Payin’ the Cost For Being the Boss

Everyone’s got them.
Those behaviours that just seem to be out of your control. No matter how much you swear you can & will master them, it’s always a done deal before you even realize it’s happening.  I certainly have more than my fair share, as anyone who’s driven with me can attest. And when it comes to travel, I’ve got a couple of classics.
It never fails. No sooner do I arrive at a destination - city, country, theme park, whatever - than a voice in my head begins chanting, “ You’ve only got a day/week/month here, my friend, and you’ll probably never get back again, so LET’S GET MOVING BUSTER!” And without a saner companion to temper my irrationality, I’m off to the races.
The second commandment is:
"Once thou hast begun the quest, thou must not stop FOR ANY REASON until the quest is fulfilled."

So let’s see where it got me in Barcelona.
First of all, it goes without saying that the Crazy Man dictates that I MUST walk everywhere.
“Hey! You could easily miss something between Point A and Point B if you take the subway. Then you’d have to go back and do it all over again.”
So for the first week, I spent at least 6 hours a day traipsing from one “Must See” destination to the next, not forgetting to include “Must Eat” stopovers along the way. You name a tourist attraction here, and I can guarantee you I’ve seen it, even if only from the outside, since the very first thing I learned was that they charge you for everything here, and usually a lot (over 10 Euros for sure and often closer to 20).

 I’ve wandered through every neighborhood

Caught every cathedral

Munched in every market

Tried every tapas

Patatas brava & cava: two tapas staples

Baby squid & chickpeas

Who’d have thought I’d ever eat chickpeas?

Duck breast and pears

Technically not tapas. That cup is filled with melted chocolate & whipped cream 

Sweet Jesus!

This isn’t even taking into account my endless ramblings on La Rambla

Welcome to the world’s most touristy street. 

And what have we learned from this frenzied, feverish roaming? Many things:
1. Barcelona is very much like Paris - but the B-movie version. Not quite as charming, not quite as pretty and, in the end, not quite as enjoyable. It does, however, have great beaches, which would be a huge plus for me in the summer.

2. Barcelona, like Paris, is not cheap. All that wonderful tapas must have gold as one of its ingredients. A beer and a couple of platefuls and you’re easily down 30 Euros. Luckily for me, I was staying near Merkat Boquiera, which is just loaded with yummy and cheap take-out food.

3. I will NEVER, EVER learn my lesson.
On Monday of my second week, I woke up with a scratchy throat, runny nose and, of course, my first thought was...
“Oh my God! I have coronavirus!!!!”
How ironic, I thought. After ragging on Sarah for playing it safe and bailing on me, I will have literally killed myself proving a point. So off to see Dr. Victoria Howe, who, while congratulating me for coming to see her, assured me I was not a Dead Man Walking.
"You have a cold. Just make sure you take it easy for the next little while."
Uh, of course. And I resent the implication.

Well, to put it bluntly, my behavior from here on in makes me question how in the world I've survived this long. Yes, I cancelled my plans to visit Madrid, but if Michael hadn't informed me, I wouldn't even have known there was a crisis there. And that's not even the worst. On the 13th, and in spite of what I now realize were polite pleas from friends & family and the fact that physically I felt like I'd been run over by a truck, I went ahead & picked up my rental car and headed north. I'd made plans to see Spain & Portugal and by God........
What finally stopped me was arriving at the family run hotel in Montblanc to be greeted by a crying, but oh-so polite, lady.
"I am so sorry Sir, but we're closing the hotel. They've locked down the neighboring town and my parents are old and we just can't take the chance."
"Jesus!" I thought. "What am I doing here?"
Long story short: I went out to the car, booked a ridiculously expensive flight for the next day, drove back to Barcelona and headed home. But honestly, if that woman had been as stupid as me and kept her hotel open, I would have stayed. Serendipity, my friends, serendipity.

