From the windows of our airplane, I can see the Mediterranean glistening in the morning sun.  Another sparkling day in one of my favorite European cities.  Today, people will walk the La Rambla, shop in the Mercat, eat paella, marvel at Gaudi’s architecture and indulge in some incredible Rioja wine.  But they will be doing it without us.

Raye and I settle in for the long airplane ride home, but not without reliving all the amazing things we saw, food we ate, people we met and roads we traveled.  It was better than we imagined, but at this stage of life, I have come to appreciate new motorcycle adventures for the uncertainty and unmatched sense of discovery you get when you make time for these kinds of experiences.

The last thing we discuss before drifting off to sleep is the one thing that will help me overcome the sweet sadness of leaving: when and where do we go next?  The truth is, I don’t really care.  Just as long as another ride awaits.

Too soon we have to leave this haven, and our ride from here descends out of the mountains through busy towns and on bigger roads.  The promise of the coast awaits and everyone is eager to see the famous Costa Brava, the Catalonian coastline along the Mediterranean Sea.  This should be quite a contrast from what we have seen the rest of the trip, and our guide promises us the switchbacks along the coast are as good if not better than yesterday’s challenging mountain passes.

Finally we reach the coast and stop for lunch in a bustling tourist city.  Several of us decided to treat ourselves to a lunch of paella at a beautiful yacht club.  The food was artistic and sumptuous.  The setting was relaxing and divine.  A real treat.

From here, the coastline ride begins.  The Costa Brava stretches from the border of France and Spain south about 125 miles to the port of Blanes.  Costa Brava means wild coast, and by the looks of the rocky cliffs and rugged surf, it has earned its name.  Frankly, it reminds me of the Pacific Coast Highway in California -- same natural attraction that has nothing to do with man and everything to do with God.  This is a huge tourist draw for Catalonia.  We are truly excited to be here.

The highway is a series of unending switchbacks that necessitates a slower speed but unquestionably creates a faster heartbeat.  I can tell Raye is excited about the ride, but like all the other drivers, he is concentrating on the road, the speed, the turns, the traffic.  I, on the other hand, am mesmerized by the azure blue water and crashing surf.  Since I am riding on the back, I am treated to a shoreline show of splendor, and I make my best efforts to capture some pictures so Raye and the others can see this region.  We make one stop from a perfect scenic overlook. It is hard to get us back on the bikes – from here we know the ride is coming to a close and we must get on a major highway to make it back to Barcelona before sunset.

This part of the ride back is filled with traffic, wind, and an unexpected rain.  Seems fitting as we say good bye to the mountains and now the coast.  I loved Barcelona a week ago, but honestly I am sad to return to this amazing city because it marks the end of our trip.  We pull wearily into the hotel, check in, and most of us collapse for a quick nap.  It has been a long day of riding, and we have one last dinner together before parting ways.

Tonight is a celebration, and everyone is filled with stories, hugs and promises of staying in touch.  We salute our guides and enjoy piano playing by Charles.  Raye and I head for bed before too late as our flight leaves fairly early from the airport.  I can hardly wait to see the kids, but I will miss these new friends incredibly.

It is a bittersweet evening.

After our final hearty breakfast of the trip, we head out Saturday morning for our ride to the Mediterranean coastline and then back to Barcelona.   With each passing mile we leave the Pyrenees behind us.

Our first break is the last place we stop in the mountains, and as it turns out, this becomes one of my favorite places of the entire trip.  It is the tiny town of Beget, built alongside a mountain stream with true cobblestone streets and terraces that function as the main pathways through town.  Because of they are so narrow and are cut into the side of the mountain, walking is the only means of getting around.  We mistake a sign in the middle of town as one that allows motorcycles, but our guides explain to us that any sign rimmed in red means “no” and that they do not have signs in Europe with a big slash through them like we have in America.  Too bad; we were ready to bring our bikes through the streets.  They couldn’t have been any harder than the roads we had ridden yesterday.

We walk through the town, across two bridges and down to the stream.  There are many doors and windows that catch my eye, and I take numerous pictures.  Several of us spot a small inn with the rates posted for a room – only 17 Euros a night.  Currently that’s about $25.  I am already making plans to return to this slice of heaven.  This is the kind of place I imagine hiding away in for six months to write a book.  It is peaceful, remote, inspirational and incredibly visual.  I take as many pictures as I can, determined one of these will become my new screen saver.  It would take a place like this to bump the picture of the Alps I have on my laptop now.

About eight or ten of us close out the evening singing and playing guitar.  We have the hotel’s lounge area to ourselves except for a family playing checkers with their kids at the other end.  Our young Oxford law student, Charles, takes a turn with the guitar singing a song he loves and bringing us all along with him.

