Barcelona, the French Riviera, and “The Walking Dead” – All in One Blog Post

If you’ve read some of my previous blog posts, you know that I was a big fan of The Walking Dead television show. Although the series ended a few years ago, there have been various spin-offs and though none of them have quite measured up to the original, I think The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon has been the most interesting of the bunch. For those of you who don’t know anything about the Walking Dead universe, it’s set in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse where humans must fight off cannibalistic zombies – and one another – to survive in a brutal, post-apocalyptic world. Most of the original series’ action took place in Georgia and Virgina, though more recent spin-offs have ventured to Los Angeles, Mexico, Texas, New York City, and the Pacific Northwest.

In contrast, Daryl Dixon’s adventures began with him mysteriously washing up on a beach in France, unconscious, unsure of how he got there, and wondering how he’ll ever be able to get home. Now in its third season, Daryl’s adventures have included becoming embroiled in a post-apocalyptic version of the French Revolution and seemingly effortlessly making his way from the beaches of Normandy to Paris and back again with remarkable ease and without the aid of bullet trains or rental cars. In the second season Daryl’s pal Carol from the original series from the original series tracks him from Virginia to Maine, learns that he was put aboard a ship bound for France, and convinces a local pilot with a small plane to fly her to Europe.

If you think flying to Europe is a hassle these days, just wait till after the zombie apocalypse. It won’t be pretty. Due to some mechanical issues, the pair is forced to land in Greenland to make repairs and must fight off a few zombies and a group of reclusive mad scientists who want to force them into experiments to re-populate the planet. What a layover! Soon, however, they’re airborne again, buzz on over to the coast of France, and before you can say, “Bienvenue!”  Carol has managed to get to Paris and miraculously be reunited with Daryl there.

After more drama in France, the pair then make their way across the English Channel via the underwater train tunnel, the Chunnel, and end up in London, where only one person is left alive in the entire city. Luckily, he has a boat and the three decide to sail back to America, but in a plot line stolen from Gilligan’s Island, a storm takes them off course and they end up shipwrecked on the coast of Spain! These two are like a post-apocalyptic version of travel guru Rick Steves! If they ever do make it home, they can write books about how French, English, and Spanish zombies differ from their American counterparts and tell us which picturesque villages on the Continent are still worth visiting. They have given me hope that even in the wake of a zombie apocalypse, my European adventures won’t need to come to an end!

So, early October as I was finalizing reservations for my OWN trip to Europe, I’d just booked a hotel in Barcelona when I tuned in to that week’s episode of Daryl Dixon. Our hero was riding a motorcycle from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean coast of Spain – fighting off zombie hordes along the way, of course – to rescue someone in, of all places, Barcelona! I chuckled as the city I’d soon be visiting was portrayed in all its post-apocalyptic, ruinous glory. Alas, no one seemed to be serving tapas or sangria anymore. I fervently hope that next season Daryl and Carol will find a way to detour through Italy before heading back to America. I’d get a kick out of seeing Venice, the Amalfi Coast, or the Roman Coliseum populated by dramatically gesticulating Italian zombies.

First Stop: Barcelona

My own European adventure began when I chose to fly to Barcelona on Iceland Air. Although the airfare was a real bargain, my back, neck, and legs paid a steep price after a cumulative ten hours of flying time from Boston to Spain via Reykjavik. I have rarely experienced less comfortable airplane seats in my 40 years of international travel. I arrived in Barcelona hunched over and limping with a zombie-esque gait from being so confined for so many hours. By comparison, I think Carol had a more comfortable flight to Europe than me, despite that hectic stopover in Greenland!

 I have visited Barcelona twice before. The last time was about seven years ago, and I really enjoyed the city, but this time I was shocked by how crowded it was with tourists even at this time of year. Given my battered physical state, walking was painful, so I tried to use public transportation as much as possible. Buses were absolutely packed with riders, and I struggled valiantly to stand up, hang on, and stay upright as the bus swerved to and fro and made abrupt stops. On the rare occasion of seeing an open seat, I’d make a beeline for it, but as soon as I’d sit down, I noticed signs indicating that these seats were reserved for disabled, pregnant, or elderly passengers. It felt like other passengers were eyeing me judgmentally for taking one of these seats and I was tempted to whip out my driver’s license and my Iceland Air boarding pass to prove that at almost 67, I qualified as elderly and that as an Iceland Air survivor, I qualified as temporarily disabled.

