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.
