Road trippin' (part II)

SPAIN

Shortly after crossing the border, things changed from idyllic to hectic. It was now dark. I hadn't been prepared for the fact that the Spanish city of San Sebastian sits almost on the border. Suddenly I found myself in plenty of traffic -- the chaotic, city motorway kind. And I was realizing that Spanish drivers are more aggressive than French ones. San Sebastian seemed like a busy place, but not in an industrial way. There were scores of big, mostly newer, and nice-looking apartment buildings. I carried on through, since I had arbitrarily set my sights on Bilbao. I'd forgotten to bring any of the guidebooks we have at home, such as Lonely Planet, so I didn't really know anything about the place -- on the map it just looked like a medium-sized town near the sea, and I recognized the name from somewhere.

Bilbao didn't turn out to be quite what I had been expecting. For one thing, it's not really very near the sea. I suppose I'd been hoping for something laid-back, historic, and charming. Instead what I found was a busy and modern place, pleasant but rather light on charm. Bilbao is known for Frank Gehry's Guggenheim Bilbao Museum. The museum was signposted along my route into the city, and it would have been nice to see, but I wasn't in the mood. I wanted to find a nice spot, have a good dinner, and check into a hotel. Amongst all the posh shops, I spotted a little pizzeria down a side street and pulled in there. Kim had been doing internet reconnaissance for me back home, and the texts she'd been sending were confirming that Bilbao really wasn't what I was looking for. She suggested Santander, approximately 100 kilometres further along the coast. I'd been afraid she would say that, since I was kind of tired and wanted to be finished for the day. Instead I had a nice Neapolitan pizza and a glass of cerveza, and hopped back on the bike for an hour or so of pleasant, windy, mountain-and-coast riding to Santander.

Santander was what I'd been looking for. It had a pretty port and lots of historic-looking buildings. It did not however seem to have a large selection of hotels. Back home, Kim had gone to bed so I was on my own in terms of finding accommodation. I rode deeper and deeper into the cobblestoned back streets of the town. There were lots of bars, and lots of young people out celebrating Saturday night, but not a single, solitary hotel that I was able to spot. Finally I headed back to the main strip along the seafront and backtracked toward the edge of the main town. Roadside signs pointed to a couple of hotels, and I was drawn to a nice-looking one called Hotel Abba. Walking into the lobby, I thought "this is going to be expensive". I hadn't planned on staying in fancy hotels, however it was getting late and I wanted to settle down for the night. Hotel Abba was a very pleasant surprise. Not only was it not very expensive (anything less than 100 euros was fairly acceptable in my mind) but it was also gorgeous inside; big and new, very modern, with a pretty decor and a cool glass elevator. The room was one of the nicer ones I've stayed in. New, spotless, simply but tastefully decorated, and with lots of little thoughtful touches; everything was in exactly the right place, such as the towel rack up high, in the shower. That's nice -- I usually forget to grab a towel before I start showering, and have to drip water across the bathroom to fetch one.

I headed back to the center of town on the bike to see what Saturday night is like in Santander. It wasn't very far from the hotel, actually, it was easily walking distance. The main square around the church was very busy, with several bars spilling patrons out into the square, and it only seemed to get busier as the night wore on. Everybody was well-behaved and in good spirits. Nobody was obviously drunk, just out for drinks and conversation with friends. I could get used to that!

Santander was absolutely full of scooters, which I think is a good sign, since bikes and scooters are some of the best ways to get around in a nice city. There was loads of parking for them (and, by extension, for me) and various streets that prohibited cars allowed two-wheelers. Sunday morning (well, early afternoon actually, thanks to another late start) I wandered about through the charming, deserted streets -- everything was closed -- and relaxed outside in the sun along the waterfront with several cafes con leche. I had initially planned to be gone for just a week, and not miss any Wednesday night band rehearsals. However, sitting there finally in sunny Spain, I realized that to be back for Wednesday, I'd have to turn around and head back the next day, Monday. I really didn't want to do that, since I had only just arrived. I started sending texts to my bandmates, who were very understanding and gave me a pass. Just like that, the possibilities for the next week of riding suddenly opened up.

In the afternoon I set off, headed for the nearby small town of Santillana del Mar. Kim had mentioned it as a possibility the previous night. Definitely a nice place; Santillana seems to be a traditional old village surrounded by farming (the 'del Mar' is a little bit misleading, since the seashore is several kilometres from the town). It seemed to be a 'preserved' village, in the way governments sometimes mandate tradition, in order to protect it but also to create a tourist attraction. Hilly and charming, with cobblestone streets, Santillana seemed to be a popular spot for day trips by the locals, particularly ones riding motorcycles. I stopped for a couple of hours, and relaxed at a taverna, soaking it in, but eventually set off again. It didn't 'grab' me in a way that made me want to stay the night. Perhaps Santillana was a touch too pastoral. Or maybe even a little bit 'precious'. Still, it was worth a look.