One of our friends from South Africa, Graham, has a turn and begins singing Neil Young.  That’s all it takes for me.  “Harvest” is one of my all-time favorite albums, and his choice of artists seems appropriate on this somewhat melancholy evening.  I close my eyes and lean back in my chair to take it all in.  He is a very talented singer.

After a few songs, he pauses and then surprises me.  “This one’s for Elise,” he says in that unforgettable accent all of our new friends from South Africa have that sounds a bit like an Aussie, a Brit and a New Zealander all rolled into one but with an exotic flair I can never quite put my finger on.  He beckons me to come stand beside him while he sings.

Perhaps he could read it on my face – what I was feeling and maybe what all of us were feeling.  Ready to go home and yet a sadness to leave this all behind.  He sang “Needle and the Damage Done,” and his small gift of a song puts a smile back on my face.  Thanks to Graham and Neil Young, we manage to keep our feelings at bay, even if for just one more night.

Our room has no phone, so Raye and I walk into town to find a payphone and call our children for the day.  Due to the time change, we can’t seem to catch them or my dad, who is undoubtedly ferrying them around somewhere this afternoon.  By my calculation, they are just out of school, so I am disappointed we can’t get through.  I do get the office, though, and am glad to hear the familiar, friendly greeting of Rose, our team assistant, as she answers the phone.  As I suspected, things have gone remarkably well without me this week.  I told myself many times while experiencing the angst of being officially unplugged for the past several days, I shouldn’t worry.  I am blessed to work alongside incredibly bright, talented, dedicated professionals.  If I’ve done a good job of leading them, there shouldn’t be a lot they really need me for that they can’t figure out on their own.

My spirits lifted from the conversation with my colleagues, we head back to get cleaned up for dinner.  Over the past several days, I have occasionally borrowed a camera from Kirk, one of our traveling companions, since I have had some trouble charging my battery completely.  This afternoon, he downloads the pictures I took today, and then puts a large selection of these photos — as well as many of his own — on a memory stick for me.  I am enchanted as I click through many of his shots, particularly the ones of people.  He has a great eye and his photos demonstrate his natural ability.  I am surprised to see there are several of me.  I don’t remember seeing him take these, but looking through them I clearly remember the moments he captured.  I am so honored he thought to do this because, of course, I am never in any of my shots.

I love taking pictures of all the sights in the Pyrenees, but like Kirk, I have intentionally taken many pictures of our new friends in an effort to capture the magic of the moment.  The entire group from South Africa was a delightful surprise — we got seven special people as a package: Graham and Helen, Paul and Isabelle, Phillip and Arlene, and Norm.  Raye and I take great pleasure in just watching them together — friendships like theirs are rare indeed, and it is clear how much they love each other.  We are happy to be along with them on this trip as we feel like they generously adopted us into their circle, and we are better for it.

I bring my computer down to dinner tonight to begin loading pictures from the memory stick while we’re eating.  Food holds little interest for me — I set it aside and am enjoying watching the pictures as they appear on the screen in slideshow style.  Before long, several of our group have gathered around.  Since most are riders and only a few of us are back-of-the-bike passengers, their focus has been on the road this past week instead of on these remarkable surroundings.  Whenever I’m not on my own bike, I love to take pictures for just this reason.  I want Raye to see how beautiful it all is in case he missed it, and he always seems to enjoy looking at pictures after a ride.

Apparently this is the way the others feel, too.  Just as I experienced a few moments ago looking through Kirk’s photos, they seem to be reliving the sounds, the smells, the completely-alive sensations we all felt -- and that can only truly be experienced while riding a motorcycle.  Highlights of the trip flood back with each new shot.  Smiles and laughter all around.  I am glad I could give them this small gift as something special to take back with them, and I promise photo CDs and a link to my blog when I return home.

Later that evening I reach Mackenzie, our daughter, on her cell phone.  Without fail, it is easier to reach a teenager on their cell than it is to get their attention in person.  Day or night, they always answer for fear of missing a call or text from a friend.  In two rings, I hear a hopeful hello on the other end of the line.  It is a joy to hear her youthful voice.  We chat briefly about school, her first football game to cheer at the night before, what uniform they wore, who won.  Quickly the conversation turns to our upcoming return.  “Mom, you’ve been gone forever.”  Although I know she is happy to hear from me, her voice takes on a distinct longing.  “Back before you know it,” I assure her with as upbeat a tone as I can muster.  As fond as I am of our new friends, there is nothing like being with your family, and I feel a chilly emptiness around me. As I hang up, my loneliness is palpable.  I wonder if it is for her as well.

