Ribadesella

A week-and-a-half late, we arrive in Ribadesella. Ever faithful Gladys deposits us at the doorstep of Villa Rosaria. (So often ignored, so seemingly a real person, I know she must ask herself—Why do I even try?)Too late, we see the entrance, passing-up the doorstep where we were intended to stop. Continuing our way down a one-way street and turning left, we drive over the narrowest of stone bridges, make a loop and try again. Gladys trying to guide us.

Villa Rosaria

Our room, facing a pure-blue foam-kissed crescent bay,  is a sea of pristine white, soft cream, and elegant taupe. It has a squishy-comfortable bed with fluffy covers and great pillows, and a to-die-for-shower. The thundering surf of the Bay of Biscay crashes outside our multiple windows.  A table dotted courtyard, and a wider promenade separates us from both the beach and the surfers who arrive early, depart late, and return with the evening tide. In mid-September, the temperature is in the mid to high 60’s at the hottest time of the day.  The water is ice.

The hotel is described as an immigrant’s mansion in the Indiano style of architecture. I have visions of maharajahs lounging by the sea.  All of the brochures in the room are in Spanish, so I haven’t a clue. However, today I am lucky enough to have WIFI access, so I Google — and find nothing.  I use other keywords and find less.  Finally, I Google the single word Indiano and discover what I am looking for.  Everything begins to make sense.

Today, there is a celebration parade in Oviedo called America in Asturias, which meant nothing to me until I discovered via Google that many Austrians went to America in the early 20th century (mainly South America and the Caribbean) to make their fortune. Once made, they returned to their homeland. They built ornate mansions along the coast to celebrate their fortunes—most of these, only summer residences—returning to their new homeland in America during the rest of the year.

So we sleep in history.  I wonder what the real story of this old mansion hides. Who?  Why?  What?  Where?  When? I doubt I will ever know.  I need a better researcher than me.

In Search of Lunch

Our clothing tucked away, and out of sight, Michael and I look for lunch.  It is always interesting to find ourselves in a new location knowing nothing, wondering at the direction we should take — just where and how to begin.  It is not yet 2 p.m., and there is no sign of lunch anywhere. All tables in all restaurants—inside and out—are empty. Nada. We explore.

The tide is out, and we find a graveyard of old boats as we make our way across the bridge spanning the width of the river Sella. Seeing a street lined with umbrellas that borders the sheltered harbor, we backtrack. Taking a shortcut, we find ourselves back at our hotel; the umbrellas left behind — across a wide inlet with no bridge.  I suggest the restaurant at our hotel.  Michael says he saw a picture of a great looking burger in town.  We turn left. I am sure that there isn’t any burger out there—anywhere—that can beat the burger I had at the pilgrim’s stop on the way to Santiago de Compostela.  This one doesn’t come close, even though it has an egg.

We continue our explorations of this town that has evolved into a simple pleasure-seeking paradise for those who worship the cold sapphire sea and hot white sun.  It is charming.  The bench-lined promenade goes on forever; the sandy beach is wide and deep and clean.  The entire town is pristine, devoid of gaudy high-rises and tacky bars, surrounded by blue sky, blue water, and deep green mountains.