Sunday, July 27th, morning: I wake up without back pain. The night was horrible, the couch was very run down already, but at least it has put back whatever was off in my spine or wherever. We gather our things, put them into the Grrrmaneta and leave. We make another stop at a supermarket and get some breakfast, snacks and water. I choose the self-checkout because I don’t feel fit to talk in any language today, but of course, the system hates me. (I told you to remind me!!!!) We need assistance from two employees of the place and talk more as if we had paid at the normal checkout. Please, remind me next time.
We choose to try finding a spot in Santander, we already have a house booked on the campingsite, maybe they have a space for us for another night. So off to the north. The landscape is changing again, we see everything again in just a few hours. Big cities, smaller cities, deserts, mountains, forests, tunnels and a lot of bridges.
I am happy we’re leaving, but at the same time I feel bad for not liking Madrid as much as I maybe should have.
People are sharing more material from the concert the evening before and it is beautiful. I can’t wait to see them live. I am joking about how I didn’t like Madrid and how much the driving there has pissed me off, and I end up promising to come back but take a flight when the guys sell out the Bernabéu. People soon correct me that the idea is fine, but it has to be the Metropolitano! Okay, fine by me. I have absolutely no preferences in Spanish football because no matter which Spanish team kicks our sorry little a*s, it always hurts. But if you tell me to come to the Metropolitano to see a concert, then I’ll be there.
Saturday, July 26th: Madrid was on our list because of Torre Picasso and because of the zoo. We wanted to see the Pandas. We didn’t plan to go there on the hottest day of our trip, but the tickets are already paid for, so here we go. Because of the great parking spot and the non-existing desire to drive through Madrid, we go to the near train station. But we can’t get a ticket. It’s either only available with an existing card or everything is so poorly translated (if at all) that we can’t make any sense of it. Neither in Spanish nor in English. So no train then.
We take Grrrmaneta on a tour of Madrid since we don’t get to the zoo otherwise. The parking spots are good, people are taking care that no one parks on three spots with a small car. At the entrance we are stopped to take a photo we could buy later on. The zoo is very nice, the Pandas are awake and we are happy.
Lots of other animals seem to struggle with the heat today, so are we. I have trouble breathing because the comfortable looking bed was the complete opposite. It somehow threw my back out and I can barely walk.
We see Penguins next and they must be Bogopenguins because it’s the day of a concert and they are already lining up at the door.
We make a stop to re-apply sunscreen and people are looking pitifully at us. (Well, if you knew what I probably did in a former life, you would say I totally deserve it.)
We are seeing Bears and Koalas next. After a trip to the zoo in Leipzig last week we are now counting sleeping Koala number 3 and 4.
Next stop aquarium. It’s quite cold here compared to the outside, very nice. But incredibly loud. My husband is asking if Spanish people in large groups are always that noisy, but I have only experienced them at concerts, so I’d say yes.
We see sharks, a Picasso fish and seahorses. It’s like a game of Bingo.
Heat and pain are unbearable. We decide to cut the trip short after seeing all animals we planned on seeing. We also decide to leave Madrid early in the morning.
On the way back we drive parallel to the A-3 leading to Valencia and dream about being finally at the concert next week. We pass a bus from a company called „Bogasbus“. This city is a bingo card.
The apartment is like the ice hotel, the airconditioning did work a miracle. We make dinner and decide to mess up the Youtube search history a bit by looking Arde videos. We kind of did something similar in Zaragoza when we went to a store and put an Arde Bogotá vinyl in the front spot of the display. It was very fun and didn’t hurt anybody.
My back still hurts, but the cold air in the apartment helps to feel a bit better. We have another Spanish beer at dinner which is apparently a bad combination with the excitement before, during and after the concert in the chat group. I’m writing a lot of nonsense, but also come to the conclusion that this is where the phrase „Las putas Estrellas“ must come from. I choose the couch for the night, but am longing for the bed in the Grrrmaneta. I haven’t sleep anywhere as good as in that car for a long time.
I read an article about the Bogofans and wonder if a newspaper at home would pick up an article about four crazy Alemans who drive thousands of kilometres to see a band in Spain? Someone suggests I should blog about my travels. I am thinking about it. My homepage exists, but it’s empty, Maybe a blog would be a good thing to bring it back to live. I will look into this when we’re home.
