Saturday, September 29, 2007
A diller, a dollar
We have watched with dismay as the dollar continues to sink abysmally against the Euro...today, nearly $1.42. When we were here in March, it was $1.26, and upon our arrival in August, around $1.31. Do the math: in USD, the cost of our 1,700 Euro a month apartment has climbed from $2,227 to its current $2,414. That's an 8% increase in a month. Talk about inflation! If things continue at this rate, by next June, we will be paying more than $4,000 a month!
These increases really hurt with big-ticket items...like tech services. Two days ago, the hard drive on my 4-year-old laptop crashed. (Apparently, with laptops, one year equals 20 human years...so my machine is on its last legs.) The Yellow Pages here (paginas amarillas) are loaded with listings for tecnicos electronicos, many offering in-home service. So I called one and received a prompt visit at 4 p.m. that day. Before calling, I looked up every word I could think of relating to computers, and wrote them all down (another impromptu, do-it-yourself Spanish lesson). Yesterday, my machine was delivered by my exceedingly genial and knowledgeable tech, Michel, along with a bill for...464 Euros! I gulped, then excused myself while I ran down to the bank on the corner and withdrew enough cash to pay the tab. "My goodness," I commented (in Spanish) as I handed over the banknotes, "technical services are much more expensive here than in the U.S.!" After explaining to me that I was paying a premium for 24-hour service, Michel hunched over my calculator, then gave me back 50 Euros, since no parts had been required. (My data is safe, my hard drive is intact, and Outlook (Spanish version) has been reinstalled.) But still.
What this means to me is that it is going to be cheaper for me to buy some products online in the U.S., pay for them with my U.S. dollars, and pay to have them shipped here.
When will the dollar stop its sickening downward skid? Can someone explain this phenomenon to me?
One solution would be for me to obtain my residencia (resident permit), get a job in Spain, and get paid in Euros. Easier said than done...plus, who wants to hire an American lawyer with no knowledge of the Spanish legal system? (I could be wrong about that. I could also change professions.)
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Home, sweet home
Finally, we are ensconced in our pied a terre high above the flats of Barcelona. It's 1700 Euros a month, OK, but worth every penny. Last Wednesday, after signing on to a three-page rental contract in Spanish, some of which I actually understood, it officially became our home for the next nine and a half months. Our landlady, Barbara, 30-something, pretty, stylish, forthright, Catalan, does something in TV news - producer? Anchorwoman? I didn't really get that part, but she suspiciously resembles the super-dynamic anchor of a major news program here in Barcelona.
We have the choicest of six apartments in this 70s-era building, seemingly populated by professionals (plus one reportedly cranky and needy little old lady above us). Completely remodeled, our flat is surrounded on four sides by teakwood decks and a gravel terraza, with vines and flowers overflowing the planter boxes. Inside, we have a relatively spacious living area complete with a huge built-in desk, leading to a very well-equipped kitchen outfitted with top-of-the-line electrodomesticos. Floors are dark engineered wood planking or cool, neutral ceramic tiles; lots of windows and French doors, meaning it's very bright inside. Three TVs - one each in the dining room and master bedroom - plus a huge flat-screen in the living room, which has two very comfy sofas strewn with cushions. Besides the master bedroom, there are two very small ones. I've elected to give Hannah the big room, owing to her teenage privacy needs. My small room, with its single bed, is more than adequate for me. Our bathroom has two sinks and lots of counter space and storage, plus a luxurious, roomy shower. There is a combination washer-dryer just outside the third room, and clotheslines to take advantage of the cooling breezes. All in all, we are enchanted.
(To see photos of our flat, click on the link to your right. Also, check out the link above for the website of our rental agent, Loco Locations. Maybe you'd like to rent in Barcelona, too. They're fabulous to work with.)
