7 posts tagged “barcelona”
This will be my final "re-run" of posts from our trip to Barcelona.
So we were walking yesterday morning—Thanksgiving morning—and as usual our trek took us seaside where we observed one lone surfer out doing his best to ride waves which, back in Southern California, would have been deemed too small by most surfers to even make the effort.
But he was having the time of his life as he shredded the faces of the, ummm, waves that were rolling in.
In fact, I imagined in future years this lone surfer having a conversation with surfing buddies that would go something like, “Dude, do you remember the winter of 06? Those swells had to be at least two feet! It was gnarly, dude (insert appropriate amount of vocal quiver on the word, “Dude”).
Anyway...
For lunch we visited a small café down in the village that advertised “Mexican Food.”
Cool, I thought. I’ve been craving Mexican food ever since arriving!
My wife had “Tacos al Pastor,” and I had a Burrito.
Taco Bell it’s not...but the food was good, even though the portions were miniscule. In fact, we left the restaurant and immediately came home looking for something to eat.
It was quite strange being in Barcelona for Thanksgiving—away from family and friends in a country where they really have no idea what Thanksgiving is all about. Now that I think of it, I’m not so sure most of the citizens of the US have any idea what it’s all about either.
Thanksgiving evening, our friend Sarah picked us up about 8:45—that’s right, I said 8:45 PM—and took us to a little church where she and her husband attend frequently.
The church was hosting 17 young people from Syracuse, NY who had given up their Thanksgiving break to come and help the church with a building project. My understanding is that it's an ongoing project and that the church in Syracuse has been sending teams for a few years.
When the group was there in 2005 the host church decided to put on an “American Thanksgiving” feast as a way of saying thanks. It had gone over so well they decided to do it again.
So we roll in around 9 PM and begin talking to some of the youth and their leaders...nice folks. Really nice folks as were all those we met from the Sitges church.
Around 10 p.m. grace is said over the meal and we finally start eating about 10:15 PM. I mentioned to my wife that it was quite likely, given the time differential, we were eating our Thanksgiving meal within an hour of when we would’ve eaten had we been at home.
I found comfort in that knowledge.
Let me just mention the, uh, turkey carving.
Imagine that you have a very sharp knife in your hand but you’ve never really carved a turkey before and yet you are supposed to whittle it down into individually sized portions. What would you do?
Well, the folks who “carved” the turkeys here applied a variety of solutions. I’ll mention two: one looked as if they had cut it up like you would a chicken. On another, it was as if the “carver” had started at one end of the bird and had traversed its length making horizontal cuts every two inches or so. Yeah, like sliced bread only thicker slices.
God bless them for making the effort, for no matter how it was carved, the turkey was delicious!
The truth of the matter is that everything was good from the mashed potatoes and gravy, to the corn casserole, peas, stuffing and sweet potatoes. It was truly a feast and such a blessing to intersect with people who, though strangers, felt like family.
We left a little after midnight and didn’t get to bed until almost 1 AM.
Yes, it’s true...we are indeed madcaps!
I’ve decided that Thanksgiving is an attitude of the heart and not a date on a calendar. And that regardless of one’s global geographical position or cultural heritage, a meal shared with kindred spirits around the central purpose of giving thanks is always appropriate...even if it is at 10 p.m.
RG...out!
We found the St. Arbuck's on Las Ramblas in downtown Barcelona.
In fact, we managed to find it quite a lot during our stay.
It looks just like the St. Arbuck's by our house in Las Vegas and the one where I hang out when I’m in San Diego.
They have the same cute little hangy-down lights over the coffee bar.
Tables, chairs...the same.
The Baristas no less frantic than at home.
I counted fifteen 20-something young people working on laptop computers and totally ignoring everyone around them.
Probably looking on one of those sites designed to help you meet other people with your same interests.
I really wanted to tap this one guy on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me, but do you realize that there are at least ten quite attractive young women your age who are sitting within ten feet of you? Dude...turn off your computer and go talk to them!"
The coffee they serve is a bit stronger, and they don't seem to have even the slightest comprehension as to what "half-n -half" is all about.
Come to think of it, neither do I.
What...it's half cream and half milk?
But isn't milk basically cream that's been watered down?
So you take watered down cream and add real cream to make it cream but not cream?
I'm not getting this.
I bought some actual cream at "Intermarche," the local grocery store about three blocks from our apartment.
It said "38%" on the label.
Someone told me that the number refers to the fat content.
