"Spain is the best Europe"

"Spain is the best Europe. France is uptight, Italy tries to kill you with unairconditioned trains.  At least in Spain when they do that they give you boxes of food." -Justin

I just. Fucking. love. Barcelona.

There's no greater city, except  for New York, in my opinion. It's spectacularly beautiful, with old as shit gothic buildings, beautiful squares and monuments.  The food is stupidly good, and there's a lot of variety.  I want traditional tapas all the time, but there's everything here, and as long as you don't eat somewhere super touristy and horrible, you're going to eat well, and you can eat well without breaking the bank.  There's so many options.  Barcelona is walkable, bikable, and the public transportation system is comprehensive, inexpensive, and easy to use.  There's a beach in the center of town, and although it's not the nicest of beaches, it's IN THE CENTER OF TOWN, and it's still better than nyc's best beach.  To me, this is everything I want in a city.

Yes, it has its problems.  A lot of them.  It seems like they have the exact same problems that we have in New York... The costs have risen so much and the pay has not... No one can afford anything anymore and it's not getting any better.  This was a conversation I had with my friends Toni and Olga a number of years ago.  I've been coming to Barcelona since before 2000, when it was still on the peseta, and I have seen the prices skyrocket.  For me, that means that a pitcher of sangria used to cost about $5 and now one glass of wine is about $4.  It is more and more expensive every time I come here, so although it is still less expensive here than New York, and a relative bargain when compared to France, I can't imagine what it must be like for the average family here.  

We're staying on the edge of el born, a neighborhood that Olga told me about a couple of years ago.  Medieval winding streets, small shops, nice and cute restaurants.  Justin, my friend Monica, and I came here together a couple of years ago, and when we arrived this time, justin noted that he thought there was a lot more stuff now.  He starts going on about how el born must be gentrifying, and how shitty that is (a frequent topic of conversation.). I'm not dismissive of this.  In fact, we start noticing that there are hand-written banners all over el born saying, in Catalan of course, that el born is not for tourists, that people in el born deserve some peace, and one claiming "where is the soul of el born?"  Unfortunately, this is the problem with nice places.  Tourists find out about them, and ruin everything.

Luckily for us, we've got our own problems in New York to feel shitty about, so we go about our business being tourists who are ruining things.

We're about 6 hours late, because of the train debacle.  I'm glad I had the sense to let our B&B host know that we had no internet, and that if we were late we couldn't be able to contact her.  So we get to the apartment, and sit down at the cafe outside, for some coffee, beer, and wifi.  The apartment is right in front of the arc de triomf park, which is reminiscent of our own arc de triumph park: Washington square.  Places to sit, not really a green space, people jogging, reading, hanging out, relaxing.  

We sit down to get some drinks, and some wifi, and i say "I wonder if they still swing dance on Sundays at ciutadella park," something I did a long time ago with some friends I made a million years ago: Toni, Olga, pep, and emi, who I met when I hosted toni and Olga in my tiny studio apartment during the Harlem jazz dance festival, when I used to swing dance.  At this point, I seem to only swing dance at the mermaid parade, and when I leave New York.  If I see people swing dancing, I'll join in.  But I don't do it anymore.  Didn't like the music.  It's a funny thing, because that's how I met justin.  He was playing Swing music at the mermaid parade fundraiser about 7 years ago, and I was dancing.  On our second date or so, I broke the news to him that I didn't actually like swing music.  Turns out he doesn't either.  That was a relief.  

About 10 minutes later, i hear it.  Swing music, right across the street. Not only is there still swing dancing at the park, it's right in front of us.  I message pep; he and emi are in Stockholm, and Toni and Olga are in the Canary Islands,  Justin seems relieved not to have to sit around watching me swing dance and talk with a bunch of spanish dudes

The Barcelona beach, called barceloneta, isn't good enough for me, between the crowd, the less-clean water, all of the dirty backpackers, and the time I got robbed there.  Olga turned me on to San Pol de mar, one of the many little beachfront villages to the north of Barcelona, on what's called the Maresme coast.  It's my favorite beach in the world, and I've been to some nice fucking beaches, if you'll forgive me for being that asshole.  The water is crystal clear, and pleasantly crisp.  The train stops AT THE BEACH, so you hop off the train, take 20 steps, and you're there. The beach is barely populated.  There's a little port with some boats, a little beachfront bar (xiringuito).  There's no chair services, but in the little town you can buy a beach umbrella for $15 which is less than the costs of one beach chair elsewhere in this part of Europe.  You get on a regional train from BCN, and after about 15 minutes, you're riding alongside the water the whole way.  Sant pol is about an hour outside of BCN, further than many, but worth it.

Spain means mostly two things to me: jamón, and pulpo.  I came for a couple of beach days, but I couldn't wait to eat me some octopus.

