Drifting back down to Earth - from Barcelona to home

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Behind El Masnou, the houses and settlements stretch beyond the autovía, that then blends from a scene of urban to forested hills. Casas from the early 1900s, and other historic buildings, mix with a few modern buildings, as our terraza was.



Once the hairdresser arrangements were made for later in the week (when P2s research failed at one overbooked one, we found a substitute near the NII road, Marga Sáez), we cycled up to Bouquet de Alella, to taste and potentially buy some local ‘vi’. A greyish day, it wasn’t the most photogenic. However, once at the gravelly patio entrance, flanked by barrels, with broad views to the vineyard and sea beyond, and purple bougainvillea against a stone wall, it felt very European. Early afternoon on a weekday, and we had the salesperson/ wine taster to ourselves, explaining to us about how all their wines were obviously dry. The speciality was a white grape blended with Grenache, and comparing that to a rose (opening other bottles on our account was not possible), I caved to her generous pitch and ended up getting both. Minimal drinkers usually, and now we’d be dedicated to at least four or five evenings of wine drinking before departing.



In the old town of Alella, the odd local wandered by, curious as to P2 and myself taking photos of their festively decorated streets. Three wise men, Santa in various positions (on balconies, suspended and strung across plaza, or resting up in a rocking chair), angels, tinfoil gifts hung from above, and cotton snow around pot plants, was all on display. One street in particular had really gotten into the spirit of ‘Nadal’. The quiet scene of Alella then contrasted dramatically with a grocery shop in El Masnou, outside the mandated quiet 3 to 5pm hours in Bonpreu. Entering before 5pm was blissful, and shopping and exiting after 5pm was outright mayhem. Especially by children, recently released from after school activity, at the bakery.



The theme of Christmas decoration was noticeable all over Barcelona in our repeat visits. We’d originally planned a couple of missions at the most, the first being committing to buying Picasso museum tickets online for the Wednesday, to ensure we could enter when we did. Deep in the old town, an entrance through archways brings you to another courtyard of archways, when you mandatorily drop all your gear in lockers, and pass through a security / ticket check area, to then climb the steps to start. I cannot believe how two and a half hours passed here, suffice to say if was incredibly absorbing and engaging seeing his artworks evolve from novice to expert and icon.



The time spent there meant we hit rush hour on the way back, an education in how the Europeans (as there was more than Spanish being spoken) travel. Not as crammed as a Tokyo metro, but fast approaching it, with more noise and, quite noticeably, abundant hacking coughs and snorts that continued for the many rides we had. Since entering the big smoke, we’d reinstated the KN95 masking, and I’m sure it pays dividends as we lead up to Christmas. In one sector, a busker got on and set up their amplifier and speaker right next to us, to then start playing a guitar. As much as P2 loves music, we gently sidled our way to the next carriage. I suspect this might not be legal, when shaking a tin for money also. There is noticeable begging in a lot of places.



That wasn’t the only on-train spontaneous illegal concert either. A rap duo got on a subsequent train, and before performing one of them, said ‘this is very illegal’.



Considering the small antiques on P2s mind took another trip, and this time combining it with visiting a couple of mountain gear stores (Iglu Aribou, and Barrabes), where we knew we’d be able to get better deals, or frankly, actual availability, more than back in NZ. What had been a previously visited antiques shop was sadly closed, due to the owner being unwell, which we discovered upon messaging him. It since transpired, according to his son (that we met on a more successful visit), that even when he’s off work unwell with a heart issue, he’ll try to keep working. Familiar story.



In between all this was the general busyness of the build up to Christmas, with decorative lights mounted in dense arrangements along the Placa Cataluña high street, markets in full swing, and growing amounts of people. In Tarragona, I was warned about crowds and pickpockets in Barcelona, and taking the sage advice seriously, we’d been behaving a little (perhaps not excessively) vigilant with valuables.



This big city concern became obvious later in the week when we’d done the bike drop off in Badalona, wandering slowly, admiring the bright decorations up to the old, well preserved, train station. Leaving P2 outside taking photos, I went in with my pack to the ticket agent, and wearing my usual hidden money belt, to get tickets. I reached in to it to get money, just as a passenger exited the gates beside the ticket booth, simultaneously handing over €5.60 to the agent (ticket offices by gates are a bad station design, I think). He approached me closely and quickly, asked fairly directly for money, for which, as he spoke so rapidly, I just said no. Then realising how unusual this incident was, we later reviewed the photos P2 took, when he asked me what the fellow looked like. There he was, making a run for it, semi blurry, outside the train station. Luckily, particularly having gained more than several hundred euros from the bike sale, I keep such money where few people see.



