I drove from Cannes to Figueres this evening, where I plan to visit the Dali museum tomorrow. However, I've just read that the place shifts to winter hours (i. e. closed on Mondays) in October. Which starts tomorrow. Monday. I really will be very upset if I don't get to see it. There's not much else to do in this town.
Entering Spain brought a trio of Spanish elements. The guy at the petrol station asked for my ID, the first two buildings on the road from the autopista to Figueres were (garish) brothels, and the receptionist at the hotel put down my forename as David and my first surname as Colin. It's good to be home.
The French autopistes are fine but the tolls are a serious nuisance. And that's not counting the (high) cost of them. I must have stopped to take a ticket or pay a toll more than 30 times in the last few days. Possibly 50. And there are no humans involved in collecting the money, meaning lots of fun with credit cards. The French must love it when they go to the UK and find there are no tolls on the motorways.
French motorists have one strange habit; if you come up behind them in the middle lane, they pull over to the right, so as not to impede your progress. Weird or what?
The hotel I opted for here in Figueres is said to be “famous locally” for its restaurant. This, I can tell you, is the sort of place where they disguise the fact you ain't got much on your plate by putting a squiggly line where the empty space is. And where your – admittedly delicious – seafood croquetas cost 4 euros each. And an ox's tail a hell of a lot more. But, hey, I'm only passing this way once. Unless the museum really is closed tomorrow.
Finally . . . One of my fellow diners looked remarkably like Julian Assange. So, if you hear he's escaped from his Ecuadorian bolt-hole, you know where he is. Either that or his brother is also hoping to visit the Dali museum tomorrow, with a mysterious Chinese lady. Who may or may not be from one of the establishments down the road.