Travel is overrated. I thought so when I did it for business, and even going on vacation – though it is great to get away – brings with it a certain amount of inconvenience – or worse.
I was looking forward to my first real vacation is several years, a long-awaited trip to Barcelona and San Sebastian with my sister alumnae from the Associate Alumnae of Douglass College. Unlike a friend who travels often and told me she packs nine outfits for a 30-day trip, I packed what seemed like 30 outfits for my nine-day trip (no washing out anything in the bathroom sink for me!). I even “fired” another friend who graciously offered to pack for me, knowing that after she left, I would only add more to the pile.
I was looking forward to experiencing the culture, walking the cobblestone streets, and putting to use the 12 years of Spanish I studied from third glade through my sophomore year at Douglass.
I got off on the wrong foot, so to speak, upon arrival at our hotel in Barcelona. We weren’t there for more than 30 minutes when the group began to scatter, eager to explore the city with our free afternoon. I could see my carry-on bag containing my camera just yards away in the lobby and I headed in that direction.
And then came the fall.
Looking straight ahead, I missed the two (not one, but two) steps between me and my bag and fell hard, twisting my ankle and landing with a thud on both knees on a very hard marble floor. You know that awful feeling when you know you’re going down and there’s nothing you can do to stop yourself? When you hope you aren’t going to break anything? When it seems to take forever just to land and you know it won’t be good when you do? When you hope no one is watching?
So much for the latter, because EVERYONE saw it, and I was immediately surrounded by well-intentioned people asking if I was alright. Too soon to tell folks. Did I want to go to the hospital (more on that later)? See a doctor? Die of embarrassment (they didn’t ask me that question, but of course that’s what I wanted to do)? I gamely got up – swearing at myself for being so negligent – and was swiftly brought to my assigned room – thankfully, near an elevator. I elevated, iced and had the ankle wrapped by a hotel employee. Needless to say, sightseeing that day was out. Later that night, when the group went to dinner, I went by taxi instead of walking the tree blocks to the restaurant.
Our AADC leader and my good friend Valerie Anderson went to the local “farmacia” (and there are tons of them in Barcelona) and bought me a crutch, which I used for the rest of the week to walk over those cobblestones, go in and out of cathedrals and museums and get in and out of buses as we toured.
The ankle only hurt with every step I took. Having broken both of my ankles in the past, I was worried that I was doing more harm than good and decided to go to the local hospital to get it checked and make sure there was no fracture. How would I get my pants on over a cast? Would I be confined to my room? How do you say “broken ankle (tobilla) in Spanish? Somehow our Spanish conversations in school – which included trips to the library – never covered this now-important ground.
So I got to see a part of Barcelona not designed by famed architect Antoni Gaudi – the inside of a Spanish hospital.
The people there were extremely nice and accommodating. The first question I was asked was “Que paso?” (what happened?). I quickly abandoned my Spanish and gave way to the more familiar terms, explaining my fall and twist. Three hours, three x-rays and 300 Euros later (on my Visa card), I was relieved to learn the ankle was not broken, just sprained. It could have been so much worse. I could have broken the ankle and needed a cast or fractured my wrist, in which case, how would I have gotten myself dressed?
By the next day, my right ankle was a combination of swollen (I could only wear one pair of shoes) and discolored, and the left shin turned lovely shades of purple from the impact. Though I missed the special dinner in which the group celebrated birthdays – mine included – in favor of elevating and icing in my room, I gamely marched on and did everything else.
Spain is a very interesting place. Barcelona took full advantage of the 1992 Olympic Games and has repurposed all of the facilities built for them, along with massive improvements in the infrastructure of the city and environs.
And then there is Gaudi, the famous architect whose masterwork, Sagrada Familia, is a cathedral that has been under construction for more than 100 years and which is scheduled for completion in 2026 (though most people are dubious). This man never knew a straight line when he saw one. In addition to the group visit to the cathedral and a park where he was supposed to build what amounts of a housing development (only two houses were ever completed, so it isn’t exactly Levittown), I ventured to a tour of a private home he built. Little did I know that seeing the entire building required a walk up 10 stories to the roof. But it was worth it. His work reminded me of Alice in Wonderland, and it is better seen than described.
