Another day, another sleepless night dreading the process of extracting our rental car from the parking garage. I don’t know how the locals do it. It would take years off of my life if I had to do this every day.

We have one more big move left in our trip, this time to Marbella, where we plan on dialing things down and mostly relaxing on the beach. This is an area that has been aggressively built up over the years so I know going in that it will be far more carefully curated resort than old Spanish fishing village, but if Roy Kent can spend six weeks here during the AFC Richmond off-season, I figure I can give it a shot.

Unfortunately, initial reports are not good. We have a great place just a few steps off the beach but, so far, everything here seems to be geared around squeezing in as many condos as possible and then filling them with British people tired of the rain back home. It’s a vacation style that I know plenty of people love (someone is renting these condos after all), but I feel like OJ trying to put on a glove that just don’t fit.

But wait, it gets better.

As we turn in for the night, I turn to my fellow traveler and ask where she got Ben-Gay and why she put on so much that my eyes are watering. Puzzled by her answer that we have never owned any Ben-Gay, I start dissecting the bedding to try and track down the source. The answer is pretty much everything – mattress, sheets, duvet, pillows. Ponder that for just a moment. Who uses that much Ben-Gay and what did they have to do in this bed before we got here to spread it around so much. It’s Halloween, so fitting if that haunts your dreams.

We’re heading back out on the road today and much of my night was spent in a cold sweat wondering how I was going to get the car safely out of the garage under the hotel. It took several 5-point turns and some outside assistance just to get our car into a spot unscathed and I vowed then that it was never leaving.

The one solace giving me hope is that by leaving before most people were awake, we’d avoid the risk of any traffic making an already tough job worse.
As the alarm rings, an incoherent string of mumbled words emanating from the pile of blankets next to me shatters that dream and any hope that we’ll be seeing the Alhambra today.

Fast forward several hours and the butterfly has emerged from her cocoon. We’ve adjusted our plans and are now headed to Ronda, a much shorter drive and on the way to Marbella, where we’re set to spend the final week of our time here.

The name may not ring many bells, but most people are familiar with this picture and the bridge that connects the two sides of this town on either side of the gorge:

It is a cool little spot with plenty of great scenery to take in.

The town is also famous for its bullfighting history and, for those who collect the trading cards, the birthplace of Pedro Romero, who ruled the ring in the late 1700s. I’m not much of an aficionado of the sport, but there is something to be said for anyone willing to face down 6,000 angry bulls all while wearing a tight, bedazzled suit.

It comes as some surprise (to me anyway) that bullfighting is still a thing here in Spain. Although far less frequent than in its heyday, it is still possible to hand over your hard earned money to watch a bull get slowly stabbed to death.

Before calling it an evening, we take a stroll back to the viewpoint for the bridge as it is tightly lit at night and deserving of a few more photos.

Contrary to popular belief, the rain in Spain does not fall mainly on the plain, as evidenced by the downpour that started last night and lasted into the morning. The forecast is for more of the same for the next five days so time will tell how much we are actually able to accomplish. Nevertheless, we are in a lull at the moment and, back at full strength are ready to roll out.

We have tickets this morning for the Real Alcázar, a 700 year old royal palace still in use by House Martell (and the Spanish Royal Family but that is much less interesting). It is particularly notable for its Mudéjar style, reflecting the confluence of cultures in the region.

As impressive are the outdoor spaces surrounding the palace. ranging from intimate courtyards that would have been reserved for members of the royal family, to the vast sculptured gardens the extend out for acres in almost every direction. The only thing I see missing is a royal hammock.

The Catedral de Sevilla sits right next to the Real Alcázar and is also on our list of stops, but first we set off in search of the churros we saw on display a few days ago during our initial reconnaissance. Unlike the dainty rings we have seen elsewhere, these look more like a large coil of rope that, laid out end to end, are probably taller than I am.

It takes some searching through the warren of tiny streets and alleys but ultimately we are successful, although, in practice, the presentation doesn’t live up to the hype.

