Third Time's A Charm for Spain

During our first trip to Spain, my dad ended up getting admitted to a mountain town hospital for a bowel blockage. Because it was the covid fueled winter of 2021, no visitors were allowed inside the hospital. While he convalesced with anti-nausea meds, a nasogastric tube, and daily bowel prep drinks in an effort to avoid surgical intervention, the rest of us skied. Not happily, and not without care or guilt, but skiing helped pass the daytime. Evenings were spent on the phone and making contingency plans: maybe they'd have to transport him via ambulance to Barcelona for surgery. If his gut perforated, maybe he'd need air transport instead. We talked in circles, worrying about rental car issues, travel insurance kicking in, etc.   Either way, it would be a mandatory 6 week stay in the country before he'd be allowed to fly. Thank goodness, after 3 or 4 terrible days of prep drinking and waiting, he prevailed. My dad was discharged with an appreciation for the excellent, conservative care he received, but also a weariness for foreign travel that would take years to fade.

Right before our second trip to Spain in winter 2023, David got appendicitis, resulting in the two of us pivoting to London for surgery instead. We decided that Mark and Margo would go to Spain and we would rendezvous after he was cleared to fly. The two of us made it there a week late, minus an appendix. On this same trip, we also expected to spend it with Mark’s mom, dad, and brother, but his brother never ended up making it. Mark’s brother wasn’t known for being a good communicator. He rarely texted and emailed, and almost never called, so his no-show and subsequent silence was normal. We continued as usual, visiting wineries, relaxing on the patio, and playing games with the kids. A few days later, around two am on Christmas Eve, Mark’s parents found out he had passed away. Contacting the police station and detective to the case were difficult to get ahold of. And when they did, few details were given. As soon as we could, we all flew to the U.S. to face an impossible goodbye. Literally, mentally, psychologically, emotionally, and physically, no one would be the same again.

After two strike-outs, Mark and I were very surprised, when this year the kids requested a Spanish re-do. Margo wanted us to experience the city of Girona where everyone loves all things cycling. For example, there are tons of coffee shops that offer free coffee for life if you buy their custom jersey. Teams from all over the world train there, and bars routinely show bike races. She wanted to show us cobbled old town, eat tapas, and admire huge, churchy architecture. The kids remembered skiing Baquiera-Beret in vertigo inducing fog and chilling temperatures while worrying about Grandpa, but they still wanted to conquer all four peaks of the resort. They wanted to say thank you to the woman who, when their uncle died, took care of the live Christmas tree and full fridge we set up, and donated gifts we had to leave behind. So we went to Spain and did all of these things. The trip didn’t replace the aftertaste of uncertainty and loss, but it did reshape it into something sweeter.

Having a good time with Grandpa before he stopped having a good time.
Dec 2021

Then: (2021) pretending to have a good time.

Font Rubi, Spain, Dec 2022

Springfield, MO, Summer 2022
Brothers

Dec 2025, Girona

Girona, Dec 2025

Girona, Dec 2025

Now: Baqueira-Beret, Dec 2025

Font Rubi, Spain 2021
Credit: mark

Tired

Autumn weather changes brought us cooler temperatures which meant the properties of the Ideal Gas Law were enacted. The low tire pressure warning on our car went off so I ventured to a gas station to top off. I had spare coins to feed the air compressor and a pressure gauge still in its original packaging. Only problem was, neither the first, second, or third gas station had air hoses.

One hour later of driving uselessly around the city, did it occur to me that among the endless pharmacies, beauty salons, and flower shops that I should visit a sheeno-montage (tire service shop) which are also found basically everywhere. And, changing out tires in Astana is a big deal, because by the first snowfall, winter grade tires are required by law.

The mechanic charged me the American price of about 8 dollars to top off four tires (the actual cost should be like one dollar - I found out days later). He could only be paid by the equivalent of Kazakh Venmo, which I did not have. I asked if he would take cash which I also, did not have.

Promising to come back, I drove off to find an ATM. Google fooled me twice with banks that didn’t exist, and when I did find one, only larger bills were available to withdraw. Thinking two birds one stone, I then drove to the store where I picked up some groceries, paid via credit and asked if I could make change with the equivalent of a ten dollar bill. Cashier said no, not allowed.

Fine. I bought a Snickers and handed over the bill, where she asked me, snapping her gum ala Tina from Sandford Somerfield Supermarket if I had anything smaller. I mean...

