I wake up, and get a proper coffee outside. No more instant coffee I was (happily) drinking in the baltics. The shit here is too good. I am impressed by my gut reaction to say "cortado" instead of "macchiato."
Barcelona is the only other place in the world that feels as much to me like home as home does. I've been lamenting the slow decline of my Spanish over the last couple of years, but as much as I feel like I have lost it at home, the second I get back here it rebounds.
I take my coffee in the plaza near my friends Toni and Olga. One day, at Cucut biz and bar. I ask for a cortado doble, because I haven't been sleeping so well. She is very confused; this isn't something they do, and was I sure? How did I want it? And she explains to me the proportions of milk and espresso in a cortado, and it wasn't going to fit in the normal glass. Did I want twice the espresso and the same milk? Did I want two cortados together, in a larger, cafe con leche glass? Would I prefer white or brown sugar? She was so sweet and just trying to make sure my coffee was good. Talking some more, Katarina tells me she's from Georgia (the country but not the state) and I tell her all about Justin, and how he plays with our friend, Georgian singer Mariami (who I name drop... Everyone knows who she is) and how we just came from the Baltic and we ate khachapuri and we eat khinkali at home and I know how to make satsivi, and I almost make her cry. She shows me the hair of her arms standing up. There are so few Georgians in Barcelona.
One day I wander into Bar Ernesto, at Hostafrancs station, where Toni and Olga live. Its a bar catering to mostly old people, sitting all day drinking their beer and coffee and eating tiny sandwiches. When I'm alone in a foreign place, this is where i want to be; surrounded by old people. Old people aren't going to be shouting at each other loudly in English. They're not going to annoy me. This neighborhood doesn't have anything for tourists, anyway. Toni is there with Èrica (the accent goes the "other way" in Catalan), their 8-year old. Èrica and I became fast friends last night, when she showed me her math notebook and translated all of her written Catalan into Castilian Spanish so I would understand. She told me that an isosceles triangle has two equal sides and one that isn't equal. It's good to know that teachers get this wrong all over the world. I didn't correct her.
I sit with Toni and Èrica, and I order a cortado doble. Both Toni and the bartender gasped lightly. I swear, i could have ordered two shots of whisky and not have gotten such a strong reaction. Toni says "so strong in the morning? You don't want something with more milk?!?" Ok, fine, I'll order regular cortados from now on.
Except that after three days, the bartender already knows my coffee order and greets me with "cortado?" Barcelona... More like home than home is.
WALKING AROUND TOWN
I can't remember how many times I have been to Barcelona. Eight? At this point, I don't really want to do anything touristy. I love the miró museum, and I go almost every time. Not this time. The Sagrada familia church, an enormous, incredible, gothic church, finally has taken down most of the scaffolding that has been up for years. I walked around it but didn't go in. It's like trying to get into the Vatican. I've been inside before, it's great. not interested. Sometimes it's what's on the outside that counts. This time, I was going to try to discover new things. And I was NOT going to be on Las Ramblas. AT ALL. Las Ramblas is a pedestrian mall akin to Times Square. Characters in costumes, guys standing still dressed like metal. A fuck ton of slow tourists. It's kinda hard to avoid, because it's long and is right smack in the center of town. I got robbed on las Ramblas once. A horror show. Not the robbery. That was smooth as silk. Las Ramblas is a horror show.
This is the best thing about the Internet and an iPhone... Just pick a place as a destination and just walk around. There's a metro station every couple of blocks here. Before the iPhone, it was really easy to get turned around. Barcelona was organized by a madman... No grid at all, and all of the tiny streets converge haphazardly into small plazas, and change names along the way. But now, just walk. And when you're tired, just get into any metro station. Easy.
I really like thrift stores. This is a fairly recent discovery. The goodwill stores have really stepped up their game at home. I think they get not only rich people's cast offs after they've worn them only once, but also extra stuff that was from a previous season. Whatever it is that used to go to places like Daffy's and Loehmanns. Because I've gotten so much stuff from very expensive labels that I swear have never been worn.
I notice on this trip a chain of stores called Humana. Same concept as goodwill, but the proceeds go to helping (mostly) Africa. And they've got some good stuff, some of it overstock from Spanish labels like Desigual and Custo Barcelona. Both labels feature often loud prints that are "mismatched," and usually I don't like it. I'm the kind of person who wears at most two colors, one of which is usually black. But I guess if you've been here long enough, that shit starts to look good to you, because I've bought a couple of things that I've convinced myself look good on me. Maybe it's that it goes with tan. Or the heat's gotten to me. Or I'm delusional.
So what I've been doing is that I pick a place that has a Humana store, go to it, shop a little, and then just wander around that neighborhood. Or I pick a restaurant, go there, wander around that neighborhood. I can wander for hours. By myself, just wandering the streets, looking in Windows, listening to people, sitting in parks, eating lunches and fresh fruit or ice cream. Wandering around in the sun.
GOING TO THE BEACH
After the lunching and wandering, I pick a beach and go. Only for about 2 hours. That's about all I can take before I'm tired, or hot, or tipsy from the one beer I've ordered to escape from the heat. When you're at home, going to to the beach feels like an ORDEAL. I hate it. It takes too long, it's hot and gross, and then you get there, and the BEACH is gross, the WATER is gross. Argue with me all you like; I think they're all disgusting.