Jacked up on sugar and carbohydrates, we head back to the cathedral, which for several hundred years was the largest in the world (while St. Peter’s is quite a bit larger and I did earlier refer to it as a cathedral, technically it is not as it is not associated with a bishop). Given its vintage, it is a return to the classic gothic style.

Off to one side we a buzz of activity next to this set up:

Turns out this is the tomb of Christopher Columbus, although there is some dispute as to whether his remains actually lie here or in the Dominican Republic. These seems to be far less desire here to topple this monument than there would be back home, although it is labelled Cristóbal Colón, so perhaps angry protestors have not yet made the connection.

Our tickets include entry to a few other areas of the complex, including the bell tower, La Giralda, but we’ve hit our church limit it seems and instead start our journey back to the hotel.

We’re off to Granada tomorrow bright and early (our tickets for teh ALhambra at at 10:00 AM and it is a two hour drive from here) but, even with the change in weather, I’m a little sad to see our time in Sevilla come to an end. There is a fairly large university here, scattered across many of the old buildings in the areas we have spent the past few days so, Roberts boys, if you are actually reading this, semester abroad.

It took a lot, but my trustworthy travel companion has finally broken. Perhaps rebelling is a better word. Either way, she has claimed today as day of rest, with plans to sit by the rooftop pool and read a book. I have a little too much energy to burn off for that, so I head off solo in search of some excitement.

Our hotel is a little distance away from the old town where we have preferred to stay but, in a fortunate turn of events, forces us to walk through Maria Luisa Park to get there. It is an amazing urban park, perhaps one of the most enjoyable I have experienced in all of our travels. It doesn’t hurt that we are just a few days away from November and I’m strolling through it in shorts and t-shirt.

Near the end closest to the old town is the Plaza de España, a sprawling landmark built to flex a little for a world’s fair back in the 1920s. It doesn’t seem to have much practical purpose these days other than housing a handful of government offices, but makes for a great spot to rest for a bit and people watch.

From the plaza, I continue on to the old city. Much of it we explored last night, so I’m mostly passing through, making a few critical stops along the way for essentials such as ice cream and pastries. At the far side, I loop back around along the river. There are plenty of cafes, an hour long boat tour, and quiet patches to sit under shady trees. Were the rest of the team present I could easily see spending a good part of a day here and I file that away should time permit tomorrow.

It is hard to make a broad judgement since I assume these areas are the best Sevilla has to offer, but I quite like it, probably even more than Madrid. Of course the price to pay for 80 degrees in October is 100 degress in August, so my review then my be a little less glowing.

You’re reading this, so you know by now these intrepid travelers have stared death in the face and survived to tell the tale.

It begins just as the sun is breaking over the mountaintops, adding a shine to the vibrant green of our protective helmets and highlighting the stylish hairnets we get to wear underneath. Now we’re ready for adventure.

The plan is pretty simple. Traverse this canyon:

Along this walkway:

About this high above the river below:

It has all the elements necessary to leave streaks in your shorts but, alas, it has been watered down with safety railings and a surface that doesn’t crumble away if you put your foot in the wrong place.

You can see the new trail in these pictures with the remnants of the old trail, taunting me through the spaces between the boards, below.

As an elite green helmet, we are paired up with a guide who explains the history of the trail, the various dams along the river, the geology, and the plants and animals that we see along the way. Or at least I think that is what he is talking about. His english is only slightly better than my spanish (which isn’t good), and the wind blowing through the canyon into his microphone muffles any words that he might pronouncing coherently. After a while, I take out the earbuds and focus instead on the surroundings as we navigate the rest of the route.

This has been a novel experience, but one that probably jumped the shark about fifty years ago. I figure back then the old trail was probably still sturdy enough to not step through, while the adrenaline rush from walking that narrow path with the water rushing far below would leave quite a lasting impression.

With a good chunk of the day still ahead of us, we change locations once again, this time for Sevilla, where we arrive in time to do a little light exploring and figure out what we might want to see over the next few days.

