It’s the day before we are set to bike around Costa Brava, and nothing feels right. My head feels fuzzy, unfocused, which is to say, more than usual.

My body feels fatigued, I can’t decide which reason is more likely – the off chance that I am allergic to tannens in the red wine I’ve finally taught myself to appreciate (at 38 years old, a little bit late but whatever), or the horrifying amounts of inexpensive Spanish patè I’ve been shoveling in my face hole.

Honestly, I’m like Cookie Monster for this stuff. Cole and I have an unspoken arrangement that involves him hollowing out all the baguettes, and me dutifully dispatching the crusts with generous helpings of patè to wash them down.

I’ve turned being gross into a moral imperative not to waste food.

It wasn’t the food or the wine that was making everything that day a struggle though, it was the subconscious knowledge that TOMORROW WE MOVE OURSELVES FROM ONE PLACE TO ANOTHER PLACE. I knew the next day I would be a nightmare to be around. I’m not a fan of travel days, and the biggest reason for that is because I turn into a massive short-tempered child that everyone else has to deal with. My biggest asset on these days is my ability to haul gear, but ask me to do anything else whatsoever, and watch out.

I had little reason to be so crazy going into the next day. I had approached the Girona tourism board earlier about the possibility of Christine and I biking around the area, and how they might help us logistically. The first day of what was supposed to be our biking tour, it was pouring rain, and my attitude was in the gutter. This, even though a car came to pick us up from our hotel to take us to our accommodations, where the bikes were waiting. It could not have been easier, but something about the transition from one place to another makes my blood pressure raise and I get impatient and incredibly stubborn.

Then I discovered this thing called a “Mini Club”? We are being hosted on this trip by La Siesta, El Delfin Verde and La Bellena Alegre. All camping places you can find in the Costa Brava area of Spain. As best I can discern, the mini clubs here are areas parents can bring children to play at the camp ground and then not be present while play is happening. In the US it is called “Daycare”.

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Oh it was glorious, and for some insane reason, cost nothing additional to the nightly rate. I wasn’t the only parent bewildered by this miraculous place. More than one British family I have met  on this trip have referred to the mini club with a question mark lilt to their voice, like “…and we’re going to the mini club?” As if to say “Can you believe there is this place we all apparently can leave children for blocks of time?”

And I did leave Cole AND Stella there for, I believe, one glorious hour. Maybe a little bit more.

I may have had a beer. I may have drawn a bit. I may have had a chance to re-set my bad attitude, even in the rain that kept us off the road that first day.