it. Now that I have that booked, I decide to extend my stay at the house to a third night and then drive to the ferry port a couple of hours northward. The embarkation port, Sête, is far from Corsica and doesn’t seem like a logical departure choice. It’s a 16.5 hour voyage. The trip from Toulon or Nice, a little further up the coast, is much shorter and much more expensive. It doesn’t matter, I’ve got my reservation.
I’ve been searching for a host in Corsica and the morning of my departure I’m invited by a Couchsurfer named Pascal. I drive to Sête, stopping at an Aldi for sustenance to keep me going through the long night. I’ve been on plenty of long ferry trips and never booked a cabin — well, I did once at my then-wife;s insistence when we were leaving Alaska with our one month old daughter — so I haven’t done it here, either. I have no trouble sleeping in deck chairs, or reclining seats, or lounge sofas. The ship is in a class called “cruise ferries” and is very large, with 9 decks, over 500 feet long, and about 10 bars and restaurants on board.
Unlike most vehicle ferries in my experience, Corsica Ferries does not allow periodic car calls. Once you leave your vehicle and go up to the passenger deck, you’re not coming back until arrival. The effect of this is that all pets — and the French love their dogs — are everywhere in the passenger areas. Owners are supposed to bag the poop, but some do not, so walking the outside decks requires watching one’s step. For all I know, the staterooms are also sprinkled with dog shit.
I leave the car and climb to Deck 8 and ask one of the crew where the seating areas are, He tells me quite clearly there is no seating except in the various bars and restaurants. This is an unpleasant shock. He directs me to the one room where non-cabin passengers store their luggage and sleep. It’s a completely bare, carpeted room, the kind of empty event space you would book at a hotel. Never imagining that floor sleeping would be my only option, I’ve left my sleeping bag and pad in the car. Now it’s too late to retrieve them. This will be a real test of my often stated ability to sleep anywhere.
As we’re leaving the dock, I get another message from Pascal saying, “I think we’re on the same boat.” This is a shock and we quickly arrange a rendezvous. He’s traveling back home from Sête with his sister, Marie, a travel agent, after a short vacation on the mainland. As the three of us talk, I get a partial explanation of why this out of the way voyage is scheduled and why it’s so cheap. Apparently, it’s some sort of promotional trip to generate interest in package tours in this part of France. At first, I think it’s a travel agent fam (familiarization) trip, but Marie seems to be the only travel agent. Most of the passengers came from Corsica on the same ship a few days ago and are all returning together. Apparently, I just lucked into a bargain fare because there was vehicle space available. No complaints here.
Pascal tells me that a group will be performing regional Corsican music in the bar/dance hall within minutes. I join them at a table along with two other Corsican friends and we are all treated to a very local musical tradition.
The conversation continues after the performance until my companions head to their cabins. I have nowhere good to go, so I continue a conversation with the adjacent table, two of whom speak some English.
This goes on for another couple of hours until they, too, head off to bed. I’ve cruised all the public decks for possible sleeping possibilities, but every chair, comfortable or not, is in areas that are locked at night. There are 6 swivel chairs in one open area that are accessible and I sit in one of them until the floor starts to look more attractive. I go down to the sleeping room and get (un)comfortable with the carpet for a mattress, no covering except the clothing I’m wearing, and my bulky day pack as my pillow.
It’s not a great night, although I do get some sleep.
At 6 AM, I get up and wander the decks again, finding one bar whose outside deck door was apparently inadvertently left unlocked. I sack out on one of the curved, upholstered, banquette couches and drop off immediately. Within the hour, though, a crew member comes along and rousts me. Short but sweet. I go back to my swivel chair and spend most of the morning (we’re not docking until 11:30 AM) in relative comfort, reading on my phone. For the first several hours of the voyage, we were close enough to shore for me to pick up land based internet. After that, it was expensive maritime cell service or expensive on board wi-fi. I forego them both and read a book stored on my phone. All the Corsicans had purchased a package that included their vehicle, a cabin, and food vouchers. I have only the car passage and the floor.
About 3 hours before arrival, Corsica comes into view over the horizon, very mountainous and, at a distance, obscured by morning mists. Eventually we round the north end of the island, getting clear views of the coast and peaks, and distant views of Elba, the adjacent island where Napoleon was exiled for a year in 1814 until he escaped and briefly ruled France again. After his defeat at the Battle of Waterloo in 1819, his enemies smartened up and exiled him to St Helena, a remote island in the South Atlantic where he was stranded until he died.
Finally, we arrive on schedule in the Corsican port of Bastia. Marie and Pascal have given me advice on how to spend my first day and Pascal is expecting me at his home further south at 7 PM. I am not very energetic.
