On Sunday morning, we headed up the Costa Brava to the little resort village of Llafranc. Although it's virtually impossible to get a room on the coast during August, through sheer persistence, Mark caught a couple of cancellations and managed to book us into the Hotel Llafranc for 2 two nights. Unfortunately, he and Rosa had to cancel at the last minute, due to an unexpected work committment. However, they accompanied us up to spend the day dining and sunning themselves by the cool, blue Mediterranean.

The hotel has quite a colorful history, and was a favorite haunt of Dali...possibly because his wife Gala's home, Castillo Púbol, was nearby. The village itself is quaint, and has a reputation for being quite a bit more low-key than other resorts along the Costa Brava. A reputation that we soon found out wasn't entirely accurate.

After another long drive up the Autopista, shelling out extortionate tolls along the way, we arrived at the village. The beach was packed, and the town was filled with noisy scooters, cars, and even a tram that shuttled tourists back and forth between the campground and the boardwalk. Fortunately, Mark had made reservations for lunch at the hotel restaurant, otherwise we'd have been SOL, as the other restaurants in town were full.

We eventually found parking for our cars, and checked in. Our room was small, but it had a nice balcony that overlooked the beach. There was no air-conditioning, and the room was stifling even with the doors thrown wide open. Nevertheless, we felt lucky to have gotten a place to stay (at 200 Euros per night).

We were seated at a nice table out on the restaurant patio, and ordered our lunch. The hotel is famous for Arroz Negro (Black Rice), a paella dish made with squid ink, and filled with mussels, chicken, and shrimp. Mark and I decided that was the ticket. For starters, we had Xipirones, tiny, deep-fried baby octopii, that were absolutely delicious. We also determined that it would be necessary to drink at least 2 pitchers of Tisana, a type of sangria made with sparkling Cava wine; this would prove to be a very expensive choice, as we would later discover.

The food and drink didn't disappoint, and we enjoyed people watching. A man at the table next to us could've been Picasso's twin brother (or maybe Ed Asner's). He berated the waiters loudly, and drank an entire bottle of wine by himself, then stumbled off. We also examined the celebrity memorabilia on the walls of the restaurant and bar that included a huge photograph of Dali over the bar, along with smaller pictures of former guests Kirk Douglas, Elizabeth Taylor, and Sylvester Stallone, who was represented by a hilarious porcelain plate that was imprinted with an image of him in full Rambo regalia. Speaking of which, the hotel bar is called "Rambo" and features a gigantic cocktail served in a cognac glass about 2 feet tall! No, we didn't try one.

When the bill came, we were shocked to discover that they'd charged us 56 Euros for the 2 pitchers of Tisana! Apparently, they assess 7 Euros per serving and each pitcher holds 4 servings. Outrageous, but since it had been made with top-shelf Cava and brandy, we decided that it'd been sort of worth it and kept our mouths shut.

After lunch, we all spent a couple of hours on the beach. Once again, we confirmed to ourselves that people who like to get naked are generally people who shouldn't. The sight of children urinating on the beach was also quite off-putting. At least nobody made Number 2 (as far as we could tell).

Later, Mark suggested that we drive over to Aigua Blava, a gorgeous cove with high cliffs and deep-blue water. We'd anchored there two years earlier during our sail up to the Isles Medes. I will never forget watching the sunset over that beautiful place. There is a also a fine parador there, so we stopped to have an afternoon drink and admire the retro-70's interior.

When we returned to Llafranc, it was getting to be suppertime. We searched in vain up and down the boardwalk, but couldn't find a restaurant with a patio table, so we settled for sitting inside a third-rate bistro with unpleasant service and forgettable food.

Mark and Rosa said goodbye, and my family and I settled into our hotel room. There was a stiff breeze blowing off the sea, but it didn't cool us off at all. In addition, the noise from the boardwalk below us was incredible and went on far into the wee hours of Monday morning.

Exhausted after our unpleasant night, we sleepwalked through breakfast and spent the next several hours on the beach resting. My son and I did some swimming, and I was surprised at how cold the water was. Afterwards, we decided to walk along the coastal trail over to the next village which was called Calella de Palafrugell. The village proved to be far less crowded than Llafranc, and much less touristy. The weather had turned cloudy and it started to sprinkle, so we ducked into the Restaurant Robert for lunch.

We had a lovely and relatively inexpensive meal. I started out with a very simple salad of tomato with mozzerella, and chopped olives, followed by an excellent plate of Bacalao con Allioli, a salted cod topped with fresh garlic mayonnaise and grilled red peppers. Joyce and I also enjoyed a much cheaper pitcher of Tisana that was only slightly less tasty than the hotel's version.

