Snow

We went along small roads over the Pyrénées to cross into Spain; scenery over efficiency was the whole point. The weather was exceptionally warm and sunny for March: it was lovely, this leg of the trip had gotten off to a perfect start.

Once up near the pass, however, the weather changed abruptly; a very sudden storm hit the region. The temperature dropped like a stone, the sky darkened and before you knew it, it was snowing heavily.

A lot of families and hikers were up there not dressed for this at all, and so an appreciable number of people hurried simultaneously for the exits and, well, too many cars, not enough road, what do you get: a massive traffic jam on the road winding down.

The snow kept on falling. Progress was exceedingly slow. The descending lane was thoroughly clogged. The ascending lane on the other hand was free, of course; no one in their right mind would be travelling in that direction. Except for the occasional maintenance vehicle speeding up the hill, that lane was white and empty.

You couldn’t help thinking: why don’t we just be uncivil and take that left lane and get out of here? We’ll never see these people again. We can always cut back into line further down. We didn’t come all the way out here for this. You do realize that, had we been here just twenty minutes earlier, we’d have escaped the whole bother: we did not deserve this. What’s the less assholey thing to do? Waiting or jumping?

But then the windshield magically turned into a movie screen and we had front row seats to the most exquisitely executed scene of uncompromising slapstick we’d ever seen.

The driver of the car before us, not standing it any longer, decided to try his/her luck and go for it. Steered left into that open lane.

Once out there the poor thing managed no forward progress whatsoever. Our mesmerized eyes followed as it slowly…meekly… steadily… reluctantly… inevitably… skidded sideways across the icy road and nose first into the ditch. Plonk.

It was so … merciless. We burst out in laughter, and then some.

I’m not aware of a suitable English translation for the French fou-rire or the Dutch slappe lach. “Giggles?” Nah… that sounds like what Japanese schoolgirls do. What expression conveys the uncontrollability of it, the contagiousness, the pain, even, when your belly hurts and you can’t catch your breath and you‘d like to stop but you just can’t ? And how, when you think you can stop, someone explodes in laughter and there you go again?

Well that’s how the ride downhill went. Luckily it was bumper to bumper so no driving skills were required.

There is nothing like sharing a fou-rire with a friend.

Energy

Had Michael been asked to summarize in one word what brought him the biggest feeling of satisfaction during a trip out in the open, the word might well have been: space.

Definitely a Michael word: Space. When it’s pronounced the Michael way it’s no longer a simple word, by the way: it becomes an affirmation as well as an incantation.

I believe the word became a thing after watching a short animated film, “Creature Comforts” by Nick Park.

If you don’t have time to watch all of it, jump to 1 minute 45 seconds into the movie and listen to that big cat say the word: Space. Notice it comes with a gesture.

Michael appropriated the move and added stature: he said it with the Italian accent, a reference to cinematographic tradition, sure, but also to the just-as cinematographic Dottore Prozzi (our high school chemistry teacher.) He duly Italianized the gesture as well.

We stopped in the middle of nowhere, the semi-arid landscape stretched on forever. There were wafts of thyme in the breeze. It was sunny, still vaguely chilly sometimes.

He takes in the horizon with a deep, deep breath, he does the gesture, hands open, kind of like raising a large present: he proclaims: Space!

Evidently everything and anything Michael had ever suffered had been caused by lack of Space. And at that moment he proclaimed all problems gone. Space!

Michael was a ball of boundless energy, and now the ball was fully charged. Off we were to the next improbable adventure (and probable good meal.)

There is nothing like standing on top of the world with a friend.

Pacharán

We were heading back North.

After days of riding through sun drenched landscapes, the switch to the lush green hills of Navarra was somewhat unsettling. On top of that we were exhausted, had driven a lot that day, and had unwisely disregarded possible stops, so, hungry too. We zigzagged up and down leafy hills seemingly for hours but couldn’t find a thing. It was getting dark and we were getting nervous.

When we finally found something with lights on our nerves were frayed enough that we were a bit shaky in the leg.

We walked into a bar packed with locals watching a basketball game. All conversation stopped when we entered, all heads turned, all eyes stared. Zombies, I’d say with today’s cultural references. Back then it was merely: cannibal hillbillies.

Feeling very welcome, we were ushered into a large and completely empty dining room, where we ate and devised a cunning plan to befriend the basketball crowd after dinner.

That plan required courage, so, with our usual bonhomie, we asked our devoted waitress if there was a local liqueur that might agreeably top off our meal. And it so happens there was, Pacharán, which we learned is “made of mountain herbs”.

And then: blank. Neither Michael nor I ever remembered anything that happened after drinking that stuff. At most, a sense of merry and colorful twirling, like a dance.

A more precise thing I recall is: it’s morning and Michael is still sleeping, albeit in a strange position because half of the slats under him have fallen to the ground, so he’s in kind of in an S shape, snoring.

None of the staff had anything in particular to mention as we checked out. We took it in stride and could only assume we’d had a good time.

There is a classic psychology experiment where people are asked to choose between:

  • A guarantee of the most fulfilling and perfect summer vacation they could ever dream of, with one catch: they won’t remember it afterwards, or
  • Their usual summer routine.

An overwhelming majority chooses the possibly mediocre one. Bluntly put, Paradise is not worth it if you can’t Instagram it.

Our little Basque episode gave Michael and I the chance to reverse-engineer that. Since we didn’t remember, it had to have been Paradise!

There is nothing like a friend who sees the good side of everything.