Tarragona

As you might remember from the last post, I was only able to head to Tarragona after mostly getting over my rotavirus.

Navigating the train was easy–well, as easy as it can be when one travels alone with enough luggage for two weeks abroad and a bad back.

Arriving and getting to the hotel was a different challenge. I ended up waiting about forty minutes for a cab. At one point, I considered figuring out the buses. I asked a fellow traveler about them, since he was waiting there.

Me: “How much do you think it costs to get from here to the Tarragona bus station downtown?”

Him: “You’re in Tarragona.”

Me: “I know. This is the train station. I need to get to the bus station, which is near my hotel.”

Him: “The bus station in which city?”

Me: “Tarragona.”

Him: “But you’re in Tarragona.”

Each of us thinks the other person is an absolute idiot.

I checked into my hotel, located in the old part of the city, within the old defense walls. My room overlooked a plaza.

I was hungry, so I ordered tapas, only to discover that Tarragona tapas are not in fact small plates, since each was designed for me and four or five of my closest friends.

(Note on ordering in Spain: no restaurants will serve paella if you’re single. Paella is about 25 euro a person, and at least two people have to order it. However, each place would initially think I was ordering an entire bottle of wine when I requested my verdejo.)

A short walk took me to a Roman circus: where animals and gladiators would compete and perform. My favorite parts were underground–long hallways with small rooms, where the competitors were kept.

After exploring the underground, a guide pointed me to the way up.

It’s a good thing that I was on my own, because about halfway up to the top, I started to freak out. When I was little, I wasn’t afraid of heights. In fact, I would hide from my mom and stepdad on the roof. Something’s shifted, though, and I don’t like heights anymore, and I am crazy afraid of certain stairs: mostly the old ones in Europe, that are not made for modern feet, and/or that are open, allowing you to see how many flights you’ll fall if you trip like the clumsy chronic pain woman you are.

I am certain that there is security footage of my panic attack. And of me talking to myself, explaining that probably no one has died on those stairs in a couple hundred years.

I did make it to the top.

But I was so flustered that I went down the wrong way, exiting instead of finishing the route. And then I was too embarrassed and exhausted to go back, so I went in search of wine. I had my usual verdejo, but then tried a xarel lo, a sort of cross between chardonnay and sav blanc that is usually used to make champagne.

That night, I had an amazing dinner at my hotel: gazpacho, the best lamb ever, and catalan custard (aka creme brulee). There were also fireworks.

Each night, I had to take a shower before bed because Spain in the summer means you’ll sweat through your clothes all day–that kind of sweat where you can feel little rivers flowing on you. The shower head was a problem, though. The water pressure was high (great!), but it was SO high that it would turn the shower head until it was aimed outside the tub.

Even figuring out this problem, I was powerless to stop it. I just couldn’t have the shower head in my hand the whole time I was getting in and out.

The next day, I wandered around for a long time and ended up at the old Roman wall. It was 11 a.m., and I shouldn’t have been outside. I quickly realized that I was about to get heat stroke, so I did what I used to do in London heat waves: I lay down under a tree and read.

(In London, I would sometimes fall asleep. I have also slept in the “secret garden” at Churchill’s estate.)

When I recuperated, I finished the route and left. I ran into a Scottish woman on the way, and we commiserated about the heat. She also told me her kids were not into their trip: they didn’t care about Roman ruins and didn’t want to eat Spanish food. They kept asking for McDonalds. When we parted, I told her to stay cool.

Her: Think of the gladiators!

Me, suggestively: Oh, I’ve been thinking of the gladiators . . .

Her, laughing: Oh, get on with ye, girl!

Most afternoons in Spain, I used the afternoon siesta to grade.

That night, I went to the Roman amphitheater. I couldn’t go in, but the views were wonderful. I particularly liked the moon over the sea as well.

Back at my hotel, I tried to have the same dinner as the night before, but the main kitchen was closed. I had an okay dinner at a nearby restaurant, while writing postcards. The waiter kept going to every table around me, offering free champagne, since they had opened a bottle. They only offered it to couples, though, not to me.

Tarragona: the woman eating alone, writing postcards, needs the champagne most of all!

Then it was back to my room for some sleep before heading to Peniscola the next day.

Parting thought: Tarragona was beautiful. Also, strangely, I was always able to find my way back to the hotel without a map.

Those who have traveled with me know how insane that is. Maybe one of my previous lives was at the Roman circus.