I am the proud owner of a carra de compras, one of those rolling shopping carts I mentioned earlier. The day after we settled in, I made the 15-minute walk into the commercial center, which is across a wide viaduct, bought the cart, and loaded it to capacity with all kinds of food and drink. Hannah is thrilled that we now have "real food." The shops are excellent: a Bon Preu supermercado, numerous small tiendas offering cheeses, sausages, and exotic groceries; a pescaderia (seafood market), carnicerias (butcher shops), numerous bakeries, bars and cafes, a hardware store, shoe and lingerie shops, a bookstore, a florist. On Saturday afternoon, it was humming with activity, people spilling out of the bars and sitting on door stoops, balancing their plates on their laps.
Our neighborhood is far from the center, but really only a 10-15 Metro ride from just about anywhere, and we are about two blocks from the Penitents station. It's quiet (relatively) up here: much less traffic, and dark and peaceful at night. Plus - and this is the really amazing thing - it comes with a moto (small motorcycle)! Barbara handed me the keys and said we could use it and, possibly, buy it when she gets around to it.
Since there was no bed for the small room (I spent a few nights on the sofa), I took public transport to Ikea on Friday and picked out a bed frame and mattress. They were delivered the very next morning, and I set to work assembling the frame. Ooops: no screwdriver in the house, so I walked to the hardware store to ask for a destorneador Phillips. (Odd thing about Spanish shops in general: a lot of the wares are in the back room and you have to ask for them by name. Good thing I'd done my dictionary research beforehand.)
Putting the thing together was, to be honest, a bitch. I've assembled Ikea before, but this was the worst. I'd nearly finished, though, when a tiny Allen wrench I needed to assemble the mattress substructure flew out of my hands and landed on the deck, where it immediately disappeared between two of the planks. Fortunately, the decking is installed over a concrete walk about 2 1/2 inches below, but I spent the better part of the afternoon flat on my stomach on the deck, armed with table knives, tweezers, scissors, reading glasses, and every other improvised tool I could think of, trying to extract the little devil. Finally, yesterday morning, I fished it out using a piece of twist-tie: a delicate and nerve-wracking operation.
It was a big weekend for Hannah. Her senior class volunteered to help stage the big 50th anniversary celebration at Camp Nou, the stadium that is home to FC Barcelona. In case you don't know, FCB is one of the top futbol (soccer) teams in Europe, with star players including Ronaldinho. The kids' job was to climb to the top of the stadium with enormous golden balloons resembling soccer balls, to be released onto the field during the spectacle. Thursday and Friday after school, they were at the stadium til late into the evening. They had to dress in black, and I had to sign a release for Hannah to appear on TV. Saturday was the big night. I missed the show, but, over at Carme's apartment, caught the tail end of the game, when Messi, for FCB, scored his second goal of the game to defeat Sevilla 2-1. Fireworks went off all over the city.
The game coincided with La Merce, Barcelona's biggest festival, which ends today. Parades, free concerts all over the city in the public squares, lots of stuff for kids, sports spectaculars, and several bizarre local traditions including Carrefoc, in which spectators are sprayed with fire (sadly, I missed it as I was at Blanche and Carme's place), and a parade of huge, papier-mache heads that mock the city's institutions. Last night, Blanche and I met at Placa Catalunya and plied the packed streets, at one point encountering an impromptu samba group (Blanche refused to dance because she said once she starts dancing samba, she can't stop). My destination was Placa del Rei for a show by Angelique Kidjo, an amazing African singer and one of my all-time favorites. The Placa was packed for the super high-energy show, and Angelique regaled the crowd in French between numbers. I danced shoulder to shoulder with the tightly packed crowd.
Tomorrow, it's back to school for Hannah, and time for me to figure out what I'm going to do with my life, now that the business of arrival and establishment is concluded. Suggestions are welcome.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Another reason to love Catalunya
[Ed. note: this post was created on 10 Sept., 2007.]
