Barcelona: Sweet and Sour

Hopping on the train I get my first scare in Spain. As the doors close I hear Be-wa-ep Be-wa-ep Be-wa-ep. Sounding like an emergency evacuation siren the 'warning - doors closing' sound is a slight overkill!

The train drops me in Pl. Catalunya and as I look around I recall the nightmare of the previous night. Everything seems so peaceful now.

Walking La Rambla I find buskers/human statues lined up one after another. Watching, I observe each act, some very clever while others primitive. One guy - dressed as smeagol from Lord of the Rings - has a great costume and makeup but puts zero effort into his people interactions. As a small group mill around waiting for 'the punch line' one tourist takes out his phone to snap a few photos. Instantly smeagol drops his act and shouts:

"No photo! give Moooneeeey, got it!"

The knife edge of Tourism.

---

Without a doubt Goudi work takes first prize for Barcelona's architecture. Visiting Sagrada Familia I cant help but marvel at the fine detailed work. You can gaze for hours at each sculpture - its no wonder that its been over 100 yrs in construction and still not complete! :)

As I Walk all sides of the building I see the queue for entry winding its way around the corner and down the street - an endless queue of hot frustrated tourists. As I try to pass by the crowd a woman in front of me screams at her child:

Look at how long this queue is!

You should have got out of bed when I told you!

- Long Sigh -

We're going to be standing here for hours because of you!

In my mind, a cartoon image of God suddenly appears - popping out of a fluffy white cloud and bopping the woman on the head: "Bad parent!"

---

From Goudi's House in Park Guell I see a white balcony jutting out, with long elegant concrete columns beneath. People relax beneath in shaded comfort while others on top sweat like I in the scorching midday sun. Heading for the shade I'm caught in a maze of paths, none of which seem to lead me any closer to my destination. Persisting I strike lucky "two steps forward, one step back" style, and arrive under the great canopy.

Two musicians play classics, and I cant help but sit and listen, mesmerised by the ambiance that surrounds me. Pausing for a break I decide that any group holding my attention this long deserves my support, and on that note I buy their CD.

---

The 'magic fountain'

As 9pm draws closer the crowd swells; each row of steps filling with people. As the clock strikes 9 a jet of water shoots up to lick the clouds before falling hard to the pond below. More follow and as the pond fills it cascades over and down channels to the next fountain. Bubbling into life we witness a similar display with excess water flowing closer and closer to the master 'magic fountain'.

A silence falls upon the crowd - surely the time is now. Then whoosh, the magic fountain explodes with life shooting long jets of water high into the air. Blasting from large speakers music accompanies the dancing water.

To the sound of Bocelli's booming voice a fine mist rises high above us then falls sharply as his voice breaks off.

From a distance the fountain is visibly appealing, but up close upon its outer edge the experience is thrilling. You can not simply watch - you become part of the experience. You can feel the fountains power, and as the children are drawn in closer you too step forward.

Now only metres from the fountain staring at its beauty we marvel as the water rises before -with shocked faces - the mist falls and everyone turns to run. The screams of those not fast enough catch up to us, before we too are showered. Looking around, people pull at their damp t-shirts, laugh and comment while clutching at their fast beating hearts.

Photos from Barcelona!

Travel can be a real b*tch

"Barcelona"

Shaking his head: "Manyana, Manyana"

oh crap!

Pointing out the door the man suggests the bus station.

Running out I swing my head violently from left to right searching for the bus station. To my left I see it, but as I approach the dimly lit service desks depict my new predicament. too late.

Oh crap!

I run to the two parked buses. Wiping nervous sweat from my brow I ask the bus driver if any bus goes to Barcelona. He shakes his head. Then, thinking for a moment he tells me he is going to Girona Airport and from there I can still get a bus to Barcelona.

Phew!

Finding my seat on the connecting bus at Girona Airport I sit and relax - happy to finally be on my way to Barcelona. Little did I know then of the troubles I would have once I arrived in Barcelona.

11:30pm

Bus pulls in to Barcelona bus station.

Run to subway. WRONG - get the train.

Run for train. NO MORE TRAINS, use the subway.

Run to subway again. YOU NEED A NIGHT BUS

AARGH!

