sleepless in barcelona

A few good things no respectable Spanish kitchen would be without

2008-07-26T06:02:00.000-07:00

Now that I am, regretfully, packing up my kitchen in Barcelona, it seemed timely to expound on the indispensible items presumably (from my sporadic research) to be found in the arsenal of a Spanish home cook.

Many of these items can be found in the U.S. (try Trader Joe's) but of course, never in the variety, quantity, or at the low, low price for which they can be had in Spain. Some of my nominated essentials have never crossed my threshhold here, either, although most have.

For me, whether or not I return to Barcelona, the combination of these peculiarly Spanish foodstuffs will always evoke old, smoke-filled bars where I've tasted the best (and worst) of tapas offerings; languid evenings at tables in Medieval squares with cathedral doors and cobblestones for a backdrop; and good friends, good conversation all washed down with endless and excellent bottles of good Spanish vino tinto.

1. Olive oil, first and foremost. By the gallon. Ordinary olive oil for frying and sauteeing, and extra virgin for drizzling on salads and bread. Optional but highly desirable: one of the lovely handblown glass cruets, as shown above, that always stands at the ready next to my stove.

2. Garlic. With just about everything. Rubbed raw on lightly grilled, crusty bread that is then smeared with half of a ripe, red tomato and a good drizzle of olive oil - sometimes to accompany a meal or tapas, other times as the foundation for a bocadillo - Spanish-style sandwich, almost always made with a baguette - of jamon serrano, cheese, salami, or tortilla, the Spanish omelet made with potato and onion.

3. Paprika (pimenton): comes in at least three varieties, mild (sweet), spicy, and smoked. Used liberally in Spanish cooking. The smoked version imparts an indescribable depth to dishes.

4. Olives. My favorite are the fat, green, aromatic manzanilla, but there are many varieties, green and black, oil-cured or in vinegar, with herbs, peppercorns, stuffed with anchovy...to my tastes, good hearty Spanish bread, a semi-aged manchego cheese, a dish of olives and a glass of good table wine are the holy quartet of Spanish gusto and can always be relied upon to sate the sudden onset of peckishness. A close relative is the olive paste, usually from the ripe black olives, which I have discovered is heavenly when spread on a crusty, charcoal-grilled hamburger.

5. Saffron. Flavors stews, soups, and of course, Spain's most famous culinary export, paella.

6. Jamon serrano, the famous cured ham of Spain. Comes in varying quality, with the most expensive - the jabugo, pato negro - costing up to 200 euros per kilo or more. It is lean, low in salt, utterly delicious, and ubiquitous. Sadly, it cannot be exported, I understand. Whole legs of these prized hogs hang behind nearly every bar in Spain, and many families buy an entire ham, taking paper-thin slices as needed; there is even a special culinary device to hold the ham in place to be sliced.

7. Bread. No Spaniard will sit down to a meal without loaves or slices of fresh bread bought that morning, or very commonly, both that morning and evening. Bread is sufficiently indispensible here that even on Sundays, when all the supermarkets and shops are closed, every panaderia in town will be open until at least 1 p.m. A Spanish barra (long, thin loaf) comes in many varieties, from a French-style baguette (called by the same name here) to my favorite, the gallega - a long, thin oval with a durable crumb and a rich, fermented flavor that stays fresh until the next day - to cracked or whole wheat, seeded, even rye. Good bread here is a birthright. I will miss it.

8. Tempranillo, quince paste: a sweet, vitamin-C-packed firm jelly that is exquisite with either an aged manchego cheese or a slice of jamon.

9. Asparagus. Bottled. Fat, thin, white, green, a multitude of varieties and brands can take up an entire three-foot section of supermarket shelving, top to bottom. I can't say why the Spanish are so crazy for bottled asparagus - they also love their bottled and canned wild mushrooms, precooked beans, corn, and green beans - but once in a while, it's nice, chilled, with mayonnaise liberally seasoned with freshly cracked black pepper. By the way, the Spanish assert that mayonnaise, that quintessential French preparation, actually originated in the Balearic Islands, not far off the Barcelona coast, in the town of Mahon. It has a ring of truth.

10. Aioli, or allioli in Catalan, means 'garlic and oil.' It's essentially a thick mayonnaise fortified with industrial-strength amounts of fresh garlic. Spread it on grilled breads or meats, stir a spoonful into a hearty soup, or dip your french-fried potatoes in it. Just don't breathe on anyone for the next 24 hours unless they've shared your meal.

11. Last, but never least: wine. I don't pretend to know much about wine, although I've tasted some incredibly complex, deep and well-constructed Spanish vino tinto. But give me a good table wine for every day, and I'm perfectly happy. There is an amazing abundance of wine in Spain, much of it very drinkable and cheap. I'm talking under 5 euros per bottle - in fact, in my local supermarket, any wine 6 euros or over has an anti-theft device attached to its neck. I even found a very drinkable house-brand rosado (rose) at one supermarket chain for the unbelievable bottle price of 75 centimos! If this could be duplicated in the U.S., it would put Two-Buck Chuck out of business.

This is a random and woefully incomplete list. If you want to know more, come to Spain and find out why its cuisine and wine and gastronomical bounty are beginning to conquer the world of food.