Judging from what we've seen on the beaches of southern Spain, some forms of semi-nudity perhaps ought to be illegal, at least as applied to certain portly older gents clad in skimpy Speedos. But "let it all hang out" prevails along the Mediterranean coast, and a communitarian spirit it is. WE certainly wouldn't want anyone to overly scrutinize the rear view of our bikini-wearing body, either.
Once again, I am past my limits from a grueling morning, spent trudging the pavements of the Sagrada Familia neighborhood alongside Catalunyan housewives with their wheeled carts, searching out the best butchers, fruit stalls, bakeries and whatnot. Why, you ask, should this task be so daunting, when every block bristles with carnicerias, fruterias, and panaderias ("forns de pa" in Catala)? (Digression: we've become obsessed with the oblong breaded croquetes de carn - meat croquettes - offered readymade by one shop. Riquisimo!)
Good question. The search itself is easy and rewarding; it's just the long haul back when, laden with groaning bags, I once again turn in the wrong direction and take a circuitous route, ten blocks out of my way, trying to find our apartment ... . I've got to get one of those wheeled dealies. They consist of a sizeable and sturdy nylon compartment with two to four wheels, come in every configuration and color (although the aunties seem to prefer a drab navy-blue or faded red plaid), can include little insulated compartments in front for cold and frozen food, and cost up to 80 Euros for a really nice one.
At times, almost all of Barcelona seems to be on wheels of some diverse kind: the wheeled carts, the motorcycles and scooters, bicycles, taxis, Metro trains, etc. But so much here is done on foot. For me, this has had two consequences: I am nice and trim; and, I have developed a nice case of plantar fasciitis on my right heel. Fortunately, there are plenty of podiatrists here.
Tomorrow (Tuesday, 9/11) is National Catalunya Day. It sounds a bit like the Fourth of July, in that no one gets terribly worked up about it, and everyone goes shopping or to the beach. Hannah's fantasy is to stay out late (read: all night) and sleep in.
Observation: am I imagining this, or are there more twins in Barcelona than elsewhere? Everywhere I go, I see these duel strollers with identical tots, always turned out to perfection. Hannah posits that this is a wealthy city, so more couples have access to in vitro fertilization, resulting in multiple births. I'm not so sure - I think we'd see more triplets were that the case.
(Note: I also have noted an unusual number of people with dwarfism. Maybe this is all because of the high concentration of people in a relatively smal area... .)
Good news today: we are approve for the gorgeous apartment in the northern zone of the city. Excellent news, as we are sick indeed of our vagabond existence. I have volunteered the task of procuring furniture for one of the secondary bedrooms. As a result, I continue to expand my Spanish vocabulary, albeit in the very specialized realm of furnishings and bed linens.
"The practice of nudism is not illegal in Catalunya, only punishable if it is accompanied by obscene conduct."The article goes on to report that "los puristas" prefer to disrobe at a beach north of Barcelona lovingly called "Chernobyl," due to the presence of a power plant with three huge chimney stacks looming in the background.~ La Vanguardia, 10 Sept. 2007.
Judging from what we've seen on the beaches of southern Spain, some forms of semi-nudity perhaps ought to be illegal, at least as applied to certain portly older gents clad in skimpy Speedos. But "let it all hang out" prevails along the Mediterranean coast, and a communitarian spirit it is. WE certainly wouldn't want anyone to overly scrutinize the rear view of our bikini-wearing body, either.
Once again, I am past my limits from a grueling morning, spent trudging the pavements of the Sagrada Familia neighborhood alongside Catalunyan housewives with their wheeled carts, searching out the best butchers, fruit stalls, bakeries and whatnot. Why, you ask, should this task be so daunting, when every block bristles with carnicerias, fruterias, and panaderias ("forns de pa" in Catala)? (Digression: we've become obsessed with the oblong breaded croquetes de carn - meat croquettes - offered readymade by one shop. Riquisimo!)Good question. The search itself is easy and rewarding; it's just the long haul back when, laden with groaning bags, I once again turn in the wrong direction and take a circuitous route, ten blocks out of my way, trying to find our apartment ... . I've got to get one of those wheeled dealies. They consist of a sizeable and sturdy nylon compartment with two to four wheels, come in every configuration and color (although the aunties seem to prefer a drab navy-blue or faded red plaid), can include little insulated compartments in front for cold and frozen food, and cost up to 80 Euros for a really nice one.
