Friday, April 02, 2010
Barcelona2010
Barcelona is currently riding a wave of popularity, with a reputation for great food and exciting night-life. Every year towards the end of February, my friend Steve and I try to get a long weekend away, for numerous reasons, the foremost of which is my birthday, followed by a needed for winter break plus an opportunity to start building our air mileage accounts for the year.
The past two years we have gone to Seattle, a perennial favourite of ours, since we discovered it back in 2004, so it was time for a change. With Barcelona being so prominently promoted, I looked into airfares and they were vastly cheaper than any other European destination. I ran the idea past a few other friends, Clive who had joined us in Seattle last year, could not make it, Mike, whose birthday is the day before mine, wanted to, but had just started a new job and could not get the time off. Chris in London though, was definitely up for a boy’s jolly weekend in Barcelona.
Steve and I had both been invited to our mutual friend, Sid’s, 50th birthday party in Newport, South Wales. Given a choice between Barcelona and S. Wales it was no contest, but Steve was humming and hawing. I knew he was waiting to see if his beloved Manchester United would make the League Cup final at Wembley.
Well they made the final and that sealed the deal for Steve, Chris was also a Man. Utd. fan, nad he was going to the game with Steve.
Undeterred, I booked a solo ticket. Upon consulting the fare matrix at Continental Airlines, I discovered that the a one stop trip, via either, Frankfurt, Munich, London or Milan was the same price as a non-stop and would get me another one thousand elite qualifying miles towards my status for the year.
I opted for Milan, as it was the longest layover, eight hours, which would give me time to leave the airport and visit the great Milan Duomo, have lunch, but still get me to Barcelona for dinner.
Steve and I met at Clancy’s the night before our trips, Wednesday Feb. 24, along with a few others to have a birthday drink. The weather forecast was predicting a large Nor’easter snow storm to start on Thursday afternoon, American Airlines had called Steve and invited him to change his London flight from 8pm to 8am, a nice perk of being a platinum elite member. Unlike London, with it’s numerous flights, I was stuck with the one flight to Milan. Our friend Dave, who was flying American via London to Brussels was not having the same luck as Steve. He ended up missing his connection in London Friday morning and spent all day travelling via Frankfurt to Brussels.
When I awoke Thursday morning it was already snowing rather heavy, the weather channel had a reporter at Newark airport and it did not look good, virtually all domestic flights had already been cancelled, but the Internationals were still scheduled.
I kept checking the flight schedules all day and both Milan and Barcelona were still on. By the time I left for the airport, we had four inches on the ground and I was feeling a little trepid about maybe making a wasted trip. At Newark, everything was very quiet as I made my way to Gallagher’s Steak House for my usual pre-flight meal, steak sandwich as jus on a baguette with a glass or two of a good red, it sets you up perfect for a good nights sleep.
It was quiet ironic, my two fellow diners at the bar, were individually both travelling to the same destinations as me, he to Barcelona, then onward to Dakhla, in southern Morocco and she to fashion week in Milan. While she looked like she belonged in Milan, I was intrigued as to how this guy was going on business to a tiny town on the Moroccan Atlantic coast. He asked if I had ever heard of kite sailing. I said yes, it looked amazing when I saw it in Florida. Well he made the boards, how fascinating.
My flight left the gate right on time, but we then had to be de-iced, which took almost an hour, then it was up and away to Milan, where we arrived only forty minutes late, what could go wrong now!!
I got my Barcelona boarding pass from Lufthansa and headed for the train station, I was in central Milan by 10:30am, I had five hours to explore, I visited the castle first as it is next to the station, but it was rather disappointing. I took the subway 3 stops to the Duomo, when you come up the metro steps, it just takes your breath away, I thought Notre Dame in Paris had intricate stone work, but this was just stupendous, the tiny detailed carving was mind boggling. After photographing the outside I then ventured inside, again it was, a take your breath away experience. I sat down to contemplate the structure, it had not dawned on me before, but the people who designed this and all the other great cathedrals of Europe, never saw their designs come to fruition, they would have barley seen the foundations laid. Several generations of stone masons would have worked on it as would carpenters, glazers, iron workers etcetera.
I chose a little restaurant at the end of the large galleria beside the Duomo for lunch, it was very busy which is normally a good sign, but it was very disappointing, nothing like the great lunches I had experienced in Florence.
With that sour taste in my mouth, I headed back to the airport, hopefully the Lufthansa lounge would be a better experience. After breezing through security, which is vastly different than in the U.S. I found the lounge at the rear of the duty free zone, surprise, surprise. They were very accommodating, even though my Star Alliance card had expired but my boarding pass stated I was elite gold. They had a nice selection of Italian beers and wines, scotch, vodka etc, but no gin & tonics!! I settled down in a large comfy club chair with a Barola and the Herald Tribune to forget the disastrous lunch.
My flight was scheduled for 5:30pm and was showing on-time but no gate. As I went to get a last glass of vino at approx 4:40pm I glanced at the board and my flight was showing “Delayed” till 8pm, oh no, I had jinxed myself “nothing can go wrong now”.
I grabbed another Barola and wandered back to my seat only to notice that the flight was now flashing and I did not understand the Italian, but it was not a good sign. I ran around to the desk and the gentleman there greeted me with “ah Mr. Barcelona, your flight has been cancelled due to the French air traffic controllers strike, no flights can enter French air territory”. I had got out of New York in a snow storm, but was grounded by the French. He told me to go to the sales counter on the first floor for a hotel voucher, when I got there it was pandemonium, all Italians screaming with their hands, I just hung back and waited till the end. As each group got their hotel and transportation voucher they rushed down to the ground floor, when I finally got mine and wandered down, they were all still standing there waiting for the bus. It pulled up a few minutes later, I got on first, grabbed the front seat and checked-in first.
Dinner and a glass of wine were also provided by the airline and it was much better than my expensive lunch, simple fried fish with pasta and bread, perfect.