Endings and beginnings

2008-06-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

After several weeks of waiting, during which her schoolmates were all studying for their 'selectividades' (qualifying exams for Spanish high school graduates to gain admission to university), Hannah proudly received her diploma on June 13, 2008 at the American School of Barcelona in Esplugues de Llobregat, a nearby suburb.

Of her graduating class of 32 - about 85 percent of whom are Catalan or Spanish - Hannah was one of five to receive an award for maintaining a straight-A average during her time at the school. During the ceremony (during which clouds threatened to unleash a late-spring deluge but thankfully held off), she was a point of shining gold in a sea of dark-haired young men and women. The delight with which she gracefully strode onstage to receive her diploma was unmistakable. Her dad couldn't restrain tears of joy and pride. There is something about a high school graduation - all that hope and promise and joy residing in those intelligent young faces - that even the hardest cynic would find impossible to deny.

As for me, a sense of disbelief pervaded me. I could not register that here was my baby daughter, after all the years of struggle and work and hope and fear, striding through the most important door of her life so far. Nor could I get over the idea that this confident, shining beauty was really my own.

Afterwards, the family, joined by Hannah's boyfriend Renato and three of her closest girlfriends, celebrated with a lavish dinner at a restaurant serving 'New Catalan' cuisine. Everything, of course, was washed down with plenty of cava and a fine Spanish rioja or two.

No tears for me until I awoke the next morning, when it hit me: She's leaving. It was a mixture of sadness and incredible joy. I've done it. I've launched my girl into the world.

Tinto de verano

2008-05-01T10:49:00.000-07:00

Summer's coming and we want to drink something lighter. Admit it, you've got a case of 2-Buck Chuck in the closet and you're wondering if it will cellar well until next fall. The Spanish have that one all figured out.

Tinto de verano: the red wine of summer. The term refers to a mixture of red wine with various carbonated beverages, spiked with lemon. Forget sangria; not only is tinto de verano a no-sweat version of this summer classic, but it's also refreshingly delicious, and can be varied to suit one's taste.

Beer gets the same treatment in Spain, mixed half-and-half with sparkling lemon soda - Fanta limon is preferred here - and the resulting mix christened a 'clara.' The term refers to the white of a raw egg, precisely the substance that a clara resembles, at least in color.

While you're sipping a tinto de verano on a hot summer (or spring) day, you can remind yourself that you're still getting your antioxidant quotient but cutting your alcohol consumption by half. Here are a couple of recipes.

TINTO DE VERANO

One-half liter of cheap red wine
One-half liter of sparkling lemon or lemon-lime soda, or tonic water, or sparkling mineral water
Dash of red Vermouth (to taste; optional)
One lemon, sliced

Mix ingredients and serve over ice.

CALIMOCHO

Pour half a glass of cheap red wine; top with Coca-Cola. Add lemon slices and ice and serve cold.

Day of books and roses

2008-04-24T11:38:00.000-07:00

Today (April 23) is the Festival of Sant Jordi, and although this is my first, it is already my favorite. Sant Jordi (St. George, of the dragon) is Catalunya's patron saint. Since medieval times it has been traditional to give gifts of roses on this day. In the early 20th century the custom of exchanging books was added.

Although this most Catalan of holidays occurs on a workday, the Ramblas and plazas are jammed with people buying books from the many vendors who have set up tables, and roses of every color, although red is traditional. Each rose is combined with a stalk of wheat.

I asked Barbara, my Catalan landlady, to explain the meaning of this festival, and here is what she so beautifully wrote:

For Catalunya, the day of Sant Jordi is the day of: a) the rose, which symbolizes love and the commitment to family, one’s partner, and loved ones; and b) the book, which symbolizes the culture and reading, and which permits the meeting between the authors of books and their readers. But also it is the day of catalanidad. For a Catalan, the day of Sant Jordi is a workday that is lived with the collective enthusiasm of a holiday, a day of which all the citizens feel proud. The wheat [stalk that is included with the rose] can have two meanings: first work (one of the identifying characteristics of the Catalan population); and second, the yellow color, which along with the red of the rose, constitutes the Catalan flag: Yellow with four bars of red, which [symbolize those] a king painted with his fingers with the blood from a mortal war wound.

In the tradition of Sant Jordi, I share with you here a poem by the Catalan poet
Maria-Antonia Salva (1869-1958):

Like a monstrous reptile with spotted skin,
with slimy entrails, it lay
in its corner drinking in the sunlight.
All at once, its malice awakened,
reviving, it cracked the flowerpot.
Beyond the orchard, to be lost track of,
it was hurled over an arid wall,
and after a time, upon the rugged stones,
poking among the crevices and seams,
I found the old dragon still raging and clinging.

City of pomegranates

2008-04-19T12:23:00.001-07:00

[NOTE: first of a series of posts describing my recent journey to Andalucia in the south of Spain with my friend Barry from California.]

Granada: the name evokes the mystery and grandeur of the authentic Spain, the Spain of flamenco, bullfights, Moorish palaces, olives, and oranges. Indeed, we were on the trail of Moorish Spain in the era before the Catholic Kings, Ferdinand and Isabela, banished the Muslim conquerors on the Iberian Peninsula, ending centuries of Islamic rule and sweeping the long-established Jewish population from its territories.

