Up the mountain and down

I set off this glorious Sunday morning with no clear direction, just a vague notion that I wanted to head somewhere near Tibidabo, the nearby mountain crowned with an amusement park, and more specifically, to the large natural park, Colserolla, behind it. Just before, I had strolled to the little bakery on the corner for a fresh baguette - bakeries here are open on Sundays as the Spanish cannot do without their fresh bread each day - and stopped to admire the golden retriever that belongs to the owner of the newsstand next door. Hiding my keys in the shrubbery outside the apartment, I began to climb and found myself on the winding highway whose signs pointed to Tibidabo and Terrassa, some 25 kilometers away. I was not alone on the dangerous route, which I shared with ambitious cyclists and a gentleman of at least 75, patiently climbing with the aid of his cane. Age and infirmity do not deter the Spaniard bent on his daily walk.

Anxious to leave the motorway, I scanned the hillsides for evidence of a walking path, and soon found one at a turnout where a pleasant young woman was washing her car with bottled water. A hundred feet up the path, I met an elderly lady, also leaning on a cane, descending towards me. "Hola, buenas dias!" she called cheerily. A few feet further, I wondered how on earth she had managed to navigate the slippery, steep path, which essentially was a small creek splashing over cut-granite stones. Never one to shun an adventure, I pressed on, and the terrain became drier as I climbed. My doubts as to whether this was in fact a trail at all were resolved as I encountered the terminus of a natural spring trickling from a pipe emerging from a stone slab marked with a bronze plaque. Continuing upward, I veered impetuously to the right, ducking beneath the dense vines. More evidence of previous human presence: Cigarette packs, a soda bottle - obviously a party spot. Then, a sign: municipal park ahead.

I approached the fenced border of the park, observed closely by a middle-aged woman inside of it, leaning on the fence. "Which way did you come from?" she asked. "I live over there" - she pointed - "and I'm trying to figure out a direct route to get home. I'm tired." Ah, a fellow adventurer.

Minutes later, I connected with one of the broad gravel roadways that crisscross the Colserolla park. The Disney castle-like Tibidabo amusement park loomed above me. Now I was among strolling families and avid mountain-bikers, for whom the big park is a major draw. A black French bulldog puppy left its group to sniff at my shoes and wiggle happily when I bent down to scratch its head. And more signs: Els Penitents, a familiar name since we live a block from the Penitents Metro station. Soon, a crossroads and a choice: take the broad road leading to Els Penitents, or strike off to the left on a steep descending path below which Barcelona flowed past low hills and eventually to the Mediterranean. I headed left. Now the sun was hot and I had stripped down to my tank top as I peered down, seeking landmarks and a direction. I could make out Ronda de Dalt, the peripheral east-west highway spanning northern Barcelona, and the big hospitals that dominate its upper reaches. The green awnings on a distant building resembled the ones down our street, and I headed for them. Now I was in residential streets with their inviting view homes behind private gates, walking steadily downhill and stopping to scratch a friendly black and white neighborhood cat. A lucky guess put me on the very corner of our neighborhood bakery and two blocks from home. Shoes off and ravenously hungry, I prepared French toast with fruit and coffee, and headed out to the terrace to continue enjoying the Barcelona midwinter sun.