The mechanic probably thought I had absconded with free air, but I did return to pay - if 2 hours late. Next time, I will actually use my brain, save time and money, and use the sheeno located just 220 meters from home.

Tina. Hott Fuzz.

Was as if I had never connected tires with air before.

30 second drive from my house

I guess he charged me for premium air.

Open 24 hours!

Cycling in Northeast Slovenia

For years, Mark had convinced me that retiring to northwestern Slovenia was the best choice. Due to its accessibility to not only mountains, rivers, and like minded outdoor enthusiasts, but access to medical care and city resources less than two hours away in any direction, we'd be spoiled for choice. During lulls at work, we’d ping each other with house sales in popular spots like Tolmin, Bovec, or Kobarid to keep the dream going. Some properties could be fixers uppers, others freshly remodeled- but because these areas are so popular for tourism, all are expensive and rarely stay on the market for long. 

In the early planning of our most recent Slovenian vacation, I pointed out that we had not been anywhere east of Ljubljana. I suggested we explore it by bike and it took zero seconds to convince him. Three years ago, we rode an Alps-to-Adriatic route, organized by a tour company called Visit Good Place. It was a mostly enjoyable week, cycling about 150 miles and climbing abut 9,000 feet with an initial fitness recommendation of low to medium. Some days I wanted to ride forever it was so pretty and the weather was so perfect and I wanted to marry the country. Some days we arrived to the hotel soggy, sore, and smelly from rain, sweat, and tears. Toward the end of this trip I mandated our bags to the balconies as they smelled like forgotten creamy potato soup left on the stove for a week in 90+ degree weather. We successfully finished the route tired, but proud.

My fate was sealed when I picked Visit Good Place’s Backcountry Gravel Tour that started in Maribor and ran west over four mountain ranges that would dip plummet in and out of Austria. The route would cover 200 miles and climb more than 28,000 feet during the week. Fitness recommendation: medium to high. Huh, I thought. I'm fit, no problem!

Having been a regular worker-outer, and Zwifting or bike commuting every day, I didn’t think what “medium to high” meant IRL outside of Astana where the highest climb is literally riding up and over a bridge. On this trip, there were zero days I wanted to ride forever regardless of prettiness and perfect weather. All of the days, I arrived to the hotel soggy, sore, and smelly. Some days we endured 8 hour downpours and headwinds, washed out trails, and deeply neglected single track. Everyday to the end, I was too tired to mandate our bags to any balcony.

This bike ride was so hard. SO HARD. It was steep, gravelly, and isolated and the weight of my can’t-do attitude surprised me. I wanted to quit at each false summit and I was angry at the world, feeling victimized and resentful I freely signed up this. It didn’t help that the kids and Mark seemed to cruise right on by, as I heaved and whined my way to the next check point. Everyday I gave myself STFU pep talks, shoved candy into my mouth and rode the damn bike.

There were some satisfying victories, like when we made it the tops of the ski resorts with panoramic views of what we’d just conquered. Descending on asphalt instead of gravel was sublime and euphoric. Beer never tasted so good. I got to say, “yeah, I did that” everyday. Also, it turns out this part of Slovenia is desperately beautiful. The bounties of mountain peaks, the sprawling meadows of wild flowers and farmland, and thick forests made us forget about the other side of the country. On the merciful last day of riding nearly 90% downhill into an unpronounceable town named Trzic, Mark was strategizing (and nearly executing) a new retirement plan, only a 200km shift to the east.

Jezersko

Jezersko

Solcava

Šmartno pri

Somewhere between Rogla and Šmartno pri 

Black Peak Summit

Soaked but faking it

Sausage vending machine

Sausage and burgers for lunch

Rogla

descending in the back country

too steep and rutted to ride up

Strategizing

Slovenia’s Meat Obession (and other tasty things)

Slovenia is awfully proud of its cold cuts. Any normal functioning restaurant there will have locally made salami, sausage, cured ribbon, and cubed lard for an appetizer - hypertension and congestive heart failure be damned! The more generous ones will include a variety of local cheese, fruit, and nuts, though any Slovenian will tell you that their meat plates are so good, they should stand on their own. Paired with beer, of course. TasteSlovenia.si, a tourist centric site, has a scroll-heavy page dedicated solely to the ways of the sausage; how the sausage is made, where its made, and why your life has no meaning until you’ve sausaged the Slovenian way.

