The Hooky Van

Last week our friends Jim and Raquel and their two children visited us.  Juliet and Jasper are close enough to Milo and C.C.’s ages that it immediately became all party all the time.  We have had a lot of visitors, but none with children, and C.C. and Milo were VERY excited to have them here.  We thought the occasion called for a mini-road trip, so we rented an 8 passenger van, booked three rooms at a castle, and took the kids out of school Thursday and Friday.  Once, a couple of years ago, I explained to C.C.’s kindergarten teacher that we would be taking her on a trip with us to Baltimore and she would miss a couple of days of school.   You never know how teachers will receive this kind of news.  “How lucky for her!” Mrs. Bookman said.  “Frankly, I think perfect attendance is overrated.”  I couldn’t agree more.  Now, there are plenty of families here at our kids’ school that seem to have their kids out of school more than in, and I can understand why this would make teachers crazy.  But a day here and there to do something educational?

Anyway, I told both kids that we would be playing hooky from school and that I would let their teachers know.  When I picked Milo up the day of our departure, I reminded her that Milo would not be there the next day.  “Right,” she said, giving me a rather quizzical look.  “Milo told me.  You’re playing hockey?”  I burst out laughing.  Miss Margarita was not familiar with the term “playing hooky” and thought Milo had said, “We have some friends visiting, so we’re going out of town to play hockey for a couple of days.” 

We all piled into the hooky van on Thursday morning and set off for Montserrat, about a 45 minute drive from Barcelona.  An oddly shaped mountain, it houses a monastery and hermitage caves set along steep paths.  The monastery itself is no great shakes but the walks are extraordinary.  The trails are well marked and well traveled; the one we took felt like nature’s StairMaster—steps, steps and more steps climbing steeply up.  It was hot, and somehow the one bottle of water we brought for eight people got drunk pretty quickly, so after about a half hour straight up, we traversed to one of the hermitages, called it quits, and headed back down.  I would have given a king’s ransom for a fresh lemonade, but contented myself with sparkling water while the kids sucked on popsicles.

Then it was back in the hooky van for stage 2 of our journey, to Cardona.  Spain has a fantastic network of paradores, hotels situated within former convents, castles, monasteries and the like.  The properties tend to be spectacular and the rates are often reasonable.  If you are planning any travel in Spain, you should definitely consider staying in at least one parador.  In Cardona, we stayed at the Ducs de Cardona, a 9^th century castle with an amazing view.   It was perfect.  The kids immediately climbed out of the hooky van—all except for Milo, who remained there for awhile, fast asleep after the monastery climb—and assumed medieval roles of knights and dragons.  They began to explore the turrets, secret passages and archways.  In a stroke of genius, we had decided to put all four of them in one room, with Alec and I, and Jim and Raquel occupying rooms nearby.

C.C. and Milo donned their knight pajamas from Grandma Lois at the earliest opportunity—they wore them to play, to dinner, to sleep, and to breakfast the next morning.  Although the parador website claims that they all have wifi, ours did not work so well, which begins to explain why I’ve been silent for so many days.  What can you expect from a 9^th century castle?  We had a good dinner, a great night’s sleep, and a leisurely breakfast.  And then we checked out and went to the salt mine.

The Parc Cultural de la Muntanya de Sal is within spitting distance of the castle.  Let’s just say that visiting a salt mine had never been on my bucket list, but given that it was the local attraction, we decided to give it a go.  Why not?  We parked the hooky van and climbed aboard the salt buggy, which took us down a spiraling dirt road to the entrance of the mine.  We all donned hard hats (me, hoping that there were no local lice infestations) and followed our guide inside.  I learned a lot about salt and all that it’s used for besides food—fertilizer and explosives, for example. I realize I have to go back and finish that Mark Kurlansky book I started last time I was surrounded by salt (not too long ago) in the south of France.  And, the mines are stunningly beautiful.  Pure white stalactites and stalagmites formed from dripping salt water.  Rich red striations resulting from the minerals in the mountain.  There is, of course, a shop on the premises, where you can buy bath salts, table salts, salt sculptures, and other tchotchkes such as Harley Davidson magnets carved from salt.  My favorite is the very realistic plate of sausage, eggs, and cheese carved entirely from salt (see photo below).  I am something of a salt addict, but had no idea it had this whole other side.  So the bottom line is, if you ever have a chance to visit a salt mine, just go.  You won’t regret it.

After grabbing some lunch in town, the hooky van made a beeline back to Barcelona.  We dropped our friends at their apartment—they had an early flight the next morning and the kids were pretty blown out by then—and went home, where I promptly fell asleep on the couch.  Our couches here are pretty ugly, but they are perfect for napping.  And since there are two of them, and they are big, there is no sofa scarcity in our house.

Saturday we slept in, and then moved very slowly.  It felt like we had been on the go for a long time—I think I can now give my Sagrada Familia spiel in my sleep, and probably even print you out your tickets without waking up—and we just needed to chill.  When our friends Vibeke and Eirik called and invited us to join them at the beach, it sounded like the perfect antidote to a busy week.  Alec had headed off already for a fun day at Carrefour to get our groceries and things for C.C.’s overnight school trip and both kids’ Saint Jordi day outfits (more on both of these later)—he did not have it in him to go to La Libertad, too—so it was just the kids and me.

As I got us all ready, I wondered if we should be bringing bathing suits.   It had been warm, but it was also April 9, and I couldn’t imagine that we would want to get wet.  Still, I called Vibeke who said we should be prepared.  

And here is something that I love, love, love about Barcelona.  We got on the FGC near our apartment and took the 10 minute ride to Plaza Catalunya.  We transferred to the #59 bus which took us down La Rambla, through the Barceloneta and along the beach toward the Villa Olimpica.  We hopped off and there we were, at the beach.  I love cities, and I love cities with beaches that anyone can get to, and I love this city.

Vibeke, Eirik and their kids had parked themselves pretty close to the water.  Before I could even kick off my flip flops, C.C. and Milo had stripped down and run headlong into the sea.  When they came up for air they had such joy on their faces, I could not have imagined being anywhere else.  The sun was actually super hot, and before long I joined them.  The water was chilly, but it was the kind of chilly that just takes your breath away for an instant and then feels terrific.  I am never happier than when I am swimming in the sea, and I am a complete believer in the healing power of that water.

We stayed for a couple of hours, until I worried that our white winter skins might be cooking despite our regular slatherings of sun block.  We packed up and stopped at a kiosk on the way back to the bus to fortify ourselves with ice cream and horxata—my first of the season.  We stopped to rent movies on the way home, and then after showering assembly line style, piled onto the couch with bowls of popcorn to watch The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which I had just finished reading with C.C.  (She calls it “The Charniclicks of Narnia”).  How did I miss all of those resurrection references when I was a kid?