DJ Trava

Posts Tagged ‘Spain’

On a birthday surprise trip taken a few years ago to Puerto Penasco, or Rocky Point, Mexico more commonly known, motor cycle manuals would not have helped us out a certain predicament.  I had funded a trip for a friend of mine from Boston, Massachusetts.  He wasn’t familiar with the way of the desert, nor was he familiar of just what a Toyota Camry was capable of, or not capable of as the case may be, with regards to driving on sand.

The drive from Phoenix to Rocky Point, is pretty short.  In just about 4 hours one can be sitting on the beach eating fresh shrimps and relaxing, I thought–a perfect way to spend a birthday, no need for small engine repair manuals.  However, as we were camping, and my friend didn’t want to park and walk, he thought it would be an okay idea to just drive right out onto the sand…in a Camry, no four wheel drive and not thought.  I made mention that this may not be the best idea.  But, well—there we ended up.  A great spot on the beach for a few days, but no way to get the car out of the sand.

I tried my best to think of just how we would get home, and made the best of the three days on the beach.  It was fun, we painted pelicans and ocean landscapes, but on our last night, a tremendous storm happened and we were forced to take shelter in the stuck-in-the-sand Camry.  At some point during the night, he decided to run the heater, which was reasonable in a way…as we were soaking wet and very cold.  However, in the morning we woke up, not only stuck in the sand, but with a dead car battery as well.  A self-sufficient camper, a guy that spent most of his time in one of those old school silvermotor-homes accompanied by many dogs, came to our rescue.

This man knew about automotive repair and rescue.  He had a contraption that charge our battery through the cigarette lighter in his motor-home.  He then deflated our tires so we would be able to maneuver our way out of the sand.  We made it to the center of Rocky Point, re-filled the tires with air, and headed back to Phoenix.  We did get home in one piece, but next time I take someone on a trip for their birthday, I may just buy a ticket to Spain, and hire taxis for the entire weekend.

“Did you know Ibiza is eighty kilometers off the coast of Valencia, Spain?” I asked Alma. She was drying her hair in a big white hotels Ibiza towel, then tied on top of her head like a turban. I could never figure out how she did that. “No, I didn’t, Professor,” she said back. I love travel trivia. On car trips, I write down beginning mileage, mileage at fill ups so I can calculate gas mileage, time started and ended, average time, average mileage, well, everything. Alma did not get it. Is it a guy thing? “That is correct,” I said. “Now, would you care hear the average rainfall, temperature, altitude…?” “That’s okay, how about we just get breakfast and go from there.” Alma is a great sport, and fun to travel with. She is practical where I have too many things I want to see. I present her with a portfolio of things to do, like, say in Ibiza where we are going next, and she will right away come up with a practical way to see the best of them. That’s how we roll, I tell her. We were planning to go to Playa d’en Bossa, the biggest beach in Ibiza, so they say, a mild to Ibiza beach scene that Alma said would be good starting point, and that we would decide if we wanted to sample the wilder beaches elsewhere on the island. On the boat ride across the Mediterranean Sea we had a picnic, and we sat on the top deck in the shade of a canopy and had salads and ham and opened a bottle of wine. the wide blue sea stretched out before us and eventually we nodded off and before we knew it were awakened by the ship’s horn, which seemed to be right behind our heads which gave us such a scare hearing it we about jumped out of our skin. It was a surprise, much a the island of Ibiza would turn out to be.