Home is Alquezar Photo by Tim Gardner

Alquezar Sunset Photo by Tim Gardner

Sometimes there’s just something in the air. Pay attention, and you may experience a small percentage of what’s really going on.

We arrived as road-weary wine import dudes in desperate need of a hot meal and a comfortable bed.

The ancient town of Alquezar in the Somontano wine region of Spain is so ridiculously beautiful that even the French sneak across the Pyrenees to bask in its loveliness. This night, however, little of that beauty was to be seen as only candles and tiny electrics illuminated the cobblestone streets.

We stuffed our smallish suitcases into the even smaller elevator of Hotel Villa de Alquezar. There we were, four guys squashed into a space made for one, laughing at our stupidity. We were zombies but it was time to get our act together for some down-home tapas and vino.

With bags tossed on beds and a quick face-splash of unfathomably cold aqua we were off. Two walking blocks away we ducked under an enormous stone archway headed for our favorite restaurant, Casa Pardina.

A few steps down the path and – wait.  Hmmmmmmm. That was a strange feeling. A kinda sixth sense that maybe we were being followed. The tell-tale tingle down the spine and hair standing at attention on both arms and neck. All sights, smells, tactile sensations kicking into overdrive. The kind of sensory overload available only to those who’ve had less than three hours sleep. Tomorrow we would beg for this sensitivity when blending wines: but not tonight traipsing dark alleys to a hidden restaurant.

Stop. Listen. A distant pitter-patter. Pitter. Patter.

Feet.

A quick look behind us. Nothing.

Left side, right side. Nothing.

Another pitter, but no patter. Above? Ahhhhhh, yes, above. It’s you.

Un gato.

Relieved we were not going to die, we stood in silence and watched the nimble critter walk the rooftop edge.  He swished and strutted and never took his eyes off us. You know the look: “Hey Doofusses, you like what you see? Of course you do. Tread lightly, bozos, cause this is my town. Oh- and lest you forget- I’m freaking brilliant, and yes; I walk on tops of buildings. You don’t. Remember that.  Now, keep it moving, hombres.”

We found our way to the restaurant and wondered out loud if he’d be there waiting for us after dinner, offering up another dose of kitty-cat stink-eye.

He was.

The next morning he walked my terrace observing his kingdom and making plans to track the next unsuspecting visitor. With the door cracked open he wasted no time zipping past ankles and perching at the end of my bed. He wore no collar, no tag, had no name.  With a hearty java toast his humble host proclaimed, “You shall be called…  Merle. Yes.  Merle it will be. Merle, in honor of the magnificent Merlot we Doofusses imbibed last night.”

And with that he raced out the door, leapt over the rail, and vanished into the street below.

Here’s to you Merle.  We’ll be expecting you when we arrive in January.

Merle Photo by Tim Gardner

See you back here in a few.

TG