Farewelling the bikes was tinged with a little sadness. P2 had a little heart to heart with his, before handing it over, wishing the next owner goodwill and trouble free riding. Unfortunately, I was all about getting the money upon delivering them, and completely forgot to mark its end of ownership. Only pannier plus bike photos exist to remind me, but then, that’s what the bike was about. Our mules.



They got us to the magnificent Cataluña museum of modern art for one last hoorah by pedal, adding a further 35km to our total distance. Views from Montjuic are incredible, the vastness of the city laid before you, and proof that a city this size can be traversed by bike in about one hour, from 20 kilometres north. A grid pattern helps this, with many lanes running the centre median of major roads, or making use of the multiple one way streets which is so ubiquitous with Spain, and similar European countries. It can be stop-start riding at times, but we saw it to be highly used by scooters, cargo bikes, Mums or Dads carrying children home, commuters of many ages, and the occasional road cyclist out for a jaunt on their carbon bike from central Barcelona.



Massive groups of riders at the weekends would move rapidly along the NII to Mataró, and smatterings of riders were still around in the week, especially when I went out at 8am sunrise. Heavy frost started to occur near Roca de la Valles by the mid December days, and my sub zero winter gloves (that we’d carried all this way, through heatwave weather) became essential for stopping chilly fingers. For the still visible roadside rubbish, and scent of the smoky horticultural fires on the outskirts of the city, the cycling experience has definitely bent towards the positive, as I’d always get a friendly wave, raised hand, or ‘adeu’ from I’d say 99% of the riders. I particularly will miss that camaraderie the most.



As the sun continued to shine, it was by my persistence to maintain the quick dips at El Masnou beach. Come early afternoon, sometimes (but not always) with wind that was a little brisk, we had a plunge. No longer, it seems, is the beach clothing optional, which I put down to the 5C-14C temperatures (air), and the 13-14C sea water temperature. I’ve met the occasional person getting in, one overweight Spanish man sharing a ‘que fuerte’ with me, as I carried my cap water back to the vacant bench by a waterless shower, to wash my feet. I should really just have brought a water bottle! Of course, it’s a drought.



Ten days at the Terraza de Mar passed quickly, to the soundtrack of regular trains outside, a dolce gusto coffee maker churning another cup out to have with Mercadona chocolate or panadería, and a hum of customers sitting al fresco at the excellent tapas bar beneath us, Vellmut. One of the last trips into Barcelona was on the busier side, initially shunned by me with that it’s THE week before Christmas, in a WEEKEND. But, it turned out that having takeaway coffee at a park bench on a busy street, and sharing a warm almond croissant, isn’t a bad way to pass time. I came back with snow pants, to wear at the beach that afternoon of course.



The terraza became a laundry soon after, as the weekend before flying out was marked as cleaning shoes and bike equipment time (the panniers had already been hosed, and soaped down, at the start of the week). The sun warmed up the air slowly, and with a window of opportunity of about 5 hours of rooftop sunlight at this time of year, we were very lucky for things to dry in that time. Eying up the tapas bar from the roof, and the various comings and goings of dogs and dog bowls, we came back from a swim and got coffees. Sitting there, several dogs conked out on warm concrete beside us, P2 made a suggestion that usually is reserved for hikes or Tawharanui. It had been some time between potato wedges, and patatas bravas were on the menu for €5. Make that also a plate of something I don’t recognise, but will try anyway. He was a happy man.



Another dry and sunny day was forecast when we left. 5C at 8am, and the promenade was getting busy with walkers, riders, joggers, and train commuters. Premia del Mar beach had been raked, with obvious major beach reparations south of the port continuing with heavy machinery, as they had for our week there. A work man said ‘buenas’ to me, which is nice, when seemingly hard exteriors are broken down with a simple greeting.



The rain hasn’t fallen for a long time in Cataluña, and the lay of the coast is particular steep and drainage points bone dry. I washed away my sore calves for the last time in the mar, zipped up the big duffle bag we’d carried across the Iberian peninsula, and had a little cry. Whilst P2 met the taxi man. Everything comes to an end, and we had to move on being almost at 90 days, as P2 sensibly said. Our host bid us a remote safe trip. I responded with I didn’t want to leave. It’s been a simple life since October.



So El Prat airport was on the route the week past, and from the taxi, imposing Montjuïc’s shape, and the hills we steeply descended to Cervello, were on view. How on earth did it take that long to get to Castelldefels! Tallying up the distances, we are sitting at over 2220 kilometres for everything, and not accounting for the effort of enduring ascents and terrain, it’s been one grand viaje. Add maybe another 800 or so kilometres for the occasional morning rides, and I’d be over 3000 kilometres myself I think.



