transmission spain: baqueira
7:26 a.m.above the clouds looks a lot different than 7:26 a.m. below the clouds.
Yep, two six hour flights with an entire row to myself, a jet-lagged whirlwind afternoon in Barcelona where we walked up and down La Rambla—the main shopping thoroughfare filled with street artists and pickpockets, and here I am up in Baqueira, a tiny town in the Pyrenees near the Spain/France border.
Sagrada Familia by Gaudi—as seen from the "nightmare" side.
Zac and Pierre at the Aero Puerto.
Please appreciate the glory of this guy's "German tourist" outfit: socks with sandals, pants under shorts, a vest for camera and cigarettes.Nearly perfect.
Anyway, we drove about five hours Northwest from the city to our mountain destination on Sunday, and when I wasn’t desperately trying to stay awake like that old cartoon with the bulldog who uses toothpicks to keep his eyes open, I was taking in the dusty countryside out the window—all rolling fields, old brick barns, and orchards laid barren for the winter.
The moon rose at dusk, and in the darkness we wound our way up a steep canyon with sheer cliffs falling away to the right. How far down it was to the water was only revealed when, every now and then, a metallic moonlit river popped out of the blackness hundreds of feet below.
Zac, spinning 900 degrees over a view of the highest mountain in the Pyrenees.
Eric, bottoms up with his first glass of caña, or "tap beer."
Anyway, Spain so far? Just fine. It’s easy-style over here. People sleep till 10, and no restaurants serve dinner before 8 p.m. Plus, every meal is a three hour affair. Good livin’ if you ask me.