Our vacation, blow by blow...

We’re back! Did you miss us? We had a great time, by and large, sprinkled with moments of predictable family tension.

14 August

We left Barcelona later than we planned---we never seem to get out early. But it didn’t really matter, because there was no place we had to be. At the rental car place, they offered us an upgrade to an Audi, and it’s a good thing we took it, because we seem incapable of packing light, and our stuff never would have fit in the trunk of the small car we had reserved. How do Europeans take road trips with those tiny cars? The large Audi trunk allowed me to pack my down comforter at the last moment. An extravagance, I know, but bed is important to me when I travel and, not knowing what the bedding situation would be like, I wanted to ensure a nice, cozy nest.

After a 3 ½ hour drive through the countryside we arrived in Charo, a tiny village in the Spanish Pyrenees consisting of small grouping of stone houses that are a couple of centuries old. A few have been converted into places for tourists like us. Fortunately, there is a family from Granada here with two girls, ages 11 (Paola) and 8 (Ana). Our kids have had only each other to play with since we got to Spain, and they seem starved for the company of other kids. They made friends immediately with the girls and with the neighbors’ dog, Ara (named for a nearby river). One of the houses is also home to several donkeys and a chicken coop. C.C. and Milo learned from the other girls that the donkeys love to eat and will eat most anything, and they have already spent a lot of time feeding them. It’s gorgeous here, completely quiet and with almost nothing to do, which suits us fine.

15 August

Alec was up before the kids this morning, fed them breakfast and took them to feed the burros. I stayed in bed and was just getting up when they came back, their hands full of ripe blackberries they had picked for my breakfast.

A trail leads up the mountain from behind our house, and we walked up to the top, where there is a very old stone building with a tower. Along the way we looked for animal tracks, but the trail was very dusty and we saw more poop than tracks. Milo said, “You know what? If we were real trackers, this poop would be really exciting, right?”

After some lunch and a rest we drove the 10 km to Ainsa, the closest town with a supermarket. There is a very old medieval center with a main plaza, a few narrow streets, and an old church with a bell tower. We climbed up and happened to be right in the tower at 4 o’clock when the bells rang---loud!

We came home with local tomatoes, honey and cheese. Alec has a fire going on the outdoor grill and the sun is still hot, but it cools off at night. We have makeshift ingredients for s’mores---sweet biscuits, chocolate, and an enormous bag of tubular pink marshmallows (called masmalos here0.


16 August

C.C. and Milo were both in our bed at 2:45 am---I brought them back to their beds, put on some music for them, and got to sleep again. Not long after, C.C. was back, and Alec went to lie down with her. She never got back to sleep, which means that he didn’t either. Given that I was the only one who got a decent night’s sleep, we decided to adjust our plans and spend more time in the car, in order to give the kids a chance to nap.

We drove about an hour to a beautiful resort near Bielsa nestled in the mountains above a river. We had lunch there and let the kids run around before we got back in the car and headed to… France! I have to say that it’s pretty cool to be able to get from one country to another so quickly. About another hour on the road, through a long tunnel and, even though the landscape was basically the same, the architecture, the language, the food all change.

When we told the kids in the morning that we would be going to France---reasonably assuming that they would be excited about adding another country to their list of places they’ve been---Milo crossed his arms in front of his chest, made his face into his best pout and announced, “I do not want to go to France! I’m not going!” We were bewildered. After trying unsuccessfully to figure out what lay behind his resistance, and not without a few tears (his, not ours), we just loaded him in the car and took off.

Milo slept through the tunnel that runs through a mountain and connects Spain to France, and most of the way to the village of Aulon, where we stopped to walk around. When we told him we were in France, he got out of the car, looked around and declared, “This is just what I expected! Let’s go home!” Very strange. We stopped in a larger town on our way back and let the kids go onto some contraption called EuroBungy; they were harnessed to bungy cords hanging over a trampoline. They jumped on the tramp and bounced high into the air trying to do back flips and were in absolute heaven. Meanwhile, Alec practiced his high school French (he can get much farther with his than I can with mine) and wandered into town, returning with some baguette, a can of goose fat to bring back and cook with, some very stinky cheese, and locally made peach juice.


