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In Which There Is No Room At The Inn

April 20, 2008 by Mike

Barcelona

Route: Peniscola - Amposta - Tarragona - Sitges - Barcelona

OK I have to confess there's a bit of downbeat news to report -- I'm sticking it at the bottom of this page and if you don't feel the need to read it, 'sOK with me. Because this is a Glass Half Full day -- I'm in Barcelona. And I *love* it.

This feels.. big. It feels important. it feels like it did when I arrived in St Petersburg 1 year, 5 months and 29 days ago.

From Peniscola, the road smells of orange blossom - azahar - which gives its name to this whole stretch of coast. It's divine.

I rode in to the city along the fanTAStic C-31 road from Sitges. Edge-of-the-seat stuff: dramaticly curly, cliffside twists, sunshine. This took me under the Montjuic Hill that sits proud at the southern corner of central Barcelona, passing one of those great, gothic cemeteries that certain cities do so well. Paris is one. New Orleans. Clearly, Barcelona is another. I didn't look too closely, given the heavy traffic, and not wanting to take up permanent residence.

That road in turn took me to the port, and the start of La Rambla. Moments later, I'm riding very slowly up one of the most celebrated roads beside any seaside. Thousands of people, locals and tourists alike, turn to stare at the roar of the bike and the sight of its rider. Heh. Love it.

Now I know it's not exactly rocket science to discover that Barcelona is a magnificent place.

Chances are, dear reader, you've been here yourself. (I have too. Nearly 20 years ago. My heart was gently broken when the friend I'd flown out to see turned out to be just that: a friend. And the thing is, apart from her apartment, I can't remember a thing about Barcelona.)

But that's the point of the whole trip. Not finding her old apartment, you understand, but experiencing the totality of the European coast. Benidorm and Kaliningrad and North Cape and strange empty corners of northern Portugal and the suburbs of Copenhagen and the Moomin's House.. all different, and all the same.

And so, Barcelona. I have a good feeling already. I'll be here for a while.

-------

OK, here's the bad news. The shocks fitted by Michael and Paco just aren't any good. No, let me re-phrase that. They're terrible. Useless. I can't ride over a cigarette butt without the whole rear end of the bike crunching together. It sounds bad.. I hate to think how bad it is for the frame and bits and bobs of the bike.. but imagine sitting on top of it. It *feels* even worse. ;-)

It's a shame:
1. Financially. Well, I won't go on, but.. ouch.
2. Michael and Paco were great company, and worked bloomin' hard to get the shocks onto the bike. But, 100 miles down the road, off they must come.

And to prove that the glass is half full: I struggled to find a bed in Barcelona. Catalonia celebrates Sant Jordi's Day on Wednesday -- St George is patron saint here as well as England, and about half the Western world; there's also the little question of Manchester Yoonited coming to town for a Champions' League semi-final the same day. Oh, and a Formula One Grand Prix next weekend.

"There is no rooms in all of the Barcelona," the stone-faced woman in the Tourist Office told me. "Maybe for wanhunnerfeefty pounds every night. Also, is no brochure of the tourist information. Here are a list of pensions and hostals. We only work with hotels."

(Glass briefly half empty: the Tourist Office have no tourist info, and can't help tourists on a budget.)

But.. the glass is half full: the seventh place I call has a room. It's only a couple of miles out in the sticks. Well, three. And.. get this.. I discover long after I get here that it's on the same street, Carrer Provenza, as the Triumph dealer I've tracked down. Complete but completely happy coincidence.

(These things happen. Big Ive: remember when Smanf and I came out to LA, hadn't got yr address before we booked ourselves into the hotel *you could see from yr bedroom window*? As everyone knows, L.A. is 469.1 square miles (1,214.9 square kilometers) extending for 44 miles (71 km) longitudinally and for 29 miles (47 km) latitudinally. But Ivan's apartment was so close to our hotel he even considered *walking* over to see us. Yes! Walking! In LA! Madness.)

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