It rains constantly on my last day in Barcelona. I play wet fashion poodle on the upmarket Passeig de Gracia. Gucci, Gabbana, Chanel, Diesel, Zara. Every shop is a welcome shelter from the rain. Whenever the rain gets heavier, I buy something. Nevertheless, I’m soaking wet in the evening.
I get up at five in the morning, pick up the car, load up and drive off towards the Pyrenees. My destination is La Molina. I found the idea of snowboarding in Spain kind of funny. The journey doesn’t bring any joy. There’s no snow at all up to 1300 metres, then it starts to snow lightly. The pistes are white, but I very much doubt whether it’s worth it.
Anyway, I’m here, so I get my board out and head up the mountain. The Spanish forecast was 10 kilometres of visibility and 180 cm of powder on the mountain. I always get annoyed by German snow reports because they have become increasingly euphoric and false in recent years. I’ll save myself that from now on. The real conditions in Spain are much more drastically wrong.
The visibility is still correct. Behind the 10 metres of continuous fog that was constantly in front of me, there was certainly the promised 10 km visibility. The snow was a complete joke. A maximum of 30 cm at the top, a week old and gnawed down to the bone. About 180 micrometres of powder on top. Together with the strong icy wind further up, it was no fun at all. I see white in white with bright flashes.
After an hour I have a small fall and after two hours I’m finally fed up. I sell my ticket and drive to Montpellier. I arrive there four hours later and scream when I get off the train. Something is very wrong with my right leg. Over the next six hours, I ask for directions to Canossa several times.
Waiting in the hostel. Realise that you can apparently drive into the narrow old town of Montepellier somewhere (thanks, sat nav!) but can’t get out anywhere (bollards for residents only). Drive to the first hospital and limp along. Wrong. Drive to the next hospital and limp. First entrance, I can’t go in any more. It’s not the emergency room, I have to limp another half kilometre. Then wait three hours for the diagnosis.
Result: Nothing visible. Just hurts. Off to the hostel. Some half-strong Frenchmen are smoking weed in the room and spitting on the floor. One steals chips, the other wants to scrounge two euros. I’m going to miss all this. Honestly.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.