We decided to venture north out of the city, to the resort towns of Costa Brava. Somehow, the car rental agency moved locations from our walk home the previous night. Having hoofed blocks as big as the Mediterranean out of our way, with no car rental agency in sight, Jill quickly activated her cellular data as if she was a contestant on "Minute to Win It." I was still confident the car rental agency was around the next corner. As Heather says, "I am often wrong but NEVER in doubt!" Address downloaded, we hailed a taxi. Car rented and GPS in hand, we piled into our clown car. Good news - Jill never had to show her International Driving Permit to the Policia. Jill drove ("Ohhhhhh, it's a stick shift") and I was co-pilot ("Yes Jill, I'm certain I can find our way out of the city"). Heather, of course, was there to provide comic relief.
Jill burned rubber into busy traffic, trying to refresh her stick shift skills "on the job." Before we could even input the destination, the GPS unit started to sound its alarm ("The Hunt For Red October" flashback). GPS alarm blaring, we had no directions and circled Plaza Espanya multiple times (think Chevy Chase in European Vacation). After avoiding turning into Parliament, Terry activating her cellualr data for directions, almost hitting "Spanish Betty" in an obscured crosswalk, soliciting street side directions from a familiar face in yellow (the DHL guy) and reassuring Jill all of her U-turns were completely legal, we managed to point the car in the correct direction.
We made it through two toll plazas, speaking Spanish to any attendant who would listen, "Buenos Dias, Buenos Noches, Muchas Gracias, Mucho Gusto, Cuanto Euros..." Heather and I were so exhausted by our limited contributions that we half-heartedly asked Jill if she minded us taking a quick cat nap. Before she could respond, Heather was completely flat in the back seat covered by the Anaheim Angels blanket she brought from home, and my head apparently bobbing side to side with such fervor that Jill thought I was a having a seizure. Twenty minutes later, we pulled into a the most beautiful virtual ghost town, Llafranch, where only one restaurant was open. I guess a Monday in November is not considered high season on the Med. We literally saw more wild cats than people and the staff to client ration was 3:1.
We had great conversation with the owner of Hotel Llafranch, whose uncle was a close personal friend of Salvador Dali. We were ready to get back on the road with France in our line of vision, when our "host" said to all three of us, "Do you like shoes?????" as he gestured excitedly to his own (shoes that is). We all stopped in our tracks which he took as a YES. Our "professional" driver Jill asked for a map. Our host whipped out his highlighter as if he was making a AAA Trip Kit and a map of Spain that appeared to originate in the 1978 edition of Rand McNally.
Jetting toward Figueres, the top-secret shoe outlet capital of the world, our discussion ranged from "Do you think they take American Express?" to "Where are we going to pack all the shoes?" to imagining the smell of the Spanish leather. We counted out many roundabouts, our GPS now engaged in our journey, passed 100 goats and two herders, one Bull sign, and a lot of flat scenery when we arrived in Figueres. Driving through the cobble-stone streets, we saw no shoes in sight, nor did we see anything resembling an outlet. As we stopped at a red light, Heather rolled down her window with the archaic hand-crank and called a man to come over with her finger. Let us point out that Heather, who has never taken a lick of Spanish, says to the man in a quiet voice, "Z-A-P-A-T-A-S????????" as if whispering this magic word would make shoes come down on a conveyor belt from the secret factory. The truth is, it appears sending someone to Figueres for shoes was the equivalent of telling someone visiting us to drive an hour for the fabulous selection of shoes at Payless. We parked anyway and scurried around the town, having to prove to ourselves that there were no shoes worthy of our bags or Am Ex cards. There were, however, Ugg Boots and Crocs aplenty.
We made a mad dash back to Barcelona to turn in our rental car by 7:00 p.m. The dark skies, heavy rain, and of course, our shoe shopping extravaganza put Heather and I at the edge. We had to beg of Jill, "One more cat nap please..." We woke up just as we were entering Barcelona and I probably don't need to tell you that we missed the car drop-off by 15 minutes. We parked our little Ford half on the sidewalk and half in the street and shoved the key through the door. (We are hoping the car is there in the morning.)
On to Madrid manana!!!
"Have no fear of perfection- you'll never reach it". -Salvador Dali
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