Barcelona’s extensive underground Metro system was a bit less crowded than the buses, but I believe that when the city dug their Metro tunnels, they burrowed right through the earth’s outer crust and were only a few feet from the molten mantle underneath. Riding the escalators down to the subway platforms was like taking a journey to the center of the earth. I’ve been in cooler saunas. I marveled at businessmen wearing three-piece suits and looking flawlessly composed while I sat melting, sweat pouring off my face as I sat there in a t-shirt and shorts. And this was late October; it was only about 70 degrees outside, so I don’t want to imagine the Barcelona Metro in July or August.

As I moved around the city and visited some of its most famous tourist spots, like La Sagrada Familia, Antoni Gaudi’s marvelous and still in-progress basilica, or another Gaudi showpiece, Parc Güell I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of tourists flooding these sites. But beyond that, perhaps influenced by my TV viewing habits, I felt as if I were surrounded by the zombies that plagued Daryl and Carol as they navigated their way around Spain. Everyone – well, OK, maybe only 99% of the people I encountered – had their heads down staring at the phone in their hand, totally removed from and oblivious to anything going on around them. I suppose that this is preferable to the typical Walking Dead zombies, who would have eaten my brains as if they were a platter of afternoon tapas. Still, I was pushed and banged into countless times by people who simply refused to look up and see the 260-pound redhead directly in their path.

Worse yet, today’s typical tourist is not content to simply snap a photograph of a famous landmark or view; they must be IN the photo and will spend five or ten minutes posing in a dozen different positions or filming a video with the coveted scene behind them. Meanwhile, everyone else who just wants to take a picture of something – without a narcissistic idiot cavorting in the frame – must wait patiently until the perfect shot has been taken or the Academy Award-worthy video had been filmed. It was maddening and several times I simply gave up trying to get a photo of something because I was tired of waiting. Of course I saw the absolute worst example of this trend several years ago when I visited the Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland. To my horror, people were posing for selfies in front of the Arbeiten Macht Frei (work makes you free) sign at the gates of the camp. I guess after that, nothing should surprise me any more…

On a happier note, Barcelona is definitely a city for “foodies” like me and it didn’t disappoint. I of course dined on seafood paella and tapas, but perhaps my favorite meal was at a Nepalese restaurant that served an amazing tikka masala, and I found a gelateria called Bilmore where the dark chocolate and pistachio gelato was on par with the best in Italy. I braved a block-long line to sample cheesecake at a little bakery called Jon Cakes, and had a memorable dessert and capuccino at Mamma Tiramisu. While Europeans typically tend to do a simple pasty and coffee for breakfast, brunch restaurants are a popular thing in Barcelona and I enjoyed particularly good meals at Billy Brunch, a small chain with outlets across the city, and the amazingly decorated Berry Brunch restaurant.

I got a little taste of home one evening as I was sweltering on the Metro and noticed a young man wearing a Boston Celtics t-shirt. I struck up a conversation and learned that he was a local, but he’d always loved American basketball and had been a Celtics fan since he was a young boy. “No matter who’s on the team, they play with such class and such spirit. I admire them so much,” he said. Of course he was preaching to the choir.

I did have a couple of minor mishaps while visiting Barcelona. When I arrived, I found that my bottle of coal tar dandruff shampoo had exploded during the flight to Spain, so I spent considerable time rinsing the stuff out of all my clothes and hanging them to dry in the shower. Also, the hotel I was staying in, which was lovely, modern, and had a fantastic rooftop terrace, had a fatal flaw: only one of its two elevators was working. Therefore, there was an almost constant line to use the remaining one, which held perhaps six people if they had no luggage with them. I was staying on the 8^th floor and as I waited for my turn to ride up, I joked to other guests that I’d spent more time in line for the elevator than I’d spent in my room. The problem was never fixed during my four-day stay, but hey, compared to Daryl Dixon trying to navigate  post-apocalyptic Barcelona, I guess I had it pretty easy overall.