Friday, July 25th: After that very eventful night we get up, pack our things and I go to the carpark to pick up our supposedly ruined Grrrmaneta. Two days with all this damp equipment and stuff inside. The smell will be heavenly. Not.
To my surprise it’s not that bad. I pay the ticket and find a spot right in front of the hostal. I even have perfect change for the ticket! We restore Grrrmaneta and take off. Of course not before we give her a little upgrade from the shop at the basilica.
Because we are already close to it, we circle the HdS monument. There’s no parking space there so we just take a quick picture while waiting on the traffic lights. I promise to pay it a proper visit in a few weeks.
We try to get something to eat on the way. We’re passing something that looks like a big mall outside town, but when we get closer, it’s very rundown and big parts are closed. At least one of the fast food places is still open. We get inside and order. They have Gazpacho, I need to try it – and it’s fantastic! I think my transformation is nearly done. I may be a cheesy white and chubby Aleman chick now, but I am convinced that I must have been a fiery Spanish girl in another life. But obviously I did something bad to deserve this existence, maybe I invented reggaeton and deserved to get expelled from paradise, I don’t know. But speaking of expelled, this place gives horror movie beginnings vibes. And as we spot the monorail, we pack up and leave Kamp Krusty before more unpleasant Simpsons innuendos are coming to mind.
On the way to Madrid I start crying. Suddenly it hit me that this was a dream I always had, but never knew about. Driving through Spain, visit places and see things I had only read about or seen on pictures. I’ve been in love with Héroes del Silencio since 1994 or even earlier, before I even knew their name, but it’s Arde Bogotá who made this dream possible. I’m awfully sentimental about this topic, I know. But it means so damn much to me to be here. And that I am still here is something I owe to these two bands. Their work has put me back on my feet, gave me a pat on the back and turned on the light when everything around me was dark. I don’t expect anyone to understand this who hasn’t experienced something similar, but I know there are people outside who did, one way or another. So, if you’re reading this and feeling something similar, remember: La derrota no es una opción!
The trip to Madrid is spectacular – the landscape changing from one thing into the next from one moment to the next. Others may want to cruise the world on one of these swimming cities, let them do it, but it’s not for me. I am right now, right here in the right place. And there’s another week’s adventure waiting for us.
By now everyone gets excited about seeing signs with A-3 on it.
Our place to stay for the next two days is an apartment in an office complex not too far from the city centre. We struggle with the door to the complex, but the concierge has a heart of gold and lets us in every time he sees us without questions asked. The door to the apartment works with an online key and I am impressed about this science fiction. What I am not impressed about is the balcony. We are on the fifth floor and you can see right through the ground? There’s also a little step at the door. So if you stand on solid ground, the rail is too low and you fear you might fall over it, but when you move to the place where the rail is fine, the ground opens up. Great for any kind of anxiety, I guess. I decide to put mine aside and stay away from this death trap.
Since we found a great parking spot right outside the door for Grrrmaneta, we take the bus into the city centre. There’s a bus that will take us nonstop to Plaza Picasso. What I didn’t know was that La Torre Picasso was so close to the Bernabéu stadium, in fact I did not know that such a big stadium was so close to everything.
There’s a playground right next to the building, the kids want to go there. We wonder about the parrots in the trees and look it up. Of course, that second K2 falls off the playground equipment, right on his face. Another mum and a grandpa from the bench next to us are rushing to the rescue. I try telling them thank you for being quicker than me, but they smile like „don’t worry, everything is fine, it did not cause any circumstances“. Nonverbal communication among parents is a very helpful thing when you don’t speak each other’s language.
Only on the way back to the apartment I get the feeling that tourists are not as welcome here as they are in Zaragoza for example. An old lady is sitting on the other side of the bus, obviously feeling disturbed by us speaking German and the kids being excited. They are not climbing the seats, they do not scream, they are just happy and talking. Whenever she looks at us, I try to make eyecontact and smile which works most of the time. But here – nothing. She clearly dislikes us. When we get off the bus, an older man takes our seat who was sitting somewhere else before and both of them start talking and look in our direction with quite a hateful stare. I feel stunned. This is the first time we met people who were clearly not pleased about us being here. It’s a very odd feeling, and I can’t say that I like it. It’s so very different to the feeling I had when we came here earlier today.
