A week of being convinced that I am being stalked by a giant hedgehog called Spiny Norman.
A tiny lie.
The wrong end of a trip to Blanes to see what Roberto Bolano thought of the place.
A little like a holiday resort that has the minimum of tourists, perhaps only the creme de la creme of visitors, traipsing their way up the big hill to the botanical gardens for a sumptuous view of the town's seafront, big fecking cacti, the perfect halfway house between Girona's civilisation and otherworldly magical realism.
First time to eat snails. First time to drink a selection of Catalan craft beers in Girona. First time to get a bottle of vino negro de la casa for about a fiver. First time on a bus _and_ a train on the same holiday. Finished Bolano's The Third Reich as our 737 dropped its undercarriage and cruised into Dublin Aiport, two and a bit hours after we hit the only bump in our flight, which naturally put everyone on edge til God's Occupied 26 Counties were underneath our feet (and Michael O'Leary played that goddamn trumpet to announce we were early, though by how many minutes he remained vague).
So now we have a quiet town to take the kids, should there ever be kids, and a hotel with a rooftop swimming pool that would wow them, and ease with which Catalunya can be navigated with ten words of sleepily-pronounced Spanish embues us with confidence (even after Germans and Russians tested our polyglot skills with transportation queries) SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM EGGS SPAM BACON SPAM SPAM
Time to read Orwell again.
Catalunya is cheap. Perhaps that is to balance out Barcelona's Ramblas. But €2 pints are fine with me.
A few helpful lessons learned. Extra camera battery. Can't have too many books. Can't have too many tissues. Appreciate hot running water. Sometimes places just don't have enough free things to do. No matter how well you think you're doing, you're going to be asked a question that you just can't answer (in Spanish).
And, most importantly, you will really really want a cup of tea. Damn my nurture.
A tiny lie.
The wrong end of a trip to Blanes to see what Roberto Bolano thought of the place.
A little like a holiday resort that has the minimum of tourists, perhaps only the creme de la creme of visitors, traipsing their way up the big hill to the botanical gardens for a sumptuous view of the town's seafront, big fecking cacti, the perfect halfway house between Girona's civilisation and otherworldly magical realism.
First time to eat snails. First time to drink a selection of Catalan craft beers in Girona. First time to get a bottle of vino negro de la casa for about a fiver. First time on a bus _and_ a train on the same holiday. Finished Bolano's The Third Reich as our 737 dropped its undercarriage and cruised into Dublin Aiport, two and a bit hours after we hit the only bump in our flight, which naturally put everyone on edge til God's Occupied 26 Counties were underneath our feet (and Michael O'Leary played that goddamn trumpet to announce we were early, though by how many minutes he remained vague).
So now we have a quiet town to take the kids, should there ever be kids, and a hotel with a rooftop swimming pool that would wow them, and ease with which Catalunya can be navigated with ten words of sleepily-pronounced Spanish embues us with confidence (even after Germans and Russians tested our polyglot skills with transportation queries) SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM EGGS SPAM BACON SPAM SPAM
Time to read Orwell again.
Catalunya is cheap. Perhaps that is to balance out Barcelona's Ramblas. But €2 pints are fine with me.
A few helpful lessons learned. Extra camera battery. Can't have too many books. Can't have too many tissues. Appreciate hot running water. Sometimes places just don't have enough free things to do. No matter how well you think you're doing, you're going to be asked a question that you just can't answer (in Spanish).
And, most importantly, you will really really want a cup of tea. Damn my nurture.
