One cold February day Joe glazed over as he looked out the window at the snow-dotted garden. I looked closer. Hmmm. Something was up. “Dee,” he mused, “what would you think if I booked a ticket to Spain to motorcycle through its southern countryside for a week or two?
Aha! Joe’s always dreamed of motorcycling somewhere in Europe. It’s been on his ‘bucket list’ since college. He loves to explore the lovely Grand Traverse peninsula on his big, quiet BMW, with me happily perched behind. (My first sight of him was on his vroom-vroom rickety 300cc red Honda Dream at the University of Michigan, in 1965. Motorcycle rides were not allowed by my father, so, of course, I hopped right on, delighted to cling to such a handsome fellow!)
But Spain?
Well, why ever not? It’s exotic, and intriguing, and he’d travel with his nephew, Sky, and his lovely wife, Megan. Both speak Spanish well enough to make all the arrangements, and interpret. Joe would just settle back, ride his bike, and relax into the experience.
Frankly, a proper vacation was long overdue: for thirty-eight years he’s dedicated himself to his cardiology practice, with few breaks. So, after a moment of surprise, I was thrilled.
“Yes!” I cheered. “Go for it!” He grinned, relieved.
One minute later he’d rung Sky in California: the trip began to take shape. Joe studied essential Spanish phrases, and packed and unpacked his duffle till he’d pared it down to almost nothing. A former Marine, he knew what was important. My idea that he wear, then toss, his old clothes, rather than hand-washing them, was embraced.
I wouldn’t go on this adventure. May was garden prep time; I’d be happy mucking around in mud and flowers. But we’d share everything via Skype and e-mailed phone photos.
Joe’s anticipation and excitement were half the fun. He ordered a special, very cool black motorcycle jacket with built-in, but easily removable, CO2 cartridges that would activate like an airbag if an accident happened. He’d carry his black helmet aboard in a special, soft bag.
Two weeks before departure he woke a half-hour earlier each day to gradually adjust to the six-hour time difference.
The trip went perfectly. Spanish weather cooperated; the two huge, quiet motorcycles ran like velvet. Megan, sitting behind Sky, videoed Joe riding behind them, and captured some really interesting scenery with her mini-camera. She was a marvelous ‘biker-mama.’ Nothing fazed her.
Joe loved it all: there were bugs in his teeth from grinning while whizzing along.
Sky (a former commercial jet pilot who’s been abroad many times) booked charming local hotels with tiny balconies that occasionally served as front-row seats for local religious festivals passing below. They sampled endless tapas (Spanish-style snacks, canapés or creative finger food) and explored fascinating towns. Alhambra’s magnificent castle and gardens wowed them, but a bullfight in Seville was too hard to watch. Four were scheduled for that one afternoon: the first one was their last. Ugh! The three of them felt sick. (It wasn’t only the bull’s tormentors who triumphed, though: during the show the annoyed animal snagged the matador with his impressive horns and effortlessly tossed him over the wall into the packed, cheering crowd. The guy eventually emerged, shaken and bruised, to dispatch the huge animal in the usual ritualistic way.)
They rode miles of hilly southern California-like countryside, explored white-stuccoed villages and towns perched on the edges of sheer cliffs, and even swam in the Mediterranean Sea. And, of course, they booked a show featuring flamenco dancing, a uniquely Spanish art form which mixes percussive footwork with expressive hand and body movements, accompanied by an expert guitarist.
The Spanish people were always warmly welcoming. (One French landlord, though, glowered at his guests, curling his lip at even small requests. He seemed perpetually put-upon.)
Every time I opened my computer I’d find a 30-second movie featuring one of his tiny hotel rooms, or enormous, oddly pruned trees, or stunning, fountained gardens, or outdoor restaurants in the middle of huge plazas, where they’d slow-dine until nearly midnight, in the Spanish way. Once, he sent really startling videos of a headless man wooing Megan, and a spangled ‘goat,’ dancing! Joe’s laughter was always in the background.
In my chair-nest every evening I’d fly- via Google Earth- to the towns where they were, to navigate their cobbled streets. Sometimes I could type in the hotel’s address, and zip there. Magic!
When I drove down to Detroit to fetch him, Joe looked 10 years younger, and wore a huge grin. This adventure turned out exactly as he’d hoped it would.
Next time I’ll go, too—maybe to France, to dine daily in one-star restaurants after an exploratory day on the road. Why not? Dreams cost nothing, but can give birth to wonderful, unique experiences.
Vive la motorcycle!