Thursday, July 24th: We decide to go back downtown and do some more shopping. We pick up some breakfast and coffee and ask about the tourist bus tour I’ve read about. It’s leaving in four minutes, so we also tick off the physical exercise for today. At La Aljaferia we decide to take a longer stop because I hadn’t seen it last year, but was told it was beautiful. Hello, what understatement! It’s amazing! We take the whole tour, I even sit down and learn about flags. At this point I am either confusing people with my interest in this topic or with my tour shirt. A girl is looking at me, looking again and then pinching her mother and then the two of them are looking at me. (If you read this, make sure to say hello next time! ;)) Some time later we learn that we already have 200 followers on our Insta account. Pretty amazing for my little „Schnapsidee“!
Near this beautiful place we find another beautiful place for coffee and snacks. The waitress speaks a little English and understands a bit of German, but she is so nice that I quickly gather the confidence to place our order in Spanish. Apparently she’s so thrilled about me trying that in the end she gives my kids another churro for free and I don’t have proof but she may have given us a huge discount. I love this city and its people.
But of course, my new found self-confidence needs to be hold back and so we walk into another supermarket where I choose the self-checkout. Because it’s quicker? Because you don’t have to embarrass yourself by not getting anything the cashiers say? All valid reasons. When you are not me. Self-checkouts hate me in every country as I have now discovered. It’s not working as planned, one of the employees needs to come to the rescue. And another one. The third one is staying until we’re done and out of the store. Next time remind me about it, please.
We get back onto the bus and take the rest of the tour. At Plaza España we decide to check out the ice cream parlor I had seen on Instagram which my kids demanded to visit because the icecreams there are huge. And covered in chocolate. The bus is the same we need to take back to the hostal, only into the opposite direction. I suddenly decide that we need a rechargeable bus ticket. We wanted to get that earlier, but then the sudden leave of the tour canceled that plan. My husband does not feel so well, so I park him with the kids on a bench and promise to be back soon. Well, I probably would have if I knew where to buy this ticket and when I finally found it, that I was waiting in the wrong queue. But again – the people of Zaragoza, so helpful and cute. And: I met another Arde fan! When I was leaving the counter after I got my ticket, a guy was smiling at me and started singing „Qué vida tan dura“ and I answered him and this was one of the best seconds of my life so far! So, an eternity later I arrive with the ticket and we get on the right bus. My husband is sleeping, not even a strong coffee at the ice cream place can wake him up for long. So we have our delicious chocolate covered icecream (which is working much better in theory than in 32 degree weather when the ice is melting, but the chocolate is too hard to bite) and try to find the bus stop to get home to the hostal. My husband appears to be really sick so we put him into one room and let him rest. Checkout is at noon, that’s sufficient time to recover, get up, put a rooftop box back on and leave.
In the middle of the night, I wake up. There’s noise and people talking loudly and running around. I have the feeling that I did cause it because I suddenly remember hearing music or a noise like an alarm clock. Was it my phone? Did I not turn off an alarm to remind me of something? You know these sounds you hear, but somehow build into your dreams? I check the phone. No, my playlist went off as planned, no alarm set and the music wasn’t too loud. I think I hear someone saying „We need to find the one!“ Okay, if you need to find someone downtown Zaragoza listening to Bunbury to go to sleep, I might be guilty as charged. I open the door hesitantly. Are they waiting for me? Do I have to go to jail now for my taste in music? I hope they let me make a last phone call so I can tell my husband he has to take the kids home. I open my eyes. The hostal floor is empty. I still hear muffled talking, but I foremost do smell something. Apparently someone was smoking and the fire alarm went off. I f*cking slept through a fire alarm.
Still Wednesday, July 23rd: I’m trying to find a camping site because we don’t want to leave a wet tent in the car longer as needed. But apparently, Zaragoza is not much into camping (which I totally get). So we have to do with two rooms in a hostal, near the city centre. They send us a message, if we can’t find parking spots on the streets, they cooperate with a car park within walking distance where we get a discount. Not ideal, but I’m fine with it at this moment.
Outside Zaragoza there’s a traffic jam on the highway and we lose some time. But we unfreeze and the damp clothes dry a little more.
Early afternoon we are in Zaragoza. Finally! I have been missing this city for a year and I can’t even tell why I love it so much. I’m sending pictures and the chat group is mocking me a bit for my obsession. Maybe it’s a thing you only get to discover when you’re from another country, I don’t know. But one thing I know is that this city clearly has its preferences for a certain band member – or how do you explain that within walking distance from our hostal I went past a car from a „Jota Company“ and even a „Jota Jota Café“, huh? What are you saying? It’s a dance? Well, that’s probably what they want you to believe. Because they have neighbours from the other team and don’t want to start a fight because in the end we all like the same big picture. That’s maybe also the explanation for the sign of another company that went by something like „Pepe Power“; they are very subtile, those Zaragozanos (wait, do they call themselves that?).