'Granada' means pomegranate, and Granada is named for the three pomegranates on the mighty gate that stands guard over the entrance to the Alhambra, the legendary fortified complex dating from the 11th century.

Present-day Granada is a serene, lyrically beautiful city of small squares, gitanos (gypsies), guitar makers, university students, Arabic baths, and dignified elders, dominated by the Alhambra and spanning both banks of the quiet Darro river. A walk through the narrow, steep maze of the Sacromonte - the old gitano quarter - is punctuated by the ruffle of guitar chords from the open doors of artesanal guitar makers or floating down from a second-story window where a guitarrista is practicing; by a spontaneous outburst of hoarse, complex flamenco song from a dark young girl crouched in a doorway with her little brother.

We are to be two days in Granada, one of them to be spent navigating the sprawling complex of the Alhambra. We have secured lodging in a clean, modest hostal in the former Jewish quarter. All of the cities we will visit in Andalucia will have a former Jewish quarter, their ancient sinagogas and baths faint echoes of once-thriving communities where three cultures coexisted more or less in peace. Our room overlooks a bustling square ringed with bars and second-hand clothing stores that is criss-crossed by students hurrying to their university classes.

Soon after arriving, a happy discovery: Every drink ordered in a bar comes with a free tapa, or little snack! We immediately feel welcomed. According to tradition, tapas originated in just this way, a savory mouthful on a small plate placed on top of the drink. ('Tapa' means 'cover.')

We have arrived on the heels of an uncharacteristic cold spell, and we bundle up and head out to sample the local cuisine. In a tiny restaurant we are introduced to a version of gazpacho (originating in Cordoba) called almorejo, a thick and creamy salmon-colored cold puree of bread, tomatoes and garlic garnished with hard-boiled egg and slivers of ham.

We have pre-purchased our entrance tickets to the Alhambra, probably Spain's most-visited monument. Its red-tinged walls and towers loom over the city, framed by the snow-covered peaks of the Sierra Nevada. To read about its history, click on this link: http://www.andalucia.com/cities/granada/alhamhistory.htm. We set out early in the morning and expend much shoe-tread and camera battery life wandering nearly all day amongst the battlements, towers, gardens, palaces, fountains and stone paths that form this amazing complex. We marvel at the extensive system of sluices, canals and gates that regulate the flow of water for cultivation and undoubtedly in ancient days, human consumption and bathing as well as filling the many fountains and pools. We are amazed by the different architectural styles ranging from pure Islamic through mudejar (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mudejar) to Renaissance. We wander alone in the crowds with our audio guides and the words of Washington Irving, whose residency within the Alhambra walls inspired "Tales of the Alhambra."

Thoroughly footsore from traipsing over large, uneven cobblestones, we book a soak at the Baños Arabes, a faithful reproduction of a Moorish bath house. The long, shallow hot mineral pool reflects the flickers of dozens of candles as does the exquisitely tiled, vaulted ceiling. Silence reigns, broken only by discreet splashes and the sharp intake of breath accompanying a dip into the cold plunge. We sip hot, sugary mint tea and are blissed out.

By the next morning we have settled the question of where to spend our one unscheduled night between Granada and Cordoba. Havingprovisioned ourselves with excellent local salami, cheese and bread, we board a comfortable coach bus for Ubeda, a small city in the heart of olive country - Jaen province - renowned for its gorgeous Renaissance square.

Click here to see more photos from Granada:

Barcelona kids

2008-04-17T08:35:00.000-07:00

The much-needed thundershower having paused for breath and the sun begun to shine brilliantly, I ventured up the street to buy a baguette, noting somewhat unhappily that the rain had reconstituted the dried dog turds on the sidewalk. My excursion coincided exactly with the moment in which the schools let out (the school day here ends at 5 p.m.), and the panaderia (bakery) swarmed with parents and their children clamoring for their merienda (afternoon snack): chocolate-swathed donuts, candies, croissants. Some were accompanied by a grandmother or grandfather, attesting to what I am told is a failing of the Spanish social system, the lack of affordable child care, so that families with children do not move far from their parents, who look after the grandchildren while the parents work.

As before, I was struck by the warmth of the interactions between children and their guardians. Catalan kids are coddled, hugged, kissed, petted, indulged, and affectionately scolded or regaled to a very great degree. Fathers are very involved, and indeed, Spanish fathers (while largely denied custody rights by the socially conservative courts) are entitled to paternity leave nearly equal to that afforded to mothers. Despite all this coddling (or perhaps because of it), Catalan children grow up to be hard-working, responsible, and well-behaved (if you overlook their refusal to relinquish territory on the sidewalks, perhaps a result of their sense of entitlement). The family is prioritized here, which may be one reason why it can be difficult for a foreigner to break into the social structure of the reserved and businesslike Catalans: between work and family gatherings, there is little time for socializing. How different from our own American culture, in which families are scattered to all corners of the continent and sadly, often do not even know their grandparents. The flip side here, though, is that families can be over-controlling and intrusive. So, which system is better?

On a clear day in Barcelona

2008-02-24T02:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-17T02:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-10T09:44:00.000-08:00

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.