At times, almost all of Barcelona seems to be on wheels of some diverse kind: the wheeled carts, the motorcycles and scooters, bicycles, taxis, Metro trains, etc. But so much here is done on foot. For me, this has had two consequences: I am nice and trim; and, I have developed a nice case of plantar fasciitis on my right heel. Fortunately, there are plenty of podiatrists here.
Tomorrow (Tuesday, 9/11) is National Catalunya Day. It sounds a bit like the Fourth of July, in that no one gets terribly worked up about it, and everyone goes shopping or to the beach. Hannah's fantasy is to stay out late (read: all night) and sleep in.Observation: am I imagining this, or are there more twins in Barcelona than elsewhere? Everywhere I go, I see these duel strollers with identical tots, always turned out to perfection. Hannah posits that this is a wealthy city, so more couples have access to in vitro fertilization, resulting in multiple births. I'm not so sure - I think we'd see more triplets were that the case.
(Note: I also have noted an unusual number of people with dwarfism. Maybe this is all because of the high concentration of people in a relatively smal area... .)
Good news today: we are approve for the gorgeous apartment in the northern zone of the city. Excellent news, as we are sick indeed of our vagabond existence. I have volunteered the task of procuring furniture for one of the secondary bedrooms. As a result, I continue to expand my Spanish vocabulary, albeit in the very specialized realm of furnishings and bed linens.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The kindness of strangers
I know, a nauseatingly cloying title. It's early in the morning and I've had only one coffee. Bear with me.
It had been clear for some time that my hair needed help. Too blonde, all dried out from the sun and sea, out of shape. Hannah had done a pretty creditable job with her sharp scissors, but still.
We are in a pretty tasty location just now - on Carrer Valencia, just two blocks from the Verdaguer Metro station, and around the corner from Passeig de Sant Joan, with its wide park running the length of the center of the thoroughfare. And beauty salons - peluquerras in Catalan - on every corner.
I boned up on all the words I thought I'd need to express what I wanted to the stylist. Thus armed, I headed to the snazzy-looking glass-front salon I'd been eyeing since our last move. No appointment necessary. A tough-looking woman sat me in a chair and asked (rough translation): "So, talk to me." I uttered not 10 words before she threw up her hands in disgust and asked another stylist, "Ingles?" Ingles, si. Well, almost. What I got was Blanche, a pretty, reassuring Brazilian who speaks about as much English as I do Spanish. In about 8 sentences, and with a lot of gesturing, we had come to an agreement as to the task at hand, and as she left to mix the color, Blanche tossed me a couple of celebrity mags in Spanish, "to practice," she said.
Our next agreement was that I would speak to Blanche in Spanish, and she to me in English, "to practice." That arrangement worked very well. During the 3+ hours I was in her chair (she kept getting lengthy, mysterious phone calls from "el jefe"), I practiced more Spanish, and with more relaxed confidence, than at any time since we left Nerja. By the time we got to the haircut part, I was babbling away at decent velocity.
My confidence in Blanche wavered as she began to attack my hair, first with her scissors, then with a razor. Cut, slash, slash. But, as it turns out, Blanche knows exactly what she is doing. The results are fabulous. (Photo coming soon - if I can get my computer to connect to the Web.) My new style is sleek, sophisticated and looks naturally colored.
Oh, and Blanche and I have plans. We're going to her favorite bar on Saturday night to hang out with her friends. The beginnings of a social life. Stay tuned.
