Travel with Manfred

Travelogues from around the world

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Copyright © 1998 by Manfred P.. All rights reserved.

Jun 7 - 28, 1984 (Written on Dec 8, 1998)

Love Affair at the Wild Coast

First Steps of Independence at the Costa Brava

by

Manfred P.

Keywords: Spain, Costa Brava, Tossa de Mar, Lloret de Mar, Blanes, tourist, travel trip report, travel log, travelogue.

The flames lick skywards along the wooden boards and the glowing remainders of some wooden chairs. The flames are beautiful and fascinating to watch. It is cold but the fire offers a few moments of warmth. I am drunk, marginally drunk yes but not unconscious. I have every reason to be drunk. I am surprised that even in May it can be that cold at 3 a.m. As always I resort to my "keep moving" tactics to stay warm. I dance in front of the fire until I am exhausted. The next hours we spend turning our vicinity upside down without causing real damage. Harmless stunts like placing bicycles on the roof are the things to do. At 6 a.m. we started to sing songs, if you can call this singing at all. It was more like 10 drunks bellowing. At 8 the bar and restaurant opened and we had breakfast. A couple of hours later I was dressed in white shirt, black pinstripe suite and tie and tried to look and act "normal". Luckily I didn’t have to act much, just stretch out my hand, receive a piece of paper and say thank you.

We had now officially passed high school. We had 8 long years of sometimes grueling drill behind us. Most of us are 18 now, we are officially mature young men and this piece of paper, the high school diploma, will allow us to move on to university if we so desire. In the afternoon a friend brought my stuff from the boarding school and me home. I unpacked and started packing for the vacation that was to start tomorrow.

I was dead tired as you can imagine when I fell to bed shortly before midnight. All the booze and the complete lack of sleep made me a zombie. I was so afraid that I wouldn’t get up in the morning that I set not one but 2 alarm clocks for 6 a.m. Even that didn’t help. When I opened my eyes it was close to 9 and I panicked. I was supposed to meet my friend Thomas, Tom M for short, at 9 a.m. I swung the backpack around my shoulders, took public transport to the train station and from a nearby spot I started hitchhiking. At a gas station along the highway I met up with Tom M. Now the vacation could really start.

By evening we made it to Northern Italy. Here I had my first warm meal of the day. We lived in camping luxury; we had a stove and a pot. Our traditional dinner was a can of ravioli or similar. The next day we started with thumbing down a hot and very "bella" woman. It was amazing that she stopped. Who would offer two hitchhikers with luggage a lift if the person drives a Fiat Panda, a car smaller than a Geo Metro? She did and I thank for it. In Milan we had an unplanned 4-hour stopover and we crossed the town by public transport.

The second night we spent in Savona, not far from Genoa. We made ourselves comfortable in a vineyard after climbing a fence. I was starving and the dinner was a welcome event of the day. In the house on top of the hill of the vineyard a dog kept barking. He must have smelled our cooking. The next night in France near Narbonne was quite similar. Here we slept in a field and the farmer greeted us friendly in the morning.

At lunchtime of the forth day we reached Blanes, the southernmost village on the Costa Brava, the Wild Coast. Here we decided that this is it. We are here, whatever here is. To us "here" was the destination of our dreams, the right place to get over the stress of the last weeks, the environment to get over the pressures of the last years.

Today I always plan. Before I get on a plane I know where I will go, what I will roughly see and I know what to expect. With this trip to the Costa Brava and the early trips in general, I didn’t plan anything. I didn’t read up on Spain. I didn’t plan anything, I didn’t know where we would go and what we would see. The plan of the whole trip could be described in all detail in a single sentence "I want to go to Spain". I didn’t care about the where and what. One of the reasons, maybe the only one, for picking Spain as destination was pure opposition. Most of my friends had selected Greece as their vacation destination. I had to be different. Spain was warm and far enough away and only Tom M and I had the intention of going there. It was perfect for me.

We strolled through the village, exploring a new country; but it was more; a new world, the world of independence. Everything was up to us. Nobody was here to tell us what to consider, nobody made any decisions for us. It was all up to us. The time was ripe.

We explored and shopped for the essentials, i.e. food for dinner. Then we sat down on the beach and relaxed. We inhaled deeply filling our lungs with the cooling salty ocean breeze. As the name "Costa Brava" indicates, the coast is wild and with many rocks and cliffs. There are no long stretches of beaches, just small bays enclosed with rough rocks and steep cliffs. The cliffs are easily 100 yards high. They are covered with water-efficient plants that can survive droughts. There is no coastal road. The villages are built in the few places on the waterfront where the ocean has crumbled the rock over millions of years into a flat area. There are usually no houses climbing up the steep cliffs. But in a few villages fortresses have been built on the cliffs centuries ago.

In search for a place to spend the night we walked down the beach in the soft sand. We passed the harbor and eventually came to the end of the bay. Between the cliffs and the ocean we put up our tent on a stretch of gravel just a handful of yards from the ocean. A steady stream of cool air came in from the ocean. The coolness was pleasant. The continuous sounds of the ocean are soothing and pleasant. The blue sky by itself is enough to generate an euphoric mood. The sea is clean and has a dark blue color, the sky never changes from the light blue and not the smallest cloud is ever in sight. On the horizon the dark blue of the ocean blends with the light blue of the atmosphere. It blends so perfectly that one cannot tell where one stops and the other starts.

