Home Again, Home Again

Total Trip - 9 Days
Distance:  4,318 Kilometers - 2,677 Miles
Last leg: Toulouse to Nantes  586 Kilometer - 364 Miles

 Up early, as usual, and on the road.  Monday is a holiday at work and I could have stayed out longer, but the Sunday/Holiday French thing made me decide to go home so I could run some errands and get some shopping done on Saturday.  The Sunday/Holiday French thing is basically that everything is closed.  And I mean closed.  Think Christmas day in the U.S. and you pretty much have an idea about this place every Sunday and holiday.   I find it amazing.

So, I pulled out from Toulouse and made good time (for a change) going back to Nantes.  Pulled Betsy into her garage about 3:00pm.  Another great motorcycle trip.

Toulouse - Day 8

385 Kilometers - 239 miles

Well, the good news is I finally get to ride and take pictures as I like, not hampered by having to use maps with strange names, relegating me to main roads, and wasting my time looking for lodging, etc.  In short, I got back to France as fast as I could and fired up the GPS.  I can promise, if it had fired up and shown blank areas where France should be I'd have sent it flying to the road shoulder at 80+ mph, or sent it back to Garmin (now one of  my least favorite companies) tied to a brick!  But it didn't, so I didn't, and we are back in each other's good graces (sort of).  Next time I won't assume it has the maps I want, I'll check to make sure.  I still don't understand what happened.  I downloaded the maps for Spain, Italy, Germany, Belguim, etc. when I downloaded the France maps. 

France came up when I fired it up so I assumed the other maps had made it, as well.  We know what that "assume" means, don't we?  Well, the net result is I missed a bunch of places I would have liked to have seen...and saw a couple I would have missed.  We're not even by a mile...but, hey, feces occurs.

One of my goals for this trip was to see the famous Basicila of the Sacred Family in Barcelona.  My plans were to duck back into Barcelona this morning, having written down the instructions from the internet last night.  But first, I needed cash.  You see, Spain is the toll road capital of the world.  Between Valencia and Barcelona, they hit me for something like 30€.  Between Santiago De Compostela and the Portuguese border, they got me for another 29€, plus others along the way.  The last time I saw that many outstretched brown-skinned hands was in a bar in Tijuana, Mexico in 1964.  But that was another place and another time.

In any event, I asked at the hotel desk where I could locate a "hand me" bank.  The desk clerk kindly hand-wrote me a map which I put into the map "screen" of my tank bag and followed to the letter.  Unfortunately, it didn't lead to a bank.  It leads to an industrial park where I assumed, he failed to denote the second "traffic circle."  Have I mentioned that I've had one or two problems with the traffic circle thingy?  Actually, I like them...but we've had our moments.

So, I now spend about 45 minutes trying to find a bank in some cuidat centre.  (See, that's why high-school Spanish flunks...I thought it was cuidad.)

FINALLY, I do find one and get some money so I can pay the fines...uh, tolls...back to Barcelona so I can see the famous Basicila.  But I don't.  As had happened so many time on this trip I'm so tired of trying to find something I decide to hell with it; I'll see if I can find France.  I could.  And I did.  And I turned on the GPS and it found something other than a blank spot on the planet and so now I could go.  And I did.

 

A few miles out of Barcelona the Pyrenees make their presence known

Sorry Jamey, I didn't find the cloth-covered table to sit outside  under the branches of a Centenarian tree in western Spain.  Blew through too fast.  Hope this'll do.  I passed this old Brasseria on a two-lane road to the foothills of the Pyrenees and decided I needed a cup of coffee.

There were a couple of old dogs lazing around when I pulled in.  One was eating grass when I drove up.  I've always thought that was a sign of a dog being sick, so I mentioned it to the lady who ran the restaurant.  She said, (in French, basically) "No, she do that to purge herself."  This was where I would have said (in French, if I could) "Yeah, that's sort of what I meant which I said your dog was eating grass."  But what the heck.  The dog finally lay down on the grass instead of eating it, so I guess everything was okay.

Kilroy was here...and enjoyed the coffee.






On my way to?
How many folks know the source of the "Friday the 13th" phobia?  It has a basis in history.  On Friday, the 13th of October 1307, Charles the IV of France, in conjunction Pope Clement V (need I say conspiracy), arrested all members of the Knights Templar within his reach (France).  And he had a pretty good reach.  His goal?  Money and power, of course.  He owed huge sums to the Knights Templar and, when asked by the Pope to investigate some rumors, to that point not taken seriously, about the order's rituals, he jumped at the opportunity to do away with debt by discharging the lenders, as opposed to the debt. 

