Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/02/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-19-25-04-22-3-nights-in-an-off-the-grid-log-cabin/

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Today, Tuesday, I’m driving further south to a city I’ve never heard of before this week, Almería. As is the case almost universally in Spain, any place name starting with “al” (which means “the” in Arabic) derives from the 800 year Moorish occupation of Iberia. Almería is a Mediterranean seaport lying, subject to your interpretation of the coastline shape, at the southeast corner of Spain.

I’m staying with Andreea, a Romanian expatriate who lives in a very nice apartment in an eastern suburb, Retamar, a block from the beach.

Notably, she shares her home with three pet tropical birds, who have the run of the place. All through the day there are parrot calls and frequent flights from room to room. One of them is incubating eggs and I never see her.

The second is constantly flying around and, after a while, takes a liking to me. As I’m sitting on the couch, I periodically feel a sudden landing on my shoulder, where a substantial grooming session is undertaken (the bird grooming itself, not me).

The third one is futilely but determinedly incubating infertile eggs in the kitchen and is very defensive. The first time I go to throw something in what appears to be the kitchen wastebasket — which turns out to be the nesting box — I’m viciously attacked. It takes me a moment to even understand why my hand hurts so much but even if I had comprehended the danger immediately, I couldn’t have defended myself in any way that might hurt the bird. Andreea rescues me by chasing the attacker back into its box and placing a heavy object on the cover.

From then on, anytime I approach the kitchen or the adjacent front door, we have to first be sure the screeching aggressor is contained. I only sustain one more successful attack. Andreea also has a very affectionate, squat legged dog that craves attention.

Andreea works remotely in logistics — enabling goods to move efficiently from seller to buyer — and she warned me in advance that she would be busy. Nonetheless, once work is done, we spend the evening discussing our lives and choices, making a plan for tomorrow, and going for a walk along the beachfront.

My room is also the one where the birds sleep — in covered cages. Once the room is dark, they’re mostly silent.

Wednesday, Andreea works a while before a midday medical appointment. From there, we head east to Cabo de Gata National Park, a large area of mountainous seacoast.

We stop at the historic lighthouse and then walk down to a rocky cove which is one of her favorite snorkeling areas. I go swimming in the relatively warm and very clear water, while Andreea watches with absolutely no temptation to join me in what she considers off-season bathing.

The views of mountain and coastline are beautiful and afterward we drive further east around former salt evaporation ponds that are now a bird sanctuary.

As evening approaches we arrive in San José beach and harbor. This is a tourist resort but not overcrowded this time of year. Andreea chooses a very popular restaurant and we have a truly excellent dinner, including some of the best pastrami (!) I’ve ever tasted.

A long, after dark walk looping to the harbor and back finishes the day and we drive back to her apartment.

I’ve been invited to a Couchsurfing host in the center of Almería, but due to a prior commitment, I can only stay one night. Since parking there is very difficult, Thursday morning I leave the car where it’s parked outside Andreea’s and she drops me off downtown on her way to a friend’s house. I’m only a few steps from Klaus’ apartment and he’s there to greet me. He lives in a rooftop penthouse high above the street. Klaus is German but has lived in Spain for 46 years. He’s well-educated, articulate, and an excellent English speaker. He runs a business out of his home that lobbies (the more polite term is “advocates”) the European Union on behalf of tourism enterprises. Although he warned me that I would be on my own because of his workload, we quickly establish rapport and spend some hours in the morning discussing a wide range of topics. Later on, I head out on foot, eventually climbing the big hill to tour the Alcazaba, an enormous Moorish fortress with commanding views of the city and sea. The large site is also under active archaeological excavation.

I thus occupy myself until about 8 PM when I meet Klaus at a bar near his house. Here we spend another several hours in interesting conversation over drinks and tapas, finishing up long after dark. I learn a lot about EU politics, Klaus’ expatriate views about Spain, and lots more. Additionally, I resolve something that’s been quietly tugging at me all day. Sitting at the outdoor table in the evening light, Klaus bears a striking, and disconcerting, resemblance to Clint Eastwood. When I finally put my finger on that, he says he’s heard it occasionally from others.

After a comfortable night in Klaus’ well appointed guest room, I pack up in the morning but before I depart, we continue our conversation for another couple of hours. Although we have many differing viewpoints, we find our opinions very aligned on many issues.

