I thought communicating with the locals would be easier than it has been. I feel like we don't share some of the basic vocabulary of nouns. And I definitely don't recognize the names of any of the food. Luckily, this is a city designed to service an international variety of tourists, so almost every place has pictures of the food and the pricing out front.
So getting the food is easy, but the question then becomes, do I want any of it? Every dish I have tried here has just seemed little off. It's hard to put my finger on what it is, the meat is somehow too salty and oily, the vegetables seem like they have spent too much time in vinegar. The bread is fine. Apparently we agree on the way bread should taste. I thought about staying here for the next few weeks as a weight-loss strategy, but I'm sure I would eventually find an acceptable way to overeat again.
Barcelona is a city waiting for Summer and unsure of what to do with itself in the mean time. It has magnificent beaches but not a ton of use for them in the current weather of 50-55. Each restaurant I have entered has been empty, so you would think that there would be some level of enthusiasm at my arrival, but everyone acts the way the locals do in the movies when a Nazi officer comes into the store or tavern of the occupied city, or when the bad guy walks into the bar in an old Western.
Everyone scatters to the back, and one person tentatively walks up and just stares at you. We stare at each other before I bungle through some greeting and then we kind of go back and forth in a mixture of Spanish/Catalan/English until I am sitting down. By now they have figured out that I am American, and despite the frosty reception, they clearly want me to feel at home, so the music changes. seriously, every time, each restaurant must have a cd it keeps and written on it must be, "Play in case of American" It has been the most eclectic mix of music with the one common thread being that the songs are in English. For example:
"The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers
"Imagine" by The Beatles
"Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton
Something by the Ramones
"Talk that Talk" Rihanna and Jay-Z
Probably not a great surprise to those who know me that I have found the interpersonal experiences awkward and difficult to navigate, but Barcelona in the Winter is great for wandering around by yourself.
I spent most of the day exploring Montjuic. Which, as near as I can tell is either translated Mount Judah, or Jew Mountain. This is a very broad hill that offers a gorgeous view of the city and harbor and has many museums, gardens, and a large stadium. The view might have changed my life a little bit.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Sunday, February 2, 2014
What was to be Barcelona: Day 1
The first thing you notice about Barcelona is that sound only enters in from your right ear. This is such a remarkable feature that you cannot fathom why it was not mentioned in any of the travel literature. However, upon further review you realize this may be a issue localized around yourself due to descending 35,000 feet with a cold. This leads to the embarrassing scene in the airport restroom where you are observed pinching your nose while simultaneously attempting to blow out of it. I'm told this can be bad for your eardrum, but they said the same thing about rock music and pouring pop rocks in your canal; so, whatever.
With your hearing back up and running it's time to find a taxi. Despite a pretty good grasp of the Spanish language, you are not really clear how to pronounce the address to your hotel (Avenida Paral-Lel 76-80) so your driver assumes you are an idiot and doesn't talk to you for a lot of the ride.
About halfway between the city and the airport a large and magnificent cemetery comes into view on your left side. This is the locals' way of letting you know that death is a common and celebrated certainty here so you best step correct lest you wind up on that hill as well.
But the hill gives you the opportunity to try out some Spanish interrogatives on your driver who slowly decides that you are not the moron he originally took you for, and is now happy to discuss the local area and culture in the few minutes of the drive you have left.
At the hotel, your room is not ready yet so you trade them your luggage for a ticket and a local map and go out to experience the city which your stomach is looking forward to, but your left knee which has never really recovered from its last set of tennis is grumbling about.
You feel comfortable here as the average height is much closer to your own. You have read about the expert Barcelonian pick-pockets but most of the populous appears benign, either through age or accompaniment of children or the choice of unisex neon tights for jogging. This give you confidence to wander the streets until you find yourself in a quaint alley when a small shop opens to exhale a woman with two pit bulls and what is either a large lighter or a taser. So taking the defensive cue from the locals, you meander back to the more populated district.
What you observe as you go up and down the streets is that Barcelona is an economy based on Tapas and alcohol served in long narrow shops or tables and tents right outside.
There is a large statue of Columbus in the middle of a roundabout near the piers. I can only imagine that the message here is, "Look, if you're stuck in traffic just imagine how bad it would be to have been him. He didn't even know where he was most of the time." Not to be confused with Columbus Circle in New York, though I suspect the message is meant to be the same.
Near the ports there was some kind of televised cooking competition with over a hundred participants. Friends, family, and onlookers stood round, but I couldn't figure out what the prize was. It couldn't be your own restaurant as clearly everyone in the city already had to own their own given the volume of small establishments I'd already viewed. I determined this was just an elaborate distraction ploy for pick pockets and I moved on.
Eventually I made it back to my hotel, got into my room, a shower, and then a bed. In that order. Where I have been until now. Day 2 holds the promise of a gothic district and Gaudi architecture before work starts in the early evening, so I need to stock up on {insert goth/gotic pun here}.
With your hearing back up and running it's time to find a taxi. Despite a pretty good grasp of the Spanish language, you are not really clear how to pronounce the address to your hotel (Avenida Paral-Lel 76-80) so your driver assumes you are an idiot and doesn't talk to you for a lot of the ride.
About halfway between the city and the airport a large and magnificent cemetery comes into view on your left side. This is the locals' way of letting you know that death is a common and celebrated certainty here so you best step correct lest you wind up on that hill as well.
But the hill gives you the opportunity to try out some Spanish interrogatives on your driver who slowly decides that you are not the moron he originally took you for, and is now happy to discuss the local area and culture in the few minutes of the drive you have left.
At the hotel, your room is not ready yet so you trade them your luggage for a ticket and a local map and go out to experience the city which your stomach is looking forward to, but your left knee which has never really recovered from its last set of tennis is grumbling about.
You feel comfortable here as the average height is much closer to your own. You have read about the expert Barcelonian pick-pockets but most of the populous appears benign, either through age or accompaniment of children or the choice of unisex neon tights for jogging. This give you confidence to wander the streets until you find yourself in a quaint alley when a small shop opens to exhale a woman with two pit bulls and what is either a large lighter or a taser. So taking the defensive cue from the locals, you meander back to the more populated district.
What you observe as you go up and down the streets is that Barcelona is an economy based on Tapas and alcohol served in long narrow shops or tables and tents right outside.
There is a large statue of Columbus in the middle of a roundabout near the piers. I can only imagine that the message here is, "Look, if you're stuck in traffic just imagine how bad it would be to have been him. He didn't even know where he was most of the time." Not to be confused with Columbus Circle in New York, though I suspect the message is meant to be the same.
Near the ports there was some kind of televised cooking competition with over a hundred participants. Friends, family, and onlookers stood round, but I couldn't figure out what the prize was. It couldn't be your own restaurant as clearly everyone in the city already had to own their own given the volume of small establishments I'd already viewed. I determined this was just an elaborate distraction ploy for pick pockets and I moved on.
Eventually I made it back to my hotel, got into my room, a shower, and then a bed. In that order. Where I have been until now. Day 2 holds the promise of a gothic district and Gaudi architecture before work starts in the early evening, so I need to stock up on {insert goth/gotic pun here}.
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