70. Barcelona
Barcelona is an awful place. There’s nothing to see, nothing to do and every single damn thing gets on your poor, raw, jangled nerves.
Barcelona is an awful place. There’s nothing to see, nothing to do and every single damn thing gets on your poor, raw, jangled nerves.
We started our day at Mont St. Michel with one last detour. I had been to some of the cemeteries the last time I visited the beaches of Normandy — specifically the American and Canadian cemeteries. This time our route took us past the German cemetery.
Our plans called for us to head straight to Mont St. Michel this morning, so of course we changed our minds and decided to toodle around Brittony instead. It was probably the tides or something.
Our rental car was magically upgraded to a Citroen C3, a bubbly yet sleek convertible. It wasn’t the most powerful, and it’s Sensodrive(tm) transmission was a bit confusing — if they had seen us trying to get it out of the parking stall, they might have gently plucked the keys from our hands, and suggested the train.
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