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I’m good and proper sick. First cold in four years! It’s sinuses. And a cold. And a head cold.
Fortunately, the kitties do not care.
They are just happy we’re back.
Anyway, things will be likely be light fare around here this week. I’ll try to get something here every day, but I can’t imagine doing too much this week other than, hopefully, feeling much better soon.
Right now, I’m conserving energy. And, so you see, I am mostly I’m trying to avoid talking about the Symptoms Of The Day.
After the cab to the Barcelona airport, we hustled inside, hoping to beat the large crowd of obviously American high school students who were filing in. Happily, they were not on our flight, and not on our airline. By virtue of some frequent flier gimmick we got a VIP security experience. The ticket agent handed us little strips of paper that said “VIP Security.” Everyone went into this funnel for a security check, but when we showed our little passes the person standing there officially, courteously, urgently, waved us farther down the building. There was a different security checkpoint for us. It was expedited.
Which was great, because we’d arrived two-and-a-half hours early and now we could spend our time in the terminal, surrounded by other travelers, including a woman who couldn’t stop coughing. And some old people from Atlanta who, I gather, spent the bulk of their time in Spain complaining about Spain. And there was a long line for a sandwich snack, and a woman doing Spanish chamber of commerce type surveys, and a young woman who looked too young to be traveling alone. She was traveling alone. I am now old enough to see people and think “Isn’t this person too young to be going on an international flight by themselves?”
I’d expect that from other people, but, remember, I am daily surrounded by young people in a professional capacity. I can no longer discern these things, it seems. It isn’t a big deal, or something I would ordinarily do anyway, but I had the time, because I am a member of the VIP Security experience.
We flew from Barcelona to JFK. I watched four movies, including the Oscar winning Everything Everywhere All at Once. It’s silly. It’s gross. It’s poignant. Some of it is going to feel dated very quickly, so see it before, you know, the all at once happens.
I also watched Devotion, because Jonathan Majors is in it. It was a decent enough movie to watch on a plane.
Then there was Nomadland, which I’ve been meaning to watch, and, again, this was a good time and place for it. Frances McDormand is so, so great at doing all of the little things in a big way, and the few big things in the right way.
Then there was Paddington 2, a movie franchise which I enjoy much more than I probably should.
I had a scratchy throat in New York, and peppermints wouldn’t touch it. Started going downhill after that. At JFK, I stood in the incredibly inefficient passport control line for almost two hours. Global entry, go right through. If you have scanned your passport into this app (what could go wrong?) go right through. You might stand there long enough to think they’re trying to inconvenience people who aren’t paying the premium fees. That would be a quintessentially American thing to do, wouldn’t it?
Everything else worked well, though. We collected our luggage, deposited it with another desk. Stood in more long security lines. Got on a plane for Indianapolis, and so on.
On the one hand, we covered 4,454 miles — as the crow flies — today. On the other hand, it took 27 hours to get from the sandy beaches of the Mediterranean back to … Bloomington.
Unloaded the car, took a Covid test — I’m sick, but negative. Had a later takeout dinner, and started the unpacking process. I’ll spend the weekend coming down from jet lag and whatever sinus cold I’m getting.
Another wonderful vacation is in the books!
We woke up yesterday in Andorra, beneath snow capped mountains and, this morning we woke up to the sounds of the ocean in Spain. Tonight — or tomorrow, or next year, whatever — we’ll go to sleep in … exotic Indiana.
Yeah.
Anyway.
Here’s the ocean, just outside our hotel room last night.
We walked down to feel the sand and hear the sound and touch the too chilly water for just a moment, before our cab to the airport came along.
This trip, like so many of our wonderful trips, was planned by my lovely bride. She’s undefeated on amazing trip planning.
Except for when they end. She hasn’t figured out how to keep them going and going and going yet.
Just give her time.
On the drive down from Andorra, through the clear skies of the Pyrenees, the soon-to-be verdant scenery of rural southwest France, and the quietude of Catalonia as an entrance into the Iberian peninsula. We saw a hazy vision of the Catalan Pre-Coastal Range pop up onto the horizon. There’s Sant Jeroni, Montgrós and Miranda de les Agulles, with peaks ranging from 2,962 to 4,055 feet above sea level. From a distance, they’re jagged and ragged and they struck me as the sort of thing I would put to paper if you asked me to draw a mountain.
Imagine going up there, The Yankee said. We were still a good distance away and I said no one drives up there.
This was “Montserrat,” a Catalan word which means means “serrated (like the common handsaw) mountain” — a precise name for a rugged place — and as we got closer, following the general trend of the road, we realized we were going up there. And so we did.
Montserrat is the highest point of the Catalan lowlands, with commanding views of the countryside. The road up is five miles, moderately steep grade and some lovely hairpin switchbacks to give it all a bit of character. And when you get up there, into the peaks, you find yourself on a flat spot, but still looking up.
Just below these peaks, you’ll find Santa Maria de Montserrat Abbey, founded in the 11th century and still an active monastery, where more than 70 monks live today.
Here we are standing in the courtyard of the abbey, which was burned and looted twice during the Napoleon’s invasion of Spain. During the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s 22 monks who lived here were murdered. The Germans visited here quite often a decade later and, since World War II this site has been a prominent symbol of Catalonian nationalism, and has long been an important feature of the local culture. This is a post WW2 facade.