What’s not so subtle is the fact that Spanish cars are obviously much smaller than Grrrmaneta who measures about 2.30 metres with the rooftop box. Spanish car parks have mostly entrance for a maximum height of 2.10 metres. We know that now. So we are driving around Zaragoza, trying to find a parking spot. After the sixth round my husband stops at the Delicias train station which is miles away from the booked accomodation, hands me the keys and says, „You drive! You wanted to come here, so you find us a parking spot.“ Sometimes I’m extremely good at this game and only five minutes later I pull into a spot near the hostal. We can only stay there for one hour because it’s not possible to download the parking app when you don’t have a Spanish tax number. I’ve seen this before when I wanted to order something from Spain. No tax number, no business. Sadly, the machine also does not accept my credit cards, does not give change or accept overpaying, so we put our last small coins in there to buy us some time to get at least the kids and some stuff for two nights into the hostal. The place is nice; I hate the steep steps at the entrance, but for two days I think I can manage. After settling in the kids, handing them tablet and phone just in case, I shove things from the backseat into the front of the car while my husband is emptying the rooftop box and shoving more stuff inside Grrrmaneta. Then the rooftop box comes off. And gets shoved INTO the poor Grrrmaneta. But now we have the 1.95 metres and the car will hopefully fit into the entrance of that damn carpark!
Spoiler: The height fits perfectly, but I think I haven chosen the lane for Smarts or motorbikes because there are very ugly sounds like scratching at both doors. But when I check, everything looks fine. I try to lay out some of the still damp clothes on the rooftop box inside the car to not ruin them completely in the next two days and get some more stuff for the kids before I leave for the hostal.
We decide to finally eat something, so we catch a bus to Plaza España and head into the city centre. It feels like coming home. Joke about as much as you like, this town is something like my spirit animal and I can’t wait to come back in September. Finally, my family is a bit impressed. After we went to a shop I promised the kids we would visit, we see the basilica. Several black cats come to greet me on the way, as clocks, coffee mugs, t-shirts … „Hello, Alice, welcome home!“
After a snack and refreshments, we make plans for the night. One of our followers is from Zaragoza and we want to meet and have dinner at El Tubo. Apparently it’s not hard to spot our little group and so we’re off with her and her husband to the heart of the city. We run into a group of friends of them who give us their table at the bar. We order drinks, an assortment of croquetas and some patatas for the kids. It tastes heavenly. We talk a bit, about my trip last year and this one and my upcoming travel when our friend is reaching in her purse and pulls out a card. „I wanted to show you this. A friend got it for me.“ Holy mother and all crying, laughing and somehow other emotional gods of Spain! I’m holding in my hand a piece of cardboard with a very familiar signing. I’ve seen this many times on the internet when people showed their most priced possessions – it’s an autograph with a personal dedication from Enrique Bunbury himself.
For a split second I regret the croquetas because my fingers are not clean. I need to take those white gloves from the museum with me when in Spain, I have to remember this. Our friend is telling how she got this beauty and I can’t stop admiring it and trying to wrap my head around it that I am holding this. It’s clear, I am in Wonderland. And people walk around with these things in their pockets here like I do with desinfectant wipes or lip balm or something. And then more magic happened when she says: „I want you to have it. I have another one and I know you will value it and take good care of it.“ Have you ever seen a grown woman (at least on the outside) tearing up in El Tubo over a piece of cardboard? The people on this evening do.
Wednesday, July 23rd: The patron saints of the Basque language are apparently very chatty and told all of the other Gods about my untended mutilation of one of their names and they all started to cry at the same time. Otherwise I don’t have an explanation for what awaits us this morning. The nine o’clock rain hits us at about 3 in the morning, without the tiniest chance to pack up anything. At least I get to close the windows in the front of the Grrrmaneta this time. The door in the back I leave open, so the mattress and the pillows get moistened a bit. But surely they would dry later on. What a naive thought. It takes us some time to pack. I manage to rebuild Grrrmaneta into a five-seater with the kids inside and barely stepping outside myself. But by the time we have everything in the car, we are completely soaked through. And all of our stuff is soaked through. Especially the clothes we washed in the evening and wanted to dry outside overnight. I decide to head over to the reception and pay our bill in my pyjamas because I don’t have any more dry clothes at hand. We leave beautiful Hondarribia accompanied by the tears of the Gods who must be very, very pissed because the rain follows us until we reach Pamplona. There they apparently hand over to some Gods of wrath.
