Welcome to Barcelona

As I type this I am sicker than a dog. Bad cold. Sneezing like every 6 seconds. This is because I was in Charles De Gaulle airport near Paris a few days ago. Last time I was there I immediately got very sick and my doctor asked me, “Have you just been in the airport in Paris?” That seemed kind of random as I had not mentioned I was traveling. I asked why he asked this and he said. “The Center for Disease Control has issued a warning about CDG. Thousands of people become lost in that place every year because the signage is so bad and they wander around without showering and they live on croissant crumbs and water fountains. It’s a worse hot bed of disease incubation than the Congo.”

I was there and now I am sick. So there you go.

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I don’t really know where to begin on Barcelona. What a truly amazing city. It does not seem right to start this way, but for me at least some comparison to Paris is inevitable:

• Both cities have beautiful broad avenues lined with gorgeous six to eight story flats that make them super dense cities. This means there is really incredible street life. People out all over the place day and night.

• Both have a strong culture of dining out – probably because their kitchens are tiny and dining room space is at a premium.

And I think that is about it in terms of commonality.

Paris is a really big. 2,200,000 in the city and over 11,000,000 in the metro area. It’s a national and world capital. People are tiny, attractive, mean, pretend they do not speak English, dress very well, and as you know, the restaurants really suck. As does the weather.

Barcelona is not little by any means. 1,700,000 in the city and 5,000,000 in the metro area. It’s the capital of a nation, Catalunya, that really should have no connection to Madrid. Spain is a made up thing like Santa Claus or God. People are also tiny, very beautiful, and do not dress well at all. The restaurants are amazing. People try hard to speak English, especially if you meet them half way. This is asking a lot given that they have to speak both Catalan and thtupid Casthilian. Oh and the weather is perfect.

People are genuinely nice. This is immediately obvious when you notice they don’t jaywalk (jackass anarchist tourists with no respect for anything do jay walk in Barcelona but fortunately they get hit by cars sometimes). Also see few of of the bicycle terrorists that you see breaking the law in a city like Portland or Seattle. They are bikes for rent but they are mostly unused. Mostly people walk in Barcelona. The subway system is fine if you are cheap and like the smell of poor people, but if your feet are tired or you have any sense of self worth Barcelona is the best place for catching a Taxi I have ever been to. Plus they are friendly and super cheap.

There is art and gorgeous architecture everywhere. There seems to be a design esthetic that touches everything. Even warehouses in the port are beautiful. 

There are mountains outside the city than gradually slope down to the Mediterranean where there are beautiful man made beaches that were created for the 1992 Olympics.

I could pontificate on and on about how wonderful Barcelona is. So I will.

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Mark and I flew from Seattle to Paris, then Paris to Barcelona. So much drama with Air France on this trip that I can’t even begin to tell that story here. Suffice to say we lost over 100,000 in accrued miles, had to fly “Premium Voyageur” which is some sad nether region wedged between Business Class and the cattle and chickens in the back. Not my most favorite flying experience ever, but I got to see the Woody Allen movie Midnight in Paris and I was able to sleep a bit.

At one point Mark got up to use the bathroom and went back to where the cattle and chickens are. He came back and said, “Never again. It’s so wrong. Man’s inhumanity to man. I don’t want to be a part of it.” Fortunately for me I don’t like going to the bathroom in airplanes or foreign countries. I just wait till I get home.

Charles De Gaulle airport is a mess. I have already written several times about the fact that it is actually in Belgium, but regardless of its location it really is almost impossible to figure out how to get from one terminal to the other. Sometime you have to take this kind of land tank thing, sometimes you can walk, but the signs are all incorrect. CDG is just inherently stressful.

As we landed there were these poor American’s who were trying to get to their transfer flight to Rome or Florence or someplace else in the 15 minutes Air France had given them. There is no physical way you can make a connecting flight in Paris with the time the airline gives you. Mark and I looked on with informed pain, having gone through this our first time too when we went to Italy. Not this time. We had a good two hours to get lost. We found a coffee shop and I spoke French to the woman behind the counter. "Bonjour madame. Je voudrais deux expresso et aussi deux croissants, si vous plait." She was an immigrant and did not try at all to pretend she did not understand me.  Mark and I slipped crumbs under the table in the hope that the lost souls of CDH would find some nourishment.