The origin is a bit murky. In the ninth century an important statue was found here, according to legend. More certainly, in the 11th century a monk was sent from one monastery to another and from the subsequent church politics the monastery of Santa Maria was born. That venerated statue is an important part of the place, and I’ve now unsuccessfully reduced a millennia into two sentences.
In 1881 Pope Leo XIII gave this place the status of a minor basilica. The Plateresque Revival facade was built in 1901, by the architect Francisco de Paula del Villar y Carmona, who was completing his father’s work. It’s quite something to take in. Small courtyard, with an imposing, yet not overwhelming style. It came from a time that blends things that feel old and modern to our contemporary eyes. It’s neat and tidy, feels quite collegial, and they built all of this making great concessions to topography.
I used the term collegial on purpose, since so much of this place has a wonderful, peaceful campus feel. I spend too much time on a college campus, of course, but I’m sure, in places like this, that the college campuses that get it right were all moved by kernels of inspiration from places like this.
It is even in the walls.
The basilica’s origins date to the 16th century and was rebuilt for the first time in 1811, after the Peninsular War. The new facade was built between 1942 and 1968, after the destruction brought about during the Spanish Civil War. There are reliefs featuring prominent members of church, and monastery history. On one frieze there’s the phrase “Catalonia will be Christian or it will not be,” which is a quote attributed to an early 20th century bishop, and from there you can see how this place is important to the region on down the mountain.
The church is of a single nave, some 220 feet long and 108 feet high. The roof is supported by central wooden columns representing Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Daniel. The main altar features enamel decorations of the Last Supper, the Multiplication of Loaves and Fishes and other biblical stories. The 15th century cross is the work of Lorenzo Ghiberti, an Italian Renaissance sculptor, a key figure in the Early Renaissance.
We visited the room of the Virgin, which is full of beautiful mosaic walls and paintings. This is one of those places where a knowledgable guide could point to everything you see, and make you dizzy with its historical weight, it’s spiritual importance and the craftsmanship of generations past. Most people wander aimlessly, or chit chat their way through the place.
And if not for the chit chatters, one small group placed conveniently behind us, you’d be hard pressed to find a more quiet and solemn indoor space.
Back outside, in the abbey’s courtyard, I took a little panorama. Click to embiggen.
And we stood there just long enough to see the sun slice through the mountain’s peak. I wonder what monks, what guests, what spiritual seekers, have stood there over the centuries and what they must have thought about seeing this same view.
And then we did the thing where I take a photo of The Yankee striking a sculpture’s pose.
The museum was, sadly, closed for some renovation work. Inside, though is one of Spain’s most significant collections. Caravaggio, Dali, Picasso, Monet, Degas, El Greco, Renoir, Sean Scully, Vaccaro and a collection of ancient world archeology would be on display. I hate that we missed that. We’ll have to go back.
More on the legend of Our Lady of Montserrat.
This evening we completed the drive back to Barcelona. We are staying at an airport hotel. The hotel is right on the beach. We had dinner at a snooty place, got a gelato, dropped off the rental car and we’re now reshuffling things in luggage. Tomorrow we’ll fly back. Spain was brief, but fun. We’ll come back to Barcelona one day, I’m sure. Andorra we loved, and I bet we’ll be back there, as well.
How does next week sound?
After the FIS Alpine Ski World Cup it was time to work our way back down to Barcelona. We’re flying back tomorrow. Boo to that. Vacations are great. Andorra is beautiful. We should stay here.
Don’t think we didn’t try to figure out a way.
Anyway, leaving the parking lot, we had two options. Left, or right. And the GPS said we had three choices. Two routes with tolls, and one route without a toll.
The Yankee was driving, and she hit the touch screen, aiming at the no tolls route. We turned right out of the parking lot.
That’s opposite from where we came, but we’re inherently trusting of the GPS, aren’t we? Anyway, we continue to climb higher and ever higher into the mountains.
We’re up in this area where there are signs warning snowkiters of high winds here at 6,233 feet. We’re almost 1.2 miles above sea level.
Come to find out — and it is funny how people can make the same realization at the same time — we were headed to … France. Also this was one of the toll routes. But the views were worth the price of admission.
This is how I’ll remember the mountains. Not that the memory is bad, but I like the fuzzy feel, rather like a memory or dream sequence in a bad TV show.
But if that’s not for you, here’s the same mountain. Not sure why the camera took the moment off. Maybe it was a French-Andorran frontier issue in the software.
Anyway, we drifted peacefully down through the mountains. The altitude got lower and the temperatures warmed up. We found ourselves in a delightfully rural little corner of southwestern France. Not a part of the trip, but now a part of the trip.
By here, the car and the road was hooking around back to the south; we’re heading toward Barcelona.
So there are two countries in this post. The first few mountains are from the Andorran Pyrenees, the rest are from the French Pyrenees. Even in France we saw Catalan flags.
Here’s a video version of some of these beautiful mountains, and more.
As we continued on the terrain turned from mountain rugged, to yellow and green farmland, from the rocky entisols and inceptisols and, finally, more of the reds and oranges and ochres of the Mediterranean coastal region.
But, first, we had to make a stop at a monastery.