We intended to stop in Pamplona, maybe visit the town center and get some breakfast. Impossible. We don’t get around in the town, we are circling everything multiple times, but can’t find even a place to park. Okay then, no breakfast in Pamplona, I get it. At a roundabout I nearly crash Grrrmaneta when a driver from the inside lane decides to suddenly take the exit while I was still looking for the correct path out of this hell. Good thing I sometimes have a sixth sense and so I had already slowed down before suddenly stepping on the brake. For the rest of the trip (and probably a long time after), cars with scratches and dents get labeled „they tried to have breakfast in Pamplona“.
Breakfast turns into snacks from the car and we skip coffee. At a very dusty and run down parking spot near a vineyard we decide to take a break. My husband unpacks the tent and lays it out flat to dry for some time. I do the same with my damp clothes. It’s not raining anymore and it’s about 24 degrees already. We must be close to the desert now. I decide to change since I still wear my wet pyjamas and have been driving in my chunky beach sandals, and like a foreshadowing of things that will happen about a week later, the vineyard farmer decides to take care of exact that row next to the parking space the moment I am standing there with no pants on. But I don’t care, all I know in this moment is I have dry clothes on and warming up. Next stop Zaragoza.
Tuesday, July 22nd: After a perfect night of sleep in the car resp. the tent, we wake up with no intentions to drive today. We ask at the reception if we could stay one more day. They are struggling a bit with this request, but the nice lady then gives me a thumbs up: „We will manage. Stay.“ I already love the people here. So we walk into the town. Only metres away from the camping site a guy with a bike asks us to take a picture of him and a road sign. He’s from Belgium and apparently this town is part of a famous bike race in which Belgians are very successful. I don’t know about bike racing, but I recognize a fan face when I see one. He is very pleased to see this place for himself. That’s something I know and totally understand.
On the next corner we are checking the map when a woman approaches us and asking us something we don’t understand. She then gives us directions in clear Spanish, about how that one street is easier to walk than the other if we wanted to see this spot in town. She switches back mid-sentence, but her smile does not need any translation. I feel a bit dumb for not understanding everything, but she sounds nice and smiles supportive and we decide to take her advice.
We arrive at the town center and immediately stop like tourists to take pictures. It’s breathtaking beautiful here!
And the first black cat is crossing my path. Apparently I am Alice, but following black cats to Wonderland instead of white rabbits.
We walk down to the promenade and try to get some coffee or a snack. Drinks are no problem, but when we try to order food, the waitress ignores us. We have the menus and already decided, but that woman does not return to our table. Well then.
Next stop beach. We finally get to dip our toes into the Bay of Biscay, but the kids decide it’s not only the toes. That we don’t have packed things to change is no reason for them to hold back. At least we have sunscreen.
The way back is hard. We find a supermarket and buy something to eat and drink, but we are all exhausted. We can’t find a bus or at least information if any of the busses will go anywhere near the camping site. We try to get a taxi, but it’s not working here as usual. Here, you apparently have to call the cab company. There are two numbers on the table, both are not working. I walk into a bar and ask if they could call a taxi for me, but they won’t. I check the internet and find a third number and call them. „Hello? Do you speak English?“ – „No, thank you!“ Yay, information and opinion in one short sentence, thank you, Sir! But I didn’t deserve my 660 day streak on Duolingo if I wasn’t capable of ordering a taxi. One year ago I already mastered this quest in Zaragoza. Okay then, en Español. It’s working pretty well. Until they ask me where we were waiting. Instead of telling them the name of the bar behind the taxi stand which was one very easy word, I try to pronounce the name of the street. At that moment I guess I broke the heart of all patron saints of the Basque language, but I promise, I am very sorry, I tried, my feet hurt and the kids were soaked through. Awkward silence. The man on the phone says the name again, barely waits for my yes and hangs up.
