Cadaqués

There is no reason for you not to go here. The thunder and rain, or sun and breeze, the rocks and boats or just everything else is reason enough.

Lovely place.

We got there late in the evening, the whole family driving down from France to Barcelona, so all the restaurants were closed. We were starving. The tourist info booth was just closing, and pointed out a place right by it that was magically open. The paella displayed in the window looked a lot less magical. Just as we were about to settle for it, the tourist officer mentioned a seafood place called Casa Anita might just still be open, too, and called ahead to check. We were in luck.

There was a couple standing outside, waiting along the tall white wall of the building housing the dimly-lit Casa in the cellar. The owner came out to greet us with an oddly-shaped carafe of sweet wine—we were expected, the tourist officer had called ahead, bless him. He then proceeded to attach a thin tube spout to the wine carafe which made the wine shoot out in a thin, far-reaching stream, and regaled us with tricks and antics for a few minutes, then let us pass it around while he went back in.

When we finally sat down, he explained there was no menu. “I bring you food, you eat. Everything very good.” I forget what we actually ate, with the exception of some sardines fried in squid ink, but I remembered distinctly that I’d never eaten anything as delicious in my life. Coupled with a few more bottles of wine, by the time we stumbled to our room we were a happy, stupid bunch, bulging at the seams.

I refused to get out of bed in the morning. I’d already had the best Cadaques had to offer, to hell with the Dali museum.