About another 90 minutes of riding through a few more small towns and we arrive at Col d’Ares, the mountain pass that is our gateway to Spain.  A quick fill-up on gas, and we cross the border back into the country where we started.  I make a mental note: No more “bon jour”; it’s back to “buenas dias.”  Sort of like when I used to head back to college in Texas every summer and had to switch from my usual Illinois “you guys” back to the more accepted “ya’ll.”

I love passing through the out-of-the-way towns in this part of France and I will miss this charming region.  There are many images I carry with me as we pass through them, particularly the street scenes, such as quaint and welcoming outdoor cafes, cobblestone town squares with fountains, potted plants, bicycles and scooters, narrow sidestreets and of course my favorite image, windows and doors.  One of the doorways that remains vivid in my mind is an old stone building that housed a small garage no more than 12 feet wide with painted wood double doors and the iconic brand name “Renault” above it.  I love the contrast between the ancient stone work, the faded blue paint and the lettering of the sign.  The entire image is perfectly symmetrical and actually quite indicative of colors and textures seen throughout these mountain hideaways.

The wind has picked up noticeably along this ridge.  We can see the peaks of the Pyrenees in every direction from this vantage point.  Years ago, I am sure these mountains helped draw the lines between these two countries.  With only one day left on this trip, I can’t help but feel like we are leaving more than France behind and headed back to reality sooner than I would like.

Within moments we arrive at our hotel in Mollo, a tightly spaced and placed village carved into the side of the mountain.  Our hotel stands several stories tall above the rest of what there was of town.  The tiny rooms are not much larger than the bed itself.  The best part of our room is the balcony, which we both immediately walk out onto.  The mountain region below us is painted with the evening sun’s rays.  A layer of clouds rolls in along a ridge below us.  Again, I feel a twinge of sadness creep in, but I quickly push it aside, eager for dinner with our companions and the hours of lively conversation we have all come to enjoy so much.

After getting our fill, four of us decide to hike through part of the canyon to a nearby monastery we have spotted clinging to the side of the mountain.  Minutes before we had driven right over where these small buildings were attached just below the road, and we would never have seen them if we had not stopped for a better view of the gorge.  The hike is down a steep rocky path, and we definitely break a sweat as the trail also turns sharply upward.

Our short but challenging trek is rewarded as we step inside a doorway leading to the residence.  We are surprised to see a small cathedral carved into the side of a cave, which actually continues further on into the mountain.  A few benches are here as well as a stone altar.  A bit of light is streaming in through several small archways above our heads.  Otherwise, it is dimly lit by a few candles.  This is a serene place, and clearly most visitors are content to view it from afar.

One of our fellow hikers had learned its story.  Centuries ago, monks in training for higher positions in the church would live here one at a time, in seclusion from the rest of the world, to draw closer to God.  It would be easy to do in this spectacular setting.  I wondered aloud what would one of us do for a year alone here.  “Try to bring honor to this beautiful place,” said one of my companions.  An amazingly insightful answer that summed up what we were thinking but could not express as well.  As we left, we looked at each other and without saying a word knew we had witnessed something very special together.  I may have left the monastery behind, but I absolutely took the memory with me.

The ride ahead finds us climbing even higher into the mountains.  The roads are still as twisty and tight as the afternoon wears on.  We wind through olive orchards and more vineyards.  We stretch our legs for a few minutes in Bouleternere, a small town where we find wild blackberries growing within our reach along a stone bridge.  They are sweet and plump.  I sneak a quick peek inside the town church along with two of my friends.  Once again, another beautiful house of worship.

As we did yesterday, our group met in an intimate garden courtyard for breakfast sitting at small iron tables with white tablecloths and iron chairs.  The food is the same everywhere we go, and I have grown very fond of fresh fruit, cheese, smoked meats, baguettes and espresso to start my day.  One of our companions, Gil, has a close encounter with an egg – cracking on the edge of his plate what he thought was a hard boiled egg but what turned out to be a very soft boiled egg.  This is one of the funniest breakfast scenes I have witnessed in a long time and certainly gives new meaning to having egg on your face.

The briefing today promises “a rider’s day of touring” as we head south for Spain.  Raye is eager for what lies ahead, and it does not disappoint.  We spend the next nine hours covering only about 150-160 miles of incredibly challenging roads, which averages out to less than 20 mph.  I’m surprised we made such good time.

We start off leaving Cavenac on a small country road that winds through several vineyards.  After a few more turns, we begin climbing some fairly steep hills headed toward Villebazy, Missegre and Arques.  Here things get interesting as the road narrows considerably down to what Raye declares must be goat paths.  Aptly named, they are only between six and eight feet wide in some places, very bumpy and extremely curvy.  Literally carved into the side of the mountains, these unforgettable roads demand drivers maneuver their bikes with great skill and concentration through countless tight turns.  This area is so remote that, thankfully, we have the roads to ourselves almost everywhere, which is quite different from the Alps.  Only occasionally do we meet other riders or cars – and sometimes an occasional cyclist.