It had been clear for some time that my hair needed help. Too blonde, all dried out from the sun and sea, out of shape. Hannah had done a pretty creditable job with her sharp scissors, but still.
We are in a pretty tasty location just now - on Carrer Valencia, just two blocks from the Verdaguer Metro station, and around the corner from Passeig de Sant Joan, with its wide park running the length of the center of the thoroughfare. And beauty salons - peluquerras in Catalan - on every corner.
I boned up on all the words I thought I'd need to express what I wanted to the stylist. Thus armed, I headed to the snazzy-looking glass-front salon I'd been eyeing since our last move. No appointment necessary. A tough-looking woman sat me in a chair and asked (rough translation): "So, talk to me." I uttered not 10 words before she threw up her hands in disgust and asked another stylist, "Ingles?" Ingles, si. Well, almost. What I got was Blanche, a pretty, reassuring Brazilian who speaks about as much English as I do Spanish. In about 8 sentences, and with a lot of gesturing, we had come to an agreement as to the task at hand, and as she left to mix the color, Blanche tossed me a couple of celebrity mags in Spanish, "to practice," she said.
Our next agreement was that I would speak to Blanche in Spanish, and she to me in English, "to practice." That arrangement worked very well. During the 3+ hours I was in her chair (she kept getting lengthy, mysterious phone calls from "el jefe"), I practiced more Spanish, and with more relaxed confidence, than at any time since we left Nerja. By the time we got to the haircut part, I was babbling away at decent velocity.
My confidence in Blanche wavered as she began to attack my hair, first with her scissors, then with a razor. Cut, slash, slash. But, as it turns out, Blanche knows exactly what she is doing. The results are fabulous. (Photo coming soon - if I can get my computer to connect to the Web.) My new style is sleek, sophisticated and looks naturally colored.
Oh, and Blanche and I have plans. We're going to her favorite bar on Saturday night to hang out with her friends. The beginnings of a social life. Stay tuned.
Friday, September 7, 2007
In Memorium - Jakey (1993-2007)
While in Nerja, I received the sorrowful news that my little old doggie, Jake, had passed away. The last month of Jake's life was a nonstop fiesta, thanks to Barry, who took on his care after we left for Spain. Jake "went native" in Santa Cruz, sporting a turquoise faux-hawk and matching diaper. In New Mexico, his final destination, Jake gamely stuck his paws into a pair of red and black snakeskin cowboy boots. Wherever he went, Jakey charmed and won friends. His heart beat brave and true, and I will miss him sorely.
Here is a slideshow with some priceless images of Jakey:
And a bottle of rum
This post is not about Barcelona at all. Except that it concerns a very entertaining excerpt I came across while reading, IN Barcelona, a really wicked little travel/history book titled, "And a Bottle of Rum: A History of the New World in 10 Cocktails," by Wayne Curtis (2006, New Rivers Press) (thanks to Katie, who gave me the book as a going-away present). This delightful volume traces the development of the rum trade in the New World colonies and its pivotal place in the economies, societies, and politics of the times. The following excerpts are from the journals of Nicholas Cresswell, a British traveler to the North American Colonies in 1775-1776:
- "Have been genteely treated and am now going to be drunk. This is the first time." [30 November, 1775]
- "All of us got feloniously drunk." [6 January, 1776]
- "Went to bed about two o'clock in the afternoon, stupidly drunk." [7 January, 1776]
- "Spent evening at the Tavern ... A confounded mad frolic.: [19 February, 1776]
- "A very mad frolic this evening. Set the house on fire three times and broke Mr. Dream's leg ... got drunk and committed a number of foolish actions." [19 November, 1776]
Let the frolic begin!
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Touchdown
After an indolent month on the Costa del Sol, we landed (literally) in BCN on Sunday, 2 Sept. I had arranged for a temporary apartment while we search for more permanent quarters, and we currently are situated very near to Guadi's Sagrada Familia cathedral, and about two and half blocks from the Plaza de Toros (where the other day, a very festive and dressy crowd was milling outside, awaiting the spectacle, while silent protesters waved posters showing gored animals and handing out anti-bullfight literature).