Since the days of the first crusades, the Knights had had special dispensation from Papal authority.  They began as simple guardians, protecting pilgrims journeying to visit holy sites in Israel.  Over time, they started taking money on deposit at the beginning of the journeys and returning it, in-kind, at the end.  This, obviously, deterred the many thieves along the way and made life easier for the pilgrims.  Naturally, the Knights charged a fee for this service, just as American Express does for its travelers' checks today.  Over time, the Knights, as is usual for bankers, in those days and these, became extremely powerful.  They, in fact, were the international banking conglomerate of the dark ages.  They performed extremely rigorous religious rituals, all, in their view, in the service of God, while, at the same time, providing "protection" for various villages and small landowners/dukedoms, what have you.  I think this protection often took the form of Vito Corleone in Brooklyn a few hundred years later:  "Hey, you, pay, and we're pretty sure no bad things will happen to you; don't pay, and you just never know."  For the movie fans out there, these are the same guys that Tom Hanks was searching in their sanctuaries for clues in the The DaVinci Code.

So...so far this has all been good history.  Provable fact.  Now the hoaxes and conspiracy theories take over...and this is where we are going.  The Rennes-le-Cháteau.

At the turn of the twentieth century, there was a priest who "found" funding to build several churches and remodel others in the area.  Rumors, seemingly started by a restaurant owner in the 1950s, hinted that the lowly priest had found the hidden treasure of the Templars.  This much is historically accurate: no one knows what happened to the Templar treasures.  And they had to be huge.  Charles discharged his debt by killing the lenders, but, according to history neither he, nor the Pope, ever got their hands on the Templar treasury.  The priest, though, was later found guilty of selling masses to gain his wealth, though calculations would later yield he would have had to sell something like twenty (20) per day for the over twenty-five (25) years he was a priest in the region to have had the sum of money he was "caught" with in 1910.  This part of the story remains a mystery.  Where did the money come from?  Ed Bradley of '60 Minutes' concluded fraud...but the math doesn't work all that well.  But the marketing in the 1950s, and since, have. (See Rennes-le-Cháteau)
Note: I was going to take that picture you first see on this page but decided the tower was just "too new."

When I arrived at the Chateau, I met the current owner of the "village," chateau, and restaurant.  She was walking with some newly arrived friends and couldn't believe my motorcycle came all the way from Texas.  She is German, but speaks very good English and was a nice lady.  I had a great beer in the restaurant outside area and wished I wasn't riding so I could have more. 

Some great scenery on the way to the Cháteau.





Now here's the part where I demonstrate why one needs a working GPS.  I have a map of France and, coming in from Barcelona, there just aren't any good routes shown.  My GPS told me to turn right on this street in this little berg stuck out in the middle of no-damn-where-France.

I turned right, as instructed.

At the end of that street I was told to turn right again and when I hit the end of this street, turn left. 



I defy you to make this happen with a paper map!

Clearing the town I find myself on this lovely little road heading into the foothills.



The big moutain in the background conjured up images to me.

It looked like an Orca sounding out of a green sea.
(At least to me...and at this time I'd had no recreational beverages.)

Then we started climbing and climbing.

The big aqueduct-looking thing is actually the path of the road I'm going to be taking.


After a few more twisties...neat twisties.  Then you top out and look at the valley below.

But...we're not through yet.  We ride along the rim of this valley and the road begins to narrow even further; the treeline joins us.

Mr. Garmin is telling us we still have a ways to go...and the road is getting more and more tricky.

Twenty-two kilometers yet to go (13.6 Miles)

And then we're at the top.  At the Cháteau, looking out over its valley.

I have a much-needed beer in the outdoor area of the restaurant.

And visit the church just outside the Cháteau.

A little walk down by the old Cháteau's side.


Imagine the people from all the old times who have walked on these steps.

The walls of the old Cháteau.

I then pulled out for Toulouse and arrived here about 5:30pm finding a hotel rather quickly since my GPS knew (almost) where it was.

Had a great evening.  The weather is just fantastic, about 72 degrees F. and not a cloud in the sky.  I had a great little light meal sitting outside reading my Kindle and sipping a little wine.  This was absolutely the best day of the trip so far.