Wow! That's pretty fat.
Maybe there's something to be said for half-n-half after all.
I might have to take an extra Lipitor or something.
RG...out!
This is my second reprise of posts I wrote one year ago while in Barcelona, Spain.
Today we decided to take the train into Barcelona and see Las Ramblas, the street that Victor Hugo (Les Miserables) called "the most beautiful on earth." (You can see our picture over there to the left in the profile area)
Beautiful, yes. The most beautiful on earth? Probably not.
Anyway, that's not what I want to talk about.
I want to talk about the train.
I know, I know, I promised a trestise on illegal and imaginative parking.
Maybe tomorrow if it can nudge out something bubbling in my brain about bidets.
If you have to ask what a bidet is, you probably don't need to know.
So, the first thing I learned today is that personal hygeine isn't necessarily required for admission onto El Tren.
Wow!
Anyway, there we were well on our way into Barcelona when the floor show began.
I mean who kneiw there was going to be a floor show on the Renfe?
Yeah, this random woman stands up and starts wailing what I at first thought was a prayer; then perhaps a song; but in the end I realized she was begging.
Yep!
With a 12 month-old baby strapped to her frontside she made her way up and down the aisles of the train holding out a paper cup and giving it a sharp shake when she came by you.
After about ten minutes of her carrying on, she left to go to another section of the train.
Next up, were two Romanian brothers playing accordians.
They were pretty good.
They ran through "Those Were The Days My Friend," a medley from "Fiddler On The Roof," and just when I thought I'd heard it all, they busted out with "Cielto Lindo." You know, "Aye, yi, yi, yi..." etc.
I mean, come on...Cielito Lindo is bad enough as a Mariachi song in Old Town in San Diego, but Romanian Accordian players in Barcelona?
But, like I said, they were good.
In fact, I thought about giving them some money when they passed the hat, or leather pouch in this case.
And then it hit me...is it morally wrong to encourage an accordian player to keep playing?
No, really...is it?
The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if perhaps there wasn't like an International law against it or something.
I had visions of me reaching my hand out to drop a ,50 Euro coin in the pouch only to feel the cold bite of manacles being slapped around my wrist by a stern-faced Constable saying, "That's it, buddy! Conspiracy to encourage the continuance of accordian music. You'll get five years hard time, minimum! Book him!" as the other passengers give me hard stares while I'm being led off the train, my head hung shamefully and muttering, "I'm sorry...I didn't know. Please forgive me."
So just to be safe, I didn't give them a cent!
RG...out!
It was one year ago that my wife and I were in Barcelona, Spain where we spent six and one-half weeks living less than fifty meters from the Mediterranean. It was a magical time.
While there I wrote a number of blogs and I've decided to reprise a few of my favorite.
It is my sincere hope that you find as much pleasure in reading as I did in writing.
I would see him every morning without fail on the patio of the local St. Arbuck’s in Barcelona, Spain.
He sat there in the sun, head back, eyes closed; simply breathing.
By his side a battered cane that had seen more miles than many cars I've owned.
A sigh, a rattling cough.
His head seemed to suddenly come unhinged, dropping first to one side, and then chin to chest only to be jolted back into position, as Bill Cosby once postulated, by tiny unseen men with padded poles who had ringed his chair in anticipation of just such an occurrence.
Sleep finally conquered and he dreamed, snoring softly, pleasantly.
And I wondered...what filled his dreamscape?
His lips formed a mysterious little half-smile as if in response to a favorite memory scrolling across his sub-conscious mind:
Perhaps it was when, as a young man, he'd seen his wife for the first time.
How the sun had backlit her form as she approached him over the crest of a low hill, the light dancing off her auburn hair.
And that smile radiating from her face—the smile in future years he would realize she held in reserve for his eyes only.
His special treasure, his beauty, his lover and constant companion now dead and gone these many years.
Or perhaps he dreamed of holding his first-born in his arms and indulging in a bit of creative imagination as to what life would bring to this red, squalling man-child.
Would he succeed?
Would he find happiness?
Would he find a love like the love his father had found?
Granddaughters clinging to his legs as he "giant-walked" them across the sand and into the surf, their crystalline laughter still ringing in his ears.
Long, lazy afternoon siestas spent with lifelong friends at their special place on the promenade where they could talk of younger days as the sea breeze ruffled the hair on their hoary heads, at once cursing and envying the young folk who frolicked in the same sand and surf where they once played.
