Menorca, France, and Family
31 May 2023 | France
Alison Gabel

Our final days on Paikea Mist were amazing. We had a completely drama-free 2-day passage from Bizerte, Tunisia to Menorca, Spain, with the sails up and the motor off for nearly the entire time, and had a chance in the next few days to anchor in four different places in Menorca - all beautiful for one reason or another. The first was a deep bay near the city of Mahon on the SE end of Menorca, surrounded by colorful, steep cliffs. A huge fort spread out on the hilltop, guarding the entrance to Mahon, build for Queen Isabela in the mid 1850's. As it never saw battle, its walls were perfect, as though it were built yesterday. We arrived a bit late for a tour but had a nice walk around on the hilltop.
The next morning we sailed a few hours around the corner to an anchorage on the back side of a small offshore island where we had a marvelous private corner all to ourselves, save the occasional kayaker that paddled by to swim on the secluded beach. We took the dinghy ashore to see about a hike on the beautiful island, but were met by the first of many signs loaded with "NO's" - "no hiking, no drones, no fires, no petting of geckos, no this, no that, in fact, don't do anything on this island!" But because of all the "no's" the little island was flourishing. Beautiful plants, a huge number of undisturbed nesting sea gulls with their fuzzy brown babies dotting the cliffs, and clear, unspoiled water. My mom taught me to be a "yes" girl, but "no" can be a good thing, too.
Allan did manage a nice swim in the "No" anchorage, and Gloria and I zoomed across the water in the dinghy and took a quick walk around the tiny whitewashed town, which was mostly residential and very quiet.
We moved the next day to another town and picked a great spot to drop the anchor, with nature and green on one side and a slew of nice homes climbing the shallow banks of the town on the other. Gloria pumped up the inflatable kayaks and we took turns exploring. They went first, and came back with some wonderful places for us to check out, including an absolutely gorgeous "secret" pool, a pristine spot encircled by volcanic rock with just a small opening. Inside, we found a woman and her dog just getting ready to start the motor on her large dinghy, leaving us alone to marvel at the beauty and wish we had an illegal drone to shoot some enviable footage from above. As we were getting ready to leave, another boat came in, a little while later they left, and another came in - it seems everyone gives everyone else a short time to see this beautiful secret spot.
We enjoyed another great meal in Paikea Mist's cockpit, and marveled that nobody else had snagged this primo spot, but the next day a local sailor approached us in his big sailboat and in broken English told us we weren't supposed to be there - if we stayed, the port police would come out and - he made a demonstrative slashing motion across his neck - we got the hint and pulled anchor. We moved deeper into the bay, very near the town dock, which was good since Allan and I had to leave the next morning.
We spent our last afternoon riding around on Michael and Gloria's folding Dahon bikes. The island is apparently controlled by 6 families who are largely opposed to encouraging tourism, so unlike Mallorca, there are few areas that accommodate visitors - just some hotels lumped together here and there, otherwise, mostly private homes and very little night life - the antithesis to Ibiza, a party-crazed island. On Menorca, the streets are well-maintained, the homes are beautiful, it's quiet, and clean, there are lots of "No" signs everywhere - and the people who live there like it that way.
Our final night with Michael and Gloria was perfect. We had drinks and dinner in the cockpit as the sun, which sets close to 10pm, glowed warm on the surrounding hills. We finished our packing and made sure we'd shared all the pictures of the last few wonderful weeks with each other, then settled in for our last sleep in the cozy aft bunk that feels like a home-away-from-home. This is the 4th time we've been fortunate to join Michael and Gloria on Paikea Mist - in the last decade we've been with them in Indonesia, Turkey, and Malta, and we always feel so safe and welcome as we build amazing memories together.
The taxi we'd ordered online came exactly at 7am the next morning, but the address was a bit off and the poor taxi driver was knocking on someone's home up the street rather than driving a few feet farther down the hill to where we waited by the marina. Gloria went off on a search and found him before he woke the unsuspecting homeowners, we said our goodbye's, and were off to the next phase of our adventure - a drive from Barcelona to southern France, to see my brother Chris and his wife Sophie.
The flight from Mahon to Barcelona was easy and fast, the car rental thing went just fine, and before we knew it we were on our way to France in a brand-new Opel the color of Mars on a clear night.
We took the coast route for the first half, although we saw little of the coast. The highways all the way up were fabulous, but we paid hefty tolls, especially in France, where one in particular caused us to gasp in disbelief at almost $30 US dollars. In total, round trip, we paid over $100 in tolls. But thanks to those great roads we arrived with few hitches, other than the fact that it was Sunday, an election day in Spain, a holiday in France, and everything was closed. We were hard-pressed to find lunch; even Burger King - a last-ditch resort, was closed. We finally found a small grocery store in Spain and bought bread and cheese and apples.
The last 45 minutes of our drive was fun - Google maps took us hither and yon on windy-twisities, and as an apparently lousy navigator, I got us lost. More than once, we ended up on some very questionable, narrow roads in the middle of dark green forests and rural communities, but at last, in time for dinner, we arrived to the waiting hugs of Chris and Sophie and sat down to a fabulous pot of chili.
20 or so years ago, Chris and Sophie relocated from their home in Amsterdam to the French countryside, to a 230-year-old stone farmhouse with a barn big enough to house a family, and another adorable side house that used to be Sophie's art studio. They bought it after looking at over 40 other properties and spent the next 6 years bringing it up to date, creating an absolutely gorgeous, private garden and filling the home with art, humor, and music.
