Thursday, July 23, 2009

Spanish Riviera

We got up the next morning to get ready to fly to Barcelona. It was a little rainy. I wanted to go back to the perfume store to buy the Paco Rabanne pour Homme. After all, the girls said I smelled good. I don't know how they could say that with all the fragrances on me, but it seemed to stand out. I was standing on the curb, waiting to cross the street, when a large man came up to me and started a conversation in French. He spoke very fast, and all I could understand was that he was asking directions. I could pick out certain words, but I realized that my five years of French in school did not quite prepare me for French. It seems that Parisian French can be different, so I had to swallow my pride and tell the man that I was an American. He patted me on the back and off he went. I bought the cologne, and got back to the hotel in time to depart for the airport. Our plane ride to Barcelona was uneventful. It had been a little chilly in Paris, but now we were heading back to warmer weather. On our approach to the airport in Barcelona, we flew over the Spanish Riviera and saw the sunbathers. The girls and I got excited, because we could go to the beach. We found out later that the beach was 30 miles from our hotel, and we couldn't get there except by train. So, no beach for us. When we got to the airport, it was a little chaotic. In the past, our tour group went to the baggage claim; got our bags; and headed to the bus. So, I did that. Just about the time I got to the door of the airport, there was a man yelling "Alto, Alto". I didn't know Spanish, so I just kept walking. Then, he ran in front of me with a machine gun in my face. He was a soldier. Apparently, they wanted me to go through customs. Spain was still being ruled by Franco. It was a stark contrast to other countries we had been in. We got to our hotel, which was rather modest, and not nearly has swank as the one in Paris. There were speakers in our rooms that played music. The girls and I went walking, and ended up at a nine-story department store that sold everything. I got lost in there for what seemed like hours, but I finally found the girls. One of our tour members was a Spanish teacher. When we sat down for dinner, she looked at the menu and couldn't read it. It seems that the Spanish they teach you in schools is Mexican Spanish. The Spanish in Barcelona was entirely different. So, we were out of luck and had to take our chances with the food. Since we couldn't go to the Riviera, we looked into the possibility of going to a bullfight, but that was shot down. Barcelona was becoming a boring place for us. I hear it is better now.

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