Where Mountains meet Magic. Cold Coffee, Clean Bins, and Mountain Views

After yesterday’s long day on the road, today’s plan was simple: take it slow. Since we were still full from last night’s dinner, we decided to just pop out for coffee. The morning air was freezing — think 10°C after yesterday’s 25°C in Nice — so I was already dreaming of sipping a steaming hot latte.

Scott ordered a cookie frappuccino, and I, for some reason, very confidently asked for an Iced Brown Sugar Latte. I walked up to the counter, took my drink, and was genuinely shocked that my iced coffee was… cold. To this moment, I still have no idea what I was thinking ordering an iced drink when all I wanted was warmth.
Luckily, Scott once again saved the day. He chatted with the barista, explained my tragic coffee miscalculation, and somehow managed to get me a free hot cappuccino instead. The barista even threw in a few pumps of syrup — bless them.

Coffees in hand, we headed back to the hotel, grabbed the car, and drove up into the mountains. Near the village of Canillo, we paid €6 per person and took a walk up to a spectacular viewing platform with nearly 360-degree mountain views. We were among the first ones there, the weather was perfect, and the scenery was absolutely worth it.

Back in the village, we stopped for a quick snack — or so we thought. What arrived could have easily fed a small African country. My buckwheat galette with goat cheese, walnuts, and honey was delicious. Scott only managed to eat half of his salmon salad before surrendering.
As we sat there, people-watching and digesting, we noticed something fascinating about Andorra’s dedication to cleanliness: apparently, it was trash bin washing day. Yes, an actual truck was driving around washing the street bins one by one. Sparkling clean!

After a short rest back at the hotel, we went for an evening walk — admired some modern tube-and-bath-style sculptures (don’t ask), wandered along the river and through the old town, and noticed that Andorra has the same quirky pole-top statues as Nice. We then lingered around until 8 p.m., waiting for the restaurants to finally open.

We chose a cozy-looking place in a side street. However, since we weren’t guests at the hotel attached to the restaurant, our food apparently wasn’t a top priority. Luckily, we weren’t in any rush — and when our dishes finally arrived, they were absolutely worth the wait. Maximum deliciousness.

Where Mountains meet Magic. When you have to cook your own breakfast in the hotel

 

Today's breakfast deserves its own spotlight. As loyal readers know, the hotel offered us a free breakfast to make up for the less-than-glorious first night. At first glance, the buffet didn’t look like anything to brag about. But then we noticed the real treasures. First: a juice press where you could squeeze your very own glass of fresh orange juice. Forget cartons, this was hands-on citrus glory. Then there was a pot of hot water where you could cook your egg exactly the way you wanted - soft, medium, or “I could use this as a bouncy ball.” And to top it off, a little pan for warming up pancakes. It was almost à la carte… except you had to do all the work yourself. Still, we loved every minute of it.

Bags already packed, we walked to the train station to pick up our rental car. Everything went smoothly, and within half an hour we were out of the city, heading straight toward Andorra. Since the day promised a long drive, we didn’t plan any major detours. Just one stop at a supermarket where we stocked up on baguette, hummus, ham, cheese, and wine. A quick picnic later, and we were back on the road.

Google Maps led us through postcard-worthy French villages, each one cuter than the last, and by evening we found ourselves winding into the Pyrenees. Scott was clearly enjoying the mountain roads. I, on the other hand, was mostly busy not enjoying them.

About half an hour before sunset, we pulled up to our hotel. And what a location - right on the edge of a roaring river that sounded like a waterfall on steroids. Scott, in his usual charm, even managed to secure us a room with a river view. The room? Pure super-lux. Spacious, modern, a bathroom that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine, and a bed really huge and fluffy.

Before calling it a night, we wandered into the city. Andorra la Vella, as it turns out, recognizes only two seasons: summer and Christmas. Since it wasn’t summer, the town had gone all-in on holiday cheer. Christmas trees and twinkling lights everywhere - it was like stepping straight into a snow-globe… just without the snow.

Where Luxury meets Riviera. Cross Country Walking

 

 

 

Since Scott had declared yesterday’s Caesar salad the best in the world, there was no debate about where to go for breakfast this morning. Back we went to the same café. Scott stuck with his favorite, while I experimented with scrambled eggs and a bagel. The bagel turned out to be nothing more than a bagel-shaped piece of bread, but the scrambled eggs and avocado easily made up for it.