A taxi pulls up. A man with two kids gets in because they are standing on the other side of the street while I am still waiting for the green light. One of the kids looks sick, so I let them go. But I try to tell the driver that I am the one who called and still hasn’t got the taxi. He’s talking on his radio and gestures something I read as „someone else will come“. A minute later another cab arrives, thank god, the driver knows a bit of English. He’s nice, he helps with the bags and apparently did not witness the unintended destruction of his lovely language. He tells us that in the city kids don’t need a booster seat (I asked for that on the phone – in Spanish and I am still a bit proud about this accomplishment) which I still try to verify because I have never heard of this. On the other hand, it’s not my licence and I won’t have to pay the fee and the kids are big enough already to not have the seatbelt sitting in their faces. It’s just a short ride, they’ll be fine.
Back at the camping site, my husband is making a delicious Paella on the little camping stove and we’re having real Spanish beer. La vida es maravillosa.
We make a plan for the next day: Leave early, because the forecast predicted rain at 9 in the morning and we want to get the tent into the car before it gets wet.
Monday, July 21st: We wake up in the morning, the tent is a bit wet, but we intend to find another campsite soon, so a few hours in the rooftop box won’t do it any harm. One horrible instant „Type Latte Macchiato“ later we pack up, put the seats back where they belong and leave. We want to go for breakfast in La Rochelle, but take a roundtrip first because I get distracted when thinking about coffee. Of the famous Asiatique to be exact. I have to try it some day.
La Rochelle is pretty, but it’s still France. We wander around the town center, there is a market in front of a food hall. The kids don’t know whether to throw up from the sight of dead fish or dead mammals, I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry that there are people at about 11 in the morning drinking white wine in the sun and eating oysters while I am still craving coffee. We get some pain de chocolate („por favor“ – oh please, not again!) and I finally get to try pastéis de nata which taste heavenly. We see Bogoseñales and decide to take one look at the sea before finally, finally leaving for Spain.
In the evening there are signs that we are near the border. Road signs that say „Espagne“ for example. We wanted to go to Zaragoza, but it’s impossible to do at least three more hours on the road today. We decide to find a spot near the border, but on the Spanish side. There’s a nice looking place in Hondarribia, it’s only a short ride from where we are now and they have a spot available. We’re relieved because we are both dead tired. This trip is exhausting. France is exhausting. But then something magical happens: We’re crossing a bridge and we’re suddenly in Spain! There is no doubt, Exoplaneta is playing and the road signs have turned into a beautiful yet kind of disturbing mixture of consonants, like a complete opposite of Finnish. This must be it, the famous Euskadi – with its proud people and beautiful landscapes. I heard they are sometimes mistaken to be stubborn here and that you can’t understand anything at all when they are talking. Well, that’s what they say about people from northern Germany as well, especially about those from the seashore. I think we’ll get along just fine.
We arrive at the camping site, we get a spot in the front, next to some Belgians, Netherlands and a nice guy from Spain with a cute dog. K1 and I think there might be a galgo somewhere in the ancestry so we automatically like him. The dog also likes us and gets a bit overexcited with the greetings and scares K2 half to death.
We set up the tent, prepare Grrrmaneta for the night and check out the place. And then I see it and start laughing like a crazy woman. Imagine driving 2000 kilometres and then run into people from Hannover. The couple who owns the car looks a bit „pikiert“ at us (I cannot translate this word, it’s like pissed and amused and a hundred other things at once), but cheer up when I can breathe again and thell them why I was laughing. They are travelling along the north, but will be home before the 31st. I get the feeling otherwise they would have tried to get tickets for the concert, they were very interested in what we were telling them.
The restaurant is still open, we order two beers, lemonade for the kids and some fries, croquetas with fish and rabas. The beer arrives quickly, I think wringing out the tent would have been more tasteful, but it’s at least cold. The croquetas are with ham and the fries not done. We try to make the waiter understand that we would keep the croquetas, but cancel the rabas which he apparently forgot to write down, but in the end we have two variations of croquetas, rabas and the cold fries which are not eatible. At least they didn’t charge us for the second plate of croquetas.
Sunday, July 20th: The bites don’t hurt anymore. My mum’s secret balm to cure everything helped a lot. My husband is driving, I am sleeping in the passenger seat, the kids dozed off soon after we left. A lo Oscuro, here we go. I wake up just in time to take a picture of a sign pointing to the near (German) A3. More sleep.
At about 2:30 we are already at the Belgian Border. At 5 we’re making a stop. Obviously the last ones standing from a Saturday night of partying are stranded here. The toilet is filthy. I can’t help, but that’s been for years my only association I have with Belgium – dirty loos. We leave as quickly as possible, next stop France.