There was drama before we could leave France. After we got on the plane some passenger named Juan Ibrahim apparently disappeared, like into a worm hole or something. There was concern that this could be some arcane terrorist plot. Some passengers were vocally upset that we were delayed, but I am in full support of my plane not exploding. Finally they figure out what Juan’s deal was and we took off. The flight to Barcelona is short, maybe 90 minutes. I got nice views of the Pyrenees and Barcelona’s suburbs coming in:



Then the Mediterranean.

I think Barcelona’s airport is the nicest one I have even been to. Really. It’s new, shiny, pretty, easy to get around in. Good signage. Great shops. No need to take a land tank anywhere. No lost sick people walking around at all.

We got our bags quickly and then headed out to find our towncar. We hired a car to take us into town because we didn’t know how great the taxi’s were yet.

The drive is was fun. Your standard six lane Euro-freeway.  . Here’s a photo of a close in suburb called Hospitalet.

Even in the burbs the design esthetic is everywhere.

As we get into town we see the miles and miles of apartment blocks.

So beautiful.

Our flat, Ghost Apartment was super cool. All white furniture, minimal clutter. 

After a quick nap and a shower we head out to Café De L’ Academia, a restaurant recommended to us by a woman who works at the Spanish Table near Pike Place Market.

It’s 9:00PM on a Wednesday night and thousands people are out all over the place. Our restaurant is in some ancient old medieval warren or something and it takes a bit of time to find it. There is a large table of loud American’s from Kentucky sitting near us. They seem to have already been there for a while which seems odd since restaurants don’t start serving dinner till 9. Anyway, our gorgeous Catalan waiter comes over and we order glasses of cava while we look at the menu. I start with a Catalan style bouillabaisse called Bullabessa. This was just unbelievably good. Like I am going to leave my body good. I hold on to the side of the table so I won't float away. I have to stay in the moment.

Then I had this raw white fish covered with Romesco sauce and chive oil. I have to hold onto the table again.

This went so perfectly with our bottle of Verdejo.

I finished with this duck leg confit in an amazing sauce.

Mark gets what has to be the best thing either of us have ever had, ever. Yes I am including crab pizza in Maui and magic potatoes in France.  Its squid, cut up like fettuccini, then quickly grilled, then tossed with some squid ink. 

There really is no way to adequately describe how amazing this is other than to say its light, not chewy at all, and just tastes of the sea.  This is the best thing I have ever had.   
And I have had a lot. 

Fuck. This is the dinner I never had in Paris.  As I am sitting in the corner wiping tears from my eyes because the food it so good the fuckwit American’s won’t shut the fuck up. They are three couples in their 40’s mixing beer and red wine and making disparaging comments about the Euro and Obama while they talk about going golfing the next day. Golf.  In Barcelona.  Really!?!?!  They are loud and horrible. Their waitress has this pained look of horror on her face.

Our beautiful waiter comes back and we order some dessert. I have this lime / ginger sorbet and then an espresso.

The American’s are so out of control now their waitress has fled. They have been loudly arguing over the pros and cons of bisexuality and why you can't get Margaritas here.

Our waiter is gone to.  I think he went after their's to comfort her. Or he has just left the county because he cannot stand American tourists anymore. We find someone to get us the check and leave a 30% tip in hope of countering the amount of evil in the universe.

I blame Lincoln.

As we are walking home we get lost and some drunken soccer hooligans come up and start rubbing all over me to terrify me. They can tell I am American because I am fat, and they want to freak me out by making me think they are going to pick pocket me. Mark starts walking slower and stares down at his iPhone instead of helping so I am on my own. I kind of laugh and push them away but they come back and rub on me some more. Finally I grab a cute one by the butt, lift him up as I fondle his testicles, and toss him forward about 6 feet. This seems to work and they go away. I am a little bit freaked out but also feel good about how I handled this. It was a nice butt.

We are drunk, tired, and lost and end up at the waterfront at the end of La Rambla, the big pedestrian street that runs through town to the water. We know we can get back to our flat if we walk up La Rambla, so we do. It’s past midnight and La Rambla is active with scum and villainy. There are gypsy boys out selling single cans of beer for 4 Euros. Other boys are shooting these blue skyrocket things into the sky and then trying so sell them to tourists when they land on their heads. Some Nubian prostitutes come up to us and ask if we want sex. I say. “Please leave us alone, we are gay and very tired.” Without skipping a beat they say, “No you aren’t.” I'm like, queen PLEASE, I am too tired, plus those boots are terrible.  Right then this little dwarf dressed like Yeti comes up alongside of me to make fun of the way I walk. Why do I always attract these clowns?  Remember the clown incident in Provence?  We keep walking and eventually we find our flat and crash around 1:30am. What a rocking great first day!

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