Leaving Barcelona for the airport was amazingly uncomplicated compared to other European cities. One block from my hotel there was an Airport Bus stop, with buses arriving every five minutes. For about $3.00 it took me directly to my airport terminal. What a concept! I checked in for my flight and was hungry, so I searched the airport for a breakfast spot, only to find that a scrambled egg, bacon, and toast breakfast at any of the restaurants was close to $25. Then I saw a McDonalds and I did what I almost never do when I travel abroad… I ran straight to those Golden Arches and had a really delicious Egg McMuffin with sausage and cheese for about $6.00. Gracias, McDonald’s!

From BArcelona to the french riviera

My flight from Barcelona to Milan on Spain’s Vueling Airlines was pure luxury compared to my Iceland Air flights. Granted, this was only a two – hour hop, but the seats were comfortable and roomy, and everything was on time and efficient. I proceeded to the car rental desk at Malpensa Airport and was greeted by a jovial agent who apologetically informed me that they were all out of the sub-compact, manual transmission vehicle I’d reserved.

“Would you mind taking a car with automatic transmission?” he asked sheepishly.

I almost leapt across the desk to hug him. Yes, I can drive a stick shift, but when trying to navigate Italian traffic and the countless roundabouts on the roads here, shifting is frankly a pain in the butt. I happily accepted the keys to my VW Golf, which also was a diesel vehicle, meaning I’d save a ton on gas to boot. Then a kind agent in the garage took the time to help me sync my phone with the car’s systems and soon I drove out onto the Italian autostrada with my Google map showing on the dashboard screen while listening to my favorite Italian music playlist. Perfetto!

My first destination was the French Riviera for a couple of days and I chuckled to myself that my Spain to France journey had been a breeze compared to what poor Daryl and Carol went through. After four hours I crossed the border into France and arrived in Menton, a small city on the Mediterranean that is a wonderful combination of French and Italian influences: the best pain au chocolat and crepes and the best gelato and pasta, all in one compact and charming town. I stayed at an Ibis hotel, a European chain with economical prices. This particular hotel was located right on the coast with a view of the town center from my balcony. The only problem was the parking garage beneath the hotel. Signs in the lobby warned that the management could not be held responsible in case of damage to cars due to the very narrow parking conditions in the garage. I was grateful that my car wasn’t too big and that it had an automatic transmission, because I could never have maneuvered in and out of that place otherwise. I was also grateful that I’d taken full insurance coverage on the rental car!  I developed a case of claustrophobia I didn’t know I had and broke out in a cold sweat as I tried to squeeze the car into one of the narrow spaces, each of which was sandwiched between two concrete columns. It was terrifying. Once I finally got parked there was no question as to whether I might drive into town for dinner that evening; that car was staying put until I was ready to leave in the morning! However, I seriously wondered whether I would be able to dislodge it from its snug parking space in the morning, but tried not to think about it.

I enjoyed the walk along the scenic boardwalk into the city center and decided to have dinner at a highly rated restaurant called ABAM, which is an acronym for A Boire A Manger (to eat and drink). It is run by a father (the chef) and his son (the waiter) and specializes in – of all things – gourmet hamburgers and fries. Stepping into the place I thought I was in Texarkana or San Antonio; country music played in the background and a Texas Lone Star flag was prominently displayed. I ordered Le Chevre Miel burger, which was topped with goat cheese and honey – a very French combination. It was enormous and absolutely delicious; I can’t remember when I’ve had such an amazing hamburger and was amazed that I had to come to the French Riviera to experience it!

The next morning, after a night of fitful dreams about getting my car lodged between two concrete columns, I descended to the hotel garage. It took me almost 45 minutes to extricate the car from its parking space, partly because I had to do it so slowly and carefully, but also because I had to wait for two other guests trying to get their cars out first. Just watching them made me nervous, but did give me some pointers, and when I was finally able to roll out of that garage, I have rarely ever been so relieved.