Finally, I leave to catch a city bus back to Andreea’s home about an hour to the east, say my fond goodbyes to her, and head westward several hours, along a scenic route parallel to the still snow covered Sierra Nevada, Spain’s highest mountain range. I’m heading for Seville to stay with friends I made 18 months earlier.

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/04/24/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-15-25-04-19-valencia-spain

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My next stop is in the Murcia region, a section of seacoast and mountains seemingly lesser known to international tourists. I’ve been invited by Elias, a rural Servas host. Following directions to Totana, I find a finca, an estate of sorts, operated as a cooperative. My lodging is a rustic but fully equipped log cabin — a rarity in Spain, which is not known for forests of tall, straight-trunked trees. There is an ample supply of e electricity, all supplied by solar panels and storage batteries.

Elias is my host but the cabin belongs to another resident, Silvan. Shortly after I arrive, two young Italian women, Laura and Arianna, pull up in a rental car. The three of us will be sharing the cabin tonight. Elias takes us out on an evening tour. We’re in an area of rugged mountains, the highest almost 5,200 feet, so the scenery from the valleys is very impressive. After visiting Totana, an out of the way mountain community where some small tourist lodgings are being developed, we wend our way to the nearby town of Aledo, with the usual complement of churches, steep alleyways, and a small fortress and watchtower.

The town is positioned on a height, so the views are extensive.

Below, I see many acres of lowland crops, all draped in white cloth shelters. Elias tells us they are table grapes, protected from the scorching summertime sun that will arrive all too soon.

As night falls, we find respite from the cool wind in a village bar. Silvan joins us and there, amid the lively conversation of the locals, we sample various tapas and consume an array of beverages well into the evening. One area specialty is Asiático coffee, a layered combination of coffee, condensed milk, and cognac. As its name evokes, it’s similar to Thai coffee, sweet and creamy. Asiático and black coffee are a couple of universes apart.

By the time we return to the upland cabin, everyone is ready to rest. The two women, apparently to Elias’ surprise, are only staying one night — contrary to usual Servas custom. He has made plans for tomorrow, but they explain they are on a tightly scheduled vacation and have to move on.

In the morning, the four of us travel in two cars to Estrecho de la Arboleja, a modest Utah-style slot canyon. From the parking lot, we descend many steps to the valley floor, passing elaborate abandoned aqueducts once used to guide canyon water to downstream crops, and then work our way along the narrow bottom, the footing sometimes wet and difficult.

After exiting and climbing back up to plateau level, the women depart for Granada, while Elias and I make a second visit to Aledo.

It’s Easter Sunday and today is the town’s elaborate Easter procession. After a leisurely breakfast in another town bar, Elias and I climb the streets to the church located near the town’s highest point.

Waiting patiently through intermittent sprinkles and sun for the parade to launch, Elias leads me indoors where I find myself in the middle of a Catholic mass — communion, homily, the whole bit. There’s a chorus singing up in the balcony but instead of traditional hymns, they stick with modern music, among them George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”.

The procession finally begins about an hour late. There are marching bands, many young people dressed as Roman centurions (somehow, these are primary symbols of Christianity), and three religious floats carried on the shoulders of large, carefully rehearsed teams. Various bell peals indicate “lift”, “stand”, “set down”, “march in place”, and “move forward”. It all works as the heavy floats avoid crashes and mishaps, despite the growing heat and sun.

After the drive back to the cabin and a short break, Elias takes me on a tour of the finca. We walk up to a high point where a large, plastic lined reservoir has been constructed. The water is pumped in from a well and distributed across the property by a gravity system. I meet Fran, who grows a variety of vegetables, and Antonio, who has commercial lemon trees, and his two children, Sofia and Samuel. Sylvain has made 2 short appearances, but is apparently quite busy. When we return to the cabin, I rustle up some late lunch or early dinner from my perishable supplies, ground beef and cheese, and Elias and I eat outside. That pretty much ends the long day’s activities.

Monday morning, Elias brings over some breakfast and late in the morning we drive up into nearby Sierra Espuña Regional Park. It’s a well kept unit with interpretive signs, trails, and turnouts. The highest point is over 5,000 feet, a respectable elevation in most of Spain. A well engineered, paved road winds its way scenically ever upward.

