Leaving France
6th January 2010
I picked up my alternator and headed out of France. I had a minor, but quite rewarding spot of good fortune before leaving Canet. I went to fuel up at the local supermarket. I was expecting to put in about 55 litres, as the van was pretty much empty. I got to 30L and couldn't get any more in. Either my van does 60mpg or the apprentice calibrated their pumps and it was his first day on the job.
I crossed the border into France and pondered where I should head for. I decided on heading to Barcelona. I knew finding a parking spot might be a bit tricky but it would be worth it. I've been there before and it's a buzzing place - very social.
I entertained the fantasy that I would spend a great evening down "Las Ramblas", I'd bump into some great people, we'd go to an unknown but fantastic restaurant down a back street and everything would be perfect. Ha ha. What a twat I am. Turns out it is some sort of public holiday and there's a big party going on. So the roads are mobbed and to make it worse, there is some sort of carnival moving about town so half the roads are blocked. I spent an hour or so stuck in traffic and then threw in the towel and headed out of town and went to a town called Sitges about an hour south of Barcelona. It was pissing with rain when I got there and I had to find a place to park and get Pepper walked. The van smelled of wet dog all night.
I found a bar where I read the paper and drunk a few beers. I had been absolutely hanging for a beer. The drive along the winding roads in the rain had not been pleasant and necking a cold one in a bar was all I had thought about for the last couple of hours. So what will it be like for me when I get to Morocco; a Muslim country where one can get beer if one looks hard but there certainly isn't a bar on every corner ready to serve the tired traveller with a refreshing lager on the sun soaked terrace. Food, or indeed beverage for thought.
I was starting to feel out of my comfort zone. I was now in a country where, although I do have the Michel Thomas "Learn Spanish" tapes, I do not speak the language. I did feel from time to time, these little panic attacks lurking in a corner of my subconscious. But equally, for every feeling of insecurity, I had an overwhelming feeling of freedom. A camper van does that for you. Gives you a sensation of liberty and independence. If I don't see another person, shop, gas station, bar, paper shop or public loo, I know I can eat, sleep, drink, wash and poo for about a week and drive anywhere within a radius of about 700kms whilst I am at it.
In the morning I went for a run along the sea front with Pepper. There were loads of dogs about as it was a public holiday and there were people everywhere I have been feeling guilty that this whole travelling thing is not so social for Pepper. He likes to be around other dogs and hasn’t been lately. He had a very social day today though. He loves the beach and loves running on the beach and funnily enough, seems to enjoy drinking seawater – which I think can only be bad for him so I try to discourage it but you know dogs, they generally do as they please.
I ended up at a cool bar for a coffee. Well, it probably wasn't that cool, I was just impressed that they had 2 motorcycles hanging on the walls. Not just bikes, but dirt bikes, and dirt bikes that had been ridden by professional riders in international events. One good thing about not speaking the Spanish language is that it is easier to read your book or the paper in a bar. I am an avid people watcher but even more so a listener. I love to eavesdrop on other peoples’ conversations. I can be reading my book in a bar, airport or doctors waiting room and my attention will be more easily held by the inane chat by the daft couple next to me than the interesting book in my lap. If you have no idea what is being said, there is no possibility of taking an interest in the conversation
One of the first things that strikes you about the Spanish when you enter the country from France is that they are dog intolerant. On most bar, shop and restaurant doors, there is the "no dogs" pictogram. If you have a dog, it makes a difference, believe me. Another thing about going into Spain is that one is allowed to smoke in bars. So the fat Spaniard seated at the table next to you can pollute your space with his equally fat cigar and equally offensive cheap cologne, but my pooch cannot sit quietly under the table while I have a beer.
I saw a sign today. A pictogram, which can only mean, don’t walk on the grass and pick up your dog shit. What if your dog shits on the grass? They’ve got you haven’t they. Leave the turd, you’re busted. Pick the turd up and you’re busted for walking on the grass. Pepper did poo on the grass and a Spanish lady on a bike rung her bell to tell me so. I smiled and waved my plastic bag at her and she seemed placated. I picked up the offending turd and evaded the eyes of the law whilst doing so.