The bus returned to pick us up at 5am for a 7am flight; hopefully we could be up and over the border before the French controllers decided to strike again. We touched down in Barcelona by 8:20am and I was in my hotel, off The Ramblas, by 9:15am.
After an hours rest I was off to find Mercat de la Boqueria, which is just the other side of The Ramblas from my hotel. I walked into the market and my eyes were assaulted by a galaxy of colours that blew the rainbow away. All the fruit stalls at the front by the entrance had fruits the colour and shape of which I had never seen, lined along each stand were juice cups buried in ice for 2 euro’s a piece, I was tempted but pushed further into the jungle of stalls, there were dozens of butchers, fishmongers, bakers, florists and even more fruit and veg., they all looked so good, how does one decide which to shop at? I’m sure over time you build allegiances, but where to start. Doted in amongst the stalls were little cafe counters, each seeming to have their own specialty, but I had already decided on a fish one near the entrance. Not surprisingly the fruit drinks in the middle of the market were only 1 euro.
I circled in and out through every little passageway in the market, finally arriving back at the fish cafe I had eyed on the way in, The Universal Kiosk, good job they are not depending on the name to draw customers in!!
First time around the open counter had been crowded but now it was just after 11am and it was pretty deserted, that time at the end of breakfast and not quiet lunch. But the chalkboard said, breakfast was served till noon, so I sat down and ordered eggs and sausage. He showed me 3 varieties of sausage, I chose the foot long that resembled an English Cumberland, it was fantastic, an earthy pork with herbs and the eggs yolks were a magnificent shade of orange as bright as the sun, some crusty bread and a glass of Cava, I was in heaven.
I floated out of the market on cloud nine, knowing exactly where I was having lunch, while having breakfast another counter hand was chopping up a fresh squid, yum.
I wandered down the Ramblas towards the port, passing all the mimics. I had seen them putting on their paint earlier while I was going to my hotel and wondered what it was all about. They get garbed and painted like, The Statue of Liberty, Charley Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, Batman etcetera, and tourists pose for pictures with them! Why would anyone want their picture taken with any of those characters in Barcelona? Very strange, but obviously these people are making a living at, to each their own.
In the middle of the traffic circle at the port entrance is a tall column with a statue of Christopher Columbus pointing west, ah yes, “go west young man”.
This is not the commercial port, that is farther to the south, this is the pleasure port, looking out to sea, on your left is the private yacht harbour, with some very impressive boats, to your right is the cruise port and Balearic island ferry terminal, but straight ahead, almost appearing to sit right in the harbour is a huge tower that is part of the trans harbour cable car, a very, very impressive looking feat of engineering, I could just imagine the lines at either end. Not something I would have time for in my tight schedule.
The whole area was much to crowded for my liking so I turned back and headed up a small desolate side street and quickly realized I was in the vicinity of an Irish bar that my cousin, Bernadine’s friend, Clodagh, had recommended, it belonged to a friend of hers. I had researched it before I left home, but my notes were in the hotel, a great place, they wont get lost, but I remembered it was in a small alley, in front of the church of Santa Maria, in front of which I was now standing. There were only two alleys, and I looked in both, but no Bar Luna, oh well, maybe it was too early.
I turned north, and headed towards where there was supposed to be another market by the cathedral, I found it, no problem, but it was just a few stalls, very disappointing.
All this walking had given me a new appetite and I had a football game to go to, at 4pm, (Barcelona vs Malaga) or so I thought. I was about to make one of my biggest travelling mistakes ever. The game was originally scheduled for Sunday night, but they reserve the right to change it to Saturday, so two weeks previous when the game got changed to Saturday, I thought it was going to be at 4pm, which is the time I watch Barca in New York, on Saturday’s, I totally spaced on the time difference.
On my way back to my hotel, through the labyrinth of small streets, I spotted a sign with an arrow to “The Official FC Barcelona Shop”. Now let me tell you, every second store in Barcelona sells FC Barcelona merchandise, they all have pre-printed shirts, Messi, Xavi etc, but I needed a personalized one, low and behold, here is exactly what I need. I rushed in and asked, “do you print personalized shirts”, “yes of course, what name would you like, please, write it down, so we do not get it wrong”. So I write “EL TEL #7” the salesman looks at it, shows it to his associate, they look at me and say, que?
I explained, Terry Venables was one of my boyhood hero’s who played for Tottenham Hotspurs, in England, he then came to manage Barca in 1984 and got the nick-name El Tel, he won the Spanish league, the League Cup and got them to the European Cup Final, which they lost to Steaua Bucharest, they were very impressed, so was I when they came out with the shirt ten minutes later, magic.
With my new treasure in hand I rushed back to the hotel to get changed and head out for lunch and the game. Walking down the street with my new Barca shirt on was fantastic, I was no longer a tourist, I was a local.
Entering the market I found my new favourite food stand mobbed with people, apart from the counter, they had now set up high tables and stools and there was a ring of people standing around waiting for empties. I paced up and down, but there did not seem to be an opening with a stool. There was one small gap in the throng and my breakfast server saw me looking, he put down a place setting and I knew I was in. I glanced around and there was a spare stool beside a pillar, I grabbed it and moved towards my spot at the counter, saying, excusee, excusee, sounding more Italian than Spanish and certainty not Catilan. But it worked a treat, the two men I was squeezing between, each moved just a smudge to say, come on in, WOW.
I ordered the grilled calamari and a glass of rose, the two couples on my left were sharing razor clams, calamari, sardines and a bottle of cava. The couple to my right were just finishing off a plate of razor clams and getting stuck into a seafood paella, this was seafood heaven and I had a bloody football game to go to, but then again not just any game, it was after all Barca at the Camp Nou.
The calamari was absolutely delicious with some crusty bread and another glass of rose, the senor on my left recommended the razor clams, they did look fantastic, but I made my apologies and ran.