At about 4,600 feet, a side trail gives access to a curious feature, Los Pozos de Nieve (The Snow Wells). For about 400 years, ice for the lowlands was made here by a labor intensive process. As many as 25 large structures consisting of excavated pits, each topped with a tall, above ground stone dome were built here. Much of the Spanish population has always lived in the coastal lowlands, where temperatures have been too warm for natural refrigeration. Lacking frozen ponds that, during New York winters, were a limitless source of ice, Murcians created whole mountain communities to make ice as best they could. One part of each pozo’s crew would collect snow from the ground and dump it in the well. Another group manually tamped down the stored snow to remove the air and allow it to freeze into denser ice. The final group hurriedly transported the ice many miles to warehouses for sale. Even though most of this movement happened during the coldest hours of the night, transportation losses were about 50%. This torturous process ended in 1926 when the first commercial ice manufacturing plant was established in Murcia. Today, the pozos are protected in the park and a couple have been restored to their original form for educational reasons.

Back in the car, we continue upward on the winding road. On the mesa-like top of the mountain is a prominent military installation that’s a combination of defense monitoring and air traffic control. I breeze past the first two signs warning against unauthorized vehicles, but near the summit at the third one, which includes “No Trespassing” in English, I decide the risk of arrest is getting too great, so we appreciate the far ranging views from there and head back down off the mountain.

On the way to the finca, Elias has us stop at one of the only local restaurants in the area. The food is economical, cheap, and very plentiful. I am stuffed with 4 courses, along with beer.

As we’re finally leaving, Elias spots Antonio, the lemon grower from yesterday, his two kids and his brother. They invite us to join them and another hour of drinks and conversation ensues, ending with shots of mantellina, a very local liqueur homemade with lemon, anise, and honey. It goes down smoothly — too smoothly. By the time we leave, I’ve consumed far more alcohol than usual. I’m not feeling anything but I’m sure I’m close. If home weren’t just a mile away, along a deserted road, I might have to take precautionary measures to get us there. My concerns turn out to be pointless as I get no hint of intoxication or after effects. I am, however, so stuffed with food and beverage that my siesta flows smoothly into the night’s sleep.

Tuesday morning, after a simple breakfast with Elias, I pack up and head further south to my next destination. My stay on the finca has been very different from any of my other Spanish experiences — a real treat thanks to a devoted host and guide.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/05/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-22-25-04-25-my-first-stay-along-the-coast/

On a recent visit to Valencia, Spain, my host informed me of a literary “open mic”, Club Hemingway, in which he would participate. As a courteous show of support — and since it was being held in English –, I said I would attend to hear his piece.

The day before the reading, the organizer posted rules for the participants and, with no clue how I would react (we had only met the prior day), he shared it with me:

Now, I’m a writer, both professional and amateur, although in no sense a literary person. I could not plot the arc of a good novel to save my life. I have no talent for fiction. Nonetheless, I love writing. Moreover, my social life is interwoven with many literary people, including my close friend, Susan Deer Cloud, a well published poet who is partly Native American.

I’m also not a person prone to let sleeping dogs lie. For years, I’ve watched with dismay the growing pressures on writers to limit their work. Accusations of “cultural appropriation” are rampant. It’s “wrong” to write from a perspective you haven’t lived or “authentically experienced”. There’s pressure not to write as a gender that you are not, to tell an ethnic story without being of that ethnicity, to write of trauma that you haven’t personally experienced. I’ve seen real world consequences repeatedly: accepted readings canceled due to opposition before the fact, anthology submissions rejected on political grounds, books unpublished on the basis of personal vendettas, or in Susan’s case, not being an Indian with official government recognition and benefits — a reservation Indian.

To me, it’s all bullshit. Freedom of expression is paramount. All the great ideas are likely to originate in some uncomfortable literary expression. Prior restraint is the death of revolutionary transformation. It’s the awkward, even offensive, writing and speaking that stretches human bounds and sows the ground for new views of life. I have always been a free speech absolutist. There’s no way to avoid the slippery slope of censorship once you first declare, “I will not allow you to say that!”

So, when I saw the above rules, I immediately took notice. My first thought was to not attend the event as a matter of principle. On further reflection, I felt the need to object to this imposition of prior restraint. I took a speaking turn prepared to rebut the wisdom of the above dicta, but failed. The organizer cut me off very quickly and, since it was not my event, I respected her authority and left the stage. I’m not an elegant public speaker. I could have done much better — but so could she. When ideas are suppressed, we are all the worse for it.

