Spain: The Soviet Patient

There’s something about arriving in a new country that makes you feel you’re on holidays, even when you’re not. This is reinforced by friendly recommendations, as if you’re on another planet and not the one with the awful crown on its head. Then reality hits and the bucket list you just thought might be possible is replaced by a long grocery list designed to limit contact with the virus in the vegetable section.

In contrast to Rome, Barcelona was modern and spacious. We were on another rooftop looking down on an intersection crisscrossed by scooters, baby buggies and delivery trucks. There were so many motorbikes it sounded like the start of the Moto GP every time the lights changed. At intervals a man with a bucket and brush came to change the posters on the advertising column. It was comfortable to walk and nearly everyone wore a mask, the exception being the illegal smokers. (Public smoking had been banned in an attempt to limit the spread of Covid.) Leafy center islands divided traffic and were perfect for city strolls, playgrounds and overflow for sidewalk cafes. At street level the shops and restaurants could have been anywhere, but up above it was old Spain. Six, seven story buildings were precariously narrow, with graceful balconies, Catalonia flags and patterned facades like your gran’s parlour wallpaper. Gaudí’s influence was everywhere with twisted spires and globe-topped turrets. Even the stone street benches were works of art. We were living in the shadow of the Sagrada Familia and its ever-present crane, but it was closed. Risking eternal damnation we attended mass one Sunday just to get into the crypt. The service was in Catalan and accompanied by a tiny choir nestled behind two mighty pillars. We never did see the famous interior, but it didn’t matter. Living in the vicinity was a privilege in itself.

We were back on Spanish-speaking soil but it didn’t feel like it. Hearing and reading Catalan was confusing. They use “X” a lot and the ‘wee five’ which is what I called the Cedilla. It’s hard to practice one’s language skills when you’ve only the supermarket cashier to converse with. I tried but got discouraged by the blank looks. One day a white-coated pharmacist responded with such an irritated glare you’d swear I’d asked for a pack of Catalonia Flag condoms. In spite of awkward moments I persevered but registered my protest by not bothering to learn all that “vosotros” stuff*.

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Every morning we emptied our trash and recyclables into the color-coded bins on the street (I quite like this system). Afterwards we’d climb the hill to Park Güell, another Gaudi dreamscape, or wander the Gothic District, beach or far off the beaten track to find a key cutter for one of Pferdi’s interesting Soviet locks. We looked-up the local Ural dealer who had no Urals but plenty of Royal Enfields. I spent a happy hour being semi-understood while Demi and Fran spoke that ‘no-words-necessary’ language of man and machine. We left in a great mood. He was only the third person we’d had a real conversation with in the last eight months.

You didn’t need the restaurants to know the food was great. The markets were full of plump, bright-eyed fish, sheets of dried, salted cod, multi-coiled and -colored sausages and the ubiquitous rows of hanging hams. The casualness of Rome’s café culture was more muted here with well-distanced tables and never a crowd. It was tempting as always but we kept to our regimen of avoiding unnecessary contacts. Apart from the odd coffee we ate out only twice. Pancho was admiring of one particular native custom. Every morning we passed workmen, old women in sensible shoes and stylish businessmen at breakfast, all drinking beer, or a shot, and never far away, an elusive whiff of a certain something. “This is my kind of town” he proclaimed frequently while thankfully refraining from joining in. (Maybe we’ve lived in California too long.….)

Initially we were told we could go anywhere within Catalonia so took a drive down the coast to Sitges. Later it transpired we shouldn’t be leaving the city at all so poor Pferdi went back underground. It appeared all of Spain was closed as was its 1,200 km border with Portugal. I played the usual mind games of checking routes and ‘what ifs’ but the bottom line was just leaving Catalonia meant we’d be breaking the rules. The bare trees turned full and green without our noticing but nothing changed. To get to Portugal we needed to cross four of the country’s 17 autonomous regions and most had closed their state and municipal borders.

On May 1, after a three month closure, Portugal reached its final phase of lockdowns and opened its land border. Nine days later Spain’s state of alarm expired and even though the Covid numbers were not as low as hoped, it wasn’t renewed. It was the first weekend of freedom in six-months and they didn’t hold back. In the city center and beaches there were mass drinking sessions called “botellones” and police cleared out some 9,000 partiers. Others went off for the weekend but we waited till Tuesday to leave.

By mid-morning Catalonia was behind us. Crossing the Valencia line, the sun came out but the wind was howling. We were climbing and the judging by the road signs, strong gusts were a permanent phenomenon. Everything came to a shuddering halt at 2:00 PM. Fran stopped on a narrow shoulder of the autovia and climbed off with a legful of oil. I though the wind had blown us over but we’d run out of gas, which shouldn’t have been possible. With big trucks thundering by Fran checked the spare fuel cans in hopes of a forgotten dribble. Nada. That’s when a Guardia Civil policeman stopped on his motorbike. Down he strode, all long legs, dayglow vest and shiny helmet. We explained our predicament and he blew his top, ‘started yelling what in the world were we thinking, fueling on the side of the freeway, rant, rave, rant en español. Explanations were useless, all I got was my own tiny self reflected in mirrored shades and a wide open cavern of white teeth (he’d forgotten to put his mask on). After a not-so-funny episode of Seriously Lost in Translation, he called a tow truck.

The mood was subdued when we were dropped in a one-mule town, even more so when after fueling Pferdi refused to start. Pushing him to a small mechanics a block away, we received an uninterested reception. By now it was three hours since we’d stopped and we were very hot and running out of ideas. I was contemplating ordering another tow when the owner’s son called his bike mechanic friend. His fresh eyes discovered oil on the plugs and after by-passing the oil-choked air filter return, our boy fired-up.