The metro station, Liceu, was right outside the market and it was 8 stops to Les Corts, I was going a little early (very) to have a look around the stadium but as we got within 3 stops, I realized there should be at least a few more people on the train, as I exited the station I saw the souvenir stands were only starting to get set up and the penny dropped, the game is at 10pm. Well maybe this meant to be, because at 10pm it will be dark and I will not get to see very much around the outside so I better take a peek now. The stadium was not visible from the metro station so I had to ask, “straight down, 500 meters”, I thought wow, a 95,000 seat stadium and I cannot see it from 500 meters. Sure enough I walked down the road and there it was, not much more than a six or seven story building and the gate I had to enter was right in front of me, sweet. There had been a purpose to this after all, but I was still disgusted at myself for making such a stupid mistake and having to leave the Universal Kiosk.
There was a bus stop across from the stadia with a bus sitting there going back into the town center, so I hopped on it to see what I had missed on the subway, metro tickets are good for a transfer on any other form of city transit for 1 ½ hours. I got back to The Ramblas around 5:30 and was starting to get a bit of an appetite again, but just as I had dreaded the market was closing up. There was a tapas place at the alley side entrance to the market, on The Ramblas, Sukaldari , that looked pretty good, so in I went, and in my best Spanish, “hola senor, una cervesa, por favor”? The bartender asked, would you like a pint or a half, in perfect English, wow. I sat there contemplating all the various tapas laid out in bowls and platters behind the glass bar partition, so much better than just looking at a menu. Roberto (bartender) saw my wonderment and started explaining what each one was as he dished them up for other customers, I felt right at home. As I neared the bottom of my cervesa, I ordered 2 varieties of jamon, 1 cod balls and 1 baby octupus along with a glass of red vino, which Roberto, informed me is called vino tinto. The tinatino was delicious so I ordered a bottle, all the tapas were also delicious, 1 jamon was air dried the other smoked, the cod balls were fluffy and moist and the baby squid were in a sweet tomato sauce, I was back in heaven, in fact Barcelona is HEAVEN.
The place was getting pretty crowded by now and then 2 Belgium guys came in and sat next to me, they also tried to order in broken Spanish, but Roberto just started speaking to them in French, quiet amazing, and at this point I had not found out that Roberto was actually Italian. He spoke fluent Italian, obviously, Spanish, Catalan, French and English. The Belgium’s and I started talking about his great command of languages and that maybe he should be working at the United Nation’s, I said no, he was doing far more important work here.
They then inquired about the name on the back of my Barca shirt, I explained the whole story and my erroneous trip to the stadia, we had a good laugh. They had flown in for the game that afternoon and were flying home early Monday morning, great, we could travel to the game together, they had no idea how to get to the Camp Nou, luckily I did!!
Just then 2 Japanese women came in and we remarked to Roberto, how is your Japanese, he just laughed. Well there were no 2 stools together, but I had one empty either side, so I moved down one to the Belgium’s and ushered the 2 girls in, the younger one, thanked me profusely, but there was something not quiet right with her accent. I inquired where in Japan she was from, Osaka, she was amazed when I told her I had been there three times, she was skeptical about believing me until I mentioned the giant crab restaurant just off saishinabashi, over looking the river. She then returned the inquiry and I explained, I was from London, but now live in New York, she gasped, wow, now I live in your country? Que ?, she explained she was studying at Newcastle University, loved Newcastle Brown Ale and Newcastle United football team, ahso! that was where the lilt in the accent came from.
She introduced herself as Miri and that the slightly older woman was her mother, who did not speak any English. She had come to visit Miri in Newcastle and they were doing a quick Spanish tour before she went home for half term. I went to introduce the Belgium lads but had not gotten around to getting their names; they introduced themselves as Hamza and Redoine, they were of Moroccan decent.
It was then Miri’s turn to inquire about my Barca shirt, (the shirt is worth it’s weight in gold for starting conversations) and I explained again and that we were all going to the game, her eyes lit-up, she wanted to go, and asked if we had any extra tickets? But the wise Japanese mother had caught the drift of the conversation; there was an emphatic, Japanese NO. Miri was crushed. As we all exchanged e mail addresses before heading out, I foolishly promised, I would meet Miri and her mum for breakfast, at 10am.
When we got on the metro it was more like matchday, the train was pretty crowded and everyone was wearing red and blue. When we got off at Les Corts, the whole area was packed with fans, it took 15 minutes to walk the 500 meters to the ground where I bid farewell to Hamza and Redoine, we would meet back at Sukaldari after the match.
They had to walk halfway around the stadium but I just walked straight in.
The atmosphere was amazing, I got to my seat five minutes before kick-off, just as the team was starting and then the teams ran out, it was like I was 13 again and at my first Tottenham game, a chill ran down my spine.
It was 0-0 at half time and the crowd were a little antsy, Malaga were a small team near the bottom of the league and the crowd had expected a goalfest. Quiet the contrary, Malaga were playing a very high line in defense, stifling the creativity of the Barca midfield, the whole first half was played in a 20 yard section of the midfield.
In the second half Barca started brightly, but it was the visitors who threatened first.
This seemed to awaken Barca and they had 2 cleared off the line before Pedro, who had been invisible till now, cracked one into the back of the net from the edge of the box in the 68th minute. Malaga pulled one back with ten minutes to go, setting up a nervy finish but then a Xavi to Aleves to Messi goal sealed the game with six minutes to go. There was a huge sigh of relief from 80,000 plus people and they all started to head for the gates. Had it been Tottenham with that close a game and only six to play, nobody would have moved, but this was Barca, they do not throw games away.
When I got outside, it was pandemonium, amazingly they do not shut the road too through traffic, I got to the metro and of course there was a huge line, I stood off to the side then noticed a bar across the green. It was pretty crowded but I burrowed my way into the bar and ordered a cuba libre (rum n’ coke), after a few minutes there was a lull in the line so nipped in and got on the next train, I was back in The Ramblas by 12:30am. Roberto welcomed me with a beer and I was feeling quiet peckish. This time I was seated around the side of the bar and noticed a dish I had not seen earlier, it looked like a cross between roasted chicken and lamb, I asked Roberto, rabbit! I had seen it in the market and my friend Franco, in New York, had told me it to look out for it, so I told him to dish some up, it was fantastic, I had seconds.