I then spent the morning wandering around Menton and admiring the amazingly blue waters off its coastline. They call this the Cote d’Azur or Azure Coast, and the name couldn’t be more appropriate; it was a cloudy day and that seemed to intensify the color of the water to a hue I have rarely seen anywhere before. It was breathtaking. After my oh-so-American dinner the night before, I enjoyed a traditionally French breakfast: a savory egg & ham crepe and a café au lait. I then drove the coast road westward through Monaco and its glittering Monte Carlo neighborhood, and on through Nice, then turned inland and arrived at my hotel near the picturesque hill town of St. Paul de Vence.

It began to rain shortly after I arrived, so I relaxed in my charming hotel room for a while, then drove to the village to seek out dinner, gratefully armed with an umbrella lent to me by the hotel’s desk clerk. St. Paul de Vence is a walled hill town with limited vehicle access, so when I saw a modern parking structure outside the entrance to the city, I decided to park there, despite still experiencing flashbacks from the trauma I’d experienced back at the parking lot in Menton. The spaces here were far easier to negotiate; I parked and found my way out of the labyrinthine garage with some difficulty and walked into the village. I stopped at a restaurant the hotel had recommended and although they weren’t opening for another hour, got a reservation for dinner. I had an hour or so to kill before the restaurant opened, so I went walking through the village.

I spotted a local shop that specializes in the famous cookies this area is noted and I’d had them on a previous trip. I happily donned the waxed paper gloves provided and filled a small bag with samples of several cookie flavors, then headed to the register where a polite woman weighed my bag and told me the price. But as I reached into my pocket, I realized I didn’t have my wallet! I didn’t panic because I was pretty sure it hadn’t been stolen – I realized I’d probably left it on the nightstand back in my hotel room. However, I only had a few Euro coins in my pocket. Not only was that not going to cover the cost of the cookies, but I realized that my car was in an expensive garage and I might not have enough to pay for the parking! If I had to leave my car in the garage and go back to my hotel on foot to get my wallet, it’d require a two-mile hike along a narrow, hilly, curvy road in the dark and in the pouring rain.

Making a dozen apologies to the confused cookie lady, I ran out into the rainy night and made a beeline back to the garage. I found that the pay stations on the entry level only accepted credit cards, there was no cashier booth, and there were no personnel on site at all. Trying not to panic, I wandered around until I spotted a sign that with my rudimentary understanding of French seemed to indicate that there were pay stations on Level 3. I headed up there and to my great relief, those machines accepted coins. My parking charge was 4.75 Euros; I had 5.15 Euros on me – a closer call than some of Daryl and Carol’s narrow escapes from skirmishes with killer French zombies!

Back to the hotel I went. The wallet was right where I’d absent-mindedly left it, and then I drove back to town. I learned from the hotel desk clerk that I could park on a couple of main streets just outside the village for free after 6PM, so vowing never to enter another parking garage for the rest of this trip, I easily found a space, walked back into town and made it back to the restaurant in time for my dinner reservation. I calmed my frazzled nerves dining on a beautiful scallop risotto and a tres-French mousse au chocolat – my version of a good stiff shot of whiskey!

My waitress warned me that nothing would be open in town after dinner because of the cold, rainy weather, and she was right. I passed the cookie shop, which was now closed and dark. I’m sure that as the proprietress locked up the shop for the night, she was cursing the foolish American who’d made her restock all those cookies that he’d bagged and couldn’t pay for. On a sunny day this village would be overrun by zombie-like hordes of tourists taking selfies, but I never saw even one other person that evening. The streets were totally deserted, a misty rain was falling, buildings were dark, and I couldn’t help that nagging part of my TV-warped imagination that found it all rather ominous and apocalyptic. However, unlike Daryl and Carol’s experiences in France, I didn’t I have to contend with murderous zombies relentlessly pursuing me through these empty streets. The only creature stirring was a precocious cat who meowed loudly as I walked past and then followed me up and down the dark alleys like a faithful companion for the next half hour.

Perhaps if the Walking Dead creators want to attempt yet another spin-off, they could focus on me and my faithful cat as we raid a charming French cookie shop, then make our way along the azure-blue coastline of France (plenty of fish for the cat…) and bound for the Italian border. Daryl and Carol, with your cutely rhyming names, it’s time for you to go back to America. Make way for a new Walking Dead chapter: Matt and Cat – there’s potential here, people!