Bombs in Barcelona

2008-01-25T15:39:00.000-08:00

A week ago, you may have read that the Catalunyan police carried out a big raid and arrested 14 suspected Islamic terrorists who were about to carry out a suicide bombing on the Barcelona Metro. The raid was carried out in the Raval district, the seedier side of the old city that has a burgeoning population of Pakistanis and Morroccans, as well as the city's largest mosque. Supposedly, the intelligence indicated that an attack was imminent. Today, the national government admitted that the attack was not as imminent as was earlier claimed. It seems clear, however, that coordinated terrorist attacks were going to be carried out in the city, and indeed, we had noted an increased police presence in the Metro over the past two months. Tonight, as Hannah and I waited for a friend in Plaza Catalunya, at least 15 to 20 police vehicles, including a number of paddy wagons, sped by, indicating another possible raid. I am awaiting news in tomorrow's newspapers of the nature of this activity. Meanwhile, life goes on as usual. As I rode the Metro home tonight, I looked around at my fellow passengers, mostly young and lower-income, all potential targets, and I wondered what could possibly be gained by the misery and destruction that would result in, and from, their senseless deaths. There is so much of humanity that is so hard to understand.

Around every corner

2008-01-02T02:04:00.000-08:00

Ah, how I love Barcelona! Every stroll through the city is an adventure for the observant. You might turn a corner in el Eixample and have your mind boggled by a building like this one:

Feliz año!

2008-01-02T01:25:00.002-08:00

The beginning of 2008 shows no hopeful sign that the new year will see the end the violence, venality and stupidity that plagued the world in 2007...but we must hope. Personally, I await the year's surprises with the wish that I will handle whatever comes my way with gratitude, good grace, and spirit. I wish the same for all of you.

Now let's talk about food. A few days ago, the topic was off-limits for me as I recovered from a bout of - well, I'll just call it the flu. Thank goodness I can tuck in again.

The splendid repast above was courtesy of my Spanish friend Antonio the other night. Antonio is serious about food - Spanish food - but in a seamless kind of way that emanates from his general Spanishness. He comes by this honestly: his father is a restaurant cook, and Antonio has worked in bars and restaurants for 20 years, starting when he was all of 14. I should hasten to add that his family is Andaluz, not Catalan, thank you very much. I will not digress here into the differences.

During a rather protracted search mission in which we cross-crossed that paragon of supermarkets, El Corte Ingles, and in which Antonio was deep in thought, he homed in on exactly the quantity of his selected ingredients. Once in my kitchen, he set about his preparations with an admirable organization and economy of movement. His perfectly executed final product demonstrated that simplicity plus top-quality ingredients equals memorable cuisine marked by brilliant flavor, gorgeous color, and contrasts in texture and temperature. The menu:

1. Entrecote with a sauce of roquefort and cream (to die for!)
2. Mussels (cooked, cold) with minced red and green peppers, onions, olive oil and lemon
3. Calamari rings and pequillo peppers sauteed in olive oil
4. Whole fish grilled in olive oil with garlic, parsley and lemon

And here is Antonio, showing us how to enjoy these simple masterpieces:

Sevillanas clásicas

2007-12-23T09:01:00.001-08:00

The passion and artistry of Spain, distilled in these gorgeous songs accompanied by the traditional Andalusian dance, the sevillana.

Santa Llucia market

2007-12-20T03:10:00.000-08:00

Each December, Barcelonans flock to the big open air Christmas market in the plaza near the main cathedral to stock up on festive holiday decor. Dozens of stalls offer every conceivable size, shape and style of Nativity figurines, including the notorious caganers described in a previous post, and the cagatios (shown above) that, when beaten with sticks, discharge their sweet effluent of Christmas treats. Buyers jostle in the crowded aisles and the air is pungent with fragrant fir boughs, wreaths, and living Christmas trees. Jeweled ornaments, battery-powered climbing Santas, and handmade crafts round out the selections, making this market an irresistible draw during the holiday season. View the slideshow below for more images from the market.

The labyrinth

2007-12-16T14:26:00.000-08:00

Today I took the Metro three stops above mine, to the Jardins de Laberint d'Horta, an 18th-century garden high above Barcelona that embraces a Roman-style labyrinth of tall, dense cypress hedges. According to legend, whoever navigates successfully to the statue of Eros at the labyrinth's center will find true love. Unfortunately, it was closed for repairs, so true love proved elusive today. But the gardens are romantic nonetheless.

The cost of crime

2007-12-15T06:42:00.001-08:00

Both Hannah and I have now been 'initiated.' We've both been robbed in Barcelona.

Two weeks ago on the Metro, Hannah was surrounded by a group of jostling young men. When they got off at the next stop, they had managed to unzip her bag and remove her wallet. What was so frustrating is that Cynthia and I were on the outside of the mob and realized (too late) that something was amiss.

Last night we were at a sushi bar with Blanche. Sitting at the bar, I had suspended my purse, with my coat over it, from the hook beneath the counter, directly in front of me. Big mistake. When I reached for my bag to pay the bill, the coat was on the floor and the bag was gone. Lesson: never lose contact with your bag. Even then, there've been instances of bag straps being cut by blade-wielding thieves.