With still no idea of the magnitude of our problems we got moving but continued to lose oil. Deciding to plod on to Requena we bought more at a truck stop outside Valencia. Dusk was falling as we climbed up into the forests; you could hardly see me in the sidecar so surrounded was I by small plastic bottles. Fran said we should have bought a 50 gallon drum and fed it directly into the engine (that was sometime after, when we were able to laugh again). It was 9 PM when we pulled off a lonely road into our hotel. The two old gentlemen managers had kept the restaurant open for us and it glowed warm and yellow in the dying light. From our linen covered table we watched the sun set on the vineyards beyond. My white sock-like Calamari was big enough to pull over my head and wear as a balaclava and the olive oil drenched vegetables were spilling over the plate. Pouring another glass of red, the stress that had taken hold seven hours earlier melted away. Tomorrow's another day Scarlett.

Pferdi hadn’t improved overnight. In the 150k since the breakdown, we’d consumed eleven litres of oil and got 6.5k to a litre of fuel instead of the usual 14. (14 is good on a Ural.) Surveying the damage, a Russian guest passed, rolled his eyes and muttered “Urals, always breaking down”. Poor Pferd., I quickly covered his ears. As if he wanted to be sitting there covered in oil with a mysterious ailment! After a swift but no less painful rejection from the mechanic in town there was nothing for it but to return to Valencia. Missing our America Sur nanny group, we turned to Demi who gave us the name of a repair shop and thanks to a tailwind and long downhill, we limped our way to the front door of Moto Adictos.

They didn’t want us either. Sergio was friendly and polite but no way was he letting a hulking great Ural that they’d never worked on before into his shop. By this time Fran was convinced the piston was gone but it was only when the mechanic returned from lunch that he was able to persuade them to take a look. Much to Sergio’s dismay, Ángel got quite excited and if their later retelling of the tale, and ensuing translation, is correct, uttered the following words:

- “Oysters, how handsome, a Ural side! These chestnuts are very bad but they are as mechanically simple as a BMW. This is sucked, how cool”

Since our ‘Ural Side’ wouldn’t fit through the door, he was placed on the tiles in the neighboring Citroën repair shop. The next day, Ángel extracted a black, charred lump of metal, our former piston. It was so bad it invoked a certain perverse admiration all round. That evening, sick with relief at having found a mechanic, and hanging out of a bottle of San Miguel, Pancho lost all sense of modesty, and sense, by announcing “Anyone can fry a rasher, but by God, it takes talent to fry a piston that bad!”

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Finding parts wasn’t easy. Demi, who by this time was regretting we’d ever stepped over his threshold, was consulted again. After checking around Europe, we found a Ural distribution center in Austria. Being awkwardly different as usual, Ural has three standard piston sizes and the markings on ours were obliterated by carbon. So we guessed. The waiting game that followed found us unexpectedly enjoying one of Spain’s oldest cities. Unfortunately due to the post-lockdown holidaying Spaniards, we had to move three times in 8 days. But between taxis to Citroën's sick bay and hotel hunting, our explorations did provide a blissful reprieve from the worries of travelling, and breaking down, in the time of Covid.

The parts were mislabeled as “Dangerous Goods” and got held up for three days. When they finally arrived the piston was a size B instead of a C. I nearly had an apoplexy but being only mere millimeters smaller, Ángel made it work. Pferdi was discharged. In spite of the shaky start, we said goodbye like old friends, or maybe Sergio’s smiles were simply joy at seeing the back of us. Whatever it was, they had come through when we most needed it. It was only later did we realize just how much we disrupted their work week. I’ll attach a link to Sergio’s blog for those with time on their hands. Google’s translation of Valencia’s version of Catalan makes the retelling more entertaining than the realty and I’ll admit I found nothing funny about being called an elderly lady.

Leaving Valencia we turned our backs on the coast. Pferdi was smoking like a chimney but it was just all the splattered oil burning off. Driving inland, I wished we could have travelled slow, via the backroads, but such luxuries would have to wait for safer times. It was a long steady climb to the arid plains of Castilla La Mancha. The roadside was a tangle of wild red poppies with vineyards and flower fields stretching as far as the mountains. This was one of the Spain’s most sparsely populated regions but there were plenty of large, black bulls keeping us company, of the Osborne brandy kind. After spending the night in Motilla del Palancar we moved on towards Andalusia. Our hotel in Bailén had a grand, sweeping staircase reminiscent of old Hollywood but outside the heat shimmered oppressively over parched wasteland and the dust from the clay quarries was suffocating.

Our last day brought lime green pastures and waves of yellow sunflowers. Pferdi’s transplant limited us to 55-60 kph; our Russian tortoise among the just-in-time juggernauts. But he was feeling fine and in the 800k border run, we’d made great time. The autovias were quiet and the truck drivers kind. Skirting the suburbs of Córdoba and Seville, the traffic faded as Spain neared its end. We lost count of the ‘Portugal’’ signs but with the year we’ve just had, I fully expected a uniform to jump out with a “Halt! Who goes there?” The way was lined with pink and white oleanders and the words ‘ruta de las flores’ turned over in my mind. It was so beautiful a bride could have floated down the center line and looked perfectly in place. There were no organs for us but I knew they’d be playing on the other side. After all, it was eight months since we’d last driven into a new country and really, it was about bloody time.

*In Spain, Vosotros is the casual plural form of the second person ‘you’. We never learned that. In Latin America they skip the Vosotros and use Ustedes for both casual and formal plural forms.

Moto Adictos Blog: Y DE REPENTE…UN SIDECAR URAL