...

2:30am

knock knock

Isabel (my CS host) opens her door

I'm soooooo sorry!

The Gorges of Verdon - we are never really alone

With a couple of extra days up my sleeve I decide to visit the Gorges of Verdon. Visiting the tourist office the man tells me: "it will be very difficult to get there..." I thought they were there to encourage you :)

My best bet I decide will be to catch a train to Manosque then hitchhike the remainder. Hopping on a train I leave the streets behind and head out into the countryside.

Nearing Manosque I start to have hitchhiking worries - perhaps today I will hitch a tractor.

To my relief only 5 minutes on the road and my ride arrives. My saviour: a young, hippy-like french woman.

Weaving through the rural french fields of lavender she asks if I'd like to meet her friends. Feeling free I agree and we head for Moustiers-Sainte-Marie.

Closing in on Moustiers I gaze out the window at Para gliders hanging in the sky. Side note: Add Paragliding to top ten things to do before I die.

As soon as I see Moustiers I like it. Cut into the mountain the town has a mystical feel to it. I Close my eyes and I'm reminded of an old fairytale where the characters live in small houses on the branches of an old oak tree.

Nearing I struggle to hold back the urge to wind down the window and hang out.

Arriving we walk the town - stopping in for a local honey beer before continuing to the campsite. We're lucky: a local band is playing, and continues to on into the night. The company is good, and before I know it I'm in the back of a van on my way to a good free camping spot by a small stream.

---

With darkening skies looming wind gusts through the valley, blowing smoke in my face. Giving up on my campfire dreams I instead visit my new German friends - Karin and Christian who are escaping on a 1 year trip in their restored Citroen -two horse-. These guys have got travel down to a fine art, extending out like a Swiss army knife their modified car has all that a traveller could ever really need. I'm impressed.

---

In the morning I rise after a windy night and join Karin and Christian for breakfast. We flip through a photo album they carry and with each page I learn more of their lives. Its nice to see family photos again - reminding me that I too will soon see mine.

---

With thumb out I hope for a short ride back to where the Verdon walk begins. A mere 12km the journey should be simple but after one hour standing in the hot sun my teeth begin to grind. Cars buzz by - parents in the front, kids in the back - doesn't anyone have room for me!

Changing spots I finally get a ride. My new best friends are not going far, but far enough for me. We park by the river and I join them for a quick dip in the icy cold water. The experience is painful but it brings relief from the heat of the day. They speak of their own town which is just a few km away over the hill - and ask if I'd like to come with them. I'd love to, but with time escaping me I must move on.

Parting ways I walk back up the hill to where the Gorges of Verdon hike begins. Bold signs warn that the track is for experienced hikers only, average time to complete: 7hrs. Looking to my watch I see the time is already 5pm. The walk looks wonderful - the opportunity too good to pass up - I take the track.

Winding along next to the river the view is amazing. Passing a km marker I see I'm making good progress. All is going well until I arrive at the base of a large steel structure. The climb above is ridiculously steep with steps so close to one another I feel I could fall at any moment. I cling to the railing and push forward.

Taking one last ginger step I place foot on the top platform and turn to look back down - I'm so glad I dont have to descent.

To my surprise, as the sun begins to set I start the zigzagging ascent out of the valley. Catching up with a group of 5 guys we climb together and at the top enjoy victory with an ice cold beer.

Imagine my luck when I find out that tomorrow they will visit Cassis, and can take me back to Marseille on the way.

Something new

Photos from along the way:

Click the film strip image to see the album




enjoy!

South of France - Part III

Before I've even met Fa - my new host - she invites me to a birthday party and BBQ with her friends.

Arriving sociably late we step inside with meat, wine and nectarines in hand. After introductions, I have an interesting chat with one of the guys who has also spent some time in South America. Meanwhile behind us smoke pours from the BBQ as duck proves to be a challenge to grill. Once ready we gorge ourselves on a feast of salads, meat, bread and wine.

As the evening darkens many of the couples must leave as they have early mornings ahead. With 5 remaining we jump in the jacuzzi to wash away our worries.