The Belgium lads finally showed up around 1am and were amazed to see me polishing off my rabbit and a glass of vino tinto, they had walked with a bunch of fans to the stop before the stadium and yet here I was. They were also hungry so I stuck around while they ordered some tapas and we rehashed the game. Finally it was 2am and Roberto was closing up, time to hit the sheets, I had been on the go since 4am in Milan.
The alarm went off at 9am, but there was no way these old bones were going to get out of bed, even if it was to meet a beautiful Japanese girl and her equally beautiful mother for breakfast on my fifty fifth birthday. I rolled over and awoke again just before eleven feeling much better.
On the off chance that they might be running late (fat chance, the Japanese are more punctual than the Germans) I quickly showered and headed over to the Sukaldari cafe, but there was no sign of them. I ordered orange juice, cafe con letche, eggs jamon and potatoes, while the waiter was gone, I had a brainstorm. When he returned I showed him the girls photo in my camera, and he beamed, si si, this morning.
After breakfast, which was delicious, same bright orange eggs and smoky jamon, it was time for plan B. Buy an all day metro pass and first stop, Segrada Familia cathedral, which until not long ago, I had not known was unfinished. You never see any cranes in photos off it, but now in person, it is surrounded by tower cranes. I had always thought it was a true Gothic cathedral and all the carvings on the exterior to be very old, but now I am totally aghast, it has all been created with modern tools.
Next, I headed for the Olympic compound in Parc de Montjuic, it was metro stop Paral-Lel and then a funicular, again I had not realized it was on top of a hill, obviously I knew very little about Barcelona.
Exiting the funicular station there was a wonderful panoramic view of all Barcelona laid out before you. I counted signs to seven different museums, but I did not know what they showcased. The hillside is crisscrossed with pathways meandering through meticulously manicured gardens that exude an intoxicating perfume bouquet, all while overlooking the glass paneled dome of The Palais Nacional de Montjuic, a majestic baroque building.
I wandered along and eventually came upon the Olympic stadium where the 1992 games were held. The stadium was originally built for the 1936 games, but due to the Spanish civil war, were cancelled and awarded to Germany. Barcelona’s second football team, Espanyol, played their home games here until 2009 but then moved to a new modern, purpose built football stadia. Today the stadium is used basically only for concerts, but this summer it will host the European Athletics Championships, a big coup for the city.
There are several smaller stadiums scattered around the main one, that held various events back in 1994, but unfortunately they lie dormant today. The whole complex is a great example of why small cities, without great planning, should not bid for the instant gratification that hosting the Olympics brings.
I rode the funicular back down and the metro around to Drassanes exiting in the shadow of Christopher Columbus, being a beautiful sunny day the port area was jammed with tourists and locals alike, after a quick saunter around, I headed down the small street that led to Santa Maria church, maybe I would La Luna this time, but no such luck. I carried on past the church and from an alley to my left I heard the unmistakable roar of a football crowd, I had to investigate, there was a small bar full of young locals watching Italian Seria A football, Roma vs Napoli. I could use a cold beer after all my walking so in I went, a ½ liter of Stella was only 2 euro, great. The first one went down very easy so I ordered another, then a staff member emerged from the kitchen with a couple of pans of a crusty baked rice dish, which he started to dish out on paper plates. I was intently watching the screen when I got a tap on the shoulder and offered a plate by the bartender, I thanked him profusely, it was very basic, rice with green and red peppers, but very tasty with a beer. I really felt like a local and could have stayed for the whole game, but I bowed out at half time. Walking back to the seafront, I had a very warm glow about the experience, happy birthday Frank.
I was now at the other end of the harbour, where all the private yachts were docked and there were some beauties. One in particular stood out, she was approx 100 foot long, single masted, wooden ocean racer and to top it off she was registered in Tortola, British Virgin Islands, where I used to race such boats. The memories came flooding back and to reinforce them, the yacht moored next to it was called “Southern Cross”. I have never forgotten the first time, I saw the southern cross, while on a night voyage from Fajardo, Puerto Rico to Nanny Cey, Tortola, after the Puerto Rico Rolex regatta. The Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song still reverberates around my brain. I stood there at the dock, mesmerized.
After ten minutes I snapped out of it and wandered back up to the main road, my feet were really starting to ache by now, so I hopped on a bus back up to The Ramblas, getting off in front of my hotel. I could use another beer. All the bars around my hotel were packed with people watching Manchester United vs Aston Villa in the League Cup Final (where my mates were), there was no way I was going into “Cheers” or “Wally’s Australian Pub” so I settled upon the “International Beer Bar”. I would have denied it, but I secretly wanted to see the end of the game, in the hope that Villa would win.
The bar was pretty packed and everyone, except two yanks, sitting under the TV, was watching the game. Now of course the yanks were not just sitting quietly, one was telling the other, and everyone in the bar, his various methods of Bar B Qing, the poor fellow doing the listening, actually looked a little embarrassed, and tried on a couple of occasions to steer the conversation to the game on theTV, but the chap bragging about his BBQ would have none of it, “ah it’s only Manchester United, everybody watches them”. Finally they got up to leave any everyone gave them a round of applause, the BBQ guy actually thought it was a compliment, what world does he live in?
When I got in, there was about 30 mins to play and the game was tied 1-1, wohoo, Villa are in with a chance. They had no Stella and I did not fancy a Spanish draft Guinness so I ordered a sangria, 5 euro for small glass, a long way from 2 euro for a Stella just 10 mins walk away!! With 15 minutes to go MU got a cheap penalty which Rooney converted and that was that, game over.