We stop to rest our legs in a tiny village called Rennes, which as so many other towns do, runs alongside a small mountain stream.  This is yet another picture-perfect setting with a small hotel, beautiful windows and doorways, and even lovelier people.  I am lucky enough to photograph some children as they are headed home from school for lunch, and two elderly ladies who appeared to be dear friends visiting in the town square.  With little French to help me, I am still able to communicate to these ladies that I would like to take their picture.  Smiling and nodding, they lean together and pose briefly for me to capture their images.  Once again, I am delighted with how approachable and congenial the French seem.  And even though I have heard the French are not fond of Americans, my individual experience has been quite different.

We continue on to the highlight of the day, a ride through Gorges de Galamus This gorge is well know for its dramatic drop-offs – some as much as 1,000 feet down to the river below — and steep mountains, but also for the lone road that runs through it, which is so narrow only one bike or car can ride through at a time.  If you meet someone coming the other way, you have to back your vehicle until you find a wider spot to allow them to pass.  After driving through the narrowest part of the gorge, we park our bikes at the edge and are welcomed by a picnic lunch.  Two of our tour guides have gone ahead in the van to set everything up.  We devour the buffet of salads, meats and cheeses, fresh fruit and bread.  A welcome feast and break for us to admire the incredible scenery around us.

Since today is technically a rest day, we ride less than 100 miles and head back to the chateau from here.  Fortunately, though, it is not the end of the day, but only a welcome stop to change into clothing more suited for the hot afternoon sun.  Several of us decide to get back on the bikes and go into Carcasonne for something to eat and a visit to La Cite, a restored medieval citadel just on the outskirts of the city.

We grab small sandwiches, quiche, figs and olives at a small shop in the old part of the city, and then ride just a few blocks up a hill to La Cite.  Being on a bike has its advantages, and one of our companions leads us right up to the main gate, where there is parking for motorcycles.

La Cite is quite remarkable and one of France’s top tourist attractions.  A fortress within a fortress, the miniature city can only be entered by crossing a drawbridge. Complete with turrets and towers, La Cite looks every bit like you might imagine a medieval town should.  There are among other things many shops, narrow alleys, a cathedral and a chateau, which is preserved today as a museum.  We toured the chateau to see what life was like at the town’s zenith in the 12th century.  There were many rooms to walk through where we saw paintings and murals, terra cotta pieces and fragments from the cathedral.  We also walked along the tops of the outer walls, which connect the towers surrounding the chateau.  Here we saw numerous stations that were used by look outs to spot approaching enemies and from which they could fire canons or crossbows.

Leaving La Cite, a much smaller group of us set out on a small adventure to find one or two local vineyards.  While we passed several that looked promising, they were either too far down a gravel road (not great for motorcycles) or simply not open.  However, there was one near our chateau that was still open, so we stopped for a short visit and to sample the local wines.  We thoroughly enjoyed the experience with our friends as well as visiting with the owner, who could not speak English.  Just as in my other encounters with locals, she was delightful, however, and we had a marvelous time.

Dinner tonight was at the chateau restaurant.  I could not resist having the foix gras again, but chose the escargot, duck breast and strawberry soup this time.  If it’s possible, tonight’s dinner was even better than last night’s.  I will miss the magic of the chateau when we leave tomorrow.

The road out of town leads us directly into forests complete with winding turns and a dense overhang of trees.  The shade is welcome, and these roads remind me of Highway 23 in Northwest Arkansas – the well known Pig Trail, so named because years ago it used to be a primary road for students and others making their way to the University of Arkansas, home of the Razorbacks.

Raye and I have ridden the Pig Trail — which is a National Scenic Byway well worth coming to Arkansas to ride — on our motorcycles many times.  It can’t be beat for hairpin turns and stunning mountain scenery.  Spring and fall are spectacular, and we have met many motorcyclists from other states who come to ride the Pig Trail and the surrounding roads on weekends these times of year.  It is one ride that should not be missed.

We stop at a roadside overlook at Roc Suzadou, a peak in the region that stands 730 meters – over 2,000 feet – high.  It offers a splendid view of the entire valley below and other peaks nearby. A u-shaped stone wall standing about three feet high offers visitors an unusual way of orienting — various points of interest are painted and glazed onto several large slabs of cream-colored ceramic tile laid on top of the wall.  The artistry serves the natural beauty well, and we enjoy using it to determine where we are.