We finish up in the old town where, for some reason, they have constructed several giant wooden “mushrooms” on what would otherwise be pretty prime real estate. There is a viewing deck at the top that provides some good views of the city and, at night, different color lights flows across them in waves which is kind of cool, but it all feels a bit out of place.

A few weeks before traveling here I stumbled across an article about the most dangerous hiking trail in the world. Called El Caminito del Rey, at least five people have died trying to complete it. Now I’m intrigued.

Dating back to the early 1900s, the route originally allowed power company employees to service a series of dams along the El Chorro gorge. With no other direct route, they built a man-made path just a few feet wide using stanchions pinned to sheer cliff walls roughly 100 feet above the river. 100 years later, after decades of disuse, large chucks had fallen away leaving just the metal skeleton to side-step across while staring a loooooong way down.

My fellow traveler has agreed to this so, after a quick flight to Málaga to pick up a rental car, we’re on our way to El Chorro. Times are scheduled and we’re set for tomorrow morning, so once we arrive, there isn’t a whole lot to do other than wander around the tiny town (which seems to have more cats than people) and spend some time on the patio of the converted mill that is our accommodation for the evening.

Things take a turn for the worse when, as dusk falls, my hike-mate decides now is a good time to finally Google Caminito del Rey. A few YouTube videos later full panic mode ensues. Tears may have been shed. Plans may have been cancelled.

What she has missed in the planning is that a few years ago, after the last few people fell, the trail was closed by the regional government and rebuilt to be considerably more Angela-friendly, complete with a wooden walkway several feet wider than the original and a safety railing to keep hikers from plummeting to their death. Now, tour busses full of out of shape tourists walk this track every day.

Crisis averted. Hike still on for first thing tomorrow.

It is our last full day in Barcelona, and I think we are perfectly OK with that. The city has its charms but, overall, it has a far more hectic vibe to it than Madrid, and it just feels rougher and dirtier (perhaps because the central government soaks up tax dollars from all of the industry here and uses it to polish up the capital). In my younger days that probably would hold a certain appeal, but I found my a gray hair today, so it seems that time has passed.

The main thing on our itinerary for this part of the trip is Sagrada Familia, the odd looking cathedral that, after some 140 years, is finally nearing completion. Google tells me that new cathedrals aren’t are rare as I would have guessed, nevertheless, this one seems to get all the press and we’re about to find out why.

I lost count long ago of the number of cathedrals I’ve passed through, yet they still seem to impress. Some, like St. Peter’s, Notre Dame, and the Duomo, take your breath away. This is something altogether different. Part of it is just a progression in building materials and techniques allowing for more open construction and bigger windows but, really, this is all about the architect, Gaudi.

It starts outside, where exterior surfaces have been put to work telling the story of Jesus’ life. Each side is different, richly carved and finished with trademark Gaudi touches like colored tile, lizards, and trees.

Then you enter, and inside you find not the thick gothic pillars and secluded chapels you expect, but a soaring, light-filled space crafted to evoke the feeling of being in a forest.

Like most things on a grand scale, pictures only convey so much. I will say this though, after walking through it once, I had to go back inside for another look, which is about the highest praise I can give it.

Now our day starts to get a little weird. Having been on our feet for a while, we decide to take a break for a little “communion”. OK, it is chips and sangria, but you get the idea and the view is pretty good.

On a side note, just across the street from the Sagrada Familia someone thought it would be a good idea to open a dick waffle shop. Out of courtesy (read some kind of arm twisting), part of the sign has been blanked out so that it is just called “Waffle”, but still. Anyway, I digress.

Above me in the trees is this bloated fellow…

…and, as I raise my glass to take a drink, a turd the size of a eyeball splashes down directly in the center. Gross, I know, but when I consider the odds that I could place a deuce into a moving Home Depot bucket from height of twenty feet without even brushing the rim, I can’t help but consider my surroundings. Divine intervention, or just an uncanny coincidence? You be the judge.