I called my credit card company as soon as I got home. This morning, I was about to go and buy a new mobile phone - of course, that was in the bag, too - when I realized with a sick shock that the keys to the apartment were missing as well. And, the keys were attached to a tag bearing our address. Another stupid mistake, caught too late. Unwilling to leave the apartment vulnerable to entry, I was forced to call an emergency locksmith, who came and changed the keys. The thieves, however, still have the key to the building.

So: the final cost (we hope) of crime in Barelona (in euros):

Cash taken from Hannah's wallet 75
Hannah's wallet 50
Jane's bag 45
Jane's wallet (20-year-old Gold Pfeil
wallet, no longer available in U.S.) 100
Cash taken from Jane's wallet 50
Contents of Jane's bag 30
New mobile phone 40
Change of lock 220

GRAND TOTAL 610 EUROS (USD $884.50)

Will we be even more careful from now on? You bet - unless the thieves think of something we haven't.

Shitters

2007-12-02T23:40:00.000-08:00

Traditional handpainted figurines, quaint custom: two phrases guaranteed to set the acquisitive traveler's feet pointing in the direction of the nearest crafts market in some picturesque Medieval square.

Then, on arrival in the square, the traveler gradually notices that all of the quaint figures are squatting, buttocks bared, over a neat pile of - well, shit.

"Shitters," you see, is the literal translation of "caganers," handpainted Catalan figurines seen during the Christmas season that traditionally look like the little man above.

Perhaps these little figures of fun are not quite the thing for Aunt Ethel back home - unless she happens to be Catalan. Then she will want one for her nativity scene, perhaps making the little man peer mischievously from behind a fake fir tree, but taking care not to place him too close to the center so as to befoul the area surrounding the baby Jesus.

What explains this phenomenon? Or a related Catalan custom in which an animal constructed of a hollow log and covered with a red cloth is beaten with sticks until it "poops" candy and other treats?

It is suggested that the shitting little figure in the creche represents the earth's fertility, but I am skeptical. Isn't fertility usually a springtime theme? And, why choose poop to symbolize fertility? How about a nice, non-scatological symbol, like the egg? Also, modern-day caganers are made up to represent politicians and famous figures (even the Buddha) captured in undignified post-poo crouch with buttocks bared. They are meant to be "honored" by their inclusion in the holy nativity scene. Pardon me, but I wonder if Presidents Bush and Sarkozy are laughing at this.

I guess the caganer is "earthy." I can concede that much.

Meanwhile, if anyone wants a Bush caganer, I can probably hook you up.

Notes on Catalan consumerism

2007-11-04T02:15:00.000-08:00

Spain (at least this corner of it) must be the world capitol of swag. I am talking about the enticing free gifts that come with all manner of consumer products, from sunscreen to magazines. Although we consume lightly here (the falling dollar is an excellent disincentive), in three months I have collected the following: tote bag (facial sunscreen); another tote (magazine); canvas bread keeper (crackers); fuschia-colored knitted poncho (magazine again). There is probably more. Sometimes, the lure of swag is unadvertised, and the gift shows up from beneath the counter at the checkout line.

The meaning of all of this swag is unclear. Does Spanish consumerism still need a firm nudge? (Judging from the crowds thronging El Corte Ingles and all the chain shops, doubtful.) Are Spanish distributors more generous? More insecure? More cynical? I don't know, but I will find uses for all of this booty.

Parc Guell

2007-11-03T19:10:00.000-07:00

The weather was so fine today - 70 degrees and cloudless - that we decided to walk to Parc Guell, Gaudi's sprawling fairytale playground, about 20 minutes away. Here are some images from our day. You can click on the slideshow to view the images in a larger format.

Praying for trains

2007-11-03T04:04:00.000-07:00

The local train system, AVE, is in a mess. The newspapers here have been filled with endless coverage of the total disaster resulting from the diversion of suburban trains from the Sants train station to a temporary terminal while repairs are undertaken to the system, which has been severely damaged by cave-ins. Two weeks ago, the switch-over took place amid utter chaos as commuters showed up at the station to discover a fleet of unmarked buses and no available information as to how they were to reach their destinations. Workers were hours late to their jobs. The populace is rabid.

In perhaps a perfect simulation of the unabated tensions between the central government of Spain and the Catalunyan authorities, 900 people showed up last week at Placa Jaume I in central Barcelona to protest the train debacle, only to have the demonstration dissolve into a nasty shouting match between nationalists and Catalunyan separatists (who undoubtedly exploited the opportunity for this purpose). "Puta Spain!" the separatists shouted, setting off the ruckus. "Burn the tricolor [Spanish flag]!"

Sadly (or fortunately, depending on one's inclinations), I did not witness the fascinating melee. But AVE has taken on a fair degree of importance for me, because my sweet friend Blanche (shown above in a cafe just off Placa Cataunya yesterday) is in the running for a job as an attendant on the Barcelona-Madrid line. Followers of this blog know that Blanche is an artist supreme in the realm of hair. Although she loves her work, unfortunately she cannot sustain herself financially for much longer in a city where housing costs have increased sixfold since Spain adopted the euro as its currency, while salaries remain mired in the days of the peseta. If Blanche does not secure this job with AVE, she is seriously considering leaving Barcelona. And that would be very sad, both for the stylish women of Barcelona and particularly, for me.