Barcelona - Day 7

350 Kilometers -  217 Miles

Woke early, as usual, but couldn't get on the road right away.  I had to pick up the laundry the hotel did for me during the night.  So, I took a little more time than usual road checking Betsy.    As it has been for the entire trip it just corroborated what I've said all along about these Japanese bikes:  they are engineered for reliability.  I haven't even had to put any air in the tires.  Thank you Mr. Kawasaki.  You do good work.  (Any chance you could give the guys at Garmin a call?)

Fortune smiled, even on the laundry, and it was ready to go when I got back from checking Betsy so down the road we went.  Again, not much in the way of pictures.  There are tons of beautiful scenery all around but these Spanish folks just seem to take it for granted.  In the US, as most of you know, even on interstate highways they put in scenic parking areas so people can stop and enjoy the views and take pictures.  I have not seen one on this entire trip.  If you're traveling down a major highway you barely have emergency parking, let alone the opportunity to take in nice views.  But...I've seen it.  It's why I do this on the back of a motorcycle.

My buddy, Bobby J, says the difference between traveling in a car and riding a motorcycle is the difference between watching a movie and being in it.  He's just so right about that.  Of course, I can report to you that a cattle feed lot in Spain smells much like the one in west Texas.  That part is true too.  Hey...even a rose garden usually has some manure in it!

Pretty scenery (if you like power lines, huh?).  Look beyond that...I can.

Like I said...looks like New Mexico, to me.

Ho-hum.










By the way, that's not the Med...it's called the Gulf of Valencia.  Sort of like the Gulf of Mexico isn't the Caribbean.  (I don't know who decides these things...but he should get a real job.)

 The left side,







Arrived in Barcelona about 1:30pm after just taking it easy down the highway and several coffee stops.  Then I drove through the center of town.  The traffic was the worst I've ever seen anywhere.  I don't think I've ever seen so many motorcycles and motorscooters.

Finally found an Ibis hotel at a great location...next to a big shopping center.  Pulled in, got lost in the underground parking only to find out they were booked up.  So, out I go again looking for a hotel.  By now I'm getting hungry and frustrated so I head out of town, find a place to eat and then locate a business hotel on the way toward Girona.  Nice hotel...the internet works...the beer is good, so here I stay.  At least for tonight.

Valencia - Day 6

565 Kilometers - 351 Miles

Unable to find one last night, I took another turn through town hoping to see a laundry this morning.  Didn't.  Did manage to get lost and wind myself around my own axle for about an hour trying to find my way out of this very confusing town.  Boy, I am amazed at how much I've become a slave to that GPS technology.  It's just so simple.  But, as you know, it ain't working for me here in Spain...so I keep spending hours looking for hotels and other things.  To heck with the desired landmarks...I need clean underwear.  My mother used to say when you can smell yourself others have smelled you for three days.  I'm washing myself, but the clothes bag and my do-rags are getting rather intense.

Finally got on the road out of Cordoba about 9:30 am heading east.  I had a short run of about 75 miles of full-blown four-lane, super-highway on A-4 heading toward Madrid.  This is the Andalucia region of Spain, in fact, I passed by a sign indicating the  La Mancha area famous for The Man From thingy.  I felt I could relate.  Making these trips without a GPS is like tilting windmills.

The center of the road between the opposing directions were planted with Azaleas, many in bloom.  It was very neat.  Just miles and miles of "Augusta fairway" on the highway.  Can't beat that.  I suspect it ran for four hundred kilometers all the way to Madrid.  Gotta love a place that is willing to do that.

I took this picture because there was something more than the usual three-foot of emergency lane so I felt I could stop.  There were sections, however, of azaleas six to eight feet high and in full bloom.  But, Murphy's Law prevails...there was no area to pull over and take the picture.  I'm going to have to get me a strong little lanyard so I can put this camera around my neck and take pictures while on the move.  Who knows, perhaps I'll get a picture of the crash...you know the one I have because I'm fritzing around with a camera instead of managing this 900 lb beast that is Betsy.

After leaving the slab at Linares I did run into my red flowers again. That's like Noah saying it looked like a little rain.  I came around this turn on the highway and damn near ran off the road when I saw the little valley in front of me.

I don't know if these came out detailed enough when you click on the picture to enlarge.  I certainly hope so.  It's just a rage of color down there.  With my new favorite little red flowers carrying the day.