17 August

We decided to stick close to home today. On our way in from Barcelona we had passed a sign for a paleontology museum, and we promised C.C. we would take her. Surprise, surprise—Milo did not want to go there, either. Over his now familiar objections, we headed to the tiny town in which it was located. The sign on the large wooden door had no hours posted, but informed us to call a phone number. When I did, the man on the other end of the line said he wasn’t around, but could be there after 4 pm. It was one o’clock, so we decided to head back and see what we could see on the way. After playing soccer in a park, we decided we couldn’t make it home without eating, so we took the turnoff to the next town, which housed a hotel and restaurant… as well as a zoo and pony rides! It seemed like a lot of enterprise for such a small place, until we realized how things worked. After lunch, I took the kids out to get the zoo expedition started while Alec paid the check. The zoo was locked, so I went back to the restaurant, where our waiter informed us that he would meet us out front in a minute. The same guy who took our orders sold us our zoo tickets and unlocked the zoo gate for us to enter. When I got back with the kids, Alec went to the pony place and found---you guessed it---that he had to go back to the restaurant so that the same guy could saddle up the ponies and send them on their way. Everyone’s just trying to make a buck.

When we finally got back to Charo, we learned that a local family---with four children between the ages of 5 and 13---had come back into town. C.C. and Milo went to investigate, and they soon joined up with Paola and Ana, making a tribe of eight. I have definitely not seen eight adults since we got here. So we are clearly outnumbered. They quickly began to speak the universal language of hide and seek and racing around town, their feet thundering past our door like the running of the bulls of Pamplona. The good news? They fell asleep immediately and stayed that way until 9 am.


18 August

Today we decided to drive about an hour to the Parque Nacional d’Ordesa, a gorgeous park in the mountains. Alec, who has switched his obsession from cars to excursion planning, studying guide books and three different maps until late in the night, had chosen a trail for us that seemed appropriate for the kids. We drove higher and higher on a narrow road with no guardrails and more switchbacks than I’ve ever been on. I was glad Alec was driving and that I had my knitting to keep me occupied. And that we guessed correctly on the amount of Dramamine to give the kids---they were neither sleeping nor puking.

The trail was well marked, very green and very high, affording us a spectacular view of the mountains all around and the river below---well, I never got close enough to the edge to actually see the river, but everyone else said it was beautiful. We were almost at the lookout point we had chosen as the spot where we would eat lunch and turn around when it started to rain. Sprinkles at first but then larger drops. We took cover under a cliff overhang and ate the sandwiches we’d packed, then waited until it let up to scoot back to the car. Luckily I had packed towels and extra shirts.

We intended to go home for a quick rest before taking the kids to the municipal pool, but inertia set in, the kids found their friends, and we put swimming off for another day.


19 August

This morning Milo voted that we stay home and told us that meant that “we can’t go any farther than the donkeys.” Given that the forecast was for rain, we decided to let his vote carry the day. C.C. and I walked up the mountain behind our house, counting grasshoppers (18), Alec napped and, when the natives got restless in the late afternoon, we took them past the donkeys to the municipal swimming pool—Milo consented to this exception. We got the kids to bed relatively early for being on vacation in Spain (10 pm) in anticipation of better weather and a hike tomorrow.

C.C., who has practically been mainlining the peach juice we got in France, announced this afternoon: “Guys, we’re almost out of juice—we’ve got to go back to France!”


20 August

We woke to find the village socked in by fog, but decided to prepare for a trip to another part of the Parque Ordesa anyway. And indeed, by the time we got our acts together and piled into the car, most of the fog had burned off. Despite our best Dramamine calculations, Milo announced that he needed to puke and we had to pull over twice during the hour-long drive so that he could breathe some fresh air and get his sea legs back; we made it to the park without incident.

Alec had researched all 78 hikes in the area and chosen this as one of the easiest and most beautiful, although it was not remote—not quite as bad as Yellowstone in the summer, but let’s just say unless you are canyoning (a crazy sport I’d never heard of that involves rappelling off of a mountain into a river wearing a wetsuit) or rock climbing, it’s hard to find a remote spot in the Parque Ordesa in August.