Our first day here felt a bit overwhelming as it sunk in that we were going to be here for a long time yet knew no one. (Well, almost no one: Hannah had met a nice young man from Barcelona while on the beach in Nerja and they met for a drink last night, then tried on hats at El Corte Ingles, the local version of Marshall Fields and the High Temple of all things material.) We eased our malaise by observing and commenting upon the doings of an attractive 30-ish couple seven floors below as they played with their two Labrador retrievers, surfed the Web and occasionally embraced.
At last, we are fixed up with wireless Internet access, which I have put to good use arranging viewings of various furnished apartments. We have tentative arrangements with an owner - a language teacher with a fairly good grasp of English - to rent her extremely charming two-bedroom flat near the El Born district - just off a quiet square ringed with cafes and an old church, but close to the fashionable area of clubs and restaurants. Only one bathroom (which may prove fatal to our renting it) and no air conditioning, but a wonderfully equipped kitchen and a rooftop terrace where we could, if we supplied our own patio furniture and plants, enjoy a semblance of an outdoor life. We are keeping that option open while we continue to look.
I had been warned about the horrors of Spanish officialdom, but this drawback came to vivid life on Tuesday as we fruitlessly sought to secure Hannah's student identification card. Monday, we had gone to the nearest district police office, as instructed by the Spanish Consulate in San Francisco, only to find it permanently closed. At 2:30, it was too late to locate another office, since they all are closed by that hour. That evening, Hannah diligently researched the location of the second-closest office, and off we trudged for a long subway ride. No, we were told, you must go to a different agency in another part of the city. More trudging, another Metro ride; this time, we were given a map with directions to yet a third office. We arrived in good time, to find 19 people ahead of us in line, but the civil servants processed the crowd efficiently. Still no luck: further instructions, another form, a different location. Now it was 1:30 p.m. and we had an apartment to view in yet another neighborhood. Back to the Metro. Running a few minutes late, we virtually ran from the Metro station to the apartment, only to be stood up. Well, it was a crummy neighborhood, anyway. Ah, but we spied a nearby creperie and chocolate place, and flopped our exhausted and foot-sore selves down, only to discover that not only were there no crepes and no chocolate, but it had the atmosphere of a smoky sauna.
Nevertheless, we are thoroughly enchanted by Barcelona. Public art is everywhere; design is evident even at the beach, where an assemblage of concrete lounging chairs resembles an art installation. This is one designed city. Spanish life is lived outdoors to a large extent, and this is a city that seems to want to make the outdoors as convenient and attractive as possible for its citizens and visitors. I am particularly struck by the brilliant idea of providing, at reasonable cost, racks of bicycles everywhere in the city; take one when needed and return it to any other location. (See www.bicing.com for details.)
Today, while Hannah napped, exhausted from having had to rise early for the new-student orientation at the American School, I ventured to the area surrounding La Sagrada Familia, and delighted in the proliferation of tiny shops displaying their truly superior wares like precious gems. The bakeries! The cheese and meat shops! The fruterias (fruit and vegetable markets)! I scooped up a sack of artesanally produced magdalenas (tiny muffins), intriguing pastries, crusty baguettes, aged manchego cheese. Note: these places are definitely not self-service! I ran afoul of local custom by actually handling a very pretty head of leaf lettuce- the proprietess snatched it from my hand as if I had tried to pilfer it, with a stern look. Apparently, it is proper to point to what you want and have it held up for your inspection and approval, then bagged. No matter, I carried away several verdant trophies.
Tomorrow is a big day, with Hannah starting school and me potentially signing a rental contract. So I will end here, pour myself another glass of the very good and very cheap rose wine purchased in a little shop (try 1,20 Euros a bottle, around $1.60!), and watch the sun set over the cathedral towers. Not a bad way at all to begin the adventure.