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/04/22/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-11-25-04-14-exploring-southeastern-spain/

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From Castellón, it’s only about an hour to my next stop, Valencia, and I zip down the highway, paying no attention to anything else, including my phone. On arrival at the home of my BeWelcome host, Ariel, I finally look at my messages and see the price of the delay in reading them. Although Ricard and I met this morning for the express purpose of returning his apartment keys, we got so involved in talking that, at the end, I hopped up and drove off — with the keys still in my pocket! Ricard realized this within minutes and messaged me about my omission. Had I read it promptly, it would have been a minor diversion to go back and drop them off. But no, I paid no attention and it’s clear I now have to make the redundant 2-hour round trip. Estupido!

Ariel, comes from a multinational background, and speaks a variety of languages well. He works from his large, comfortable home, surrounded by agricultural fields.

Our conversation gradually turns mostly to English as my Spanish skills are quickly eclipsed. I have a comfortable, airy guest room and from the roof, the view is unobstructed in every direction. It’s a vegan household, always a bit of a challenge for a dairy lover like me. As the initial hours go by, I see there’s a steady trickle of interesting people coming and going.

Ariel and girlfriend, Claudia, are attending a philosophy discussion group this evening at a downtown bar. The topic is Consciousness and since it will be conducted in English, I decide to go along. At the venue, there are dozens of participants and we get divided into tables of about 6, each initiating their own little meeting. My group is quite interesting and a lot of time is devoted to trying to define the term. Nothing gets resolved, but the interaction among educated people is stimulating and fun.

Wednesday morning, I’m going to make the run to Ricard’s to return the keys, and Ariel says there is some good swimming not far from Castellón. He suggests we incorporate that side trip into the itinerary, so off we go. After 30 minutes or so in the bar with Ricard — and this time not forgetting to give him his keys — we head out of town to the Sitjar reservoir. Although it’s not a natural lake, it feels that way today by virtue of being 100% full — no “bathtub ring” of exposed mud. We stop at a picnic area along the shore and go for a long swim. The clear water, while not exactly warm, is far from cold and feels clean and refreshing. Finished, we drive around the rest of the lake/reservoir. While swimming I notice that although my cold symptoms are gone, except for the occasional cough, my energy is noticeably low, so I’m still fighting off something.

Thursday, Ariel, Claudia, and I go for a hike in some coastal hills along the Camí de Bonilles trail. The lower elevations are lightly forested and the higher terrain is bone dry with only sparse trees. In some areas the trail is lined with thickets of rosemary, one of my favorite herbs.

Although the shade temperature is very reasonable, the sun is strong, so I go into cockroach mode, scrambling from one spot of shade to the next and recovering my heat balance. My water consumption is unusually high but the views are extensive. We limit the hike to about 6 km to prevent me from becoming just puddle of sweat. I am such a heat weenie.

After the hike, Ariel guides us to a Valencia neighborhood famous for horchata, one of my all time favorite beverages. It’s a water extract of the tuber of chufa, or tiger nut, growing widely across the Eastern Hemisphere, but uncommon in the west. In the US, horchata is mostly found in Mexican restaurants. Today, I’m in the cradle of horchata, indeed on Horchata Avenue itself, home to a selection of well known horchata cafes. Ariel and I each order a liter of the beverage, with ice on the side. I am in heaven, sitting in the shade sipping away at an unending, frigid supply of my favorite drink. I get a small bag of unprocessed chufa as a souvenir.

As we sit outdoors, a person walks up soliciting donations for a charity. He has a professionally produced information sheet, but I get the feeling he’s a fraud. Claudia gives him 10€, though. After he walks off, Ariel calls the number on the sheet and determines that the solicitor isn’t associated with them and has scammed us. Getting in the car, we chase him down and Ariel retrieves the donation. Good for him.

I should say here that throughout my visit, Ariel was dealing with a rapidly escalating household crisis about which, for privacy reasons, I will say nothing further. However, given the severity, it was extraordinarily generous of him to have me stay 4 nights. In similar circumstances, I might have said, “Things are falling apart here. It’s better if you move on immediately.”

On Friday, Good Friday, I head out on my own northward toward an area my son, Eric, has recommended as scenic but not over-touristed. As I drive and choose a specific trailhead, I realize it’s too far for this time of day. Impulsively, I follow a brown sign (these generally point to tourist towns or natural areas) marked Montanejos. The road winds up into picturesque hills and pine forests. As I approach the town, the roadside is lined with parked cars and RVs, with no obvious attraction. Thinking perhaps there are secret swimming holes in the adjacent canyon, I ask a driver and she says, no, these vehicles park here because Montanejos is full. Now, I’m intrigued. Whatever is there obviously makes parking 2 or 3 km, away worthwhile. I continue on into town and easily find a place to park. I’m now aware that one of Montanejos’ attractions is public river swimming, a locale named Fuente de los Baños. I’ve parked at the wrong end of town, so a leisurely 2 km walk through hilly streets gets me there. There is an entrance fee, but no one seems to be selling or collecting tickets today, so I follow the busy path down to the water.