After returning to Llafranc, I booked a table at the hotel restaurant to ensure our getting a decent meal on a cool patio, then we hopped in the car and drove a short distance to the medieval stone village of Pals. We spent an hour or two admiring the ancient town and shopping for souvenirs in the fine shops, then returned to our hotel for dinner.

We started out with Buñuelos de Bacalao (cod balls..no, not *that* kind), followed by the house cannelloni. The main course was a type of paella made with noodles instead of rice, called Fideuà; it was good, but not as good as the Arroz Negro. This time, we avoided the extortionate hotel Tisana, and went with a far cheaper, but still tasty, bottle of Vino Blanco. For dessert, I had profiteroles, which were so rich and sweet that they probably should've come with an ampule of insulin and a hypo.

That night was less humid, but even noiser as some nitwit decided to park their van on the street below our window around 2:30am and pumped their stereo up to earbleed volume. I finally closed the doors to the balcony which quieted things down enough for us to sleep fitfully until the tractors began grooming the beach at 5:30.

We checked out the next morning shortly after breakfast, and drove to the city of Figueres to visit the Dali Theater-Museum. But first, we stopped at Castillo Púbol and admired Gala's little love-nest where she had trysted with her many gigolos. I'd feel sorry for poor Dali, except for the fact that he did plenty of trysting of his own.

Since I was running out of cash, I made a couple of attempts to use an ATM, but for some reason, my credit cards weren't being accepted anywhere. To save money on tolls, we decided to avoid the Autopista and drive to Figueres on a two-lane highway. What we discovered to our dismay, is that semis are forbidden to use the Autopista on Tuesday, and consequently they take over the smaller highways. I saw my life flash before my eyes again and again as we were nearly sideswiped and driven off onto the shoulder by these crazy bastards.

When we arrived at Figueres, we were immediately subjected to near-total gridlock attempting to reach the museum. There was no parking to be found anywhere in the city due to the increased crowds desperate to visit during the Dali Centennial. In typical European fashion, no provision had been made to ease the congestion, despite the fact that the city's government could hardly have failed to realize that visitors to the museum would increase dramatically.

Almost broke, and with no place to park, we had little choice but to head back to Barcelona. Unwilling to play chicken with the semis again, we decided to get back on the Autopista and hope that we had enough Euros left to pay the tolls. We made it, but prompty got totally lost trying to find our apartment. Eventually, I wound up driving back to the airport and retracing my route. We finally found our street late in the afternoon. I dropped off my hungry and exhausted family, and went hunting for a parking spot, but after 20 minutes of circling the neighborhood, came up empty-handed. I eventually gave up, and called Mark who had arranged for me to park at his private garage for a very reasonable sum until our departure.

That evening, feeling much better after some food and a rest, we walked to Mark and Rosa's apartment. They'd graciously invited us over to sample a variety of wine, cheese, and sausage, as well as some Pan y Tomate. Mark produced two bottles of excellent reds from different Spanish wine-producing regions that I was totally unfamiliar with. Afterwards, Joyce and the kids returned to the apartment, while Mark and I walked over to one of Barcelona's 3 Polynesian bars, called "Aloha", for a nightcap.

Walking inside, we were amazed by the decor. It had been built almost 27 years ago, and whoever had designed the joint knew their Polynesiana: lighted terrariums built into the bar, lots of bamboo, tiki masks, and even their own line of unique mugs, made in Madrid.

It was still "early" by Barcelona standards, so the place was deserted except for us. We asked the bartender for a Mai Tai, and he immediately started grabbing random bottles and pouring them into mugs unmeasured, never a promising sign. I also noticed that there was no rum in these concoctions. The final product was weak, dark blue, and tasted like the Kool-Aid Man's ass. Just awful. Mark and I joked that they were probably going to turn our poo blue in the morning.

Mark wasn't about to sit still after being served such an abominable libation, so he immediately began giving the bartender a large ration of shit about the foul taste and lack of rum. The man simply shrugged his shoulders and poured about 5 fingers of Bacardi Silver into each mug, then walked off. Needless to say, the addition of the rum did nothing to improve the drink, so when the bartender's colleague took over, we asked him for a more straightforward Ron y Limon made with 7-year Cuban Rum. These proved to be quite acceptable. The gentleman apologized for his cow-orker's lack of expertise with the drinks, and we paid our bill (30 Euros!) and split.

(To be Continued)