Part of the application process entails an interview entirely in English this coming Wednesday. And since Blanche has had precious few opportunities to use her English in the past several years, she is pretty rusty. So yesterday, I spent several hours putting her through her paces with mock interviews and drilling her on vocabulary she would likely encounter in her new position. Last night, I pulled my American friend Barry into the endeavor. We accompanied Blanche to an English pub so packed that making one's way to the bathrooms at the rear involved ceaseless full-body contact. Here, Barry the former English teacher was much in evidence. He was relentless, refusing to dumb down his patter and unfailingly correcting Blanch's use of prepositions. It was brutal - but effective. Blanche was chattering like a bluejay before long. And now, I'm standing by to try and create a tidal wave of English fluidity that will carry my friend out of the station and onto that Barcelona-Madrid line.

Tastes of fall

2007-10-30T08:32:00.000-07:00

Mr. Thomas, I will not join you in raging against the dying of the light. It is fully autumn, with brisk mornings and great bushels of maple leaves making the sidewalks as slick as skating rinks. Sidewalk vendors are dispensing roasted chestnuts in paper cones alongside sweet potatoes cooked over a fire until their sweet sap dapples their russet skins.

All the fall produce has been in the markets for weeks now. At my favorite local fruteria, Carme Miranda (pun intended, presumably), there are no fewer than five kinds of fresh wild mushrooms, including ceps (boletus, called porcini in Italy). And chanterelles, oysters, and a couple I've never seen before: one is reddish with medium-sized caps and a green tinge to its gills and is called rovello (accent on the last syllable), and the other is tiny with dark caps and long, string-like yellowish stems. Sauteed in a mixture with a splash of excellent Spanish sherry from Jerez, they are redolent of earth and forest. Alongside the mushrooms are tiny wild leeks that are the subjects of a festival in Catalunya in which it is practically worshiped. Oh and of course the radicchio is out, and there are tons of figs - persimmons had a short but glorious season the past couple weeks - and pomegranates, and there are jars of skinned hazelnuts and dried wild mushrooms in the fruteria.

See these links for more articles about wild mushrooms in Spain:
http://travel.latimes.com/articles/la-tr-mushroom21oct21
http://mallorcaphotoblog.wordpress.com/2007/10/10/wild-mushrooms-season/

Customer service

2007-10-20T02:28:00.000-07:00

The BIG department store chain in Spain is called El Corte Ingles. It is fantastic. You can buy everything from ice cube trays to designer suits, and when you're done accessorizing yourself, in the basement there is a gourmet grocery store. The branch in central Barcelona is the size and shape of a cruise ship. They boast about their excellent customer service and easy-return policy, things that are nonexistent throughout most of Spain. So:

I bought Hannah a backpack there since she now rides a motor-scooter to school. The first time she used it, the zipper jammed, so I took it back and it was cheerfully exchanged by a pleasant young woman for another, identical bag. The first time she used that one, the straps ripped off. So, back I went.

The imperious, well-dressed man behind the counter (whom I had witnessed, on an earlier occasion, rudely snubbing an American woman when she asked him, in English, if he spoke English) asked me: "Did you put books in it?" "Of course," I countered, "it is a book-bag." "Too heavy," he replied, then called for assistance. Shortly, a brisk, officious older woman appeared and asked me the same question and gave me the same reaction, demonstrating to me that the straps allegedly had ripped because we had overloaded the bag. "Defective," I insisted. "I don't want it." There ensued an argument in Spanish, half of which I did not understand in detail but all of which amounted to, "We're not going to give you your money back." I just kept repeating, "Ridiculous. I don't want it. It's defective." Finally the woman threw up her hands, turned on her heel and stalked off. The officious clerk grabbed my credit card, swiped it with an unnecessarily elaborate flourish, and gave me the refund slip to sign, all without seeming to acknowledge my existence. I turned on my heel and stalked off, quietly triumphant. I had won my first argument in Spanish!

Fiesta del Camp nou 50 Aniversario By www.zonadeportes.com

2007-10-19T01:18:00.001-07:00

Hannah and company are the ones who tossed the giant golden futbol balloons onto the field during the 50th-anniversary celebration at Camp Nou, Barcelona's soccer stadium. The normally sober Catalans go utterly nuts over their cherished team, FC Barcelona.

The jeans, and other ruminations and digressions

2007-10-17T05:09:00.000-07:00

I have been under the weather since yesterday morning. It has been a good kind of sick: nothing too awful, but enough to justify lounging around all day in my nightgown and nestling into the sofa with a good book.

Just now, Wednesday at 2 p.m., I emerged into daylight for the first time. I'm still not 100%. What, then, could draw me out of doors and across the Vallcarca Viaduct? The early-morning rain gave way to bright blue cloud-dotted skies, but actually...I ran out of cigarettes. (More about smoking and Spain later.)

I'm happy because it's sunny - the kind of day, seemingly typical in Barcelona, when it's too cool for a T-shirt but too warm for a jacket. And I'm happy because I'm wearing my new jeans.

The jeans that Hannah does not like. But then, she is not here to criticize.

The jeans are big and baggy in the legs and, I imagine, provide me with the silhouette of a chic puppy. Who could resist that?