---
Keen to show me around Fa and I travel to Cassis to see the Calanques. Escaping the touristy centre we walk some of the older streets posing for a photo shoot before continuing. Arriving at Calanque 1 I get my first view of the Calanques, and unfortunately also my last as the Calanques have been closed due to fire risk.

Day 2: Today we meet with another one of Fa's friends. Exploring the market we find the usual fruit and vegetables, cleaning products, replica sunglasses and womens clothes. In amongst the expected we find a local Italian pasta man who cries out encouragement to the surrounding crowds. Onlookers smile with amusement as he pulls an embarrassed woman closer to try his spinach and cheese ravioli...

Talking to him like an old school mate Fa buys some ravioli and he throws in a couple of new flavours to go.


Walking up a steep hill we find a small garden for lunch before continuing to the highest point where the cliff face falls vertically to the ocean below. Here the rocks and pebbles have been fused together under intense heat and pressure - leaving an unusual texture. Looking like it will crumble at any moment the surface deceives, instead rising to great heights above us.

---

Travelling to Marseille for the French National day we enjoy fantastic fireworks in the evening from an office building overlooking the pier. While thousands mill in the streets below we wait on the balcony with champagne in hand.


Looking over to a nearby building I see a small group sitting on its roof - their chairs structured and illuminated from behind - the group remind me of a theatre audience - looking somewhat out of place perched on its edge.







Returning my gaze to the port I watch as thousands of fireworks explode before me. Painting the sky with intense shades I don't know whether to watch the sky or the reflection cast between the boats.

South of France - Part II

From the train station I look over the city. The streets descend in structured rows leading to vieux port.

Walking the streets I imagine how it would be to live here every day. Waking from deep sleep in a large cool room with tall ceilings. Opening the window and shutters - greeting the light and sounds of the street. Yawning and rubbing my eyes as I relax into the old chair with my bare feet casually stretched out along the terrace railing above the crowds that walk below.

---

Walking up the hill towards Notre Dame de la Garde I see old men playing bowls in a small enclosed courtyard. A popular game here with the old men, but also across all generations.


Sitting I watch as a man wraps one of the metal balls in a cotton hankie he pulls from his back pocket. Pinching each end of the hankie he shakes it back and forth polishing the ball until it shines. Readying himself he flips the ball underarm towards the small target - hoping it will come to a rest close by.

Once the game is over the men collect their balls. Some bend and pick them up by hand, while others have a string with a magnet attached. Dangling it above they lower until magnet and ball click, then lift the married two to their hand with elegance and ease.

---


Arriving at Notre Dame de la Garde I find a constant stream of tourists flowing through. Climbing the stairs I enter. Inside the crowd calls to one another, yells, cries, shouts, moans, clicks cameras and bump into benches while transfixed on the roof. Beautiful as the church is I leave the main chamber disappointed by the lack of 'holy atmosphere'.




Walking down the hill I stumble upon another church by chance, this one off the tourist route. Stepping inside, it's cool, the walls smell - but not in an unpleasant way, and the room is dimly lit. Sitting I enjoy a moment alone with my thoughts before rising. The room is completely still as I admire its beauty and simplicity.

South of France - Part I

Waving goodbye at the train station in 'Orange' Fred and I hit a fork in the road. His direction - Montpellier, mine - Marseille.

'Goodbye old man' I say; 'have fun little prick' he replies.

---

Arriving in Marseille its late, and darkness has already set in. Stepping out from the underground I have a moment of fear. Mellowed by the small town comfort of 'Die' I'm now scared by the shear size of Marseille. Walking circles of unease I wait for my host to arrive. Relieved, Diane arrives and away we go.

----

Sitting comfy I listen as Diane tells me of her travels. She talks of America and adventures in Alaska.

I sit and listen while she tells of alligators, bears, flying fish, whales, and star filled skies.

I know so little of Alaska but one day soon I wish to visit this wild land.

---

Our seaside picnic
In the late afternoon we leave for etang de beauduc. This coastal beach lies on a long thin peninsula. To one side is a lake and the other, the ocean. Known for its free camping we arrive to find tents dotted from one end of the peninsula to the other. Options are limited, so we choose the alternative - sleeping on the beach. Finding our spot near the shoreline we spread the blanket and feast. Salami, cheese, pasta with pesto, white wine, red wine, sausages and potatoes. All the riches of the world; finger licking good... Yum.