Most beaches here have a chiringuito (beach bar) where you can hang out forever and no one cares. I ask the girl for a beer with lime. She asks me if I mean a "Clara," which is a surprisingly delicious and very refreshing combination of beer and lemon Fanta, the only Fanta flavor we don't seem to have in the states, which is a goddamn shame. Nope, I mean, take a slice of lime and put it in there. She is sweet, but incredulous. Really? Are you sure? Just like my cortado doble. Yes, really. She comes back with a lime slice dunked in there, and she says, "like this?" I say, sure, that's fine, but normally you just squeeze it in there. She takes the glass back, smiling but still really concerned at my crazy request. I see her squeezing the shit out of that lime. She brings it back and eagerly waits for me to taste it. Perfect, I tell her. She's so confused. I tell her to try it and she makes a face and laughs. Later on I tell her it's a little thing I had in Belize, because the beer is very clear and flavorless, not like the local Barcelona favorite, Estrella damm, a slightly darker beer. It still tastes great to me, because what isn't better with a squeeze of fresh lime?
Barcelona proper has a metro-accessible beach called Barceloneta, but I stopped going there years ago after I got robbed there, too. Another effortless robbery. My favorite beach is Sant Pol de Mar, on the Maresme coast, a 1-hour light rail ride away. It is quiet, and peaceful, and the water is clear. There are beaches on the Maresme that are closer, and they all have a different character. montgat nord: more waves, clear, clean, and not packed full of older people. Otcat: wider beach, younger people, clean and clear water, young waitress at the chiringuito tells me there's no wifi, I'm supposed to be relaxing at the beach. I'm pleased with her.
In preparation for this trip, I bought this flotation thing called SpringFloat. I hadn't ever used it, but I was stupidly excited to. Like, I was sure it was going to be the highlight of my trip, lying on it in the clear, crisp water. It lay in wait in the large suitcase Justin had been carrying for three weeks, waiting for Barcelona beach time. I was petrified I wouldn't be able to bring it on the plane, because I traded suitcases with Justin for the small one for the remainder of my trip without him. I was overjoyed with Ryanair (which has a shit reputation) when the flight attendant said it wouldn't be a problem. ecstatic. It comes in a lightweight circular carrying bag, about 2.5' in diameter, and when you open the bag, it springs into a 5.5' long lounger. You inflate an outer ring with only 7 puffs, and you inflate the attached pillow about the same. The rest of the body of the ring is mesh, so when you're on it, floating you're floating IN the water rather than ON the water.
I carry this goddamn thing EVERYWHERE. Shopping, walking, out to lunch. I recognize that this is ridiculous. Olga makes fun of me. But I get to Sant pol for the first time, and I open the case, wondering how the fuck I'm ever going to get it back in. I quickly realize that I can use it instead of a beach towel to lie on the sand. And it has a GODDAMN PILLOW. I am alone, and smiling like an idiot. I am so pleased with myself. I notice that the old tan lady near me is staring at me. Well fuck you, old lady hater. I've carried this thing for 3 weeks like Jesus with his cross and I'm going to enjoy every second.
After about 10 minutes in this perfect Barcelona weather, and I decided I'm warm enough to go in the water. So I go to the lady and ask her in Spanish if I can leave my things with her to watch when I go in. She recoils and at stammers....oh, she's British. She's relieved to hear me speak to her in English.
"Can I leave my things with you while I go in the water?"
"Yes, but only if you tell me where you got that WONDERFUL thing."
I have made more friends with this stupid lounger here than I would if I were walking around NYC with a tiny dog. This is all anyone can ask me. I let another lady take it out for a spin, and she's on the beach, taking notes on the name and how to get it on amazon.
Best $17 I've ever spent.
AFTER THE BEACH
Well, I don't have it in me to go out so late. I don't do clubs, and I've been walking ALL DAY. Spaniards go out LATE, eating a small dinner around 9. One night I made a nice salad with Olga. One night we went to a swing dance thing. This is how Olga, Toni, and I met many years ago. She used to teach swing here, but since she had Èrica, they don't dance too much anymore. Everyone reacts to her the way they do to me when I go to a swing event in New York... A mix of surprise and elation. She is greeted warmly, and as i am with her, I am greeted in kind, with two kisses. I reminisce with Pep and Emi, a couple I have also seen many times since. The swing dance community here is wonderful, and I've always enjoyed meeting them.
One night, I decided I need more pulpo a gallego, my favorite Spanish dish. It's octopus leg, cut crosswise, placed on a wooden tray, and broiled with olive oil, Spanish smoked paprika, and salt. UNFORTUNATELY, it's not a Catalonian dish (many parts of Spain consider themselves separate from Spain and wish to secede... Barcelona is part of catalunya, where the secession desire is strongest) so it's hard to find. But I know I've had it at cucut bar. It's 9:30 pm, and I haven't eaten since 2. I'm starving. I order a rosé, and halfway through it the chef comes out to apologetically inform me that they are out of octopus. Well, they're out of everything (it's more a lunch place than a dinner place) except some mayonnaise-y salads and something called "esquiexada de bacalao." Normally, I would be annoyed, because I was hungry, and really looking forward to octopus. But between the half glass of rosé already taking effect on a near-empty stomach, and the sheer joy Barcelona brings me, I have a rare "fuck it" moment. Sure, bring me that, and an order of pa amb tomaquet, bread rubbed with garlic, fresh tomato, olive oil and salt. So much better than it sounds.
So I do whatever anyone in my position would do: on vacation, not much food to be had, alone In a delightful bar where the wine is €1.35 a glass... I get wasted and spend the whole time on the Internet drunk texting anyone who want one, and some who don't. No shame, no regrets.
I was supposed to be here with a colleague of mine, who felt the need to cancel on me. Pretty fucking shocking. I was going to share this with her. But now I get to keep it all to myself. Olga, Toni, and èrica, the wine and the food, all of the Spanish i've gotten to speak, this amazing city and the perfect beaches on its fringe, and the best beach lounger $17 can buy.
No shame, no regrets. I wouldn't change a thing.
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