With a newfound feeling of indestructibility (and a fellow traveller who seems a little bit tipsy), we head off on foot to stroll along the beach and catch the arial tram across the bay for a bird’s eye view of the city.

After everything else we have seen and experienced today, it feels a little anti-climatic but is probably one of those things we would have always wished we did had we skipped it. It sums up our Barcelona visit perfectly though – glad we did it, don’t need to do it again.

Off to Southern Spain tomorrow.

The game starts at 4:00 PM this afternoon so we have the lion’s share of the day to see a few of the sights. Not far from our hotel is the Palau Güell, a palace built by Antoni Gaudi for a wealthy textile family (so, small as palaces go but it’s all in the marketing). Now I’ve heard the name Gaudi, mostly in relation to Sagrada Familia, which we’ll be visiting tomorrow, but never really knew much about him or his work. If you asked, I’d probably say “he’s the guy that likes to build things in odd shapes and cover them in colorful tiles”.

Turns out he was was considerably more talented than that (although he did build things in odd shapes and cover them with colorful tiles), and the Palau Güell is a great showcase for the detail and innovations he incorporated into his building. In close quarters, you really can’t get pictures that do justice to the interior of the palace, including the soaring central hall and the richly-carved coffered ceilings but, outside, we have colorful tiles.

Most of the sights like this seem to have an app now with a digital audio guide, which is so much better than bumping elbows with a bunch of other tourists all trying to see the same thing at the same time. This one was quite well done and, although it was a short tour, one we both enjoyed.

With just a few hours yet to go until game time, I can’t help but notice the complete lack of anything that would suggest anything of note was scheduled to happen today. The people walking the streets aren’t sporting Barca gear, there are no TVs set up to pull people into the dozens of sidewalk cafes that line Las Ramblas, not even a single person with a vuvuzela. I’m not quite sure what to make of that yet, but feel a little doubt creeping in that we will find a spot to squeeze in and watch.

After some wandering, we fond ourselves at the Picasso museum and, to our dismay, learn that it is closed on Mondays, which is our last full day in Barcelona. There are tickets available at 5:00 PM, but that means skipping the game, which was the primary driver of bring in Barcelona on this particular day. However, we’ve walked at least 3 or 4 miles through the streets of the city and scarcely more than a handful of places that even had a TV, much a crowd of rowdy soccer fans. We make the call for Picasso. Sorry, Tim.

The Picasso museum houses the largest collection of early works that Picasso donated to the city where he spent much of his life, much to the dismay of the French, who figured they deserved it more. I quickly realize how little I know about Picasso. Of course there is all of the cubism that he is mostly known for, and the stage before that where everything was blue, but he evolved through many styles over the years and apparently was a rock star at all of them. It a bit awe-inspiring to see to be honest.

We emerge from the museum to catch the tail end of the Clasico on our phones. Madrid wins 2-1, but nobody seems to care one way another.

On the way back to the hotel we make a quick stop at the cathedral (not the new one). There is a Sunday service in full swing so we watch that for a few minutes before ducking back out. I have no idea what will happen to this one once Sagrada Familia is done. Can a city have more than one catherdral or do they just turn a building this big into a Costco?

6:30 AM feels awful early on the best of day much less a vacation day but, for reasons that probably seemed good at the time, we are booked on a 9:30 flight to Barcelona. For a country with a good network of high-speed rail, air proved to be the more efficient option a surprising number of times, although as I side-step into my tiny seat I wonder if perhaps the formula is lacking a few variables. Nevertheless, some 30 odd games of solitaire later, we have crossed the country and are touching down for the next stage of our adventure.

Our hotel is just off of Las Ramblas, the main pedestrian avenue, as is about as tourist-centric as possible. We are within walking distance of just about everything we plan on seeing and there are shops and cafes for blocks on end in every direction. Marriott has it in their system somewhere that unless the front desk staff want a visit from a disgruntled world traveler only the finest room will do. It doesn’t always work, but this time they seem to get the message. The room is tiny, but it is up on the 8th floor and one of only a few with balconies overlooking the city.

