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.