I find a pavilion and river beach at the foot of a steep walled canyon just upstream. There are some hundreds of visitors but I imagine in summer it’s far more intense. Ignoring regulatory signs prohibiting most activities, “No food, no ball playing, no…..”, people are having a grand time sharing trays of home made food, kicking football (soccer) balls along the beach, and lounging about in various levels of undress. I go into the water, which turns out to be never more than chest deep, but adequate for swimming. The slow current gives some hope that it’s clean, but judging by the number of bathers, including many children, I suspect the water is at least 1% urine. Nonetheless, it’s a really nice experience on a hot day.

Once out of the water, I walk back via a streamside promenade and then climb steeply toward the car, with a supermarket stop to pick up some non-vegan picnic food — meat, cheese, bread, and some of the worst chemical “fruit” drink imaginable — which I devour with dispatch. I arrive back at Ariel’s in late afternoon.

There is a literary “open mic” in Valencia tonight and Ariel asked me yesterday if I’d like to hear him and friend, Arthur, perform. I agreed, but during yesterday’s hike, the organizer posted rules imposing substantial prohibitions on what people could say. The text was:

Free speech absolutist that I am, I react strongly to this and say I won’t attend an event that imposes prior restraint on speech. “Triggers” is a word that triggers me [grin]. Ariel, who also rails at the rules, urges me to come along and make a statement objecting to the instructions. This has some appeal, so I spend about 30 minutes writing a short objection piece with some humor. As the 7 PM start time approaches, I bus into downtown Valencia to meet Ariel. The speaking order is chosen at random from a bowl, and the limit Is 3 minutes, except Cata, the organizer of the event series, gets to go first and, despite her stern warnings, neither she nor most of the speakers adhere even vaguely to the time limit. Arthur and Ariel do two long dialogs. In Arthur’s mind, they’re comedy sketches (prohibited by a separate rule) but both way too esoteric for my brain.

Near the end, it’s my turn and I start my expression of indignation at the topics and styles that Cata has prohibited in the name, presumably, of non-controversy. As soon as she realizes where I’m going in response to her declarations, she asks me to leave the stage. Ariel is disappointed that I acquiesce, but it’s not my event, so I do. I’m not an elegant public speaker. I could have done better, but so could she.

Saturday morning, I pack up and head south. It’s been a very hospitable, if unusual, visit.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/02/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-19-25-04-22-3-nights-in-an-off-the-grid-log-cabin/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/04/11/road-trip-europe-iii-25-03-31-25-04-09-once-more-unto-the-breach-dear-friends-once-more/

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Last year I made a leisurely, meandering, counterclockwise loop through Spain and Portugal, interrupted in Algeciras as I ferried to Morocco for 5 weeks. On returning to Spain, my plans were changed by my daughter’s announcement that she and family would be flying to son Eric’s house for a vacation. So we could all be together, I had to drive more directly across southeast Spain, back to Girona.

I’m going to fix this now by looping through the southeast, per last year’s plan. An easy 4-hour drive gets me to the small city of Castellón along the Mediterranean coast. Although I’ve left Catalonia and entered the Valencia region, the local language and culture are still Catalan. In always fractious Spain, the Valencianos don’t appear to crave independence the way their cousins do.

Ricard, a retired hospital worker, has graciously agreed to host me at the very last minute, so I head for his home, arriving late afternoon. It takes about 30 minutes to snag a curbside parking spot, after which I go up to his 8th (European)/10th (American) floor apartment. After settling in, we head downstairs to one of Spain’s innumerable bars. Unlike American bars, alcohol consumption is only part of their function. Many customers pass the time drinking coffee and eating snacks. Ricard speaks a little English and German so I have to work hard to understand his Spanish, especially when there’s any ambient noise. Through the stay, I catch about 2/3 of what he’s saying in his Catalan accent. I’m satisfied.

Ricard is definitely more to the political right than I am, but that doesn’t damage our ability to build rapport. One thing he mentions is his concern about the effect of Muslim immigration on European culture. It’s true, many Muslim immigrants don’t assimilate quickly, but I don’t see that as a long term problem. I may be wrong. Many Europeans worry about the dramatic difference in birth rate between Asian immigrants and the traditional population, their version of the American “Great Replacement Theory” white nationalists. After an hour or so in the bar, we go up to the apartment. While he makes a simple vegetable dinner, we continue some hours of talk, Much later, I get a good night’s sleep, ready for tomorrow.