We take a few minutes to unpack and then step out onto the balcony to catch up on a few items back home. It only takes a few minutes, but for someone with such finely-honed sleeping skills, the transition from vertical to horizontal can happen in an instant. I swear that wasn’t here before.

Fast forward a few hours and back out the door on our way to La Boqueira, the old city market. Like Madrid, it has been repurposed for the tourists with grand displays of edibles.

As good as it all looks, reality is that everything is overpriced and gets tossed into a microwave to reheat just like it would at a 7-11. The higher function part of our brain knows this from experience but it still can’t stop my arm from pointing at one item after another. Some of it we eat, some we just can’t, and fortunately we run out of stalls before we run out of money.

Across Las Ramblas we happen by the world famous Dick Waffle. OK, the world famous part I just made up as this is the first we’ve come across the work of the creative genius who managed dared combine dicks with waffles. It’s pretty much what you imagine once you realize it isn’t something like shoe store that some poor guy named after himself.

I think of the commercials for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups that tell the story of how chocolate accidentally feel into the peanut butter and the rest is history.

One of our goals today is to get a sense for where we want to take in tomorrow’s soccer match. It is Barcelona versus Real Madrid, which is a legendary rivalry. We debated getting ticket to Camp Not to watch it live but, with COVID, stadium capacity is limited to 30% and it just doesn’t feel like the experience would be the same. Instead, our thinking goes that all of those fans will pack the streets and bars, and that we can partake that way.

We rack up a few miles heading down Las Ramblas to the port and then along the waterfront to the Barceloneta neighborhood. There are people everywhere, enjoying what must be another sunny, 70-degree, October day. We know storm is moving in on Seattle and, for just a flicker, feel a tiny bit guilty.

Paella for dinner, the best we’ve had since we got here, and then a long walk back to the hotel as we’ve managed to get ourselves quite far away.

Of all the places we’ve stayed along the trial, this one is the hardest to leave. It isn’t the quirky whale theme that they somehow manage to pull off, but there’s something about looking out over a quiet old finish town and down to the water that calms the soul. Were this the first day of our journey rather than the last, we may never have made it very far.

The route today takes us mostly along the coast, climbing from one secluded bay and descending to the next. It is a bit more strenuous than my fellow pilgrim was hoping for, but the rapidly declining distance markers provide the motivation to keep going.

Past the town of Finisterre, there is one last, long climb to the lighthouse at the end of the trail. It is mid-day, the sun is hot, but, finally…

Years ago, hikers that finished the camino would burn their boots on the rocks here, in theory to signify leaving one stage of life behind and starting a new one. Given how my shoes smell after just five days I suspect there may have been a less spiritual motivation. Nevertheless, it is frowned upon now (for obvious reasons) so, instead, people have started just leaving them in a pile. I’m not sure how much of an improvement that is but I guess at least no one is starting fires on a windy spit of land where there is no equipment to put it out. On a postive note though – free shoes!

It turns out there is a small hotel here that, under different circumstances, would make for an amazing place to hole up and watch the sun go down (and come up for one of us). We do take advantage of the cafe patio though to have a drink and soak in what we have accomplished.

Of course, no journey like this would be complete without some souvenirs. Nick, we remembered how much you like SpongeBob so got you a shirt you can wear at college.

And I have to ask, who thought this was a good idea? It is a machine that flattens a penny but, really? Did no one stand back and look at it first? No matter, it is all rusted up at this point so even if you wanted a flat penny, all you could do is put a coin in the slot and yank on the handle trying to turn it (pictures of which would make wonderful souvenirs for everyone else who watched you).

I gave my fellow pilgrom so change and suggested we get pennies for the boys but even after all of this walking, her mind is still too quick.

Here’s the final tally (including a few extra hours when I left the meter running while we drank wine and ate dinner). Now, it’s a three hour bus ride back to Santiago de Compostela and an early morning flight to Barcelona.