I wanted to ride down there and pulled off the highway at the exit heading down.  But then I noticed it was straight down...and gravel.  The only way I'd take Betsy down that much gravel is if some one were up top shooting at me.  And then because I'd consciously choose to want to die at the bottom instead of the top, for some reason.

A little further down the road I ran into a small bed of the red flowers.  I don't know names of flowers but I know I like them.

As I stated earlier in the blog, the terrain around here certainly reminds me of Texas in the spring.  There are fields covered with lavender lilacs looking so much like bluebonnets it makes me homesick.  It's really a beautiful ride.  It's too bad we haven't evolved to where we can "store" all we've seen into "memory" then recall and save it on the computer.  I'd have pictures you can't believe.  (But, then, I'd forget which drive I stored them on, so it would probably wouldn't matter anyway.  Remember me?  I'm the guy who can hide his own Easter eggs.)


Oh, and the Texas comparison sort of goes away when you see this sort of thing interspersed throughout the landscape.

Once again, I rode around a big city looking for a hotel or a laundry for about an hour to and hour and a half.  Finally found a hotel promising internet service but it wouldn't connect, hence the reason for the late postings.    Couldn't stand the laundry situation any longer so I paid the hotel to wash my things for me.  Total came to 39€ for four pairs of underwear (not saying briefs or boxer), four t-shirts, three UnderArmor pull-overs and three pairs of socks.   That's about $55 US and just fried my butt that I couldn't find something as simple as laundry machines.  Hell, in most family-oriented US hotels they furnish washers and dryers for the purpose.  But...not here.  That's someone's "rice bowl," I guess.  (After giving it some thought, it dawned on me you'd probably have to pay me that much to do your underwear after four days on the road.)

Cordoba - Day 5

398 Kilometers - 247 Miles


This trip is turning into the "gremlin" trip of all time.  Things that previously worked just aren't working.  And the surprising thing is I have two anti-"gremlin" bells on my bike.  These are little bells that must be given to you from fellow bikers for them to exercise their magic and prevent the little nagging problems.  They are working fine for the bike, Betsy is humming along solid as a rock, as usual.  It's the "trip gremlins" that are getting to me.  That and old age.

Pulled out this morning and followed the road signs looking for N114 north back to A6.  I thought I read them correctly, but I ended up out in the middle of nowhere with nowhere to go.  So, I back peddled as best I could but, noticing I was getting low on gas, decided to return to Évora, get gas and go back out to A6 as I'd come in.  This worked but, a guy really hates this, it represented a lost 3/4 of an hour of "road time."  It's a genetic thing...I won't have to explain it to any of the men reading this.

I stayed on A6 through to Badajoz.  Another 3/4 of an hour was wasted looking in Carrefour's (Europe's Walmart) trying to find a power adapter for my Zune MP3 player.  No luck.  Then I was looking for a motorcycle accessory store.  I managed to lose my visor and the sun is awful bright.  Especially on yesterday's sunburn.  But, no luck.  Wasted time again. 

The good news is the road from Badajoz to Cordoba, Spain is N-432, a two-lane, 100K/Hr road that is quite good for most of the way.  There's a few sections which could use some repair, but all-in-all, it's good road.

Very slow picture day again.  There are some very bright red flowers growing along the way, sometimes in great little clusters.  Every time I saw one of the truly impressive sets it was always where I couldn't pull of the road.  You have to understand that the emergency lane N-432 is about three feet wide and Betsy just doesn't like so little clearance between her and the traffic.  I have to honor her wishes...my butt's hanging out there too.

So, though I saw several nice patches I wanted shots of, I just couldn't make it happen.  I'm hoping to see some more tomorrow so I can take a couple of shots.  They are really spectacular.  In fact, this entire area of Spain is spectacular.  The terrain from most of the way between Badajoz and Cordoba reminds me very much of the hill country of Texas, though the hills are larger.  It's just rolling, rolling, rolling green pastures.  Tell you what...if you can't raise cattle here you just can't raise cattle.  Period.

After a while the scenery starts looking more like New Mexico (one of my truly favorite places in the U.S.), drier, and more "spare."  This is why I'm a little concerned about the ability to pick up a shot of those red flowers...but, we'll see.

