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Sunday, June 29, 2008

A Simple Night Out


The good thing was we weren’t actually stranded on a desolate motorway miles from anywhere relying on my shaky grasp of Spanish to contact the RACC.

As I believe it says somewhere in Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Technocrats (Chapter 7, Verse 18 et passim) “Verily I say unto you; even as that man puts his trust in gadgets so also will he be disappointed. For of an hundred men that believe the smooth talking of the navigator by satellite, ninety and nine shall be brought to the narrow roads unlit and strewn with rocks of all sorts and potholes of unplumbed depth leading nowhere.”

And so it came to pass as we ricocheted from roundabout to roundabout like some hapless metallic ball in a giant pinball machine!

We eventually found the place to which we were supposed to be going by a combination of trying roads almost at random in the hope that the ‘recalculating’ voice from the box would have more understandable directions and also by Nia’s sharp eye which noticed a large sign stuck on a wall with our destination painted on it!

If we had been (if I had been) a little less flustered I would have noticed that Banyeres del Penedés was composed of picturesque arched entrances and quaint narrow roads and all sort of other details which were lost when we were unsure that we were ever going to reach our destination.


Seeing Reeven was a delightful bonus because basically he was the reason that we had made the epic journey. His enthusiastic and shocked welcome made up for some of the frustration of finding him.

We discovered that we had missed his first set, but that he and his singer were going to play a second when they had something to eat.

I’m not sure what I was expecting from the location for our musical feast but it was anything but the lowish sort of dive that my mind associates with Jazz!

The hotel restaurant of L’hort del l’avia turned out to be a stylish location with wide floor to ceiling arches
and wooden beams; starched linen napery and heavy cutlery; a ponderous waiter and uncomfortable chairs – all the prerequisites for an expensive meal.

The waiter was a remarkable gentleman; he moved with the ponderous slow dignity of the very fat and had an almost feminine grace in his majestic peregrinations from table to table.

As it turned out, at €20 for a three course meal, it seemed a bit of bargain. In an ironic twist, it would have been cheaper for me to have had wine with the meal (which was included in the price) than the water which I chose (which was extra.) Water was essential for a clear mind to deal with the petrol – but of that more anon.

The only hot thing I had in my meal was the coffee at the end of it. This is not a condemnation of the restaurant, but rather a comment on my choices: Vichyssoise followed by carpaccio and completed by turrón ice cream. Delicious!

Reeven and a singer Nicole were an excellent accompaniment to the meal. Her voice reminded me of Cleo Lane; it had a throaty sexiness and a melodic smoothness that was great to listen to. Reeven’s guitar playing was both an accomplished and sympathetic foil to the voice and also virtuosic when he performed some solo developments of the musical line.

It was an excellent meal, though I have to admit that the girls found their cod a little too salty for their taste (Welcome to Spain!) but they seemed to enjoy the evening. As Nia said, “It took a long time to get here, but I think it was worth it!”

At the end of the meal, after the bill had been paid certain facts which I had forcibly suppressed for the duration of the dinner began to reassert themselves. We were, it had to be admitted in the back of beyond. We were, to all intents and purposes, lost. It was very late. And last, but by no means least, we had very little petrol left.

The whole of the restaurant were involved in working out if there was a petrol station open at one o’clock in the morning within the distance that my empty tank would reach.

The directions that we were given were so simple, straightforward and fundamentally inaccurate that I was back at the hotel being plaintive within minutes. Plaintive tinged with hysteria as my schoolmarmish on board computer had pinged at me and lit up an ominous little light informing me that the car was running on faith rather than diesel.

To the everlasting credit of the restaurant, one of the workers volunteered to guide me in his car to the petrol station. Following the car through a hugely complex series of turnings which bore no relation to the simple instructions we were given we pressed on and – found the petrol station closed.

It says something for the mendacious (thank god!) qualities of petrol gauges that the next open petrol station was a considerable (and when I say considerable I mean all of us sitting in the car tight lipped, tight knuckled and forgetting to breathe sort of considerable) distance away – and we made it! When we finally coasted in to the side of a pump I am convinced that we were running on vapour and not liquid!

It is almost worth fearing running out of petrol for the sheer delight in the quality of relief when you find some to refill the tank. Almost, but not quite!

The girls took to their beds at once when they got into the flat and I do not expect to see them for any part of the morning! Though wait! I think I heard some vague sounds as of sluggish movement and it’s only half past ten. More plausibly it could be the neighbours who have turned up en masse as this is obviously the official start of summer and the preciously empty flats of the we-are-so-rich-we-do-not-need-to-rent-them are now filled by their few weeks a year owners.

Never let it be said that I was envious!

Or bitter!

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