Andorra - Lost Paradise

The tiny enclave of Andorra (Principality of Andorra to be precise) is tightly nestled in the Pyrranees between France and Spain. The typical North American reaction to the name is “..And.. What?”. The inability to recognise the name is a fantastic omen that bodes well for anybody looking to avoid octogenarian crowds from Florida and rowdy youngsters on Christmas break. The country is known in Europe, of course - mostly for its skiing and hiking complimented by some medieval sights, Duty Free shopping and decidedly obscure history. The history of this tiny country that measures about 30KM by 20KM is rather interesting given its perennial ability to survive many a vagary of vacillating fortunes. In fact, the two narrow and lonely valleys that is the country of Andorra are not likely to have left much in a way of historic notice had it not been for the location – being squished by two inconsolable rivals – France and Spain – a very Pyrranees story! Of course, neither existed in its present form when the first signs of national conscience appeared at the outset of the dark ages when the troops led of fearless Charlemagne booted the occupying Arab forces back to the depth of the Iberian Peninsula. The anthem of the virulent and fiercely independent nation still hails the occasion as the key historical event. Most of us prefer to live in the 21st century; Andorrans do not mind lingering in the 9th despite the potential inconveniences of political incorrectness usually reserved for more notable jurisdictions.

The later consolidation of power in the respective capitals – Paris and Madrid – did not alter the matters. Even today, the country although independently run by the local electors, is still an official subject to two co-princes - some obscure Catalan bishop and a no less obscure French “noble” – namely, his humble greyness, the president of the people’s republic Mr. Chirac. The two are still recognised as joint sovereigns. The wars of course were always fought for something more tangible than just an empty sound of knightly rivalry. Money has always been the main driver and nothing could more vexing than pissing off one’s rival by denying him a share of much needed trade revenue. Unlike the trade happy and seafaring Dutch or Venetians, Andorrans, being shrewd people, recognised their own unique land locked opportunity and engaged in the ancient and noble art of counterband – the other side of the liberal trade coin. With time Andorra became of the most efficient smuggling spots in Europe. Efficient and unreachable – the high mountains, deep valleys were never friendly to unwelcome travellers and tax collectors in the best of times. Andorrans did their best to protect the franchise by becoming rather suspicious and prone to banditry – anything to keep money flowing. The infamy was lurking on the doorstep. The latest smirch came during the Spanish Civil War of 1936, when a number of republicans trying to escape the murderous generalissimo Franco never reported to their port of call – France. And that was despite paying handsome sums to their presumed mountain guides - Andorrans. Some were thought to be simply killed by the unscrupulous bastards posing as peaceful mountainous people. Always on the guard against one another – mostly Castillano Spanish and Catalan Andorrans – the years to follow were certainly poisoned by the lingering memories of recently betrayed trust.

Well, the death of the “beloved” dictator in 1975 brought in much better European integration and with the war bitterness on the wane, the very sensible spectre of economic prosperity accommodated much in the way of rapprochement. Recognising the opportunity, locals remembered their old tricks and the modern version of smuggling expanded like popcorn in the microwave – welcome the Tax Heaven for the rich and Duty Free shopping for the rest of mortals. The place overflowed with anything duty free – a paradise for the perennially overtaxed European smokers and drinkers. Sometimes it seems like the folks here do not eat or breeze – just gulp and inhale while shopping for the most expensive designer watch money can buy - a libertarian sort of place…



Our skiing holiday afforded us a look at the country in the midst of skiing boom brought on by an unlikely kind of tourist – monolingual hordes from the former Soviet lands. To prove the point, I even attempted to divine the make up of all skiers cruising ups and downs of the sweeping alpine. I guessed that about 50% of skiers were locals – i.e. Catalans, Castillanos and perhaps some French. About quarter were Blokes (English) while the remaining quarter was firmly occupied by the former Soviets compatriots. This is incredible, especially considering that the Soviets did not even ski abroad, if at all, until about the early 90’s.