I’m not even going to attempt to describe the Day of the Living Dead - the kind agent who let me circumvent the 2 hour line to pay for oversized baggage, the hundreds of tourists wandering or slumped in El Prat airport without a hope in hell of getting a ticket home, the 3 flights in crowded planes surrounded by coughing, masked fellow refugees, the frantic last-minute dash through Trudeau airport, my squeaky-wheeled bike case in tow. All’s well that ends well. Or as  Pierre, my Congolese Uber driver said, “Man, you lucky.”
A quick trip the next morning to the Assessment Centre for testing, an agonizing week or two of self-quarantine while waiting for the results

which, by the way, I still haven’t received, although that may be a good thing, since Public Health is now saying they’re only calling those with positive results. So, until I get “the call”, no news is good news.
Speaking of which, I was checking yesterday and let me tell you there are some sweet deals on flights. Once I get rid of this fever, hacking cough and shortness of breath, I’m outta here!

Oh My Gaudi!

 I have a confession: I’m in love.
You heard me right - unadulterated, head-over-heels in love. And the fact that the object of my affection has been dead for almost a hundred years doesn’t bother me a bit.
I’m assuming that’s going to require an explanation.

One of the reasons I was looking forward to visiting Barcelona (aside from the food, of course) was a chance to see the Sagrada Familia, the famous church designed by Antoni Gaudi which has been under construction for well over a hundred years. But this was tempered by the old European mantra, “Cathedral, Cathedral, Cathedral” and my unwavering allegiance to Frank Lloyd Wright, in my humble opinion the sine qua non of architecture.

Well, sweet Jesus on a stick! I was absolutely unprepared for the sheer genius and imagination of Señor Gaudi. I would say he’s like Frank Lloyd Wright on acid, but it goes so far beyond that it’s laughable. As a result of my epiphany, I’ve spent the vast majority of my time here wandering from one Gaudi masterpiece to the next with my mouth hanging open and my head in the clouds. I think, as always, better to show you than try to explain. I will say that you should keep in mind that these buildings were conceived and built in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Let’s start at the beginning:

Casa Vicens: first commission in 1883, when he was 30.

Palau Guell: built for his wealthy banker friend & patron. Finished in 1890.

Casa Batllo: completely redid existing building. Finished in 1904 and NOT particularly popular with The Powers That Be. Not that Gaudi gave a flying fuck. Really starting to “get it on” as we say in the building business.

Sagrada Família: the Holy Grail, in every possible way. Gaudi, a deeply religious man, took over this commission and dedicated the remainder of his life to it, although it was only about 20% completed when he died. Supposedly, he eschewed detailed drawings and plans, preferring to sketch and then build 3D models. I cannot emphasize enough just how stupendous this building is. Photos can’t even begin to capture either the sheer size or the beauty. It’s ridiculous.

Just to give you an idea, those 8 spires are 170 metres tall. And there are going to be 10 more of them.

Gaudi actually lived in the Sagrada Familia for the last year of his life. Ironically (in my opinion), he was on his way to confession when he was run over by a tram. Owing to his complete devotion to his work and the resulting lack of, shall we say, personal hygiene, people assumed he was a beggar, and by the time he was actually recognized and brought to hospital it was too late. No comment. 

Enough. By now I hope I’ve demonstrated why Gaudi has joined my very limited pantheon of superheroes. Coincidentally, I also visited the Picasso Museum here and drove to Salvador Dali’s house and museum further up the coast. Talk about your Holy Trinity. Aside from their staggering talent and otherworldly creativity, it struck me that all three are also characterized by a prodigious body of work, as though they simply couldn’t resist the unrelenting flow of ideas running through their brains. And what I wouldn’t give to get a glimpse inside those brains, although I’d be terrified of some Star Trek scenario, “Yes, his puny human brain just couldn’t handle it. Madness was inevitable.”

Well, I may not BE a genius, but I take consolation in my unerring ability to recognize and appreciate it.  

Bride of The Good, The Bad and The Unusual

The Unusual

I’m a bit hesitant about even starting this post because I can already picture Caitlin giving me The Look and drawling, “Okay, Joan.”*

* A word or two of explanation. Just as “Devil’s Toenail” is Brownie code for an overrated, overhyped and completely worthless attraction, “Okay, Joan” is Caitlin’s gentle way of reminding me that I may be inappropriately channeling Joan Rivers. To wit: too personal, too gossipy, too judgemental and usually abrasive, insensitive or both. Patently ridiculous, of course.