His eyes snapped open suddenly catching me in my voyeuristic imaginings.
A long gaze, a nod of his head, a raspy, "Bon dia," and then sleep reclaimed him.
And I wondered, "If I return, old father, will you still be here in your place in the sun? Or will you have followed your beloved; your old friends into the inevitable embrace of eternity?"
I can't tell you why this particular scene filled me with such melancholy, but it did.
And I'll never forget that ancient, craggy face nor the way he looked at me with the weight of so many years behind his appraisal as if to say, "Live well, young man...live well, for you too will one day come to where the storehouse of your days holds less than the sum of your memories."
I'll try, old father, I'll certainly try.
RG...out!
Whatever you have previously heard about jet lag, forget it!
It's a formidable challenge to overcome.
Me? I'm not quite there.
Yesterday I slept until ten-thirty.
Today, like right now, it's five AM and I'm wide awake.
Anyway, we spent most of day three touring Tarragona, a city located 100 km South of Barcelona.
The city has been known as Imperial Tarraco since the Roman domination. There are some of the best preserved Roman ruins in the Iberian Peninsula.
To the left Cheri and I are standing on top of a two-thousand year-old Roman aqueduct which spans a valley about a mile from the city gates. It is 700 feet in length, and the arches, of which there are two tiers, are 96 feet high. We walked all the way across and back, which, I've gotta' tell you, was a real challenge for me as I am terrified of heights! As in at one point I really had to fight the urge to drop to my knees and crawl.
After seeing some of the major antiquities, such as the amphitheater, the original site of the Roman Circ, or circus where they hosted chariot races, we had lunch and later coffee on La Rambla.
Tomorrow, Saturday, we are moving into our "permanant" quarters--an apartment in a small resort town called Sitges (pronounced "seat-jis").
If it is anything like it has been described, it is quite close to the beach and within walking distance from anywhere you'd want to go, even the train. Of course, as Stephen Wright said so appropriately, "Anything is within walking distance...if you've got the time."
RG...out!
We spent most of the day in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to figure out the train system here in Barcelona.
Part of the problem is that the train will take you into Barcelona but will not take you around Barcelona.
To do that one has to take the Metro.
Go figure.
We commented (something that is becoming a near impossibility here on "vox") several times to each other today that in looks, feel and population base, there is little difference between Barcelona and any major city in America.
There is an ancient soul here.
A soul scarred by wars, occupations, struggles for dominance, a process cyclical in nature that has lasted for a couple of thousand years.
In the faces one sees on the streets, on the Metro, the train...in the restaurants, there seems to be little joy and a particular heaviness born out of some deep, unsearchable sorrow.
I'm going to attempt to find the source--not that I am aspiring to effect even a slight change, but it's something I feel I need to know.
We have one more night here in Tarragona and then it's on to Sitges on Saturday morning.
Tomorrow (Friday) we are going to spend the day exploring the ruins left behind by the Romans from the days when Tarragona was the seat of power in the Roman world.
There are many to see including a mostly intact amphitheater and aquaduct system.
Oh, and we'll most likely lunch on the beach.
Niiiice!
RG...out!
I have a question and pose it herewith in hopes that one more sage than I can lend their wisdom to solve an aggravating issue.
So, there you are in the toilete of an airport--specifics don't matter, just go with it.
You are experiencing a pressing need to, well, sit rather than stand.
Being the hygenically integral man that I am, I reach for the diaphonously thin seat cover and place it just so in order to protect my nether regions from coming into contact with any offending porceleine.
I turn in preparation to sit when, "Whooosssshhhh." The toilete flushes my protective cover down the old crapper.
I can tell already that I may be forced into, at the very least, a minced oath or two.
Nevertheless, I press on and reapply the previously described cover.
"Whooossshhhh."
It sucks another one down before I can sit.
But I'm on to it now, and I finally manage to do my, ahem, business and go on my way.
So, back to the question...
Can somebody PLEASE tell me why it is that when you don't use a sanitary cover you can sit down, get up, sit down, get up, etc. all day and the doggone thing won't give you the satisfaction of letting you watch it flush.
I'm serious about this!
Anyway, we're here in Tarragona, the ancient Tarraco which was a major seaport during the Roman occupation of Spain.
As I write I'm sitting on a balcony overlooking a pine forest and the ocean, about three miles distant.
It is uncommonly beautiful.
We're both quite tired, so I'll end for now.
RG...out!