The savvy Andorrans appear to have capitalised well on the Soviet influx. Most of the current skiing infrastructure has sprung up just in the past few years converting Russian oil and gas into gold on the mountainous Andorran pastures. This view was duly confirmed by a number of independent observations including one friendly ski-crazy Brit who navigated the local slopes about 15 years prior. He said that the recent infrastructure developments had been incredible and had really transformed Andorra into one of the most affordable and picturesque European Alpine venues – “in the old days you seemed to ski alone, now you fight the crowds to get to the gondola”.


My Own Russian Connection
But first things first - before we were to arrive in Andorra, went to meet my best friend, Misha, coming with his four kids from Ukraine. Afterwards we were going to hitch a cheap ride with a skiing group from Ukraine. You see, the majority of Soviets typically prefer to travel in organised groups – the organised tourism is still viewed as the most orderly and effective way to get an infusion of l’etranger. This propensity is due to the ancient Russian tradition of neglect when it comes to foreign language education. This is despite the ancient Russians starting it right with trade routs coursing through the heart of the country and connecting Scandinavia and Western Europe with Persia and Middle East. Then Russians were rather cosmopolitan speaking various languages and intermarrying with Danes, Swedes and other eligible trading partners. Then came Ghengis Khan and things decidedly changed for the worse. Russians turned to isolationism and vodka. Despite best efforts by Peter the Great and Catherine to change the situation, matters did not change much only to be followed by another isolationist coupe – the alternative state model turned “evil” – the USSR.

So the fear of languages persists and we travel in groups as a rule – just to be on the safe side. The meeting with Misha and family was great since I rarely get a chance to see him and his kids. The great photo by the Christmas tree at the airport was well complemented by the chancy and loaded with blitz TV cameras readied to devour the most famous African footballer - Samuel Eto. Brushing with future Barcelona fame was intriguing, though in the very minute sense – not to outshine our reunion.

We thought that transferring with our Ukrainians to Andorra would be a piece of cake. However, we failed to consider that the monolingual creatures required much additional help checking into various hotels scattered across the country – especially in the middle of the night... Hence every hotel stop took a half an hour instead of five minutes. As a result, our quick and cheap transfer to Soldeu, the place of our holiday on the opposite end of the country, turned into a seven-hour adventure as opposed to customary three and half-hours. Additional half an hour wait happened at the Andorran border control booth – who would even think of such a thing! Nevertheless, the staunchly neutral country is not part of the EU and is not an official party to the European border control agreements. So one’s valid visa to Spain and consequently to just about any other Western European country does not necessarily provide entrance privileges to this peculiar enclave. Most awkward for many, since the locating any Andorran official with a valid immigration stamp in Kiev or Moscow must a monumental task. Despite this basic reasoning, the border official remained rather intransigent insisting on Misha’s producing Andorran and not Spanish visa. Ultimately, the understanding of the import of tourism dollars took an upper hand and we were waived in – oh, what a relief!


Skiing Pyrranees
The sleepy village of Soldeu turned out to be the second to last on the opposite side of the country where we were just about five kilometres away from France. Nevertheless, the place was still very nationalistic and Catalan. Appropriately enough my Spanish was well placed, since it is the second language of the place. The first and only problem at three in the morning was the complete absence of any humans – absolutely nobody to give us directions to the apartment. The town occupying the very narrow valley floor contained but a handful of dead-end side streets with only one of them breaking to the outside world and being politely referred to as a highway. But the deep night darkness and snowbanks rivalling my height somehow made the joy of finding the place slightly less palatable.

The lack of our local knowledge was becoming a mounting concern that got miraculously cured by arrival of two angels – French and English. The latter one appeared out of nowhere on the snow piled side-street just to direct us exactly to our destination when we were almost losing all hope to locate it with the clock nearing four in the morning. The other was a French apparition of a neighbour who happened to be fully dressed, alert and happy to unlock the unwieldy door to our apartment – just the same, four in the morning – sitting in his apartment and just waiting for my knock. God never seizes to amaze me.

The next morning revealed a true jewel in the Pyrranees. The sweeping vista from our top floor mansard apartment was a perfect picture of the country we came to see. The snow powdered treed lower reaches of the steep mountain ranges that converged to create the narrow snaking valley - the state of Andorra. This land lures skiers and hikers with its superb natural sanctuaries and breath taking views. The valley vegetation predictably became lower and sparser as the slopes rushed upwards to give way to nearly endless Alpine passages crowned with craggy and seemingly insurmountable rocky peaks that could rival the best of Alps or Rockies. To get there we needed to don our skies and venture into the boundless snow terrain – we were not disappointed once we did. Now, I will get into some skiing holiday basics.