I will admit, however, that this post could be a virtual hive of  “Okay, Joan”. Just place your own wherever you feel it’s appropriate and don’t bother sharing it with me. So here’s the story:

One of the things Maspalomas is famous for is its dunes:

So naturally, I had to see them. I had just stepped off the boardwalk and onto the path that eventually led to the beach, when I noticed an elderly gentleman approaching me and I had one of those ”WTF” moments - when your brain realizes something just isn’t right but can’t quite figure out what exactly is wrong. As he got closer, I finally realized what it was. He was stark naked.
“No problem,” I said to myself. “Highly unusual, but I’ve been around. I can easily handle this.”
We casually greeted each other and went our separate ways - in every sense of the word. Problem solved. However, as I  approached the beach, I began to notice a somewhat disturbing trend. All my fellow dune enthusiasts were male and most of them were attired in a similar manner to my first friend. (I feel this is perhaps an appropriate time to use the Seinfeldism, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” since it’s undoubtedly what you’re all thinking anyway).

By the time I actually reached the cluster of orange beach chairs and umbrellas, it was painfully obvious that “somebody” was The Odd Man Out. Perhaps you’d like to see for yourselves, although I feel it my duty to point out to the Catholics that just looking at these photos is probably a mortal sin, so you may want to make “arrangements” beforehand.

I know, I know - shame on me for even taking these photos. 

Almost immediately, my brain was flooded with questions - and one of them is NOT “Should I join them?” No, not at all.  Here are some examples of what I’m wondering:
1. Is this a Gay Guy thing? It certainly goes a step beyond the European penchant for skimpy beach attire - males in Speedos and females in bikini bottoms, regardless of age or physical attributes. In case you’re wondering: not a fan, could do without it, but hey, it’s your body.
2. What’s the point? I can at least see the topless thing - tan lines, etc., but what is the rationale for this? Is it a “free to be you and me” thing? Is my junk going to be on public display at some point?
3. Why am I even thinking about this shit? What is going on in my head? Questions you’re probably asking as well, along with, “Why am I even reading this? I have vacuuming to do.”

Whatever. These questions will never be answered, although I did discover that Gran Canaria, and Maspalomas, in particular, is a well-known ultra gay friendly destination, so much so that “straight” people are actually asking on forums if it’s SAFE to come here. (Of course it is. Just make sure you put a large “S” on your forehead with magic marker and wear red M C Hammer pants. You’ll be fine. Honestly, just when you think you’re bad...).

Perhaps this should have tipped me off. But when you’re not looking...

But enough of that. On a more personal, and somewhat unsettling, “unusual” note I have to admit that I’m not reacting well to seeing couples, particularly geriatric ones (okay, fine, my age) strolling hand in hand everywhere I turn. Not their fault, of course and hopefully simply a function of  the locale and my recent change in marital status, but still....super annoying. And, of course, once it starts it’s like that crappy song you can’t get out of your head (“Sugar...ahhh honey, honey. You are my candy girl....”). Worse than that, the sighting is usually immediately followed by many unkind thoughts. “Hey, you fat cow! Move that fucking walker out of my way.” It’s so wrong and I’m deeply ashamed - until I see the next farts approaching. I’m working on it. I’m fairly certain that leaving here will help.

Finally here’s something in a lighter vein. Remember when you were a kid and Mom & Dad packed everyone in the car & you drove (lying on the back window shelf) to Santa’s Village and Frontiertown? Guess what? You can recapture those halcyon days here. I kept driving by a sign saying, “Sioux City Park” & wondering what it could possibly be until one day I decided to investigate and stumbled on this:

Hell, yeah! Yippee-ay-o-ki-yay!

That’s right, folks. Complete with gunfights, robberies & bad guys falling off buildings. NOW you’re thinking of coming aren’t ya?

And so much for Gran Canaria. Today I bid a fond, and definitely final, adieu to this paradise. Having said that, I can definitely see the appeal for a certain kind of traveller/vacationer - in fact, perhaps the majority. Super cheap flight from Europe, literally hundreds upon hundreds of all-inclusive hotels, good weather every day and all the comforts of home. Just not for me. 

So on to Barcelona - unfortunately by myself since the corona virus outbreak has caused Sarah and her asthma to abandon all hope of surviving both airports and cramped flights. Alas, Mr. Solo Do Lo continues his lonely journey. You’re feelin’ me, right?