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!