When I brought the jeans home, Hannah went to the closet to fetch them. "Ohhh Mommy," she sighed, holding the jeans between thumb and forefinger as if they were a dead rat, sorrow and pity saturating her words. "Only teenagers wear a denim rinse like this!"

I don't care. I like the jeans. They make me look a bit sloppy. Not the chic, tossed-off sloppy of the stylish boho girls near the University. I will never look like them, with their agreeably clashing layers and their dreadlocks. Maybe if I grew dreadlocks. It's odd, though, about these dreadlocks. In front, the hair is short, or long, shiny and clump-free. but from the crown back, it erupts into long, white-person dreadlocks. We deem it a strange variant of that 80s-style 'do, The Mullet (which either never went out of favor in Barcelona or is experiencing a huge resurgence). The style is sported by male and female. The oddest one I've seen was on a young, prematurely balding man with no hair on top, but what remaining hair he could marshal cascaded stiffly down his back in snarled ringlets. (I think dreadlocks can only cascade stiffly.) I'll try to find you a photo to illustrate this phenomenon, but I'm kind of shy about photographing unsuspecting people. I'll get over it.

Sunday, Sunday

2007-10-15T00:37:00.000-07:00

Some of you (well, just Hannah) have been complaining about the alleged infrequency of my posts of late. Realize, dear readers, that if I am to have something to post, I need to be out doing and seeing things. And I have been gathering material for you.

While the mornings have taken on a crisp edge, the midday hours are still warmed by a benevolent sun here, perfect for afternoons of exploration. This past Sunday brought to a close the three-day holiday weekend initiated by National Hispaniola Day, which marks the alleged discovery of America by Columbus. Despite the presence of the towering column near the harbor crowned by a likeness of Spain's favorite explorer, Barcelona didn't seem to get very excited about the occasion. As usual, half of the city either left town or went to the beach.

Barry rang me in the morning to ask if I felt like going for a bicycle ride. We met at Cafe Zurich, at the top of the Placa Catalunya Metro stop, then strolled over to the harbor to rent bikes from his old acquaintance, Alex. The Parc de la Ciudad, with its zoo and its wide walkways, is closed to traffic on Sundays, and is perfect for wheeling through on a cruiser, zig-zagging to avoid the strollers, darting children, and meandering couples. Leaving the park, we zagged to the beach, where we paused for ice cream and coffees and I ogled the diverting boardwalk parade.

Two hours later, we rolled back to the bike rental, where Alex invited us to stay for coffees, procured from the Greek cafe next door. He then reached for his guitar and broke into a version of "This Land is Your Land," the opener for a medley of American folk tunes, John Denver hits, and Brazilian bossa nova, usually to the accompaniment of Alex's Satchmo-like scatting, my harmonizing, and Barry's air piano. Soon, Alex had invited the Irish couple seated nearby to join us. John plays and sings at bars throughout his hometown of Limerick, and serenaded us with a stirring Christy Moore love song in his light Irish brogue. We ended with a rousing version of "Hotel California" that nearly had the cafe on its feet.

As we threaded through the narrow passages of the old city in search of a grocery, shouldering our way through the strolling pairs and groups of Muslim men, Barry noticed this vision on the pavement that turned out to be the late afternoon sun glowing through a pharmacy sign. I love Sunday afternoons in Barcelona.

Click to see more photos from my Sunday afternoon.

Only in Spain, Vol. 1

2007-10-09T11:53:00.000-07:00

With this post, I inaugurate a randomly occurring series describing peculiarities that amuse and amaze me about my adopted country, and, I hope, will tickle your fancy as well. In this issue:

1. Bimbo (yes, Bimbo): a brand of loaf bread (pan molde or "molded bread") sold in supermarkets, that you can buy with the crusts already removed (sin corteza).

2. Yes, Mr. Clean is sold in Spain, but here, he is addressed as Don Limpio. No information as to the nomenclature applied to the White Tornado.

3. The butchers of Spain. Have I mentioned the butchers? They seem to be primarily female, and sister, can they wield the knife. Today I bought a boneless, skinless chicken breast and asked for it to be sliced (en lonchas). She proceeded to slice the meat: not vertically, but horizontally, into four incredibly thin, even layers. Ai caramba!

4. Forget Nestle's Quick. Hot chocolate in Spain is practically chocolate pudding. You can almost stand a spoon up in it - in fact, you have to eat it with a spoon - and it's bittersweet. Best scooped up, though, with a churro, an elongated, sugared fried dough. Yummmmmmm.

sleepless in barcelona: Bored

2007-10-09T01:40:00.000-07:00

sleepless in barcelona: Bored

Bored

2007-10-09T01:36:00.000-07:00

I realize there's no excuse for being bored in Barcelona. But sometimes there is downtime. Then, you play with your webcam.

Eat

2007-10-07T11:55:00.000-07:00

We haven't eaten in restaurants much here, other than in nameless tapas places that serve pretty much the same (though delicious) fare: patatas bravas (cubes of crisp potato smothered in a piquant, creamy sauce), pinchadas (skewers of broiled or grilled tender pork), butifarra (a local sausage, always served with white beans), various tortillas (which, as many of you know, in Spain are akin to frittatas, flat omelettes), etc. Nor have I been sure what to do with all of the tantalizing ingredients to be found in the local tiendas.