On my travels all day, I had not seen a bar with such an array of tapas as Sukaldari, so why take a chance when it is only across the road and I’m hungry. Off course Roberto was not there, it was too early, I ordered a glass of Cava while I perused the choices, of course I was going to have rabbit, but what to have with it? Then I spotted a large bowl of anchovies with peppers and olives, sold, with the rabbit, spinach flan and ½ bottle of vina tinto, a perfect late afternoon snack. I then retired to my room for a siesta.
Barcelona is famed for people going out late to eat dinner, but with a 10:30am flight, I would have to check-in by 8ish which meant leaving the hotel by 7:15am, so no late night for me. I decided I should make an effort to go up by Catalunya Square and find a nice sit down restaurant for my final/birthday meal, but as I walked by Sukaldari, just in case Hamza and Redoine were there, Roberto waved me in, what could I do, he had taken such good care of me and the place was virtually empty.
I started with a couple of glasses of Cava, then asked him about his sangria, he was proud of his recipe, so I said I would try it, I did not like it, so he suggested a cava sangria, perfect.
Then in walked Hamza and Redoine, it was like a class reunion. I started by apologizing for not making breakfast with the Japanese, but they confessed, they had also missed them. I explained that I knew the girls had been in, so what time were they in at? They had come in about 10:30 and left at 11:15, wow I had just missed them at 11:20am, what a strange string of events. The boys had been on the Camp Nou stadium tour for the afternoon and were raving about how good it was, after my two trips there on Saturday, the tour could wait for my next visit, which I hope will be soon.
We ordered a bunch of tapas, rabbit included, of course, and spent the next few hours spinning stories (me mostly) and them trying to ask me questions about American politics, of which I have little interest.
Roberto was starting to close up before midnight (so much for late dining) and it was time to bid adieu, we promised to e mail each other but they never did, I tried them but the e mail just bounced back.
Six am came quickly and I was up showered and ready to go by seven, instead of taking the metro which would have been quick and painless, I decided to walk up to Catalunya Square, get the bus and have a last look at Barcelona.
I will be back.
The past two years we have gone to Seattle, a perennial favourite of ours, since we discovered it back in 2004, so it was time for a change. With Barcelona being so prominently promoted, I looked into airfares and they were vastly cheaper than any other European destination. I ran the idea past a few other friends, Clive who had joined us in Seattle last year, could not make it, Mike, whose birthday is the day before mine, wanted to, but had just started a new job and could not get the time off. Chris in London though, was definitely up for a boy’s jolly weekend in Barcelona.
Steve and I had both been invited to our mutual friend, Sid’s, 50th birthday party in Newport, South Wales. Given a choice between Barcelona and S. Wales it was no contest, but Steve was humming and hawing. I knew he was waiting to see if his beloved Manchester United would make the League Cup final at Wembley.
Well they made the final and that sealed the deal for Steve, Chris was also a Man. Utd. fan, nad he was going to the game with Steve.
Undeterred, I booked a solo ticket. Upon consulting the fare matrix at Continental Airlines, I discovered that the a one stop trip, via either, Frankfurt, Munich, London or Milan was the same price as a non-stop and would get me another one thousand elite qualifying miles towards my status for the year.
I opted for Milan, as it was the longest layover, eight hours, which would give me time to leave the airport and visit the great Milan Duomo, have lunch, but still get me to Barcelona for dinner.
Steve and I met at Clancy’s the night before our trips, Wednesday Feb. 24, along with a few others to have a birthday drink. The weather forecast was predicting a large Nor’easter snow storm to start on Thursday afternoon, American Airlines had called Steve and invited him to change his London flight from 8pm to 8am, a nice perk of being a platinum elite member. Unlike London, with it’s numerous flights, I was stuck with the one flight to Milan. Our friend Dave, who was flying American via London to Brussels was not having the same luck as Steve. He ended up missing his connection in London Friday morning and spent all day travelling via Frankfurt to Brussels.
When I awoke Thursday morning it was already snowing rather heavy, the weather channel had a reporter at Newark airport and it did not look good, virtually all domestic flights had already been cancelled, but the Internationals were still scheduled.
I kept checking the flight schedules all day and both Milan and Barcelona were still on. By the time I left for the airport, we had four inches on the ground and I was feeling a little trepid about maybe making a wasted trip. At Newark, everything was very quiet as I made my way to Gallagher’s Steak House for my usual pre-flight meal, steak sandwich as jus on a baguette with a glass or two of a good red, it sets you up perfect for a good nights sleep.
It was quiet ironic, my two fellow diners at the bar, were individually both travelling to the same destinations as me, he to Barcelona, then onward to Dakhla, in southern Morocco and she to fashion week in Milan. While she looked like she belonged in Milan, I was intrigued as to how this guy was going on business to a tiny town on the Moroccan Atlantic coast. He asked if I had ever heard of kite sailing. I said yes, it looked amazing when I saw it in Florida. Well he made the boards, how fascinating.
My flight left the gate right on time, but we then had to be de-iced, which took almost an hour, then it was up and away to Milan, where we arrived only forty minutes late, what could go wrong now!!
I got my Barcelona boarding pass from Lufthansa and headed for the train station, I was in central Milan by 10:30am, I had five hours to explore, I visited the castle first as it is next to the station, but it was rather disappointing. I took the subway 3 stops to the Duomo, when you come up the metro steps, it just takes your breath away, I thought Notre Dame in Paris had intricate stone work, but this was just stupendous, the tiny detailed carving was mind boggling. After photographing the outside I then ventured inside, again it was, a take your breath away experience. I sat down to contemplate the structure, it had not dawned on me before, but the people who designed this and all the other great cathedrals of Europe, never saw their designs come to fruition, they would have barley seen the foundations laid. Several generations of stone masons would have worked on it as would carpenters, glazers, iron workers etcetera.
I chose a little restaurant at the end of the large galleria beside the Duomo for lunch, it was very busy which is normally a good sign, but it was very disappointing, nothing like the great lunches I had experienced in Florence.