On the beach it was pleasant cool, in the village warm to hot and with every daytime-walk I started to sweat. As soon as the sun disappeared behind the hills it quickly turned cool. I felt a bit strange when I enjoyed our hot self-cooked dinner sitting in the tent and partially wrapped in the sleeping bag while the local fishermen came down here in the early evening in their bathing trunks. Sleeping on the gravel was a bit hard, but nonetheless our unofficial campsite was a great spot.

During daytime we hid the backpacks behind some rocks in order to more leisurely explore the village. It had a small market supplying us with melons and bananas and other goodies that make a perfect breakfast. On the central beach tourists from England and the Netherlands mingled with locals. Tom M stepped on a sea urchin or something similar. Luckily it wasn’t serious.

Life happens on the streets, except for siesta when life takes a break. All goods are offered on the street, the little stores play international hits up and down the current charts, and most of the bars extent their seating onto the sidewalks. Michael Jackson is the big star. The modern Spanish music is to my liking. Finding menus in English and German was disappointing. The favorite cars are small Seats and Renaults, preferably with some light body damage and a massive steel bumper. One moment they drive like maniacs through the narrow winding village roads, the next they patiently wait while a truck unloads in the middle of the same village road.

While Tom M is working on his tan on the beach I prefer to comb through the deserted streets, even during the hot hours when the sun is on its zenith. I am high, not on drugs but high on the feeling of freedom and independence.

Blanes used to be a fishing village. The fishing boats had to unfortunately make room for a tourist beach. Fishing is still performed with the same simple methods. Next to the tourist boats, called cruceros, are a yacht harbor and the rather poor looking fishing fleet where fishermen sit and repair their nets.

After a few nights at the same spot a pair of cops came by at night. They were friendly and just told us that this is not a campground and that we should leave tomorrow. We stayed one more night and then it was time to move anyway. By bus we moved north to Lloret de Mar. While I relaxed at the beach watching our luggage, Tom M went to work to explore the neighborhood of the new village to search for a good spot to make our home for the next days. He found a spot just half a mile from the village center, on top of small hill. The mosquitoes came and visited us at night. I had bites all over my arms.

Lloret is a full-blown town with even more tourists than Blanes. While Blanes is getting ready and preparing for tourism, Lloret is at its pinnacle in the tourist-game. Supposedly the 3,000 locals are met by 43,000 tourists. Absurd. The waiters talk German and serve Lowenbrau. The small old part of town is filled with boutiques. Outside of the small old center, hotels occupy the beach for miles. One stands right next to the other. And they are still building more. Tourists need to be entertained. Lloret has an amazing number of discos, maybe 20, to satisfy the desires of the average John and Jane Doe. The competition between these dance clubs is cutthroat. I had never seen such tense competition. Walls are plastered with the names of the bars. During daytime planes towing ads fly along the beach. The best gag was that most trendy clubs had their own company car. These cars were exotic cars like a massive 68 red Cadillac convertible or an old Citroen. These company cars cruise up and down the beach boulevard all day long with hot scantily dressed babes on the backseat. Loud music made sure that they grabbed the attention of the very last soul. In the old part of town dozens of guys hand out coupons. Some of them even were Germans. Boy oh boy. The word "overkill" comes to mind.

At night colorful laser beams lit up the sky. With all the discos around we had to sample them. We decided to make one night our disco night. The first place, the Hollywood, wouldn’t let us in. No surprise, we failed the dress code. But touring the Zodiac, the Miami Fun Pub and the St. Tropez was plenty. I danced a bit and the highlight was a scratch session by the DJ. Shortly after midnight I had enough but there was no more sight of Tom M. I looked for him for an hour in vain before I decided to walk back to our campsite. No sight of Tom M here either. Just when I was done putting up the tent Tom M came. Good timing. To make up for the lost sweat we didn’t get out of the tent until 1 p.m.

Three or four days of Lloret were enough tourism I can take. It was fun while it lasted but it was time to move on. Tossa de Mar is a short bus ride north. Tossa is said to be the most beautiful town on the Wild Coast. Tom acted as scout again. He came back with a high promise. We shopped for dinner before we climbed the cliffs on a steep path. My pores were cleansed by the time we reached the top. We were on Mont Guardi in a pine forest overlooking the ocean. This time Tom M has outdone himself. He had not promised too much. This place was perfect. Flat, so it’s easy to put up a tent. Soft soil, so it soft to sleep on. Surrounded by pine trees, so that it is shady and we could sleep long. The view was better than from any hotel. No building, no concrete in sight, just the cliffs and the ocean. The strenuous walk up and down would be good exercise.