The guidebook proclaimed that the hike was easy, took about 1 ½ hours, and would take us past three waterfalls. C.C. grumped most of the way up—the Dramamine had hit and she was practically sleepwalking. So we stopped frequently for snacks, played “Pooh sticks” every time we encountered a bridge, and inspected lots of bugs and rocks along the way. The waterfalls were spectacular, the day perfectly sunny and dry and, after stopping for lunch at Waterfall #2, the downhill return was much easier. Nearly 3 ½ hours later, we got back to our car for the trip home.

Unbeknownst to me, Alec had decided to take a different, less direct route on the way home—I only figured it out after Dolores (our GPS) announced “recalculating” a few times and we started to climb higher and higher. The narrow road consisted nearly entirely of hairpin turns—no guardrails. We had pumped the kids full of Dramamine, and Milo slept through it. C.C. had plugged herself into my iPod to listen to Pete Seeger. But the combination of my own tendency toward queasiness on winding roads, coupled with my agoraphobia and inclination toward anxiety caused me to white-knuckle it for the majority of the journey. The small, red fox that stopped in the middle of the road and looked right at us—and the thrill it gave C.C.—almost made it worth the amusement park ride experience. Even as a child, I was wise enough to steer clear of roller coasters and things called Megadrop, Spider, and Screamin’ Swing; the Tea Cups were about as much as I could handle. I have never been much of a thrill-seeker.

It’s our last night in Charo. Alec is grilling a steak and we are celebrating the end of a relaxing week.


21 August

We left our place at noon and meandered our way down from the mountains. We would be driving through a region know for its wine, olive oil, and almonds, and planned to make a few stops as we wound our way to Loarre, our next and final destination for the two nights left before returning to Barcelona. C.C. had wrapped up last night’s steak bone in a paper towel and had the additional mission of finding a large dog who would enjoy it.

We found our first target—an sustainable olive farm called Ecostean, in the town of Costean (get it? Eco stean?)—in the early afternoon. Unfortunately, although the literature we had picked up said they were open on Saturdays, the hours posted on the door listed only weekday hours. We drove down into the tiny town center (Plaza Mayor seemed a bit grand for what it actually was) and asked a couple of men who were absorbed in fixing a tractor whether they knew if we might find Ecostean’s proprietor. A woman who overheard our conversation urged us to knock on his door, which was just off the plaza. When we said we weren’t comfortable bothering him, she marched up to the door and rang the bell herself. No one answered and, as we scrambled back into the car, she reappeared with two enormous peaches from her garden, a small gift so that our errand was not in vain.

By the time we arrived at the next olive oil destination, Milo was soundly asleep in the car. We parked in front of the shop on the narrow street and were figuring that we should take turns going in when an elderly gentleman, who had been sitting on a bench and, apparently, listening to us, told us he owned the shop and, since his wife was inside minding the store, he’d be happy to keep an eye on Milo and the car. We left it running so as not to cook Milo, and the rest of us trooped in, tasted the three varieties of olive oil, and bought a bunch. In the midst of our tasting, our gentleman friend came in to give us a report: “Sus ojos estan abiertos, pero no esta llorando” (“His eyes are open, but he’s not crying”). Meanwhile, C.C. found another old duffer with a beagle mutt and offered them her bone. The man said his dog was not big enough, but dug a pocket knife out of his pants and carved away the remaining slivers of meat for his grateful pooch.

On our way into Loarre, Milo announced that he needed to puke (I have spared you, dear reader, from every such occurrence on this trip, but let’s just say it happens much more than I have indicated and, despite copious doses of Dramamine, adds significantly to every car ride as we pull over and give the complaining child a chance to get some air). We pulled over and happened to find a fabulous playground on a hill across from an almond grove. Having been in the car most of the day, the kids were happy to run around for a half hour.

When we pulled into the center of Loarre, a town of about 200 people, it was Saturday evening, and it seemed that all of the town’s old folks had found a place to sit around the fountain in the town square—men on one side, women on the other. We had spied a soccer court full of kids on the drive in, and Milo and Alec walked down to check it out while C.C. and I settled in and red a few chapters of Nancy Drew, her current favorite (kind of a trip down memory lane for me—I read them all when I was a kid).

