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.
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