Article Surfing Archive

Clearly, Catalans have a special attraction to mountains. I discovered this one winter weekend a 100 kilometers (60 miles) north of Barcelona in the Pyrenees when I visited La Molina, the oldest ski resort in Spain, with a peak rising 2,537 meters (8,320 feet). The train ride, through vistas worthy of the Alps, was noisy with teenagers plucking guitars and singing.

I skied with Pedro Pereira, a Barcelona paper salesman who moonlights as a ski instructor. Pedro took me up to 2,300 meters and showed me snowfields where we broke our own trails. Later Pedro bantered with friends crowded around a table in a cafe, as we banqueted on rounds of fresh bread smeared with tomatoes, olive oil and garlic.

The next day I drove toward south of Tarragona. Trafic packed the road, and I could see that the lure of finding a quiet place in the sun had set thousands of Catalans on the move. When I stopped in the village of San Carlos de la Rapita, I guessed I had hit land's end. Shipwrecks cluttered the harbor. The town smelled of salt hay and shellfish.

All the action centered on the fish auction-until a helicopter swooped in for a landing. Then I saw beyond the mask of the fishing fleet. On the other side of the harbor sat three oil-rig service vessels, whole fields of drilling supplies and a squadron of choppers. I began making preparations for leaving this "paradise lost".

But someting made me stay: first, just a cup of coffee; then, the spirited dancing of the cafe waitresses; later, some of the biggest snails I've ever eaten; and finally, a table of fhisermen who passed a wineskin. So it was one of those nights-eating paella and trying to fathom rough-spoken Catalan. I learned two things: Fishing remained the big business here, and the oilmen were welcome.