To go skiing to Andorra is one of the best things an avid skier can do. I roughly calculated that given modest airfares, one can have a ten-day skiing adventure for the same price of doing the same at Whistler or any other famed North American location for roughly the same time period. The multi-day lift tickets are very cheap, considering the trails, – around $35 per day when a whole week is purchased. The accommodation situation is rather affordable with one-bedroom places running at just under $100 per night. In addition, you get great European cultural immersion complimented by good food, lots of cheap brandy and cigarettes, if so desired. Bringing your own gear is not necessary since one can rent a full set of skiing equipment for around $16 per day. Restaurants typically offer traditional continental fare with some specialising in English slop cuisine consisting of fish, chips, shepherd’s pie with Premiership football via satellite to boot. The evening after a day of profound and much needed rest was crowned by a great sea food buffet dinner sniffed at by Misha and his cohorts apparently longing for their home haute cuisine of buckwheat and butter milk.

The next day could hardly wait, as we rushed to the slopes at the first signs of life. Getting to the actual slopes proved a little more challenging, as I served as a guide for the whole of Misha’s bunch. Finally, off to the races I involuntarily recoiled at seeing hundreds standing in the gondola line-up. It looked like a real skiing nightmare akin to a good sunny day on Grouse Mountain during the Christmas break. Surprisingly, and much to our relief, the line moved very quickly spitting us to the mid-point of the mountain in just a few minutes. Despite the multitudes mulling and skiing around the mid-point centre, we quickly discovered that this was just a gateway to the myriad of lifts that comprised a huge alpine network that strung nearly the whole country in one unbroken and easily navigable chain. The further we went away from the mid-point gondola, the less people we saw. The fewer skiers, the more expansive and mesmerising craggy snow covered vistas of the best of Pyrranees became. These were the most exciting three days of skiing I had ever experienced. We could literally spend the entire day skiing without repeating a single lift. Having found some favourite spots three to four lifts away from the main Soldeu gondola, we enjoyed the sparkling snow, bright sun and unending alpine beauty. I particularly enjoyed many a lift ride –eavesdropping on a Spanish conversation, exchanging latest Moscow rumours with a set of youthful Russian thirty-somethings and of course sharing the moment with my dear wife and friends. The skiing all the way to the bottom of the hill at the end of each day proved to be a little less enjoyable since we had to contend with fleeing hordes in the narrow tree lined lower approaches. It became even more hairy when a couple of key runs turned into pure ice and made them virtually impassable – clearly proven by witnessing a few crashes that looked extremely painful and dangerous. Messing with the mountains is never a good idea, even in the face of much help and security of a popular resort. The best part of skiing in Andorra is that the ratio of boarders to skiers is much lower as compared to North America – so less time trying to navigate through the crowds of youngsters, butt warming the slopes.


Tasteful Bites
Spending time with Misha and his family always proves to be a great experience due to warmth of friendship and familiarity. My wife, being a relative newcomer, always got a kick from some uncouth and at times peculiar eastern antics of my dear friend and his flock. One especially delicious bit took place during a mountain top lunch on the sunny slopes.

Being the diligent, careful and cheap tourist types, we brought our own variety of nutritious snacks – applesauce, carrots and some crackers. After observing us chewing with some reasonable delight at these foods of seemingly average repugnance Misha entered into his anti-Western snacks dietary discourse that foresaw all possible stomach and general health disasters coming our way on the wings of apparently innocuous processed carrots and salty crackers. Ulcers appeared to be of especially imminent threat. His profound lecture with many a valid point went on for a while as “Crunch, Crunch” - Misha was heavily engaged in administering some essential and definitely healthy nourishment into his and his children’s bodies – sweaty, dripping with fat and mustard hot, dogs chased by few pieces of mountain top pizza and gulps of Coca-Cola…

The evening time on the snowy streets and highways was limited on options apart from night-clubs and restaurants. Being the night club owl that I am, the restaurant and occasional variety show at Misha’s hotel appeared to be the most plausible option. For a couple of evenings we enjoyed an English crooner who seemed to fit very well with some more sophisticated international crowd that preferred to finish off their dinners with some music, coffee and cognac. The beer brutes escaped into more familiar and louder environment of the local pub.