Settling down for the evening we talk on into the night and later sleep with the sound of waves crashing.

---

Needing a day off from this travelling malarkey I decide to help Diane redecorate her room. Surprised by my enthusiasm she reasons that it must be because I'm on holiday as no sane person would offer their services after a day at work.

Now maybe its just a boy thing - but I love destroying old things... So when the time came to pull down the 80's wallpaper - well lets just say I shouted: Let it rip!

Sheet by sheet down it came until a couple of hours later - surrounded by piles of shredded wallpaper - we sit admiring the bare walls with their now almost arty 'glue residue' texture and mysterious water stained base.

Memories of 'Die'

True to the nature of travel our short stay in Die turned into a much longer stay. Our van which which was registered in Poland had only temporary documents, and with their expiry nearing we sent them back and awaited their return.

Days turned into weeks and we learnt one important thing: One should not rely on the postal system.

At first everything went smoothly - the documents arrived in 5 days, were processed and posted back within 2 days. Unfortunately then we hit a little hitch; Polish Postman Pat must have been drinking and had a little trouble passing our post onto his French colleague.

If one could consider the postal system as a relay race Pol Pat missed the firing gun; startled - he stood clutching our postal baton in one hand and the bottle in the other; wobbling he paused waiting for his balance to join him before stumbling forward; zigzagging he follows the painted relay line while possibly reminiscing on younger days of 'walking the line' under the watchful eye of the officers in blue...

With all respect to Polish Pat he finally did make it to the Frenchman - 10 days later. Now waiting on the Frenchman 4 days have passed. We must leave, and so taking a risk we leave Die without the documents. Its a risk, but one we must take.

But lets not get hung up on the details - here are a few memories from along the way...

-Climbing-
After our adventures in Fontainbleau we were quite keen to get back on the rock face, so when offered we gladly accepted. Among the climbs completed I did my first lead climb ever! Following an easy introductory climb I managed to lead a French 5b, and two 5c's. Leaving that day I felt so happy to be finally lead climbing :)


The next session took us to a new area; my new challenge - to lead a French 6A. This grade apparently is at the point where you can call yourself 'a real climber' :) So naturally it was bloody hard!

About half way up difficulty struck, my fingers began to slip, my feet became unstable, and my legs began to quiver violently... I knew I was about to fall. Shouting "I'm going to fall!" I slid down 1.5m before coming to a sharp stop on the taught rope. Heart pounding I looked down to the guys below who all knew what I was going through.

Catching my breath I whispered: "I guess I should continue climbing" - dreading the response it came back: "Yes!"

Climbing back up I reached the point where I fell. Seeing the route better I made the committing move, and voila success. Climbing to the top I breathed a sigh of relief!


-BBQ in the mansion-
There is one blue door in die. Behind it is a secret hidden world.

Through friends we were invited to a BBQ at one of the wealthier residences in Die - inside its walls grows a healthy garden and behind that the long exterior of what could have been mistaken for a hotel. Instead, this house hosts a couple of families with the remaining rooms lying dormant.

With the BBQ and party in full swing the house bounces with life. Conversation flows in the kitchen, dancing beacons in the lounge, and chat passes outside while the dogs play in the garden.

The experience was short, but will not be forgotten.

-Catan evenings-
Most days would start late. The afternoon would be lazy, perhaps a coffee in the town square under the comfort of its leafy trees while the breeze cooled us from the 30+ temperatures. The one sure thing though was that in the late evening to the tune of The Smiths/Bob Dylan or Jack Johnson we would play Catan and Rummy.

It became routine, a way of living. Each night Clement and possibly Choco would visit, and each night we would play on into the early morning.

-A living town-

Die became a home to us. We stayed long enough for locals to recognise us, and for us to know its streets. I grew fond of the old buildings, some inhabited others not. Each street had its own charm from the quaint windows with pealing paint shutters to the multi coloured tiles stacked delicately on each rooftop. The streets have their own smell and the walls are weathered with history. I love this little town - and one day I will return.