I continued along Spain's northern coast, dawdling along the small coastal roads, through little towns. One good discovery was Comillas, where I stopped for a lunch of traditional fried octopus. Yum. And the setting, just off the beach of Comillas' beautiful bay, was a real treat. Along the way, the town of San Vincente also grabbed my attention, with its pretty setting buried amongst big hills, along a coastal inlet. The proliferation of sailboats there suggested that it's another popular weekend getaway spot.

Further along, I stopped in Llanes. Though a different setting (more of a beach resort town), it also seemed popular and had lots of hotels. However, it still didn't seem like the spot to stay that night. I did find an excellent, secluded beach with remarkable rock formations at the outskirts of the town, called Playa el Toro, from which to watch the sun set. I decided to carry on to Gijón, the last of the seaside cities within reach that day. The ride had been really lovely along the coast, with pretty towns and sandy beaches, misty hills and the nearby Pyrenees mountains forming the backdrop.

All of which reminds me of an apropos 'motivational' poster for bikers:

http://www.headgear.org/~cloyce/moto-motivation/

Gijón gave the impression of being bigger and livelier than Santander, but just as nice. It seemed to be a university town, but also with lots of shopping, and bars, and restaurants. The first hotel I stopped at, Don Manuel, in the center of town near the waterfront, turned out to be another lucky find. That evening I had my first tapas feast. Tapas in Spain are fairly 'rich' food, with strong taste, and are only meant to be snacks, really. But they're cheap and if you order enough of them, they make a fine meal! I filled myself up and had a couple of cervezas, all for 8 euros. At tapas restaurants in London, the sterling equivalent of 8 euros would buy you a single menu item.

Gijón was my last stop along the north coast. In the morning (OK, the early afternoon) I was a bit fuzzy-headed. Before my first coffee had had a chance to kick in, I accidentally tried both French and Italian on the unsuspecting locals (Kim and I had taken an Italian class). I think I used French words and Italian numbers. I came to the conclusion that a little language training is a dangerous thing. From Gijón I backtracked to San Sebastian and turned south toward Pamplona. The ride that evening was up through the mountains, along great, gently winding mountain roads at full speed. It's the best kind of riding, though it would have been even better in the daylight, when you can enjoy the scenery as well. The road to Pamplona descends gently from the mountains into flat plains.

Riding into Pamplona, all I could find at first -- besides what was apparently a big, old fortress -- was a fairly nondescript modern city. If I hadn't known that there was an old centre somewhere in the town (the one we've all seen on television, with bulls running through) I probably would have kept going.

One of my favourite quotes from the Spanish waiter character Manuel, of the famous British television series Fawlty Towers, goes "I can speak English. I learn it from a book." (the heavy accent is necessary to appreciate the comedic value of it, as is the fact that the Major thinks the words are coming from a stuffed moose head). Likewise, I don't speak Spanish, but I did learn some from a book. Driving around Pamplona, I was able to follow signs pointing the way to "centro ciudad" but wasn't able to find the old part. Eventually signs for "Pamplona Plaza" led me to the historic centre I'd been looking for, and I wasn't disappointed. It was just exactly what I'd been expecting: charming and historic. There was a nice hotel, and that night I walked the "bull run" up to the Plaza de Toros (the bullfighting stadium) and had another great meal of tapas and beer. The next day I did more of the same, exploring the streets and searching in vain for the elusive Spanish flag fridge magnet. We have a collection, from nearly all the countries we've visited. Notable absences are Spain and Thailand. For some reason (political, I suppose) the Spanish flag just doesn't seem to be very popular in any Spanish place I've visited. You can find the regional flags, such as Navarra, Catalonia, etc., but not Spanish. Though I don't like the idea of bullfighting, sadly there were no bulls running the streets at that time of year. The San Fermin festival happens in July. If there had been an 'encierro' going on though, you just have to know I would have been one of those fools being chased by bulls. Is there any other way to live?

After Pamplona I headed south across the flat plains of Aragon toward Zaragoza. The road was beautiful, desolate, straight, and deserted. I was sorely tempted to let my Hayabusa loose, and find out what 200mph actually feels like, but chickened out in the end. I'm actually slightly afraid of going that fast on a bike, even one like mine that's famous for it. Are my tyres rated for that speed? A blowout would be fatal. Besides, I didn't fancy seeing the inside of a Spanish jail. Better to save it for a racetrack or an airstrip, I supposed. Still, it was tempting. Sunset that night, out on the motorway, was another memorable moment.

In Zaragoza itself, I found myself in the middle of another busy, modern city. Though I knew there were things worth seeing there, a quick look at a tourist map inside a hotel gave me the impression that the good, historic bits weren't concentrated in any one area. I didn't want to dedicate the time required to find them all, and I didn't want to stay the night. After a small meal I was off again. Destination: Barcelona.

The night riding from Zaragoza down to the Mediterranean coast of Barcelona was smooth and fast, though the air got noticeably colder, the closer I got. Kim and I had been to Barcelona in 2003, and for the same reason as I'd skipped Madrid this time around, (i.e. wanting to avoid the hassles of navigating a really big, unknown city) I was aiming for a place just a little south of Barcelona, which we'd also visited in 2003: Sitges.