A few days ago, I was perusing the stalls at the big open-air book fair on the Passeig de Gracia and came upon several excellent Spanish and Catalan cookbooks, which I snapped up for a pittance (not counting the devaluation of my home currency). So, I've been trying my hand at Spanish cookery. So far:

Saturday: a stew of lentils, chorizo (Spanish pork sausage spiced with paprika and LOTS of garlic), green peppers (the long, mild ones are cheap and plentiful here), tomatoes, garlic, onions, etc. Pronounced by Hannah to be fairly delicious.

Sunday: meatballs in a homemade tomato sauce, plus a Catalan-style spinach (the recipe called for Swiss chard, but I substituted) prepared with onions, raisins, toasted pine nuts, and cinnamon. My verdict: super delish. (I was surprised to read that cinnamon is featured in many Catalan dishes, a result of its having been a major trading port for milennia.)

If you can find it - and it's entirely possible, as it's published in San Diego - I highly recommend a cookbook titled, "Cooking Spanish," by John Newton (Thunder Bay Press, 2005). Beautiful photos, great writing, fail-proof recipes by a guy who obviously knows Spain and its cuisines.

Our apartment came furnished with a paella pan, which I intend to put to use in the very near future. One of my new cookbooks has about 20 different paella recipes (one of which contains mayonnaise - ugh!). Maybe I should sample one in a Catalan restaurant so I know what I'm aiming for - the preparation of a true paella is quite an art.

Barry

2007-10-07T11:36:00.000-07:00

What is it with me and Jewish guys named Barry? I've acquired another one, in Barcelona, of all places. I was wandering in the old city on Saturday and came across an open-air bookstall in the Placa George Orwell. I homed in on the English-language novels and heard the guy behind the table speak with a distinctly American accent. I struck up a conversation...and thus it was that I met Barry, from Chicago, 60-ish, who has lived a fairly peripatetic life with a lengthy stint in Barca. He lives on the Costa Brava and comes into the city every Saturday to sell books. We ended up going to a little hole-in-the-wall bar nearby for lunch - the kind of place that serves honest home cooking, brought to the table by a squat woman in a housedress and apron. A very interesting conversation ensued.

In addition to educating me on the particular dynamics (dysfunctional - what else?) of his Chicago family, Barry gave me the benefit of his 20+ years in Barca. We discussed the history, politics and culture of the region...and the distinctly (according to Barry) anti-Semitic attitudes of the Spanish. He says that 90% of them are pro-Palestinian and thus, anti-Israeli. Of course, the Jews have had a very difficult history in Spain - dating back to the Inquisition, forced conversions, and the expulsion of all Jews in 1492 by Isabela and Ferdinand. To this day, there are only some 20,000 Jews in all of Spain, a drop in the bucket. I am eager to interact with the local Jewish community to get their perspective on current attitudes. (This fall, for the first time since my own conversion, I did not go to synagogue for Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashanah. I rationalized that I was too busy moving into our new place, but I think I was intimidated by the language and cultural differences. Silly me.)

Barry's taking me on a tour of "his" Barcelona tomorrow. I'll report my findings.

I like...

2007-10-04T06:29:00.000-07:00

the lady at El Forn Republic 145. Every time I go in to buy bread, I get a different kind and we make a little game where she teaches me the name of it. Except I can't remember any of them. They're all delicious, though.

The ancient man who sits on the same bench everyday, in his natty plaid vest and his bright purple socks. (Does anyone ever wash them for him?)

Hanging the wash out to dry. It dries so quickly in the breeze up here.

The way people dress here. They're so well-put-together and stylish. This fall, for women, it's all about belts, leggings, and boots of every style and height.

My new white patent leather Diesel sneakers.

Reading "Jitterbug Perfume" by Tom Robbins.

The Book Fair on Passeig de Gracia...a big open-air carnival of books, through October 5. Only 2,95 Euros a pop for used English-language books!

Going to the carniceria across the bridge. There is a special cured Serrano ham there that sells for almost 200 Euros per kilo! No, we haven't tried it yet.

Barbara, our landlady. She is just the cutest thing.

sleepless in barcelona: A diller, a dollar

2007-09-29T03:59:00.000-07:00

sleepless in barcelona: A diller, a dollar

A diller, a dollar

2007-09-29T03:31:00.000-07:00

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.)

sleepless in barcelona: Home, sweet home

2007-09-26T05:38:00.000-07:00

sleepless in barcelona: Home, sweet home

Home, sweet home

2007-09-24T06:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Another reason to love Catalunya

2007-09-15T11:22:00.000-07:00

[Ed. note: this post was created on 10 Sept., 2007.]

"The practice of nudism is not illegal in Catalunya, only punishable if it is accompanied by obscene conduct."
~ La Vanguardia, 10 Sept. 2007.

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.

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 kindness of strangers

2007-09-14T00:44:00.000-07:00

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.

In Memorium - Jakey (1993-2007)

2007-09-07T09:40:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

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!

sleepless in barcelona: Touchdown

2007-09-05T10:24:00.000-07:00

sleepless in barcelona: Touchdown

Touchdown

2007-09-05T09:29:00.000-07:00

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.