Our trip (pardon the expression) included a flight to location two, San Sebastian, in the Basque County, where everyone understands Spanish but uses the distinct Basque language proudly. I was hauled to the plane in a wheelchair, clutching my crutch. We had a stop an hour away in Bilbao, home of the Guggenheim Museum, an architectural wonder designed by Frank Gehry and a completely different experience from Gaudi’s work. We were lucky enough to see it on a sunny day, and the colors of the metallic exterior glistened and changed in the light as we moved around it. The modern art inside was not my favorite, but the building itself exceeded my expectations. And there wasn’t a cobblestone in sight!
We spent a morning in Pamplona, not trying to outrun the bulls but dodging delivery trucks and vans as we and they made our way down hilly, twisty, cobblestoned streets (definitely not on the activities you want to do on a bum ankle and with a crutch).
It seems that every city in Spain has an “old town,” and we visited each of them. I wondered what we in the United States would show Spanish visitors about our old towns: “Here’s where George Washington slept. And here’s where he also slept.” There are cathedrals (very grand, and with many stairs and steps) and tiny shops and more cathedrals. I spent much of my time looking down rather than up, walking cautiously and taking into account the uneven surfaces. For a few days, I took barely any pictures, since it was impossible to carry my camera and remain balanced and upright. But as the week progressed, as I got used to the crutch, popped ibuprofen and took care to elevate and ice as much as possible, the pain wasn’t quite so bad.
By the end of the week, I was able to walk 2½ miles on a beautiful, sunny day – and on my birthday, to boot – to the funicular, a cable car that goes up the steep side of a hill. We had spectacular views of the coastline (San Sebastian is on the Atlantic Ocean) and took the requisite photos that I will treasure as happy memories of this vacation.
I’ve traveled before and will do it again, and despite the accident, I enjoyed the chance to see so much of Spain. I had been there twice previously, but I was in Marbella on the Costa del Sol, a resort, so I hadn’t experienced any of the cities aside from Granada.
So here are my impressions and some of the lessons I learned.
- Every place in the world should be on the same electrical system. I favor the US system, so I wouldn’t need a converter.
- Every hotel where you stay has its own quirks. You have to remember to put the room key in the slot so the lights stay on, get used to the shower controls and the hair dryer, which required a finger on the on-button in both hotels.
- You have to tolerate people in any group asking genuinely stupid questions. Asking “where is such-and-such?” to each other made no sense since none of us knew the answers.
- Ham is big in Spain. Iberian ham, bacon – whatever – was available or a part of every meal. PS – I don’t eat ham.
- European countries have more statues and cathedrals per mile that you can count. The US has more Starbucks and McDonald’s. Europe wins.
- Despite the relatively cool temperatures, people in San Sebastian go into the ocean, do yoga on the beach and enjoy the sand and surf. No beach badges required, either. Are you listening, NJ?
- In every restaurant where we ate, we enjoyed delicious bread, but there was never a bread plate. The bread was put on your place mat or on the table with nothing under it. And if you wanted butter or olive oil – and this is a country that exports olive oil – you had to request it. There were bottles of red and white wine on every table without having to ask, however (part of the tour package, I presume).
- Many people in Spain speak English well but don’t think they do. They were very accepting of my attempts to communicate in Spanish and I could understand them as long as they spoke muy lentamente (very slowly). Despite so many years that have passed since my last Spanish class in 1970, I was proud of my ability to use it.
- Always bring plenty of plastic bags. I used them for ice bags for my ankle. The next time I travel, I am bringing my portable cane, an Ace bandage and more ibuprofen. And my health insurance card. It’s not like hospitals in Barcelona take United Heathcare or Medicare, but I had to contact a friend back home to get the Membership Services number to find out the process for dealing with the hospital in Barcelona.
- I still bring plenty of underwear and throw out the oldest pairs to lighten my load. We were all just under the 50-pound suitcase limit and determined NOT to pay extra for our checked bags.
- Noise cancelling headphones and a mask come in very handy on a nine-hour flight, as does a neck pillow. I wouldn’t leave home without them.
Our group, which traveled through the touring company AHI, had several lectures from highly informed and interesting speakers and an opportunity to have dinner with local residents, so I learned so much about Spain on this trip. Among the highlights for me was learning the term “cuadrilla,” which, here in the US, would be translated into “circle of friends.” In the more modern vernacular, that would mean your “squad,” or the people who are closest to you. Long-time, dear friends comprise your cuadrilla. I know I have mine, and now I have a name for them.
And I know how to say ankle in Spanish.
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