Woke up still in Perpignan.
Breakfast with the locals at a gritty roadside cafe, four euros for a lovely cafe au lait and a raisin bun.
Apparently Salvador Dali said in 1965 that Perpignan train station was the centre of the world. I guess he’s pretty famous for having a fairly tenuous relationship with reality – or otherwise, times change – and time hasn’t been particularly kind to the city. It specializes in faded elegance merging into the seedy.
The view from our airbnb. Our apartment is a fabulous one, as inexplicably all the cheaper ones weren’t available.
Unfortunately it was lacking in some features – tea, coffee, milk, towels, rubbish bins, toilet paper – leading to a prolonged email conversation with our host, Florian. Both of us were wanting to put our point across without risking our feedback rating. He was fulsomely apologetic until this afternoon when he checked out the apartment after we had left and found a mark on the wall, presumably made by the careless use of a suitcase – and he has photographic evidence to prove it.
So, currently we are in a Mexican standoff situation, with my wall marks against his lack of the fundamental necessities. I think it’s a draw anyway, as our entire conversation has been in French so who really knows?
Then it was time to grab our hire car and head West. We are staying in a spa town called Molitg-les-Bains, at The Grand Hotel.
We were too early to check in so decided to wander up to have a look at the local village and have lunch. Unfortunately picturesque hillside villages tend to entail a lot of verticality in getting around, so we were quite pooped when we arrived. The first place we came to, the people seemed very grumpy, and initially tried to tell us that the kitchen was closed. Eventually they relented, and offered us the special of the day. Once they discovered we were from New Zealand, however, they transformed into the most friendly people, and we became honoured guests. (Everyone in France, when you say you are from Nouvelle Zélande has the same reaction “All Blacks!” and then they crouch down, raise their arms, and make a fierce expression. We finally figured this was the haka, especially after someone did the throat cutting gesture once. Talk about brand penetration!)
While we were eating our lunch – a plate of Catalan specialties, mine host performed a little show for us, where he sang a song while playing the guitar and accompanied by his dog, dressed in a tricolour flag as a cape, who was howling along with him. It was the most surreal moment.
After that they gave us some homemade pear tart, and a shot of calvados each. The calvados came in an unlabeled bottle, with “calva” written across the front in twink.
While we were finishing this magnificent meal, the barman and his wife – the cook – and their extended family sat down for their own lunch (they shared with us some lovely local sausages as well as their tart). They have invited us to come back Saturday week for some flamenco dancing and tapas – i’ve got the phone number to ring and book – but unfortunately we’ll have left by then. Stumbled back down the hill to check into our rooms and have a postprandial nap.
Our walking tour starts in earnest tomorrow so after another fabulous meal, an early night.