With that sour taste in my mouth, I headed back to the airport, hopefully the Lufthansa lounge would be a better experience. After breezing through security, which is vastly different than in the U.S. I found the lounge at the rear of the duty free zone, surprise, surprise. They were very accommodating, even though my Star Alliance card had expired but my boarding pass stated I was elite gold. They had a nice selection of Italian beers and wines, scotch, vodka etc, but no gin & tonics!! I settled down in a large comfy club chair with a Barola and the Herald Tribune to forget the disastrous lunch.
My flight was scheduled for 5:30pm and was showing on-time but no gate. As I went to get a last glass of vino at approx 4:40pm I glanced at the board and my flight was showing “Delayed” till 8pm, oh no, I had jinxed myself “nothing can go wrong now”.
I grabbed another Barola and wandered back to my seat only to notice that the flight was now flashing and I did not understand the Italian, but it was not a good sign. I ran around to the desk and the gentleman there greeted me with “ah Mr. Barcelona, your flight has been cancelled due to the French air traffic controllers strike, no flights can enter French air territory”. I had got out of New York in a snow storm, but was grounded by the French. He told me to go to the sales counter on the first floor for a hotel voucher, when I got there it was pandemonium, all Italians screaming with their hands, I just hung back and waited till the end. As each group got their hotel and transportation voucher they rushed down to the ground floor, when I finally got mine and wandered down, they were all still standing there waiting for the bus. It pulled up a few minutes later, I got on first, grabbed the front seat and checked-in first.
Dinner and a glass of wine were also provided by the airline and it was much better than my expensive lunch, simple fried fish with pasta and bread, perfect.
The bus returned to pick us up at 5am for a 7am flight; hopefully we could be up and over the border before the French controllers decided to strike again. We touched down in Barcelona by 8:20am and I was in my hotel, off The Ramblas, by 9:15am.
After an hours rest I was off to find Mercat de la Boqueria, which is just the other side of The Ramblas from my hotel. I walked into the market and my eyes were assaulted by a galaxy of colours that blew the rainbow away. All the fruit stalls at the front by the entrance had fruits the colour and shape of which I had never seen, lined along each stand were juice cups buried in ice for 2 euro’s a piece, I was tempted but pushed further into the jungle of stalls, there were dozens of butchers, fishmongers, bakers, florists and even more fruit and veg., they all looked so good, how does one decide which to shop at? I’m sure over time you build allegiances, but where to start. Doted in amongst the stalls were little cafe counters, each seeming to have their own specialty, but I had already decided on a fish one near the entrance. Not surprisingly the fruit drinks in the middle of the market were only 1 euro.
I circled in and out through every little passageway in the market, finally arriving back at the fish cafe I had eyed on the way in, The Universal Kiosk, good job they are not depending on the name to draw customers in!!
First time around the open counter had been crowded but now it was just after 11am and it was pretty deserted, that time at the end of breakfast and not quiet lunch. But the chalkboard said, breakfast was served till noon, so I sat down and ordered eggs and sausage. He showed me 3 varieties of sausage, I chose the foot long that resembled an English Cumberland, it was fantastic, an earthy pork with herbs and the eggs yolks were a magnificent shade of orange as bright as the sun, some crusty bread and a glass of Cava, I was in heaven.
I floated out of the market on cloud nine, knowing exactly where I was having lunch, while having breakfast another counter hand was chopping up a fresh squid, yum.
I wandered down the Ramblas towards the port, passing all the mimics. I had seen them putting on their paint earlier while I was going to my hotel and wondered what it was all about. They get garbed and painted like, The Statue of Liberty, Charley Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, Batman etcetera, and tourists pose for pictures with them! Why would anyone want their picture taken with any of those characters in Barcelona? Very strange, but obviously these people are making a living at, to each their own.
In the middle of the traffic circle at the port entrance is a tall column with a statue of Christopher Columbus pointing west, ah yes, “go west young man”.
This is not the commercial port, that is farther to the south, this is the pleasure port, looking out to sea, on your left is the private yacht harbour, with some very impressive boats, to your right is the cruise port and Balearic island ferry terminal, but straight ahead, almost appearing to sit right in the harbour is a huge tower that is part of the trans harbour cable car, a very, very impressive looking feat of engineering, I could just imagine the lines at either end. Not something I would have time for in my tight schedule.
The whole area was much to crowded for my liking so I turned back and headed up a small desolate side street and quickly realized I was in the vicinity of an Irish bar that my cousin, Bernadine’s friend, Clodagh, had recommended, it belonged to a friend of hers. I had researched it before I left home, but my notes were in the hotel, a great place, they wont get lost, but I remembered it was in a small alley, in front of the church of Santa Maria, in front of which I was now standing. There were only two alleys, and I looked in both, but no Bar Luna, oh well, maybe it was too early.
I turned north, and headed towards where there was supposed to be another market by the cathedral, I found it, no problem, but it was just a few stalls, very disappointing.
All this walking had given me a new appetite and I had a football game to go to, at 4pm, (Barcelona vs Malaga) or so I thought. I was about to make one of my biggest travelling mistakes ever. The game was originally scheduled for Sunday night, but they reserve the right to change it to Saturday, so two weeks previous when the game got changed to Saturday, I thought it was going to be at 4pm, which is the time I watch Barca in New York, on Saturday’s, I totally spaced on the time difference.
On my way back to my hotel, through the labyrinth of small streets, I spotted a sign with an arrow to “The Official FC Barcelona Shop”. Now let me tell you, every second store in Barcelona sells FC Barcelona merchandise, they all have pre-printed shirts, Messi, Xavi etc, but I needed a personalized one, low and behold, here is exactly what I need. I rushed in and asked, “do you print personalized shirts”, “yes of course, what name would you like, please, write it down, so we do not get it wrong”. So I write “EL TEL #7” the salesman looks at it, shows it to his associate, they look at me and say, que?