We walk towards the center of El Born, and like a beacon, there it is: Pulperia.  House of octopus.  A traditional looking tapas bar: you just look around, and point to some stuff, and they heat it up or fry it up, and serve it to you.  We sit at the bar, get some fried calamari, ham croquettes, and a slice of the tallest tortilla española I've ever seen.  It has onions In it, and I don't tell justin when I notice, because he's so tired from his long day of carrying the majority of our shit along train tracks that he doesn't even seem to care.  I'm pleased to find out that when you order pulpo, it's pulpo a la gallega, which means it's cut into disks and fired up on a wooden dish dripping with Olive oil, sprinkled with salt and a healthy dose of smoked paprika.  Justin doesn't really like seafood, so I got to eat all of it by myself, which I might have done anyway even if he did like it.  I get wine, and they serve it in a little bowl.  I vaguely remember this being something of a Galician thing.  

We ask if he's got some kind of after dinner drink, and he gives us a couple of options, and since we don't know what any of it means anyway, we just tell him to choose.  It's some kind of after-dinner whisky/amaro thing that I'm not particularly into, but justin seems to like it, so it seems that Spain is another place we can indulge in our amaro fascination.

Bill comes, and it's only about €35.  I go to charge it, as I'm not trying to take out any more cash at this point.  In Europe, instead of them taking your card away and bringing to a register, they bring a little hand-held machine to the table and run it there.  Most European credit cards has a little chip on the front, and although their hand-held machines have the capability to swipe our magnetic strip cards, it's so antiquated to them that most people we deal with are completely baffled on how to swipe a card.  They always ask how it goes in, after trying incorrectly a couple of times, like tourists in the city with their metro card.  This guy looks at my card, starts laughing, and hold up the little machine to his ear, like a telephone, and pretends to speak into it.  "Hello, America?" He says, gently mocking us, "I have to charge this card," insinuating that our old-ass technology is akin to using some kind of dial-up service. 

In fact, the whole restaurant is run by Spanish bros, which is adorable because they're spaniards and not Americans, joking with us and each other the whole time, lighthearted, smiling, good service, but nonplussed that there are a bunch of tourists in their restaurant.  I love these guys.  

We wound up going back there two days later, and not only did they remember us, but our waiter pointed to where we sat and brought out the same bottle of liquor he recommended when we were done with our food at the end.  Three days in Barcelona, and I had more of a "local" than I do in my own neighborhood where I've lived for 12 years.  In fact, the closest I have is East, the conveyor belt sushi joint across the street that I have eaten at pretty much every week for the last 13 years, and I don't know anyone there and they don't know me.  I guess that's what I pay all that rent for in NYC: anonymity.

At another tapas place, we discover that Spain does have its own after-drink liquor situation.  So Justin orders Orujo  There's a white and a green version, and justin orders the white, having no idea what the difference is.  I order Patxaran, also having no idea what it is.  Part of the fun.  Justin loves his.  It tastes like aguardiente to me.. Just strong and alcoholic, and I can't really taste whatever flavor it's made of.  Maybe it's just everclear.  Mine tastes like boozy chamomile tea.  Not bad, but Italy still wins the after-dinner drink contest hand down.

Justin decides he wants to bring a bottle of Orujo home.  We go to the wine store, which is called a bodega in Spanish.  This is really funny to justin, as "bodega" at home certainly isn't a beautiful, comprehensive wine store like what a bodega is in Spain.

So we walk into this bodega, and I tell the guy that justin wants an Orujo.  He's got one, and he says it's very good, and better than what you'd find in a market.  We don't know any better, and it is this guy's store, so we really don't have too much of a choice to believe him.  It's us, the store owner, and some guy rolling a cigarette, sitting on a chair, wearing a Yankees cap.  The guy agrees, and says it's a really good Orujo.  So I start asking what it's like, and what's the difference between a green Orujo and a white one.  The guy in the Yankees cap takes over.  This is all going on in Spanish, and justin I'm sure understands a bit, especially since this guy is very animated with his expression and his emotions, but it's basically between me, the shop owner, and this dude.  He says that the green one is herbal.  I now say, "THAT's the one we want!" And both of these guys now express their disdain and disapproval.  Yankees fan crinkles his face and says, "listen, the green one is herbal, it's for digestion, it's weak, it's not very serious.  The white one is muy fuerte (very strong.)". Justin's big blue eyes light up, knowing full well what "muy fuerte" means, and yells out "si! Muy fuerte!" And Yankees fan cracks up and shakes Justin's hand and pulls it to his chest, in that simple expression of bro-ing out that doesn't need translation.  Two guys who love their liquor strong.  The great equalizer.  

The guy wraps up the Orujo, and Yankees dude asks us where we're from.  He's really excited to find out where we're from, and more excited when he finds out I like salsa.  He says everyone thinks he's Puerto Rican, because of his dark skin, Yankees cap, and love for salsa music.  I loved this guy,  He's the guy who hangs out at the bodega, smoking cigarettes.  No matter how nice the bodega looks, no matter what country, there's always a dude who just hangs out there.  

We were only there for a couple of days, a stopover on the way home.  But man, I can't wait to come back.  It feels as much like home as New York does.