From breakfast we walked straight to the train station, hopped on a train, and within half an hour had crossed into Monaco. The walk towards the legendary Monte Carlo Casino felt surreal, the country seemed so artificial. We even considered losing a few euros in the slot machines, but apparently, the casino doesn’t accept early-morning donations. So instead, after admiring the luxury cars lined up outside, we continued our trek through the city center and up towards the Prince’s Palace.

Here’s the funny part: within about an hour, we had managed to walk across the entire country. Admittedly, Monaco is tiny, but it still feels like an achievement. We spent the rest of our visit speculating on how the locals without yachts or Ferraris entertain themselves. Once the novelty wore off, we decided it was time to head back to France. Our train was delayed because someone had apparently chosen the tracks as their morning resting spot, but by 2 p.m., we were back at our hotel.

The afternoon was simple: a run, some packing, and then scouting for dinner.

Along the way, I reflected on how we’ve become accidental protest tourists. Yesterday we walked into a Palestinian demonstration in town (which has also happened to us in London and Venice), and today our jogging route cut through yet another protest. I never figured out what this one was about, but this one definitely wasn’t Palestine-related.

For dinner, our chosen restaurant promised to be open according to the internet. In reality? Completely shut. No worries though - we tracked down another place. We had to wait nearly an hour for the chef to arrive, but once he did, the food was absolutely worth it.

Twice as Nice. Morning in the Broom Closet

 

We woke up bright and early, ready to start the day. First stop: a cozy little brunch café tucked away on a side street. Scott declared he had found the best Caesar salad in the world, apparently the breaded chicken was out of this world. I went for a croissant with poached eggs and smoked salmon, which was every bit as delicious as it sounds. Perfect start.

Back at the hotel, we decided to test our luck. Our original room was… let’s just say compact. Think: trying to squeeze two people into a bed designed for one and a half at best. So, we asked if we could move to a room that actually had space to stretch without elbowing each other in the ribs. Success! Not only did we get a proper room, but the staff threw in a free Monday breakfast to make up for the broom-closet situation. Win-win.

The rest of the day was spent wandering through the old town and along the seaside. The weather was kind, the views were even kinder, and somewhere along the way we stumbled upon cookies so good they deserve their own Michelin star.

In the evening, the plan was to grab some food for a seaside picnic. Except… those cookies had basically filled us up for the entire day. So Scott grabbed another focaccia, and we just sat by the water, watching the sunset.

Twice as Nice. Getting there.

Just when I thought today was going to be uneventful - just a flight to Nice and nothing worth writing about - the second leg, Munich to Nice, turned out to be anything but boring. 

After the boarding pass check, we followed the signs: left for Business Class, right for us humble economy travelers. Except… the door to our plane was firmly shut, lights off, looking as if the crew had clocked out for the night. So, like a confused school of fish, everyone shuffled back to the business gate. Ten minutes later, someone finally pried open the middle door, sending us into the aircraft where people were now attempting to navigate the aisles both ways at once - like salmon swimming upstream, but less coordinated.

Finally, we settled into our seats: Scott by the window, me in the middle, and then… him. My neighbor. A man who had clearly been on a bar hopping and liquid diet since noon (it was now 9pm).

Here’s a quick highlight reel:

• Tried chatting me up with the “Are you American?” opener
• Carried a newspaper, which he enthusiastically shared with me by spreading it all over my seat and insisting I appreciate the comedic genius of Trump and Biden
• Leaned so far into my seat that I briefly considered charging him rent
• Rehearsed the airplane’s mechanical noises - yes, including the landing gear - like a preschooler
• When Scott and I returned from the restroom, he asked if we wanted to get back to our seats before actually moving out of the way (because standing in the aisle for the remainder of the flight sounded like such a solid plan)
• Demanded the crew provide the exact minute of our delayed arrival in Nice, as if he had a midnight board meeting waiting for him on the tarmac.

After we landed - shortly before midnight - we grabbed an Uber to the hotel, ready to collapse.

Of course, the day had one last surprise. I’d booked a standard double room, but apparently they were fresh out. Instead, we were handed a key to what can only be described as a broom closet with aspirations of being a hotel room.