In addition, the hotel pool and an outside hot tub surrounded by mounds of snow provided for some splashing pleasures, especially considering that decidedly more prudish Andorran pool help did not insist on exclusive usage of birthday suits, as they are so prone to do in more liberated North. This observation seems to hold its consistency throughout Western Europe. The further South you go, the more buttoned up the pool and beach culture becomes – while the Swedes and Danes rush to escape the habitual cold and fog in virtually nothing, the sun baked Spaniards and Italians take it cool by keeping some stuff on. Looks to be a bit of a paradox, which makes perusing typical beach pictures in the South rather easy, the less is on the less Latin you speak and visa versa.


Local Sightseeing
Connections between towns in Andorra are straightforward – it is hard to get lost when the whole country boasts just two “highways” connecting at the epicentre of the capital city Andorra la Vella. My first experience of taking the public transit had to do with having to show up at the real estate office dealing with our apartment arrangements. Since they also arranged my skiing passes they had to deal with the quirk in the rules – once you have your skiing passes issued for a certain day, switching to another day was a pleasure I could forgo. Well, just a small European habit of making rather silly and unwieldy rules - sometimes…

In any case, I confidently strolled down the street to take the bus. While getting lost could have been nearly impossible; the prospect of spending the next hour or two trying to navigate the waiting crowds appeared to be probable. With some luck I managed to get in front of some stranded skiers burdened by mounds of their gear and the last place on the bus was mine, right next to the driver. This vintage point afforded a first hand look at the craziness of driving a bus through the narrow two-lane highway. Being in the relative security of a large bus, I amused myself by observing the misery and fright that beset all smaller vehicles trying to pass between precipitous road edges and our squishy bus. Eventually my pleasurable front window ride ended at the town of Canillo – the second biggest of the country equipped with seemingly well-attended and only skating rink. The latter twenty-year-old wander playing apparently a prominent role in the Andorra’s bid for the 2010 Winter Olympic Games – somewhat presumptuous considering the towering pride of the Vancouver bid. But do not be all that gleeful, despite the tiny size and narrow roads, this country definitely has some money – just looking at the local real estate listings made it profoundly clear. This was further reinforced when a kindly chain-smoking real estate guy Carlos gave me a ride back to Soldeu.

He is Spanish and has lived and worked in Andorra for a number of years. He mentioned that many a Spaniard was attracted to Andorra for better employment and wages. Of course, the place can accommodate only very few and hopes of becoming anything more than a guest worker are slim. Carlos is still just a temporary here and figures he has to continue doing so for at least another ten years to make the necessary minimum of twenty to qualify for permanent presidency and eventually a passport. The only other way is to be stinky rich and qualify in more straightforward but decidedly more expensive fashion. The talent can be always bought, but money has to be brought and the Andorrans understand this exceedingly well.


Parade
While sitting and waiting for Carlos to finish with his previous customer, I observed first hand the very special celebration that takes place almost exclusively in Andorra – the day of the Kings. Although they celebrate Christmas and New Years as most of the world, there is a slight twist to the tradition that lives on in Andorra and in some parts of Cataluna. Here children usually do not receive their dream presents at Christmas; instead it happens on January 5th. This day, named the day of the Kings, ostensibly celebrates the three famous Magi who attended Jesus shortly after his birth. The celebration is not just personal or family affair, it is also very communal as the decked-out Kings process through all main thoroughfares of the country parishes. Sometimes on foot, sometimes on flat bedded trucks, the three celebrities proceed in scattering candies and other presents to screaming and happy children that line up streets during the parade. Canillo, being one of the bigger towns, definitely prefers the motorised version that sees the Kings parade in their full wares spraying the goodies in abundance to the cheering pedestrians. The parade was accompanied by loud and distinctly Christmas like music much to the delight of all. The illuminated and bright affair culminated in a happy celebration that saw the Kings work the crowd in the fair like setting right in the middle of town. I was much delighted to have a slight glimpse into this somewhat unique tradition of the land.