Saturday morning, we’re going on an excursion up into the nearby mountains, but first it’s a walk to a bakery for pastries and coffee. We drive up the coast a little and then inland up a winding mountain road that takes us to the Mirador de Sant Josep, a panorama of the mountains with an ancient convent in the foreground and the Mediterranean Sea in the far distance. Coastal mountain ranges are always appealing to my sense of landscape appreciation.

Back down the winding road we go to the beach town of Benicássim to a favorite restaurant of Ricard’s. At 2:30, the large dining hall is full but they manage to find us a table. We both get paella but Ricard says it is below their usual fare. My understanding of paella has always been a ridiculously expensive dish of rice chock full of many varieties of seafood and sausage. When I’ve made it, I could easily add $40 worth of ingredients into one pot.

So perhaps my preconceptions were false. What we get is a big plate of seasoned rice with 3 or 4 bite sized pieces of chicken and beef ribs. What is unarguable is that the rice is substantially over salted, but the sangria served as a beverage is excellent. Hey, not every restaurant meal lives up to expectations. That’s one reason I try to avoid eating out — I generally like my food better [brag, brag].

After lunch, Ricard takes me to his nearby beach apartment, where we both sack out for a nice siesta, with the sea breezes blowing though open windows. He splits his time between the two apartments — not a bad life for a retiree. Later in the afternoon, we drive to the Mare del Déu del Lledó, a nice, well kept piece of ecclesiastical architecture but the signal attraction is a pervasive flower aroma. I first identify it as lilac, but Ricard points out we’re surrounded by acres of orange trees, all in fragrant bloom — a unique treat for a New Yorker.

Sunday, we’re off on another excursion, this time to Vilafamés, an ancient town perched on the steep sides of a ravine, topped by a fortified church. Apparently, the Catholics have always felt under siege, centuries before widespread allegations of sexual misconduct became publicized. We park near the bottom of the village and ascend steadily on foot via streets, alleys, and stairways until we reach the defense tower at the apex of the hill.

Vilafamés is a popular destination, with many families and couples wending their way up and down. A local landmark is “The Large Rock”, a 5 million pound boulder perched precariously on a steep slope. Succumbing to custom, I have my photo taken with it.

Back at the plaza where we’re parked are a variety of cafes and bars and a six-piece musical group is setting up for a performance. One of the bars (sorry, no photo) displays, “Cerveza tan fría como el culo de un pingüino!” (beer as cold as a penguin’s asshole), which on a scorching day would be an alluring enticement. We settle for cool horchatas, about which I will have more to say in another installment. As we’re drinking, the jazz band starts up, and they’re very entertaining. Unlike in the US, they are apparently being paid and not busking the audience for donations.

Thirst quenched, we get back in the car and head back to Ricard’s city apartment. I have planned to move on today, since Ricard’s adult daughter is due tomorrow and I’m occupying her room. I mention that I’m going to check into a dorm hostel in Benicássim and Ricard insists that I use his beach apartment instead. This sounds good to me so he hands me the keys and I’m off for the 20 minute drive.

Just about as I arrive, I start feeling a little under the weather. Rather than explore the beach area, I decide to just ensconce myself on the porch sofa under a blanket. This turns out to be a good idea as I now realize I’m getting respiratory symptoms. I’ve had a very intermittent cough for a few days, perhaps once every 30 minutes, but it’s now progressing into minor coughing jags and as the evening advances I get chills and perhaps some fever. I’m hungry, but since it’s Sunday, it’s easier to make do with the meager snacks I have on hand than muster the energy to drive around with all the grocery stores closed.

So, I hunker down overnight and feel slightly better Monday morning. I make a brief run to Aldi to get some sustenance and then right back to the couch. It’s a very pleasant environment for recuperation. I sleep and read away the day and on Tuesday morning I seem to be mostly symptom free and more energetic. By mid-afternoon, I get my belongings back in the car, and make the short drive to Castellón to return the apartment keys to Ricard. As usual, we meet at a bar to talk and have coffee, keeping a watchful eye on my illegally parked car. Finally, we say our goodbyes and good wishes and I head south about an hour to the next coastal city, Valencia.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/04/24/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-15-25-04-19-valencia-spain/