I explained, Terry Venables was one of my boyhood hero’s who played for Tottenham Hotspurs, in England, he then came to manage Barca in 1984 and got the nick-name El Tel, he won the Spanish league, the League Cup and got them to the European Cup Final, which they lost to Steaua Bucharest, they were very impressed, so was I when they came out with the shirt ten minutes later, magic.
With my new treasure in hand I rushed back to the hotel to get changed and head out for lunch and the game. Walking down the street with my new Barca shirt on was fantastic, I was no longer a tourist, I was a local.
Entering the market I found my new favourite food stand mobbed with people, apart from the counter, they had now set up high tables and stools and there was a ring of people standing around waiting for empties. I paced up and down, but there did not seem to be an opening with a stool. There was one small gap in the throng and my breakfast server saw me looking, he put down a place setting and I knew I was in. I glanced around and there was a spare stool beside a pillar, I grabbed it and moved towards my spot at the counter, saying, excusee, excusee, sounding more Italian than Spanish and certainty not Catilan. But it worked a treat, the two men I was squeezing between, each moved just a smudge to say, come on in, WOW.
I ordered the grilled calamari and a glass of rose, the two couples on my left were sharing razor clams, calamari, sardines and a bottle of cava. The couple to my right were just finishing off a plate of razor clams and getting stuck into a seafood paella, this was seafood heaven and I had a bloody football game to go to, but then again not just any game, it was after all Barca at the Camp Nou.
The calamari was absolutely delicious with some crusty bread and another glass of rose, the senor on my left recommended the razor clams, they did look fantastic, but I made my apologies and ran.
The metro station, Liceu, was right outside the market and it was 8 stops to Les Corts, I was going a little early (very) to have a look around the stadium but as we got within 3 stops, I realized there should be at least a few more people on the train, as I exited the station I saw the souvenir stands were only starting to get set up and the penny dropped, the game is at 10pm. Well maybe this meant to be, because at 10pm it will be dark and I will not get to see very much around the outside so I better take a peek now. The stadium was not visible from the metro station so I had to ask, “straight down, 500 meters”, I thought wow, a 95,000 seat stadium and I cannot see it from 500 meters. Sure enough I walked down the road and there it was, not much more than a six or seven story building and the gate I had to enter was right in front of me, sweet. There had been a purpose to this after all, but I was still disgusted at myself for making such a stupid mistake and having to leave the Universal Kiosk.
There was a bus stop across from the stadia with a bus sitting there going back into the town center, so I hopped on it to see what I had missed on the subway, metro tickets are good for a transfer on any other form of city transit for 1 ½ hours. I got back to The Ramblas around 5:30 and was starting to get a bit of an appetite again, but just as I had dreaded the market was closing up. There was a tapas place at the alley side entrance to the market, on The Ramblas, Sukaldari , that looked pretty good, so in I went, and in my best Spanish, “hola senor, una cervesa, por favor”? The bartender asked, would you like a pint or a half, in perfect English, wow. I sat there contemplating all the various tapas laid out in bowls and platters behind the glass bar partition, so much better than just looking at a menu. Roberto (bartender) saw my wonderment and started explaining what each one was as he dished them up for other customers, I felt right at home. As I neared the bottom of my cervesa, I ordered 2 varieties of jamon, 1 cod balls and 1 baby octupus along with a glass of red vino, which Roberto, informed me is called vino tinto. The tinatino was delicious so I ordered a bottle, all the tapas were also delicious, 1 jamon was air dried the other smoked, the cod balls were fluffy and moist and the baby squid were in a sweet tomato sauce, I was back in heaven, in fact Barcelona is HEAVEN.
The place was getting pretty crowded by now and then 2 Belgium guys came in and sat next to me, they also tried to order in broken Spanish, but Roberto just started speaking to them in French, quiet amazing, and at this point I had not found out that Roberto was actually Italian. He spoke fluent Italian, obviously, Spanish, Catalan, French and English. The Belgium’s and I started talking about his great command of languages and that maybe he should be working at the United Nation’s, I said no, he was doing far more important work here.
They then inquired about the name on the back of my Barca shirt, I explained the whole story and my erroneous trip to the stadia, we had a good laugh. They had flown in for the game that afternoon and were flying home early Monday morning, great, we could travel to the game together, they had no idea how to get to the Camp Nou, luckily I did!!
Just then 2 Japanese women came in and we remarked to Roberto, how is your Japanese, he just laughed. Well there were no 2 stools together, but I had one empty either side, so I moved down one to the Belgium’s and ushered the 2 girls in, the younger one, thanked me profusely, but there was something not quiet right with her accent. I inquired where in Japan she was from, Osaka, she was amazed when I told her I had been there three times, she was skeptical about believing me until I mentioned the giant crab restaurant just off saishinabashi, over looking the river. She then returned the inquiry and I explained, I was from London, but now live in New York, she gasped, wow, now I live in your country? Que ?, she explained she was studying at Newcastle University, loved Newcastle Brown Ale and Newcastle United football team, ahso! that was where the lilt in the accent came from.
She introduced herself as Miri and that the slightly older woman was her mother, who did not speak any English. She had come to visit Miri in Newcastle and they were doing a quick Spanish tour before she went home for half term. I went to introduce the Belgium lads but had not gotten around to getting their names; they introduced themselves as Hamza and Redoine, they were of Moroccan decent.
It was then Miri’s turn to inquire about my Barca shirt, (the shirt is worth it’s weight in gold for starting conversations) and I explained again and that we were all going to the game, her eyes lit-up, she wanted to go, and asked if we had any extra tickets? But the wise Japanese mother had caught the drift of the conversation; there was an emphatic, Japanese NO. Miri was crushed. As we all exchanged e mail addresses before heading out, I foolishly promised, I would meet Miri and her mum for breakfast, at 10am.