The three Kings seem to have also taken a chunk out of some traditional scenes here, namely the less conspicuous presence of Saint Nick. Since he outsourced his duties to the travel savvy Kings, the need for his frost smitten visage is somewhat dampened here. As a result, his worthy substitutes tend to crowd out our Dutch hero in a many a season display – especially the ones portraying the nativity scene with the manger. Duty Free means Duty Free and even the outsourcing of Saint Nicks red coat seems apropos here.


Language Puzzles
In all puny swagger and uniqueness, Andorrans sometimes seem to forget what planet they live on, most notably when it comes to languages. Although the official Catalan certainly rules here, it does not entirely crowd out some usual suspects – including the ubiquitous English. This could give anybody a headache – so sometimes the locals seem to resort to simpler tricks of their own. For example, on one occasion when my wife walked into a local and very cute souvenir shop, her English was met by polite but definitively firm French. Unlike ever escaping subtleties of Spanish, Tracy was just delighted to practice the tongue with the friendly shopkeeper. When I attended the same establishment the next day, the shopkeeper did not change her tune despite my passable address in Spanish. While in the shop, one of her friends walked in and spoke in Catalan – her intransigence did not change her tune even then! Once French is always French!

On another occasion during our trip to the capital, we met a friendly town’s janitor sweeping about the main square after it witnessed the “order wracking” celebrations of the Kings’ Day, leaving in its wake bunches of confetti and other junk. Since the main square contained the biggest three Kings display next to a habitual nativity scene, we enquired about the meaning. He turned out to be quite disposed to a lengthy explanation. My ears automatically went on Spanish alert. However, much to my linguistic fright and curiosity, the conversation took much trickier than expected turns, as our new guide proceeded using Catalan, French and Spanish all at once. In fact, he was prone to use all three in a single sentence if opportunity afforded. Forget the grammar; I was only happy to cling on to the fast departing train of his wordy vignettes. The wild ride lasted only a few minutes, but after being jolted between his linguistic concoctions in addition to English/Russian translations for my companions I was nearly spent and only too happy to wave goodbye to our helpful and yet discombobulating friend. So, as you can see the locals here take on many interesting forms to say the least.

Andorra la Vella
Numerous tourist book descriptions did not fall short when describing Andorra La Vella. This town indeed turned out to be a much-mentioned Duty Free haven that proudly displayed carloads of cigarettes, booze and other momentary delights. I guess the smoke trade is somewhat on the wane even in this foggy valley bottom however, as numerous supermarkets offered additional gift packages should one splurge on a few cartoons of the deadly weed. In addition to the vice trade, the main offerings on the street were consistent with the spirit of the place: hiking shoes and snow boards for the lovers of outdoors, and a dizzy variety of Cartier and Omega watches for the Russian public. In fact, the whole Russian trade appears to be ploughed quite ruthlessly, as some shops boast “Russian spoken” signs. When visiting the famous and sparkling Caldea spas, we were referred directly to a designated Russian guide who seemed to be a permanent fixture on the way to clear her local citizenship requirements way ahead of nearly native Catalan speaking Carlos of the real estate fame.

While we browsed for various cheap trinkets, which were hard to discover in the local shops thickly blanketed by luxury, Misha managed to contain himself – but only for a while. At the very last hour, he and his trusty translator had to abandon the reasonably priced central department store in favour of more exclusive and decidedly pricier options. In one of these he located a couple of sets of underwear for his wife that managed to pull an average annual per capita income of Sierra Leon. Being sufficiently cynical in a Russian dry humour department, our friend did not believe in free lunch. Hence the trade off between price and quality did not resonate with his idea of shopping. When westerners tend to delight in bargain hunting, Russians are suspicious of it – for the many years of shoddy Soviet goods left much bad taste for years to come. My friend was no exception, especially since his pockets allowed it.

The trip back home went as follows. One hour sleep, four hour transfer to Barcelona, two hour meandering around the airport and shopping at Zarras, two hour flight to Copenhagen, three hours buying some herring, ten hour flight to Seattle, two hours picking our luggage and car at Nicola’s, two hour middle of the night drive home. I felt slightly fatigued…