The first day in Tossa I just played with the waves. They were taller here than in the places we had been before. The bigger ones were 1.5 yards. The experience of toying with the waves was new. Experiencing the power of the water was exhilarating. The game didn’t get boring. I threw myself against the waves, jumped into the waves and dived through the waves. Whatever could be tried I tried. Some of the waves first carried me towards the beach and thereafter without break dragged me out into the sea. The slightly painful experience of being thrown off balance and dragged along the rocks and ground against the sand was added to my list of encounters as well. I so to speak tasted the good and the bad of the power of water. To complement the time at the "playa" I strolled through the narrow cobblestone streets; exploring every corner of the old Tossa.

Once we wanted to watch the sunrise. We set our alarms for 3:45 a.m. We even woke up, but it was still dark. The cone of light from the lighthouse periodically plowed through the dark and threw a beam into our direction. From the sounds we could tell that the fishing boats went by. We sat down in our sleeping bags under a tree and waited. The moon, that was full when we were in Blanes, was now a thin sickle. The ocean whispered; it was romantic, only the girl friend was missing. It got lighter, but still no sun to see. Past 5 a.m. I overcame my tiredness. A layer of fog lay above the water and offered a hiding place to the sun. Suddenly within seconds, the sun was high above the horizon. The color was a strong yellow, a bright light red. We enjoyed the scenery some more. The salty ocean air mixed with the resin of the pine trees.

The soil was soft and covered with pine needles. Besides the cruceros there was silence. Sea gulls glided over the treetops. Bird chirping started in the morning, but I was usually too tired to notice. In the evening we ate outside, eggs, canned food, chocolate, cookies, bread. With a filled stomach we then reclined against a tree and in an absent-minded fashion stared holes into the evening sky. Later at night as a special treat we drank sherry. Time becomes a blur. The events from yesterday and last week get lost on the timeline and cannot be ordered anymore.

Being in Spain, I had to see a bull fight. Showing horsemanship is part of the warm up. The torero has a fan club of girls, like cheerleaders in American football. Not bad. With big applause and fanfare the first bull entered the oval arena. He was small but mean and instantly rammed the wooden boards. The fight is like a well-planned ceremony. The same steps are performed over and over again at every bullfight. I was told that even the time of a bullfight is dictated by tradition. 20 minutes, or similar, is the golden rule. First the helpers madden the bull some more. Thereafter the real torero enters. The audience goes "ole" every time the bull storms by the torero. The next step in the choreography was to tempt the bull in a kneeing position. Subsequently colorful skewers are brought to action. The goal was to stick 2 skewers into the neck of the bull at a marked spot. When the torero failed and only placed one skewer the audience punished him with whistles. In the last act a sword is brought to the torero. In a single attempt he had to thrust it down to the handle into the neck of the bull. The bull didn’t die but reached the next level of anger. The helpers chased the bull around until the torero removed the sword from the bull and then in the last blow killed the bull by thrusting the sword into the head of the bull.

This spectacle was repeated four times with four bulls. Each time the bull that was brought in was taller than the one before. In the break the bull was dragged out of the arena by a pair of horses and the bloodstains in the sand removed. The ears of the bull were cut off by the victorious toreros and thrown into the spectators that fought for them like little kids. The last resting places of the bulls are the dinner plates of the soldiers of the Spanish army.

The third bull fought for his survival. He had the torero under his hooves at one point. It was painful to watch. The 25-year-old torero checked his head for a moment but fought on. At the end his female fan club rushed onto the arena and each one received a kiss.

Time came again to move on. In Llagostera, a small town inland, we prepared for our journey back. Via Gerona, Narbonne, and Cote d’Azur we hitched a similar route back to Italy. Here at a freeway fork we got off in the wrong place. Instead of finding the expected tollbooth we realized we are in the middle of nowhere, 8 miles from the next freeway off-ramp. To make things worse the freeway didn’t even have an emergency lane. Tom stayed with the luggage while I tried to find a rest area or something similar. When I returned minutes later fully frustrated with myself I was overjoyed to find Tom M already sitting in a parked car. The guy was young, well built, good looking and our guardian angel. He got us out of the mess and later we had a Montenegro, a sweet liquor, at a rest station. In Reggio Emilia we went to an English pub and had two beers. Because I didn’t have much to eat all day, I already felt dizzy after the second beer. We ended up spending the night at his place and the next morning he drove us to the freeway onramp. Isn’t amazing how friendly people can be sometimes?

But there are a lot of friendly people out there. From Bolzano we hitched a ride with a businessman who dropped both Tom M and me off at the door of our respective homes. All that detour just for us. In 3 days we made it back; hitching 2,500 miles in total on the round trip to the Costa Brava.

The vacation was a welcome contrast to life at school before. The trip to Spain, however, was an even bigger disparity to what should follow just a couple of days later. On July 1, 1984 I was drafted by the Austrian army for 8 months compulsory service. But let’s not talk about that.

Spain. I came, didn’t expect anything, and fell in love. I seriously did. 14 years have gone by and I am still in love. None of my love for women has ever lasted that long. Unfortunately, so far none came even close. Spain remains a prime get-away destination, a country where I want to live for a year or more one-day. Spain, a country that I want to explore in all details. Spain, a country and language for which I still possess strong emotions and desires. This love affair with Spain had its origin with this trip and the Costa Brava.