Stopped in the little town of Zafra for lunch.  Unfortunately, it was 12:30 and the place I wanted to eat (there were two police cars parked among the patrons) had stopped serving.  Can you believe it?  Stopped serving at 12:30 pm.  The European concept of serving lunch and diner when it's convenient for the server is going to drive me crazy.  Example: tonight in the hotel I wanted a light supper so, at 7:00 pm I requested of the bar lady a menu.  She informed me that the kitchen wouldn't start cooking until 8:30.  Convenient, what?  Guess you have to be a European for this to not matter and seem perfectly logical.

Anyway, when I couldn't get what I wanted I spotted yet another Carrefours and went to their cafeteria.  It was mall food...but at least Spanish mall food.  I had an absolutely wonderful gazpacho and some sort of Pimientos Rellenas thing that was quite tasty.  Not sure what it was though.  The pimientos were, of course, red peppers.  The "Rellenas" thing, though, was a little difficult to tell.  I was looking for queso (cheese), of course, and it had some, it just had something else which, I'm not sure, but may have been a form of mashed potato.  Don't know...but it was good, and I'd order it again.

Pushed on through to Cordoba, arriving about 4:30pm.  This worked out good, I thought, because I still wanted to replace my visor for my helmet, and it is laundry night.  I need to clean up (in a bad way).  But, alas, neither was to be. 

I spent an hour and a half riding around Cordoba looking for a laundry.  That's laundry as we have the USA where they have washing machine and dryers and you can "do your own."  I have to believe they exist...but you can't prove it by me.  They exist in France, they are called Lavaterias.  The desk clerk at the hotel was kind enough to give me a map and mark on it where one was.  I found it...but the only machines in there were human, and they were busy as bees washing and ironing other folks' stuff.  I was worried about 1) the language and making myself understood, and 2) having it ready for when I pulled out in the morning.  So I kept looking...and looking...and looking.  The semi-neat thing about it was I got to see a heck of a lot of Cordoba.  But one can't take pictures from the back of a motorcycle dodging every Kamakazi-wanttabe on the planet as they negotiate busy Spanish traffic.  In fact, it was difficult to take one's eye off the traffic and look for a sign that "might," just "might" mean wash-a-teria in Spanish.  (Don't tell Mrs. Hudson, but I've forgotten so much of that Spanish she taught us in high-school.    It's all I can do to say, "Hey, Pedro, una cerveza, pour some more."

At least in Cordoba they had street signs pointing toward "hotel row" and I found a nice one and checked in.
The Hotel Oasis seemed to have a lot of activity when Betsy and I checked in.  I couldn't figure out why every one was standing around, then I saw all the cigarettes.

Betsy doesn't smoke and I'm starting to worry a little about that "second-hand" stuff.

Finally, some relatively clean air for Betsy.



The hotel was near the river running through the center of town.  I'd determined that the zoo was immediately across the river from the hotel during my travels looking for a laundry and motorcycle store.  What I didn't know then, but do now is: don't stay at a hotel near a major zoo.  There are animals there who only "talk" at night...and all night.  It sounded like George of the Jungle for half the night.  The other part was Don Juan in the room next door.  Fortunately he lacked the stamina of the Rhesus monkeys at the zoo.  They hooted all damn night.  I thought I was never going to get to sleep.

But it was a pretty night.

Évora - Day 4

590 Kilometers - 367 Miles

Woke up with the roosters this morning.  Unfortunately, the lady who ran the pension didn't.  I hung around making noise and calling out, "Hola," for about thirty minutes.  I didn't know the room rate...didn't even ask last night when I pulled in.  I figured if I got a nice room at a hotel in Santlanda for 30 Euros this couldn't be more.  Since I didn't know the rate I finally left two 20 Euro notes on the bedside table with the keys and fired Betsy up heading south to Lisbon.

The room didn't compare favorably to the room in Santlander, but the view definitely did.  And getting on the road early: worth the difference.














Thought I'd check out a sleepy little seaside village so I pulled into Espinho, Portugal.  After running nice roads all the way down, this place still has the bricks they paved the street with somewhere around 1620.  Betsy did not like the rough ride.  For that matter, neither did I.  A quick, "hello, this is the beach," and we're outta here.

Evidently, there is some huge, read HUGE, playoff game today here in Portugal.  It's in Lisbon and it seems the entire world is in the rest stops and service areas.  You have never seen so many police.  Each rest area has between 10-15 patrolling around.  I asked a young cop why there were so many of them today and he stated because of the championship game.  They are there to keep the rival supporters from beating the crap out of each other if they happen to meet coming out of the toilets, I guess.  Wow, now there's something to get all excited about, isn't it?


