Small-town Catalunya
… includes a castle, of course. Girona is one bullet-train ride north of Barcelona, on a line that continues on to Paris. The train reaches more than 250 km/hr (some 160 mi/hr) in stretches, and whisks you far out of town and into the hills in under 40 minutes. So superimpressed was I by the fell and flow of Barcelona, the quieter nature and proximity to land provided by Girona was probably overshadowed: when I stopped by tourist information for help getting “quiet”, the only option I was offered was the public garden space (and a local outdoor market that day). Somehow, it felt less welcoming than more, certainly a reflection of my interior than a representation of the town’s character.
Ah, the hazards of travel. There is no choice but to choose, and no chance but to judge, no judgement that is uncolored by the levels of excitement or exhaustion that started your day. Speaking of choices: to secede, or not to secede es la pregunta, mi amigo. Whether to blow up your economy and burn all of the probably-incestuous financial beds your province has slept in (dangling preposition somehow appropriate here); or avoid the havoc by giving the power-hungry fellows that want to be president of anything, who are leveraging sentiment for personal gain, enough apparent control they settle for semi-autonomy (and less shared taxation). Let’s see what happens in Scotland before we decide, shall we?
Meanwhile, Girona has been seat of power and unseated power for so many generations, it will surely weather one more storm. The Arabian influences and views from the walled city were lovely. The sicôromos lining the public garden have been around for a dozen generations, and will look on as silently and dispassionately as always. Here are a few glimpses of a walk around town.