After delays at the departure gate with assisted passengers and late inbound arrival, the flight loaded up slowly and eventually got airborne half an hour late. With streams of passengers filling aisles, my experiment of air quality on this journey continued, last tried somewhere in a hotel stay in a windowless room in El Carpio (which was actually not too bad). At 2200ppm and rising for CO2, a unit commonly used as a proxy for general ventilation, it was flashing a ‘sad face’ for around half an hour during embarkation. It was on the high side, even exceeding a small windowless room in a modern Auckland office building, and significantly exceeding by five times a hospital I work at.



Headwinds and the inbound arrival being put back, our scheduled midnight arrival became a 2.30am check in, at the same place as before. The free upgrade to what ordinarily is a high end hotel, the Intercontinental next door, was explained for when construction paper concealed a large part of the exterior. Nonetheless, the 7th floor view was incredible as before.



Aware of jet leg looming and a need to get some early light, we short changed on the sleep to groggily get up after about 9am. Deep meditation for several hours in the pool area ensued, some 10 weeks since that last opportunity. P2 splashed around a bit for his neck, in absence of the live in masseur for the past ten weeks. We roused properly (I.e. coffee time) around 12pm, to get a semi-coherent plan for the afternoon. Wildlife experiences had been on our mind, being not so keen on group tours, malls, high rises, or sand dune bashing, for example. We tossed around the idea of the Miracle garden on the way over, and as it is only open in the cooler months, headed off with online purchased tickets in a governmental approved taxi. As we later learned, the cheaper way.



60 dirhams and thirty minutes later, we pulled up in a long line at the taxi drop off zone, with a moderately busy gathering of folks at the front. Roads are six lane (per side) motorways and the landscape is deserted, so to see this oasis of colour and irrigation (desalination is how Dubai sources water) was amazing. This massive flower and plant arrangement includes huge topiary, swathes of colourful seasonal flowers, roofs of umbrellas, and aisles of hearts. Some of the more over-the-top features were penguins and a horse 15 to 20 metres tall, a Smurf village, a Disney like castle, and a suspended tea pot complete with tea cups. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people posing for photos with tilted shoulder, turned head, and one foot forward.



Conscious of the commute times and wish to get to Ras Al Khor reserve before sunset, we went back to the queue of taxis around where we’d left from before, and followed the first in the queue protocol. Not marshalled by anyone, we checked the driver knew our destination, and after a confused response, got in and headed off. One of the quieter drivers, the shock of a 180 dirham fee for a third less time in the vehicle raised a vain attempt by us to question it. The driver did not budge, and with a visible 160AED from my wallet, he let 20 go, and us, get out.



Thinking this was rather criminal, my sneaky photo of the number plate as we got out was later shared with the concierge at the hotel. ‘Aha’. His face relaxed somewhat, seeing the image. ‘L plates are limo’s, and don’t use them’. Wiser, we felt somewhat duped that an old Toyota Previa people mover was a limo, and its driver did not make the triple price factor transparent at the start.



Pushing this to the side, we spent a good 45 minutes at the sanctuary seeing a huge number of pink flamingos, with the sun gradually lowering and casting a lovely glow and reflection on the little water they waded in. Advised to arrange a return taxi with the reserve staff, there were no staff, excepting security guards. One spoke to another, who we then tried to break the ice with and gain some assistance. Through another tough exterior, we eventually got a taxi sent to the motorway side reserve, at the normal price of 25 dirhams for 8km.



Dinner was agreed to be whatever was easy, and something we’ve never done, reasonably priced room service to save the walk. The pool glowed with a blue hue that evening, just as it had 12 years before at a back conference, and a lady performer at the restaurant downstairs tried, unfortunately without much success, to get the few diners dancing. The airport activity indicated we were in a travel peak, but the hotel was quiet. But, so as not to forget where we were, a fireworks display (it’s regular) occurred at 9pm, to complement the hourly (when dark) fountain lights and bursts, and the bountiful northern hemisphere inspired Christmas decorations and light projections. Such regular fireworks would equate to two times bigger than that of Auckland’s New Year efforts.



The weight, and achievement, of nearly three months away from NZ, set in on the wifi free and long haul flight back. We talked. Rested. Ate Christmas things. And set plans for how to try and make life better. I cannot import the respectful all road user culture from Spain, or camaraderie of the cyclist community that is so ubiquitous and connecting, or cheaper food prices at Mercadona. We instead bring home copious memories, photos, fitness, and Mediterranean recipe ideas. P2, sorry to say, is back on dinner duties plus we need a supermarket order. And what about the house keys? It was time to ‘phone a friend’.



Until whenever we leave again….

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