Meat is clearly, a big and meaningful identifier to culture in many countries. I enjoy cured meaty medallions as much as the next person, but after a while cold cuts, no matter where it is, seem to taste the same. Like any post-Soviet country I've been to, Kazakhstan is a sausage loving nation. Our grocery app has SO MANY options like halal, boiled halal, smoked halal, regular boiled, regular smoked, regular half-smoked, whole, cut, hot-dogged, chicken, beef, pork, horse... all available on demand.

I’m low-key annoyed that Slovenia is missing a huge bragging point on its hamburger making. An old blog post mentioned the restaurant Foksner in Bohinj, famous for its burgers, and this time we planned our road trip around eating there again, they are that good. The country nails beef quality. Even better, during the vacation we found two other joints that were on par, if not better than Foksner: Bar Under the Bridge (Bar Pod Mostom) a popup bar and grill on the Soci River and Come Back Burger in Trzic have burgers worthy of going out of your way for. Slovene mince is divine, without filler. Steak around the country is good too, but their burgers have ruined all others for me.

We ate and drank our way through this trip, showing my parents the summery side of Slovenia since they had only visited in winter. Though having been retired in Colorado for about a decade, they still talk about moving overseas for their official official retirement, so this trip was our hard sell, seeing as it’s where Mark and I would like to end up too. Winter half convinced them already, summer could actually seal the deal! Our days were filled with cave exploration, gorge hiking, waterfall viewing, swimming, and winery visits to tasting varietals like Barbera (venous red), Zelen (spicy fresh), or Malvasia (tart but tame) grapes. We tasted orange wine. It's not for everyone and no thank you.

We crossed into Cormons, Italy for a few days for Friulano and Ribolla whites where, throw a rock in any direction and you’ll hit a winery. They too, have their world class cold cut prosciutto, supposedly due to the region's mix of Adriatic breeze and Carnic mountain winds. I would have loved to experience either of those because the sweltering, unmoving heat just layered itself on top of us to the point where our bodies left crime scene sweat outlines on the tiled floors. On the plus side, we did eat magical 8-cheese pizza, enjoyed a 6-course cheese tasting, and got heartburn from eating so much frico (a hot cheese potato dish). I'd be seriously worried about my cholesterol if it weren't for an upcoming 300km bike ride across Slovenian and Austrian mountains.

Step 1

Step 2

Step 3

Burger with a view (Most Na Soci) 

Lepa Vida - with labels containing homages to the female form

orange = nope

Pregaming with seafood in Piran, Slovenia

Burabay Adjacent, KZ

For those who want to do a mountainy, tree stuffed getaway, but don’t want to deal with oblivious boaters or hikers elbowing their way up the rapidly balding overlook to Burabay Lake, choose a camp located away from the lake. The same friend who invited us the first time, organized a schools-out-hurrah-celebration at the Aspen Eco Hotel. Technically, the hotel is located in an unpronounceable city called Shchuchinsk (Shoot-chins-k) but we’ll just say Burabay. More a glamp site than hotel, the deciduous forest surrounds the property and there’s a natural spring pond, good for swimming and paddle boarding. Any sane lodging developer in the post-soviet region would include a sauna paired with a giant galvanized, wood burning hot tub, which it did. Their individual dome rooms come with loft beds, ac, bathrooms and showers, and a hot tub. I like glamping and I am very good at it.

My friend and her family trained up, while Margo and I chose to drive this time. (Note to train riders: passports are required for all passengers and they DO check.) The dog, Mark, and Deets were invited but bailed last minute, so instead, our entire back seat and trunk was filled with multiple kilos of lamb chops, chicken, and beef, sagging bags of vegetables, crates of strawberries and apricots, watermelons, several different types of junk food accouterment, and champagne. I one hundred percent did not think we would eat all it the short time we had, but determined minds and stomachs prevailed. Between relaxing, practicing handstands, playing tag, swimming, and splashing all of the water from the hot tubs from said handstands, tags, and attempts to swim, the kids ate nearly everything.

After the sun went down the site manager set up a movie screen and showed the guests Russian dubbed “Runaway Bride”. Not having thought about Richard Gere in a very long time, my friends, fellow glampers and I discussed Gere movies. As a weird child, I watched “Pretty Woman” countless times. I liked that Vivian knew car stats and had big feet and how she Arsenio Hall fit pumped during the polo match. I know that movie didn’t age well, but I loved how Edward got over his stupid pride, figured out what a bad-AMF Viv was, and went to get her. In the meantime, the others unanimously said Gere’s best movie was “Hachi: A Dog’s Tale” and were equally shocked that I never heard of this movie. They immediately set to educating me on the depth of the movie’s far superior love story between a man and his dog. Fair enough. 

