Lunch on the Costa Brava

Michael says it is all up to me, even though it was his idea to find a small fishing village—traveling by train or bus—and have lunch by the sea.  Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava, based on a friend’s recommendation, is it.

I want to go, but—neither one of us slept last night. We both have colds. It is going to be a long day.  We will get home late. I dither, thinking we only live once. But then again, we have been to so many places. Seen so much. But still —our stuffy heads.

Finally, I say, “OK. Let’s go.”

By Metro, Bus & Foot.

At 11:00 am, we are once again on our way to the closest metro station—the L5, changing lines today at the Plaça de Sants to the L1. With a choice of three exits, we somehow choose the correct one and make our way out of the Arc de Triomf station immediately across from the Estacio del Nord. We walk in the wrong door.  I ask for directions.  We walk in the right door—I ask for directions again. We go upstairs and walk to window 34 to purchase tickets. 

Michael, stating the obvious, says, “It’s closed.”

But there is another window next to it. The young woman is not in a hurry to wait on us.  We had twenty minutes to spare when we arrived at the station, but now they are melting away.

We are two of no more than five passengers when we leave the station, heading for Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava. Just to have lunch.  We are used to driving two-and-a-half hours for lunch at home. This trip is scheduled to take only one hour and twenty minutes. We spend the time relaxing, trying to see the ocean through the dirty window and glare of the sun.

I tell Michael a friend said we’d need to take a taxi into town when we arrive in Tossa.

“She doesn’t understand our walking abilities,” he replies.

We leave the bus. We walk, following our noses to the sea and the wide crescent beach.  It is literally a cakewalk compared to Barcelona. There are no cars to dodge. No motorcycles, no lights to wait for. There are no pedestrians either.

Tossa de Mar

Passing through the winding streets of the small village, it looks like no one is home.  We don’t even run into tourists, well, maybe two. I am reminded of our trip to Barga years ago, where we wandered forever trying to find some sign of life one early Saturday morning. We needed coffee back then; today, it is lunch. We always seem to be searching for food.

Breaking into the open space of the sandy beach, we finally hear voices. A few sunbathers are scattered around, small children play, and the sidewalk is lined with restaurants—most of them closed. The sidewalks have been rolled up, and businesses shut down—it is November—who comes to a beach town in November? Besides us.

Tapas del Mar

I ignore the lure of happy voices and clinking glasses as we walk, determined to head for my restaurant of choice—one of the few open during low season, but only on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.  I did check that.  It was the one that stood out on Google maps as being on the waterfront, the sole reason for my choice. Now I see there are many others; I try not to be swayed.

The reviews are good—the reviews are very good.  I keep my fingers crossed. Michael is not always happy with my choices—he is actually less than happy more often than not. We walk to the north end of the curved beach, opposite the walled vila vella on the south end of town, and are seated at a shaded outdoor table at Tapas del Mar.

Michael is happy—he likes the sangria.  The tomato bread is some of the best we have had.  His fresh anchovy fillets marinated in vinegar (ceviche) make him smile widely. He gives me one, a large one, urging me to taste it. I am surprised—it is good.

The fried eggplant fingers surrounding a large round of salty, tangy goat cheese drizzled with a deep dark sweet honey is divine.  Every time I have ordered goat cheese in this country, it has been ultra-delicious. It makes the dish! I wonder if I can buy it at home? I actually wonder if it is Spanish goat cheese or made in France. We are very close to the French border. I should ask.

My cannelloni and Michael’s shrimp are covered with luscious, flavorful sauces. Sauces seem to be non-existent in most Spanish restaurants, and we have missed them. We are both grateful for the generous offering. My cannelloni, described as traditional with meat, foie, and mushrooms, is sinfully rich and made earthy and rustic with autumn mushrooms. Dessert is Michael’s second half-liter of sangria.

The last two people to leave the restaurant, we cross the town heading for the rocky hill where the old medieval wall stands watch over the fishing boats below.

Once More – To The TOP!

The walk uphill is easy. The views beg to be seen.  We sit and gaze often. We reach what I consider the top, but Michael wants to go higher and check out the relatively new lighthouse, which replaced the windmill, which replaced the ancient castle built sometime in the twelfth century.  I tell him he can find me on the bench below the lighthouse. There is no need for me to see it, and the view is exquisite from the bench. I keep waiting for him to join me when finally I hear a familiar whistle.  When I look up — he beckons.  I climb. We explore.

Getting Lost in Tossa de Mar

We effortlessly walk down the rocky hillside, following the gently sloped stone path wide enough for a small car. For awhile. A very tiny while. Suddenly Michael walks over to the side of the road and looks down,  “I want to find that trail,” he tells me.

Of course, he wants to find that trail—and of course, he does. “Those steps look steep,” I say, “and they don’t have handrails.”

He just looks at me.  He leads.  I follow.

It isn’t the easy way down as it twists and turns going from one set of uneven steps to another, but it does have its rewards—views not seen anywhere else. It takes us through the tiny alleys of the ancient medieval town before dumping us into the newer whitewashed area. I feel we are off the beaten path—a place I like to be—at least our beaten path of today.  We have a good time getting lost, but the town is tiny, and getting lost is not an easy thing. We find ourselves way too soon.

Sitting, having a glass of cava as the sun falls, and we wait for departure time, I tell Michael that today I feel like I have almost had half an ice cream cone—much more than a lick.  We both smile.