Whew! I’ve been gone for a little while, haven’t I? I apologize for the long break (to both you and myself for losing some writing time) but our little family is getting older and before too much time passes, we thought we’d step out of our comfort zone and head out on a European city vacation. Our destination? Barcelona.
The Basílica de la Sagrada Família: incorporating natural light like no other
The Perfect City Pick (For Me)
Now let me qualify the remarks that follow by saying world travelers, we are not. Would we like to be? Sure. Is there time? Never enough. And if we do have time for a lengthy vacation, ninety-nine times out of one hundred I’m picking an outdoor adventure vacation because I’m not much of a city guy. I like to pop in for a little history now and then—a little culture, maybe a show, but outside of that, I don’t really enjoy the traffic or the hustle and bustle. I’m not a drinker, so pubs don’t draw my interest, and if I’m going to venture into a city, I need it to be a good walking city. I’m a hiker, after all, and El Padre needs to stretch his legs.
Which is why Barcelona was the perfect city pick. It’s extremely walkable, with big open avenues and a few hills mixed in to give you another perspective, if you so choose. It’s also extremely friendly and relaxed. I don’t know what it is about Spain, but every time I visit, I’m reminded of a conversation I had with a buddy when we studied in Madrid: we agreed that everything in Spain feels like the color yellow. It has this dreamy warm energy, like you are looking at life through a calming filter, and there is no need to stress because you are already exactly where you want to be. No wonder Catalonians and Spaniards feel inclined to take siestas.
Barcelona feels like you are looking at life through a yellow tinted filter. Inviting and tranquil.
Siesta Later
But we didn’t nap much. We saw as many sites as we could, taking full advantage of our week there. The highlights included Sagrada Familia, Park Guell, a live Barcelona Futbol game against Sevilla, and another viewing of the Barcelona Futbol Club beating New Castle at the George Payne Irish pub (not my idea but it was great). We also biked down to the waterfront, walked La Rambla, took the train to Figueres to see the Dali Museum, ate tapas, and just explored. Another perk about Barcelona is that no matter how far you walk, there are cabs everywhere, so once you get tired, you have no problem finding a ride to get back to the hotel.
The hiker in me, though, wasn’t satisfied with flatland exploration, and needed to ascend something. So, one morning, while the family was still eating breakfast, I headed out for an hour-long tour of Montjuic, located thirty minutes or so from the hotel we were staying at. It was a nice walk, even though Barcelona does have a bit of a homeless problem. As I passed through a public garden, or jardin, en route to Montjuic’s summit, I spotted a water fountain with a shampoo bottle in it. Left there, no doubt, for the next use.
A shampoo bottle near the font del passeig de Santa Madrona (left) on the way back from Montjuic (right)
Easy Managing
Despite this, and despite the quiet of the streets in the early morning light, it didn’t feel dangerous or all that ugly. It was actually a very pretty and pleasant sojourn, and I enjoyed the castle and the view from the top of Montjuic. Really, nothing in Barcelona felt scary or bad, even in the places where we were warned about pick-pocketers or criminals.
The concierge at the hotel warned us about pick-pocketers at the Magic Fountain, and La Rambla, as well as some of the other areas by the shore, but we didn’t have any problems. There was only one less-than-comfortable situation at the end of La Rambla when we were having lunch, and a homeless man asked for food. I unfortunately didn’t have anything solid to give him and I didn’t have any cash either. That didn’t stop his persistence, though, and he opted to take my plate which had nothing but some sauce left on it.
I usually feel like I know the right thing to do in most situations, but this one stumped me. It wasn’t my plate to give, and we had a bit of a language barrier. I understand a bit of Spanish, but I didn’t know what he was saying at all outside of “comida,” which means food. Meanwhile, our waitress hadn’t come outside to where we were sitting for over thirty minutes, and there was no way to get her to weigh in on the situation. So, it felt like giving him the plate was the best way to diffuse the situation. I felt bad the restaurant got screwed out of a plate, though, so I left a generous tip to cover the loss. Whatchyagonnado?
Exploring Barcelona’s Harbor with a view of Montjuic in the background
What Will They Remember?
These odd little moments are what make a trip memorable. Maybe the kids won’t remember walking around the Maritime Museum, but I’ve heard them relay the plate debacle multiple times. They’ve also been telling everyone they know about how “Dad would try to speak Spanish to everyone and even say English words with a Spanish accent when talking to people. It made no sense!” And I suppose that’s true. I know that when someone asked if I was paying by credit card, emphasizing card with a hard “d,” I responded in kind: “Cardt. Si.”
Apparently, I said “whatever” in a Spanish accent as well, but I have no memory of this. I believe it, but I have no memory of it.
What can I say. I embrace where I’m at. Give me a week in Ireland and I’ll probably be talking with a brogue fer feck’s sake. It’s not like I’m trying to do it. The music of the people just finds its way into my synapses—I have no awareness that it’s happening until something weird escapes my lips! The only thing that I am aware of when I’m traveling to a foreign country is that I’m interested in the whole feel of the place—its history, its culture and the people alike. So, I try to understand the language, the slang, and speak it the best I can.
At the FC Barcelona game, I learned that some fans thought the ref was a “pinche burro.”
You Never Know
Despite my best efforts, my Spanish accent is pretty rough. I am aware. When I did a Spanish Exchange trip back in the day, all the Spanish students made fun of my very American delivery of their language. “Ah, HO-LA Mateo,” they’d playfully tease. I can’t imagine my accent sounded much better on this trip, some thirty years later, as I tried to speak in Catalonian Spanish, saying things like “Barthelona” instead of “Barcelona.” I probably screwed that up pretty badly too, but hey, at least I was trying.
Hopefully the kids will remember that too.
Barcelona: Catalonia’s Capital City