My brother is a musician, a very accomplished jazz flutist and vibraphone player, and a piano tuner by trade. He's my half-brother and bears many of our father Charlie's traits, so seeing him makes me feel happy - I get to spend time with my brother, and also a bit of time with my dad, who also loved jazz and art.
Our time with them was brief but perfect. Unbeknownst to us, it was their 26th wedding anniversary the next day, so we were the beneficiaries of a Chris and Sophie celebration day, which started with a lavish breakfast in the ancient high-ceilinged dining room, followed by 10 o'clock coffee with gorgeous tea cakes. Then we climbed in our cars (theirs is an adorable convertible with a back-seat that only accommodates miniature people) and drove into the green springtime, Chris in the lead in his straw hat and Sophie with her blond hair blowing in the wind. The area is so amazingly gorgeous it's hard to not gush on about - permit me to just throw out a few descriptive words: green, lush, flowery, clean, rustic, glowing, picturesque, perfect.
And then, lunch: they had recently discovered a wonderful place that you would NEVER find on your own, in the middle of what I'd call nowhere, tucked in among the trees. The menu was classic country French with a full meal from starter to main to dessert. As the primary meal of the day, and as it was their anniversary, we pulled out all the stops. Pulling out all the stops is a total blast every now and then, and it felt so good to be there with them, enjoying a special event and a spectacular meal, in no rush to be anywhere else. At the end of the meal, after the big kitchen rush, the chef came out and visited with us a bit, giving us the chance to gush our appreciation.
From there we drove through more stunning scenery to visit their friend Jerry, an American ex-pat we'd met 16 year ago and were anxious to see again. Jerry was a Navy pilot many years ago, and we have much flying stuff to talk about with him. He's incredibly well-read, intelligent, thoughtful, funny, kind, a great cook - and at 95 is truly an amazing example of what I want 95 to look like. Knowing we were coming to visit, he'd spent the previous few days shopping for and preparing the most amazing scones, with home made strawberry jam he'd cooked up that morning ("first time I've ever made scones or jam,") served with a giant bowl of fluffy whipped cream and a huge pot of tea. We sat on his deck overlooking his wild, yet managed garden, with fish ponds and fruit trees and the endless forest beyond. I think we bored Chris and Sophie to death with the pilot-talk, but it was interspersed with stories of his family, and discussions about getting old, and politics, and other interesting stuff. At some point a bottle of brut came out accompanied by a bowl of chips, and at long last, stuffed to the tips of our heads, it was time to go.
Back home, we all agreed there was no need for, nor interest in dinner, so Allan and I delved into an internet shopping spree for a hotel in Barcelona the next night. Chris and Sophie joined in, and the 4 of us were a classic modern-day scene of four people buried in their screens in separate chairs, but united in a joint search. Soon enough, bleary-eyed, it was time for bed.
We had a lovely breakfast on the deck overlooking Chris and Sophie's garden and by 9:30 were off to Barcelona, this time via the Pyrenees, which took us over mountain passes, through thunderstorms, and past snow-capped peaks. And then, a shockingly sudden transition from easy country highways to the chaos of Barcelona, with bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, taxi's, cars and trucks all vying for dominance on the narrow roads and busy streets. Google maps had a hard time trying to get us down to the absolute busiest part of town - La Rambla - where we'd ultimately scored a room using a free-night Marriott stay, right in the heart of it all. At one point, Allan, who was driving the brand-new stick-shift Opel at great peril to our lives, got squished between a bus that wanted to change lanes into us and an uncharacteristically large black SUV that was careening around us to the left. There was a lot of swearing in that moment and we arrived a few minutes later, unscathed but in a shell-shocked state in front of the hotel. Thankfully there was a little spot to park the car while we checked in. And, there was a private parking garage - the biggest part of choosing this hotel beyond that free night. Parking in Barcelona, well, just don't. Don't drive there, don't park there. We got lucky this time, but next time we take a cab. Or the train. Or, we walk.
Barcelona: wow. I love this city, and luckily we've been before, so our scant time was well-spent. We started with a quick 20-minute five-star nap, followed by a well-earned cocktail downstairs. Then, a hike up La Rambla to gaze lovingly at some of the Gaudi masterpieces - Casa Batlló and nearby Casa Mila, also known as La Pedera; around the corner for a nice Italian meal (yeah, I know, we're in Spain); followed by an 8pm hike up to Familia Sagrada, the ongoing masterpiece that Gaudi started and a gob of architects have subsequently contributed to. In the fading light, it was spectacular. Currently undergoing what appears to be a lot of exterior sprucing, not to mention the ever-present attempts at "finishing" the structure (it's always in process) it was a marvel of then-now-next, surrounded by tourists standing back and taking copious selfies, including us.
We took the Metro back to the hotel, and by then I was truly falling down. Thank God for the bed, it was huge, and soft, and feathery, and ... zzzzzz.....
And so we come toward the end of this amazing, weird, variety-filled trip, which we will never forget, but not before one final surprise: this morning - after surviving our exit from the city, getting gas, returning the car, checking in for our flight, and clearing security, as we were zipping up and down the Disneyland-ish lanes of passport control, I heard someone say, "Alison Gates???" I turned around, knowing this had to be someone from my long-ago past, since they called me by my maiden name, and there was Jeff Arce, who I hadn't seen since maybe 12th grade! Or maybe our 40th high school reunion, I forget which. But it had been a long time. We've known each other since first grade at Chaparral Elementary School in Claremont, California. So we had a chance to catch up before the flight, I met his wife and youngest daughter, and now as I write, he's sitting behind me on the flight to Newark. Such a small world. Jeff Arce. I told him not to put any gum in my hair.