Anyway, this group who parked next to me at a road stop appeared pretty typical:  all decked out and supporting their team.

I arrived in Lisbon about 2:00pm local time.  I rode around quite a bit and found the governor's palace.

Kilroy (Betsy) was here.









I have a friend, Susanna, from Portugal, and one of the nicest people I've ever known.  I would never wish to hurt her feelings but I gotta tell you, Lisbon needs a bath...and some pressure washing...and some paint...and just a sort of all-around facelift, I guess.  I was not impressed.  I was going to stay here for at least a day, but I couldn't get outta there fast enough.  Turning Betsy south on the A2...we work our way south and east.  The terrain starts looking a whole heck of a lot like Texas.

Does this scene look as familiar to you as it does to me?



Susanna tells me Portugal is all about the food so I decided to stop for the night early and see if I could give it a try.  I pulled into a great historic town named Évora.

Tons of history here.  Starting with a temple built by the Romans in the 1st Century.  Get that?  The 1st century.  Jesus was in all probability walking the planet when this thing was built.  I find that absolutely amazing.  Thought it deserved the b/w look that conjures up age because of all the old black and white newsreels we've seen.

Across the street a nice little park.

At the end of the park, you are looking out over the city.

Looking down from that vantage point you see this.  I thought it pretty neat.

I thought the symbolism here unique.  The towers showing between the ancient Roman pillars, and that of the church steeple to the right belong to the gothic age.  The light colored building between the ruin and the church belong to the late 18th-early 19th century.  Three distinctly different periods and architecture in one place.







The church from the front.

I like to pay attention to some of the old stuff that hasn't been conserved, or bought, or pawed over.  Walking down the street from the church I spied this old wall with gate and statuary work above.  Obviously just part of the building and I thought it was neat.

Especially when I realized it was built thirty-four years before the French and Indian wars of early America.

If you enlarge the picture you will note the dates below the two "bottle" or "urn" looking pieces.

A little further down the street a square.

This sign was hanging over a doorway at the square.  Isn't that great!  A chorale society in operation for over 160 years.  (And the Eagles couldn't stay together for fifteen.)

The other side of the square, complete with a bandstand for concerts.  They were playing a tape of some great blues tunes while I was there.

I decided to have a beer so I sat at a table under the tent structure you see there.  A waiter, obviously thinking he'd make no money off a single customer pointedly ignored me on three successive trips back and forth getting beverages for others who came up after me.  I left without getting my beer.

Hoping to test the cuisine at Susanna's recommendation, I walked the streets looking at various places and decided upon one which appeared quite traditional.  It was.  To the point, it didn't open until 7:30 pm (that's actually about 1/2 hour earlier than most...what is it with these folks?)

Anyway, I had some time to kill so now I really wanted that beer.  There was a nice little stand near the Roman ruins so I got a beer there and sat down to watch the folks and enjoy the end of the day.  It was quite nice, but, given I was on Betsy I didn't want to overdo it so, after one, I began walking around again.

After several twists and turns, I found myself back at the square adjacent to the tent where I was unable to get a beer.  A nice young lady was waiting some tables, the young man who had so pointedly ignored me was, at that moment, back at the supporting bar across the street.

The young lady stopped by my table immediately and I ordered another beer.  She obligingly took my order and promptly got me my beer.  After sipping it rather lazily it was time to go to my restaurant for my Portuguese meal.   I asked the young lady for the check and, upon getting it saw I owed her 2.50€.  I had ascertained she spoke good English when I was served.  So I put a 10€ note on the tray and, when she came to collect for the beer, I told her about her co-worked pointedly ignoring me.  I then told her to tell him she got his tip.  Upon realizing I was leaving the change from the 10€ she laughed and said she'd be happy to do that. (Revenge is a soup best tasted cold.)

I then went to my restaurant and ordered the lamb.  I can't give you their name for the dish.  It was too long for my old memory, but I'd ascertained it was lamb and you know how I love lamb.

First, let me explain that by showing up at 7:30 I had the place to myself.  This also meant I had the chef and service staff to myself.  That ain't all bad.

We begin with some cheese and locally grown olives.  Both were great.

We add a nice white wine and some Spanish proscuitto and, not shown here, some great fresh bread.

A little salad, some frites (potatos) and the lamb with rice, radish, and cherry tomato garnish.



This ranked right up there with the best meals I've ever had...anywhere...and for any amount.

Susanna was right: it's about the food.