On a clear day in Barcelona

When the sun shines and the temperatures are mild, there is no city more wonderful than Barcelona for wandering the ancient center, where the crooked cobbled streets and squares hold delightful surprises. Saturday was such a day. The tourists suddenly were there in force, but away from the main artery of the Ramblas, typically Barcelonian tableaux unfolded.

Sightings of small knots of greyhounds and whippets and their red-bandanaed owners coalesced into a grand convocation of canines in Plaza Sant Jaume, the governmental square, where an animal rights demonstration had just concluded. Here are some of them:


A bit further on, a heladeria proved irresistible with its exotic flavors (mojito, turron), and its gorgeous fruit carvings adorning the stainless steel bins:

Opposite, a colorful bazaar of a shop drew the eye.
And everywhere, bombonerias flaunted their extravagant chocolate Easter displays.

Further on, copas (glasses of red wine), excellent green olives, and a foot-long bocadillo to share, of Spanish ham on a crusty baguette smeared with tomato (pan tomate) in a tiny bar deep in the heart of the Raval neighborhood where a Barcelona vaquero held up the counter while a young family idled in a corner. Then, on to Rondo Sant Antoni where stylish young couples soaked up rays at a large outdoor corner cafe, to watch the impromptu fashion show over cortados, espresso coffee topped with a dollop of steamed milk.

Another perfect day.

It's not easy being green...in Spain

Being green means something quite different here than it does at home. And it illustrates some interesting cultural differences.

In Spain, 'green' (verde) is used to describe something that is off-color, bawdy. Thus: chiste verde (salacious joke), viejo verde (dirty old man). How the color green came to be thus associated, I don't know.

In American culture, to be 'green' means to be environmentally aware. We have come to be greatly concerned about the harm we are doing to our planet. Sometimes this is brought home to us on a very personal level, as when Hannah's father, on a cruise ship in the Antarctic, received a blistering sunburn through a hole in the ozone layer. Other Western cultures are gravely concerned as well: Ireland recently banned the use of plastic bags in that country.

Not so Spain. Here, it seems that they cannot get enough of plastic bags. It startles a grocery clerk when a customer insists that purchases not be put into a plastic bag. Paper bags are unheard of in grocery stores. Recently when I collected a heavy parcel from the post office, the window clerk urged me to take two of the large, heavy plastic bags bearing the colors and logo of the correo (postal service). Thinking about this, I recalled one of my Spanish teachers in Nerja, Mabel, telling us that Spain has a low level of awareness about environmental issues. Terrorism (not surprisingly) has now risen to the the top of issues concerning Spaniards. The environment doesn't appear in the top five.

Clothing boutiques, and even the public libraries, liberally give out logoed cloth tote bags with purchases. We've collected at least a half-dozen. I try to remember to bring one with me for shopping, but many times I forget. At least when I take my carrito to the supermarket, I can fill it to the top without using a single plastic bag.

Barcelona has to be one of the most polluted cities I've been in since leaving L.A. Navigating a narrow sidewalk past a solid string of cars and trucks means inhaling air heavy with exhaust fumes. Maybe that's why Hannah and I have been continually sick with respiratory infections since we arrived here.

I'm not suggesting the U.S. has done significantly better at reducing emissions or landfill deposits. But when I think of the color green, I see forests and fields. Maybe I've been in Barcelona too long; I've ventured outside its limits only once since September. But in a couple of weeks, my dear friend Barry arrives from California, and we embark on a week-long tour of the Andalucian countryside. Then I'll be able to breathe in the clean air of the hills covered in olive groves. And there will be plenty of green to refresh the eyes, too.

Up the mountain and down

I set off this glorious Sunday morning with no clear direction, just a vague notion that I wanted to head somewhere near Tibidabo, the nearby mountain crowned with an amusement park, and more specifically, to the large natural park, Colserolla, behind it. Just before, I had strolled to the little bakery on the corner for a fresh baguette - bakeries here are open on Sundays as the Spanish cannot do without their fresh bread each day - and stopped to admire the golden retriever that belongs to the owner of the newsstand next door. Hiding my keys in the shrubbery outside the apartment, I began to climb and found myself on the winding highway whose signs pointed to Tibidabo and Terrassa, some 25 kilometers away. I was not alone on the dangerous route, which I shared with ambitious cyclists and a gentleman of at least 75, patiently climbing with the aid of his cane. Age and infirmity do not deter the Spaniard bent on his daily walk.

Anxious to leave the motorway, I scanned the hillsides for evidence of a walking path, and soon found one at a turnout where a pleasant young woman was washing her car with bottled water. A hundred feet up the path, I met an elderly lady, also leaning on a cane, descending towards me. "Hola, buenas dias!" she called cheerily. A few feet further, I wondered how on earth she had managed to navigate the slippery, steep path, which essentially was a small creek splashing over cut-granite stones. Never one to shun an adventure, I pressed on, and the terrain became drier as I climbed. My doubts as to whether this was in fact a trail at all were resolved as I encountered the terminus of a natural spring trickling from a pipe emerging from a stone slab marked with a bronze plaque. Continuing upward, I veered impetuously to the right, ducking beneath the dense vines. More evidence of previous human presence: Cigarette packs, a soda bottle - obviously a party spot. Then, a sign: municipal park ahead.

I approached the fenced border of the park, observed closely by a middle-aged woman inside of it, leaning on the fence. "Which way did you come from?" she asked. "I live over there" - she pointed - "and I'm trying to figure out a direct route to get home. I'm tired." Ah, a fellow adventurer.

Minutes later, I connected with one of the broad gravel roadways that crisscross the Colserolla park. The Disney castle-like Tibidabo amusement park loomed above me. Now I was among strolling families and avid mountain-bikers, for whom the big park is a major draw. A black French bulldog puppy left its group to sniff at my shoes and wiggle happily when I bent down to scratch its head. And more signs: Els Penitents, a familiar name since we live a block from the Penitents Metro station. Soon, a crossroads and a choice: take the broad road leading to Els Penitents, or strike off to the left on a steep descending path below which Barcelona flowed past low hills and eventually to the Mediterranean. I headed left. Now the sun was hot and I had stripped down to my tank top as I peered down, seeking landmarks and a direction. I could make out Ronda de Dalt, the peripheral east-west highway spanning northern Barcelona, and the big hospitals that dominate its upper reaches. The green awnings on a distant building resembled the ones down our street, and I headed for them. Now I was in residential streets with their inviting view homes behind private gates, walking steadily downhill and stopping to scratch a friendly black and white neighborhood cat. A lucky guess put me on the very corner of our neighborhood bakery and two blocks from home. Shoes off and ravenously hungry, I prepared French toast with fruit and coffee, and headed out to the terrace to continue enjoying the Barcelona midwinter sun.