At about 7 we make a stop somewhere around Amiens, Grrrmaneta is thirsty. On Sunday, there’s a limit on how much fuels they sell. So it’s only half a drink for our trusty car. We have breakfast in Abbeville, and like I feared my first words to a French man are: „Do you speak English?“ Great start. They will remember that. We have an awful lot of kilometres left in France, this is going to be fun. Not.
But the French kid in the bakery is nice, we try to communicate in all available languages and so I muster up all my courage and order confidently: „Deux croissants, por favor!“ Lord help me, what a disaster. I better pack my stuff and go home right now. On the other hand, it might work better in Spain. If we ever get there. There’s so much of France left. We send a sign of life home and my dad informs me that this is exactly the route my parents were driving some 50 years ago, including suggestions for sightseeing. Nooo, please, I want to just cross this place and go to Spain!
But we won’t make it to Spain today. I’m checking the camping app someone recommended and find a spot near La Rochelle. Reasonable price, toilet and shower. Sounds fine. We arrive around 18:00, the owner is already waiting. It’s an old orchard, it’s like camping in someone’s backyard. Well, it IS camping in someone’s backyard. There’s a goat family with babies, a goose couple with a baby – the kids are thrilled. The owner shows us around. He’s nice, but I also have worked hard on the phrase „Hello, we made a reservation via the app“ in French for the past 5 hours. He is telling us a lot about the garden, but at some point I run out of French. He knows English, and everything is fine. At least we tried. But it would be nice if something of five years French at school would have stuck. Instead I still remember the phone numbers of all my friends in first grade and the name of my bench neighbour’s cologne in Physics in 10th. (Sumatra Rain, in case you’re wondering.)
We put up the tent for my husband and K1, prepare the Grrrmaneta for sleeping in the back and get out the camping kitchen. Ravioli for the carnivores and some cheesy instant noodle dish for me. I decide to shower which is literally a shower in a garden shed. But it’s surprisingly comfortable and warm. We are worn out from 20 hours in the car and fall into sleep quickly. I can see the 571 sign from Cartagena in the back window from where I am. What a nice view. There was a girl in another car exitedly waving at us when she saw the sign as their car overtook us. Looks like the chavales already start to conquer France as well. What a nice thought.
I wake up to someone knocking. K1 wants to sleep in the car as well. Next time I wake up to rain. Are the windows wide open? No. Go back to sleep. I should have closed them at that point, some things got pretty wet in the front. But aren’t we heading towards Spain? It’s warm in Spain, everything will dry there. (Little did I know at this point.)
Saturday, July 19th: Everything is packed, Grrrmaneta is ready. We have a bed, a tent, camping chairs, concert stools, food, camping equipment, clothes for 2 weeks and of course the gift basket for the chavales and a bottle of whisky for Ultraligera (and no idea how to get it to them respectively). Plus about fivehundred different charging cables for different devices. What could possibly go wrong.
22:00: We’re starting. A quick goodbye at my parents‘ and a last pit stop. I try to rescue a little bumblebee on the way in which was laying groggy on the road. The kids get a snack box for the road and money for the trip. Something is feeling off at my back, might be sweat running down, it’s July and hot and I’m nervous. We say goodbye again, look at the map and leave last instructions for our „housekeepers“. I scratch that weird spot on my lower back again and suddenly feel that it has legs. When I passed my mum’s lavender bush, I must have taken a blind passenger aboard. Apparently I did not only save one bumblebee’s live, but as a thank you I got bitten by another one. We did not even start our adventure road trip in the wild and I already have three insect bites on my leg and my butt. What a promising start! But one thing is true: In German we’re saying „Hummeln im Hintern haben“ for when you are excited about something and can’t wait for it to start.
On the way I’m reading about the terrible rain in A Coruña and that they almost had to stop the concert. I’m a bit uneasy at first, what if something like this happens in Santander? What if we don’t get to see the show because the universe decides to show us a big shiny middle finger? What if … But the more messages pop up, the more those left behind send their positive thoughts towards Coruña, the more it shows that the universe is either on the right side or completely powerless against the will of five Spanish musicians and their incredible team plus the enthusiastic energy of thousands of fans hoping they can go on with their show. It’s clear, hell or high waters, nothing is gonna stop Arde Bogotá. We try to keep this in mind for the upcoming days.
