Hace mucho calor. Cada dia. Cada noche. 32 degrees, dropping to 29 at night. This is no place for a person with a stick. And certainly no place for a person who can't wear sandals (the waiters did, after a while, get used to me sitting with my shoes off in the shadiest corner of the terrace). And finally, no place for a person with low blood pressure, who faints away if forced to stand still for more than a few minutes....
Weird having a holiday when you can't really walk around. Can't do the sights. Or the shopping. Wander the old town at night. Too hot even for physio. And the tiled floors, while beautiful, horribly unforgiving on a shattered ankle.
But. It was perfect. Eating. Sleeping. Reading. Hablo castellano. More sleeping. Three cold showers a day. Swimming in the Med. Swimming in the little pool. Eating grapes from the vine. Wandering the ramblas (well, one or two blocks). Wallowing in the generosity of my friends and their families. Marveling at the flat of my friends - 300 years old and perched on a Roman wall.
Ironically the heat prevented potential frustration. Had it been five or six degrees cooler, I would have wanted to get out there. Visiting every museum, art gallery and Roman ruin. Inspecting every Gaudi. But when its 32 degrees you wake up at 10. You eat finish breakfast around 11.30. You plan your next meal. You linger over lunch til 3. Then a siesta. A short stroll to a terrace. Or a drive into the mountains. Catching one part of an exhibition. And dinner at 10. And then more sleeping. For ten glorious days in Catalunya I almost forgot about my disability.
The journey home was the wake up call. Ever noticed how far you have to walk in airports? And then double that for the departure and the arrival. But - I achieved it. I got myself, and my stick, to Barcelona and back.
Weird having a holiday when you can't really walk around. Can't do the sights. Or the shopping. Wander the old town at night. Too hot even for physio. And the tiled floors, while beautiful, horribly unforgiving on a shattered ankle.
But. It was perfect. Eating. Sleeping. Reading. Hablo castellano. More sleeping. Three cold showers a day. Swimming in the Med. Swimming in the little pool. Eating grapes from the vine. Wandering the ramblas (well, one or two blocks). Wallowing in the generosity of my friends and their families. Marveling at the flat of my friends - 300 years old and perched on a Roman wall.
Ironically the heat prevented potential frustration. Had it been five or six degrees cooler, I would have wanted to get out there. Visiting every museum, art gallery and Roman ruin. Inspecting every Gaudi. But when its 32 degrees you wake up at 10. You eat finish breakfast around 11.30. You plan your next meal. You linger over lunch til 3. Then a siesta. A short stroll to a terrace. Or a drive into the mountains. Catching one part of an exhibition. And dinner at 10. And then more sleeping. For ten glorious days in Catalunya I almost forgot about my disability.
The journey home was the wake up call. Ever noticed how far you have to walk in airports? And then double that for the departure and the arrival. But - I achieved it. I got myself, and my stick, to Barcelona and back.
No comments:
Post a Comment