By the time we got to dinner, the wheels were starting to come off the wagon as far as the kids were concerned. They were tired, we were tired, and the hotel restaurant was too quiet for our silly, noisy children, who had chosen this particular evening to forget the few manners we’ve managed to teach them. C. C. ended up being banished to the vestibule of the restaurant to finish her dinner(by us) and Milo lost his dessert for the next day before it was all over, and the parents, exhausted from their vacation, got to bed.


22 August

Everyone got a good long sleep and we faced the day with an improved attitude. The reason we had chosen Loarre as a destination in the first place is because it is home to what the Europeans call the most magnificent castle in Spain; of course, the Spaniards call it the most magnificent castle in all of Europe.

It is indeed pretty spectacular, set atop solid rock (so that it could not be invaded by enemies tunneling under) and towering over the surrounding countryside. We learned that our kids like acoustiguides, and wandered from chapel to dungeon to kitchen to wine cellar imagining what life must have been like so long ago.

The day was super-hot, so after lunch and a siesta, we wandered down to the municipal pool, which had a gorgeous view overlooking the vineyards and almond groves. The kids swam and swam, Milo played more soccer with a band of locals ranging from age 5 – 12 or so and, after a family meeting about restaurant behavior, we had a much nicer time at the restaurant that evening. We watched the end of the USA/Spain basketball game and hit the sack.


23 August

Just off the main square of Loarre, we had spied a small shop selling local products, which had been closed the day before because everything closes on Sunday. We wanted to check it out before we hit the road, and the proprietess, Maribel—who had to be nearly 80—greeted us warmly, offering us samples of freshly roasted almonds. She gave C.C. and Milo handfuls of walnuts in their shells and told them how to crack them open on the sidewalk with a big rock—they were delighted. I have met and interviewed with hundreds of small businesspeople, and Maribel ranks with the best of them. Once she sensed our interest in the local food, she moved in like a pit bull in a Labrador suit—we left with chocolate and almonds, onion jam and local chorizo.

We had a lunch reservation in Barbastro, a little more than an hour’s drive, and decided to try Costean again since it would be on the way. We got there just before the 1:30 siesta break, and were met by a jovial man in his mid-30’s, who took us through olive oil tasting as if it were fine wine—first smelling, then sipping and aerating in the mouth, swishing over the various taste bud regions of the tongue, and finally feeling the smoothness of burn in the throat. More olive oil for our now overloaded trunk. If we had not upgraded from the VW Polo to the Audi, we never would have managed to haul home so much booty. We now have enough olive oil to go toe-to-toe with BP should we have an accident near the beach on our way home.

Alec chose our lunch restaurant, Flor, because he had read that they did classic Spanish dishes with a modern twist and local ingredients. It sounded right up our alley. When we entered, it was clear that we were in the nicest restaurant we’ve eaten at since we arrived in Barcelona, and we held our breaths a bit given that we still had our 5- and 7-year olds in tow.

Fortunately, we were fully armed with plastic dinosaurs, paper, markers, sticker books, and even my iPad (Milo listened with headphones to Charlotte’s Web until the food came—see photo below). Unfortunately, our preparation was an insufficient match for C.C.’s mood. It all began to unravel when we attempted to boost her Dramamine dose and she simply refused to take it. We gave her the option to forego the medication and deal with the likely consequences once we hit the road again, but she had already come unglued. Before long, we were that family that you see from time to time in restaurants and airports, trying to deal quietly with an impossible child while others look on pityingly. She was loud. She wailed and stomped and proclaimed that nobody understands her (I thought we had a few more years before we would hear that line). Luckily the restaurant was pretty empty and the staff was kind. With the exception of a strange fish dish that I ordered and clearly did not understand from the menu, the food was terrific—an amazing risotto with locally-gathered wild mushrooms, incredible green beans with crispy ham, a dessert of peaches, mascarpone ice cream and pureed raspberries.

On the two hour ride back to Barcelona, we talked about whether it felt like we were “going home,” and we agreed that, although Barcelona is becoming more familiar, it still doesn’t feel like “home.” Still, it felt good to be back in our large, comfortable apartment. We had so little food in the house that we fed the kids cereal and popcorn for dinner. Given that we didn’t have to go to a restaurant, they were delighted.