I woke several times last night to the sound of rain pounding on the metal flashing outside my window in Girona. While rain is relatively rare in Spain, we caught it at the end of our trip. It's still pretty warm.
I had a short ride to the Girona train station and planned on taking the 9:30 am R2 regional train to Barcelona, but the tracks were damaged and all trains were cancelled. They have been playing flood and mud videos on TV, not sure exactly where in Spain.
I waited in a long line at the station to buy a ticket (my 9:30 had not yet been shown as canceled on-screen), so the kind ticket woman suggested I take the high-speed TGV. Perks of being old, as the fare only changed from 10 to 18 euros. No charge for the bike, but it had to be packed and I had the means. The next TGV was 10:47am versus 9:30am, so plenty of time to pack the bike.
Once in Barcelona's Sants Station, I easily found the airport train, purchased a ticket, and waited. On arrival, I assembled my bike and rode to my hotel that was less than 3 miles away. The hotel is in a real Spanish urban neighborhood. Seems to be mostly middle class, lots of small shops in the area, and seemingly entirely built-up until getting to the area around the airport and beach.
While assembling my bike, a Brompton owner from the Netherlands walked up with his bike in a bag. He said because the bag said "Bike" he had to pay a fee to fly within Europe. He had ridden from Barcelona to El Prat, only 7 miles, if you know the route. I think I might remove the "Bike" label and see what happened.
On the way out of the airport, two security police stopped me and asked how I had ridden into the airport. I said I hadn't, that I arrived by train and was going to a nearby hotel. They said it was unsafe to ride in the same lanes as taxis and busses, but when I showed them my maps.me route, they let me go. It was a short, simple, low-traffic route. I checked into my hotel and went out to explore by bike. After circling an urban area that appeared to contain a college campus and the Estrella Beer Factory, then taking the back streets to the airport, I followed a paved bike path to the Mediterranean beach on the east side of El Prat Airport. Who knew the Med was that close. Looking on-line, I think one could easily cycle down the coast from Barcelona to El Prat Airport. Nice way to end my tour.
As I write, the case and bike are mostly cleaned of road grime, packed in the orange case, and I have a shuttle scheduled for the 7-minute ride to the airport tomorrow, at 4:30 am. Things do seem to work out.
When asked about the usual 2-hour pre-departure requirement, the hotel desk clerk, who also works a 2nd job at El Prat, said she never needs 2 hours, as officials are unlikely to be available at 4 am. My flight was booked on Delta, is listed as an Air France flight, but flown by Joon Air. All I know is it's at T1 and things will work out. Joon Air turned out too be indistinguishable from Air France.
Cancelled Regional Train. Getting ready for the TGV. Bikes must be in a case (or wrapped).
Ready to Go.
. . . And Waiting
Arrival
Getting the Right Train. As travelers in foreign lands, we make lots of mistakes, hopefully only once. When traveling with Nancy, we boarded the train that went in the direction of El Prat Airport, but continued south. We discovered my mistake and had to get off and wait to board the El Prat-bound train at the last station before El Prat. I once got on a train bound for the Madrid Airport, but I was on the wrong side of the platform. I had nervously left early in the morning, my time was more than adequate, but I circled Madrid in the wrong direction. My short ride became a long ride and I was probably on an illegal ticket.
Note: While Nancy graciously said it was our mistake, it was mostly mine.
Stacked for the Train.
Dog of the Day. Patiently waiting for the train.
Arrival. I love the European rail system.
Mucho Rain in Spain.
Wonderful bike trail around the north side of El Prat Airport and out to the beach. Lots of runners, walkers, and cyclists.
Looking north on the Mediterranean shore.
Looking south on the Mediterranean shore. On a partly cloud day, 70F, and light wind, the beach was nearly deserted.
Shades of My Future? Given the changes in trains and schedules, I needed something to eat. I spotted some restaurant/cafe signs on a large building facing a park plaza. I turned out to be be a senior center. I had calamari and cerveza. The game of choice seemed to be dominoes.
As I finish this post, I heard from the SLO riders. They arrived in Bordeaux by train, then Robin and John rode nearly 10 miles in rain to their hotel near the airport, the same hotel where they left their bike boxes and excess luggage. Michael took a cab, perhaps related to his need to return the rental bike. All were in good spirits in what they described as prison-like quarters, a triple-room. Triple rooms or family rooms vary when traveling in Europe. Like a Forrest Gump quote, Mama always said "Life was like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." That often applies to lodging booked on the web.
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