Fasten the seat belts folks, Rock is at wheel again. As if that's not bad enough, it's a manual. But wait, it gets even worse - it's a Skoda. The only bright spot is that when he wraps it around the parking garage pole, the replacement cost of the car will be lower than the pillar.
Floor it dude, the upside of bankruptcy is that the roads are pretty empty. What do you mean it's already floored? Oh that's right, it's a Skoda.
First stop of the day (other than Rock stalling at the first downshift) is the small town of Huesca. Like every town in Spain, the focal point is the Old Town, complete with obligatory cathedral.
Ruins are a bit like tapas. Just when you think you're completely over them, you realize just maybe you can squeeze one more in.
If this is the big property bust, how come there's no foreclosures going on these sweet Old Town pads?
The best way to differentiate your central square is to go for the hot pink.
The Loarre Castle is everything a castle should be. Perched on the rugged foothills of the mighty Pyrenees, the ruins of this ancient fortress cast a long shadow over the parched plain below. From up here you don't rule a kingdom, you rule the world.
Gosh, this whole Spanish thing is hard, I wonder which one means "castle"?
The approach to the main gate looks suspiciously unguarded. Until you realize this is Spain and it's siesta time. War can wait till the cooling evening breeze.
See, even the gate has been left ajar. Just keep the racket down whilst you're pillaging our land, ok, siesta has another hour to run.
Sir Rochester the Brave keeps a watchful eye out for the enemy, ready to saddle up his trusty Skoda at a moment's notice. Let's just hope there's time to get into 3rd gear at least.
Turns out all is quiet on the far plains. Oh that's right, there's a Euro 2012 semi-final on tonight. They don't allow crossbows in the Fan Zone.
Leaving the castle behind, and finally leaving 3rd gear behind, the expedition continues to skirt the foothills of the Pyrenees, in search of non-gearbox related adventures.
They say NZ is Middle Earth, but perhaps Peter Jackson should do a bit more scouting.
Next stop, Pamplona, better known as the venue for the annual Running of the Bulls, a.k.a. angry bulls chasing drunken Aussies.
Sure he looks cute in the shop, but they're not quite so cuddly in real life. Come to think of it, does that remind you of someone else?
The only thing more regular than siesta time is jamon time. Unfortunately, whenever Team J00ster wants the latter it seems to be the former.
It's even more colorful when there's blood on the streets.
Looks like they let a raging bulls out early. There's still time to run. Or get the Skoda in gear. Actually, scratch that last one.
Having survived the imposing ramparts of Castillo Loarre and the rampaging bulls of Pamplona, there remains but one challenge left: the pintxos of San Sebastian. For those who don't have their TV tuned permanently to the Food Network, pintxos are really just small tapas, often held together with a toothpick. Walk into any bar, and the entire counter is laden with platter after platter of pintxos. The challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to exercise enough self restraint to still be able to walk out of the bar under one's own locomotion.
The beach is a mere afterthought in the stampede to the Old Town's pintxos district. If you thought the running of the bulls was a spectacle, just wait till you see Team J00ster en route to pintxos-ville.
Salud! The best way to celebrate 30 years is by downing a beer for each year. But since that's clearly beyond the birthday boys, we'll make in a pintxos for each year instead.
Location, location, location. Team Phat-J00ster's sweet launch pad is right in the middle of San Sebastian, just a block from the beach. The only way to get closer to the action would be to plonk down a sleeping bag in the middle of your favorite pintxos bar.
Unfortunately the weather is a bit dour, which leaves the beach deserted. Which isn't all bad since it's a safe guess where everyone is. You guessed it, pintxos time.
Alas, it's a little too chilly to enforce Barcelona beach rules: no swimming outside the flags, and no tops inside the flags.
Pintxos may be as old as the Basque country itself, but that's no reason to be slave to tradition. Funky pintxos bar Fuego Negro proves that molecular gastronomy and toothpicks can go together.
There's no need for a birthday cake in these parts, that would just fill up valuable real estate that's best saved for the next round of tapas.
53... 54... 55... if you hadn't had five too many Estrella you might spot a pattern in there.
San Sebastian from above. Too bad it's so chilly, that beach looks almost too perfect to be true.
Team Phat-J00ster caught in a rare foray outside the pintxos zone. Must be siesta time.
In Basque Country those five loaves and two fishes come with some freshly pressed olive oil. The masses expect MasterChef in these parts.
Probably not the greatest place for a siesta. Although it would be hard to fall off when there's 15 plates of pintxos acting as ballast.
Jolly good old sport, but I don't think mash and peas is going to cut in around here.
The senoritas have lots of time to pose while the boys are busy ruining the mood with an intense discussion about how the map on the table looks suspiciously well suited to D&D...
Move that plate! It's getting in the way of my +1 to Agility.
See, even the name sounds like a dungeon. And in fact the restaurant is ensconced deep in an ancient stone basement. Coincidence? The Druid says otherwise.
The problem with pintxos is after a while they get a little repetitive. A feeling readers of this blog will be well acquainted with. What one needs to do is mix things up a little bit. How about a little drive down the Atlantic coast?
A string of charming seaside villages dot the coast, and dotting the villages are... you guessed it... pintxos bars.
Yes, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.
The Ultimate Whining Machine (TM).
Last glimpse of the Atlantic before cutting inland in search of the fertile wine region of Roija.
When you have 150 wineries packed onto a single plateau, you've got to do something to stand out. You know, because nobody can actually tell the difference between your wines. So the key is wowing the pundits with cool architecture.
Like most things in Spain, nothing is actually opened. So what if there's a bus loaded with thirsty tourists just itching to hand over some hard currency? We'll just continue our siesta and eventually they'll have to hand over their hard currency anyway, in multiples of billions.
Frank Gehry is a popular fellow. In addition to his stunning Bilbao Guggenheim, he also lent his hand to this snazzy winery/hotel/sculpture/spaceship that has landed in the otherwise quaint village of Elciego.
Ok, since it's only coke in these glasses we'll assume this is an example of superior European interior design, and not the results of a rather potent batch of Roija's finest grapes.
You tell the wineries are all closed because she's still standing.
At least the stunning architecture isn't on siesta break.
The Zhu 1979 drop can acquire a sharp, acidic finish if not handled carefully.
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