Stars were out, the air chilled to hoodie perfection, and the kids fell asleep before we did, so the adults went for a sauna - a wild 10pm activity for someone who loves a 9pm bedtime. The next morning we ate an English breakfast at the outrageously early 9am hour (they said breakfast was normally between 10-12) and had enough time to swim and paddle board before driving back home on the shockingly smooth spacious highway with a 130kph speed limit. My only regret for the weekend was stopping at a gas station outhouse with so many flies they could have eaten my carcass cartoon style if I passed out from the quantity and smell and fell through the broken, rusted floor. Margo would have had to drive the car home instead, and I’m sure she would not have liked that.

Making friends

SUP

Airat, Grillmaster

Snacking between meat courses.

Burabay National Park, KZ

The steppe in this country is so vast, one needs to travel at least 3.5 hours to see anything resembling hills and mountains. So, for a $1.50, I took a first class train to do just that, and visit Burabay National Park for the day. Sure, the train car doors don't stay closed and the windows only open fifteen degrees, but the squat toilets have a sturdy grab-handle for stabilizing from the non-regulation track gauges. The seats are surprisingly not uncomfortable and there is a food service car that the ticket taker promised to offer tea, coffee, chips, and cakes - except not on this particular day when the vendor never showed. No worries, because I packed GORP and water, surely a highlight for every child and adult.

 

Suddenly, the flat turned into Burabay hills and the second our feet hit the ground, my friend immediately began negotiations with a cab driver to transport us the rest of the way for a 30 minute drive in a van with 1/2 functioning seatbelts and music videos queued up on YouTube. The national park felt like a mix of Dirty Dancing nostalgia and a tin of sardines, with tightly packed resorts and tightly packed trees lining the road that circles the park. Paddle boats, row boats, cheddar wheel shaped boats, pontoons crowded on the most picturesque side of the lake. Bike and scooter rentals lined the pedestrian path, as were opportunities go dress like a regal Kazakh to enhance core memory making. I just about lost my mind when I found out I could hold a real hawk while posing as a powerful nomad.

Some of the mountain hikes surrounding the lake take 4-5 hours to climb, but they require guides and advanced equipment with peaks having noticeably sharp inclines and treacherous drop offs. Most visitors stick to the less demanding 30 minute incline to the Bolektau observation point. At the top, we were met with gusty winds, sunshine, and Kazakh teens dancing to love ballads blasting from a portable speaker. One person gave us beef jerky and another person gave us hard boiled eggs. I handed out fistfuls of GORP, because everyone loves it. Talk about winning! 

Toward the end of the day, we grabbed proper food at Coffee Boom, a popular Kazakh restaurant chain that does some things well like soup, coffee, and cakes, and a few things terribly, like bruschetta. My friend insisted we experience at least the short tour of the park’s museum before our 5pm pick up, so we did. Normally, I champion the idea of trying everything at least once - but the price of the tour was stupidly expensive for what was on offer: fiber optic stranded “leaves” hanging over tree peep holes of Kazakh cultural sites, an immersive video of a swimming whale, and a mural of nomads on horses, the end. 

The driver who brought us to Burabay was the same one who took us back to the train station. He challenged all notions of safe driving the winding roads by texting and voice messaging his wife who was zero percent pleased he had not come home yet to deal with his domestic responsibilities. Insisting he’d be home in 20 minutes, he sped up and drove with ferocity insisting too that we’d surely hit traffic, and miss our train if he didn’t hussle… and drop us a safe 45 minutes head of schedule. The train ride home was mostly uneventful,  though the fear that open windows cause health problems is still very prevalent around here, so our fellow train mates demanded all windows be shut, so we were trapped in everyone’s body odor, farts, and fish snacks. But hey - the price to travel was right. Right?

Ruling fairly and wisely.

View from the lake on a row boat while listening to Kazakh techno at full volume.
This is the way.

Janky cheese wheel boat.

Mid-paddle pit stop.

Birder photobomb.

Bolektau Obs Point. A good spot for snacking and selfie-ing.

Psychedelic and random.

She’s a total natural.

A literal peep show