I arrived in Sitges just past midnight, and surprised Kim with a phone call (I hadn't told her I was going that far east) from one of the favourite spots of our earlier trip. Sitges is a gorgeous, small resort city with a charming centre and beautiful beaches. It's a popular getaway for Barcelonians and gay holidaymakers from all around Europe. Because of my earlier luck getting good hotel rooms at bargain prices, I was emboldened to ride up to the fanciest one I could find, right on the beach, with lovely balconies and sea views all around. When I inquired, the clerk quoted 150 euros for the night. When I made a "well, maybe not" face, the price was adjusted to 100 euros. Score! Ahh, the joys of checking in late at night, during slow season >:^)). I stayed up a little late, just to try and enjoy my beautiful room a little bit before bed. Noon came quickly, and I had to hustle to check out on time.

That morning (err, afternoon) I spent a couple of hours just sitting on the beach in the sun -- fully-dressed, unfortunately, though I was roasting in my t-shirt and long trousers. In January, no less! A young Spanish couple were frolicking about on the beach with frisbees and whatnot. She was in her bikini. In January. That's a rough life, isn't it? The rest of the afternoon, I wandered throughout the town, visited some of the cafes, and searched for the legendary Spanish flag magnet. Unfortunately, it was siesta and most of the shops were closed until evening. For the first time in the trip, I was tempted to stay a second night. It was difficult to tear myself away from Sitges, it really was. Ultimately though, I saddled up for my next ride. What dedication! My next destination involved riding straight through Barcelona. It didn't occur to me until too late that it was rush hour. Note to self: whenever possible, avoid riding through large cities during rush hour. The motorways through Barcelona were a parking lot. Spanish bikers were demonstrating a lot more confidence than I was feeling at the time, zipping through the holes in the traffic at a healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) speed. Since I didn't want to get in their collective way, I mostly didn't. Besides, I wasn't really in a hurry anyway. My next destination was Andorra.

I really wanted to see Andorra on this trip, since I'd previously visited nearly every country in western Europe. I've still never been to Ireland, but on the continent I'd been everywhere except the little teeny countries: Andorra, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, and I'd merely passed through Monaco on a train without stopping. Andorra has no airport, so nearly the only way to get there is to drive, and when would I be driving around there again, I wondered? It was an opportunity that had to be taken.

Up into the mountains I rode as darkness fell. They were impressive-looking mountains. I soon found myself navigating treacherous mountain roads, easing around hairpin turns, in bitter cold. This wasn't the chilly, damp cold of my first day in France; it was the dry, sub-freezing, frostbite kind. On my map, there were two routes shown into Andorra. The first was on the Spanish side, but involved what looked like a fairly circuitous route. The French route was more direct-looking, when coming up from Barcelona. One thing about Andorra though, at least when coming from Spain, is that it isn't very well signposted. There were turnoffs and junctions that required decisions, but with only limited information, so I was forced to guess and then pull over and consult the map after the fact. At first, I mistakenly took the Spanish route. After I'd ridden for a while I stopped to warm up and check the map, realized my mistake, and concluded that it would still be shorter to turn around and take the French way. I was cold, and the name of the Spanish town closest to Andorra was "La Seu d'Urgell" which I just found pompous-sounding and irritating somehow (I kept repeating it in my head, which only made it more annoying). Besides that, I was becoming concerned about my petrol situation. I hadn't seen any filling stations for a while, and running out of petrol on those cold mountain roads would have to be, I thought, rather unfortunate. At times like these, petrol is more important than for just the obvious reason -- it's also a lifeline of sorts. Because whenever I got cold, I could pull over and let my big, warm bike restore my comfort level. After a few minutes of sitting still, her temperature begins to climb, and the fan kicks in, bathing you in lovely warm air. But only if you've got petrol.

When I reached the town of Puigcerda (who comes up with these strange names?) near the French border, it became apparent that my map was misleading me. It looked like I could get to Andorra from there, but the road signs were telling a different story. I pulled over to warm up again, fretted some more about petrol (though a bit of mental arithmetic persuaded me I'd still make it) and went back the other way again, following signs for La Seu d'Urgell. At long last we arrived in Andorra safe and sound, and with spirits much uplifted.

When I say "we arrived" it occurs to me that I have a confession to make: A couple of days into the journey, I started talking to my motorcycle. Her name is Hayley, by the way. Hayley Hayabusa. There were just little things that I'd say to her, once in a while, such as: congratulating her on her fantastic fuel mileage, or greeting her in the morning, or explaining the places we were going. Strange, I know. But she was my only travel companion, and that's my excuse. She responded wonderfully; she was sure-footed in the mountains (even when it was icy), performed like a champ, and was totally reliable. If your vehicle is sometimes troublesome, why not try discussing it? I'm not nutty, I'm just saying. It might be a lack of communication.

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Road trippin' (part II)
Next: Road trippin' (part III)
Road trippin' (part IV)