Our first day here felt a bit overwhelming as it sunk in that we were going to be here for a long time yet knew no one. (Well, almost no one: Hannah had met a nice young man from Barcelona while on the beach in Nerja and they met for a drink last night, then tried on hats at El Corte Ingles, the local version of Marshall Fields and the High Temple of all things material.) We eased our malaise by observing and commenting upon the doings of an attractive 30-ish couple seven floors below as they played with their two Labrador retrievers, surfed the Web and occasionally embraced.
At last, we are fixed up with wireless Internet access, which I have put to good use arranging viewings of various furnished apartments. We have tentative arrangements with an owner - a language teacher with a fairly good grasp of English - to rent her extremely charming two-bedroom flat near the El Born district - just off a quiet square ringed with cafes and an old church, but close to the fashionable area of clubs and restaurants. Only one bathroom (which may prove fatal to our renting it) and no air conditioning, but a wonderfully equipped kitchen and a rooftop terrace where we could, if we supplied our own patio furniture and plants, enjoy a semblance of an outdoor life. We are keeping that option open while we continue to look.
I had been warned about the horrors of Spanish officialdom, but this drawback came to vivid life on Tuesday as we fruitlessly sought to secure Hannah's student identification card. Monday, we had gone to the nearest district police office, as instructed by the Spanish Consulate in San Francisco, only to find it permanently closed. At 2:30, it was too late to locate another office, since they all are closed by that hour. That evening, Hannah diligently researched the location of the second-closest office, and off we trudged for a long subway ride. No, we were told, you must go to a different agency in another part of the city. More trudging, another Metro ride; this time, we were given a map with directions to yet a third office. We arrived in good time, to find 19 people ahead of us in line, but the civil servants processed the crowd efficiently. Still no luck: further instructions, another form, a different location. Now it was 1:30 p.m. and we had an apartment to view in yet another neighborhood. Back to the Metro. Running a few minutes late, we virtually ran from the Metro station to the apartment, only to be stood up. Well, it was a crummy neighborhood, anyway. Ah, but we spied a nearby creperie and chocolate place, and flopped our exhausted and foot-sore selves down, only to discover that not only were there no crepes and no chocolate, but it had the atmosphere of a smoky sauna.
Nevertheless, we are thoroughly enchanted by Barcelona. Public art is everywhere; design is evident even at the beach, where an assemblage of concrete lounging chairs resembles an art installation. This is one designed city. Spanish life is lived outdoors to a large extent, and this is a city that seems to want to make the outdoors as convenient and attractive as possible for its citizens and visitors. I am particularly struck by the brilliant idea of providing, at reasonable cost, racks of bicycles everywhere in the city; take one when needed and return it to any other location. (See www.bicing.com for details.)
Today, while Hannah napped, exhausted from having had to rise early for the new-student orientation at the American School, I ventured to the area surrounding La Sagrada Familia, and delighted in the proliferation of tiny shops displaying their truly superior wares like precious gems. The bakeries! The cheese and meat shops! The fruterias (fruit and vegetable markets)! I scooped up a sack of artesanally produced magdalenas (tiny muffins), intriguing pastries, crusty baguettes, aged manchego cheese. Note: these places are definitely not self-service! I ran afoul of local custom by actually handling a very pretty head of leaf lettuce- the proprietess snatched it from my hand as if I had tried to pilfer it, with a stern look. Apparently, it is proper to point to what you want and have it held up for your inspection and approval, then bagged. No matter, I carried away several verdant trophies.
Tomorrow is a big day, with Hannah starting school and me potentially signing a rental contract. So I will end here, pour myself another glass of the very good and very cheap rose wine purchased in a little shop (try 1,20 Euros a bottle, around $1.60!), and watch the sun set over the cathedral towers. Not a bad way at all to begin the adventure.
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