When we got on the metro it was more like matchday, the train was pretty crowded and everyone was wearing red and blue. When we got off at Les Corts, the whole area was packed with fans, it took 15 minutes to walk the 500 meters to the ground where I bid farewell to Hamza and Redoine, we would meet back at Sukaldari after the match.
They had to walk halfway around the stadium but I just walked straight in.
The atmosphere was amazing, I got to my seat five minutes before kick-off, just as the team was starting and then the teams ran out, it was like I was 13 again and at my first Tottenham game, a chill ran down my spine.
It was 0-0 at half time and the crowd were a little antsy, Malaga were a small team near the bottom of the league and the crowd had expected a goalfest. Quiet the contrary, Malaga were playing a very high line in defense, stifling the creativity of the Barca midfield, the whole first half was played in a 20 yard section of the midfield.
In the second half Barca started brightly, but it was the visitors who threatened first.
This seemed to awaken Barca and they had 2 cleared off the line before Pedro, who had been invisible till now, cracked one into the back of the net from the edge of the box in the 68th minute. Malaga pulled one back with ten minutes to go, setting up a nervy finish but then a Xavi to Aleves to Messi goal sealed the game with six minutes to go. There was a huge sigh of relief from 80,000 plus people and they all started to head for the gates. Had it been Tottenham with that close a game and only six to play, nobody would have moved, but this was Barca, they do not throw games away.
When I got outside, it was pandemonium, amazingly they do not shut the road too through traffic, I got to the metro and of course there was a huge line, I stood off to the side then noticed a bar across the green. It was pretty crowded but I burrowed my way into the bar and ordered a cuba libre (rum n’ coke), after a few minutes there was a lull in the line so nipped in and got on the next train, I was back in The Ramblas by 12:30am. Roberto welcomed me with a beer and I was feeling quiet peckish. This time I was seated around the side of the bar and noticed a dish I had not seen earlier, it looked like a cross between roasted chicken and lamb, I asked Roberto, rabbit! I had seen it in the market and my friend Franco, in New York, had told me it to look out for it, so I told him to dish some up, it was fantastic, I had seconds.
The Belgium lads finally showed up around 1am and were amazed to see me polishing off my rabbit and a glass of vino tinto, they had walked with a bunch of fans to the stop before the stadium and yet here I was. They were also hungry so I stuck around while they ordered some tapas and we rehashed the game. Finally it was 2am and Roberto was closing up, time to hit the sheets, I had been on the go since 4am in Milan.
The alarm went off at 9am, but there was no way these old bones were going to get out of bed, even if it was to meet a beautiful Japanese girl and her equally beautiful mother for breakfast on my fifty fifth birthday. I rolled over and awoke again just before eleven feeling much better.
On the off chance that they might be running late (fat chance, the Japanese are more punctual than the Germans) I quickly showered and headed over to the Sukaldari cafe, but there was no sign of them. I ordered orange juice, cafe con letche, eggs jamon and potatoes, while the waiter was gone, I had a brainstorm. When he returned I showed him the girls photo in my camera, and he beamed, si si, this morning.
After breakfast, which was delicious, same bright orange eggs and smoky jamon, it was time for plan B. Buy an all day metro pass and first stop, Segrada Familia cathedral, which until not long ago, I had not known was unfinished. You never see any cranes in photos off it, but now in person, it is surrounded by tower cranes. I had always thought it was a true Gothic cathedral and all the carvings on the exterior to be very old, but now I am totally aghast, it has all been created with modern tools.
Next, I headed for the Olympic compound in Parc de Montjuic, it was metro stop Paral-Lel and then a funicular, again I had not realized it was on top of a hill, obviously I knew very little about Barcelona.
Exiting the funicular station there was a wonderful panoramic view of all Barcelona laid out before you. I counted signs to seven different museums, but I did not know what they showcased. The hillside is crisscrossed with pathways meandering through meticulously manicured gardens that exude an intoxicating perfume bouquet, all while overlooking the glass paneled dome of The Palais Nacional de Montjuic, a majestic baroque building.
I wandered along and eventually came upon the Olympic stadium where the 1992 games were held. The stadium was originally built for the 1936 games, but due to the Spanish civil war, were cancelled and awarded to Germany. Barcelona’s second football team, Espanyol, played their home games here until 2009 but then moved to a new modern, purpose built football stadia. Today the stadium is used basically only for concerts, but this summer it will host the European Athletics Championships, a big coup for the city.
There are several smaller stadiums scattered around the main one, that held various events back in 1994, but unfortunately they lie dormant today. The whole complex is a great example of why small cities, without great planning, should not bid for the instant gratification that hosting the Olympics brings.
I rode the funicular back down and the metro around to Drassanes exiting in the shadow of Christopher Columbus, being a beautiful sunny day the port area was jammed with tourists and locals alike, after a quick saunter around, I headed down the small street that led to Santa Maria church, maybe I would La Luna this time, but no such luck. I carried on past the church and from an alley to my left I heard the unmistakable roar of a football crowd, I had to investigate, there was a small bar full of young locals watching Italian Seria A football, Roma vs Napoli. I could use a cold beer after all my walking so in I went, a ½ liter of Stella was only 2 euro, great. The first one went down very easy so I ordered another, then a staff member emerged from the kitchen with a couple of pans of a crusty baked rice dish, which he started to dish out on paper plates. I was intently watching the screen when I got a tap on the shoulder and offered a plate by the bartender, I thanked him profusely, it was very basic, rice with green and red peppers, but very tasty with a beer. I really felt like a local and could have stayed for the whole game, but I bowed out at half time. Walking back to the seafront, I had a very warm glow about the experience, happy birthday Frank.
I was now at the other end of the harbour, where all the private yachts were docked and there were some beauties. One in particular stood out, she was approx 100 foot long, single masted, wooden ocean racer and to top it off she was registered in Tortola, British Virgin Islands, where I used to race such boats. The memories came flooding back and to reinforce them, the yacht moored next to it was called “Southern Cross”. I have never forgotten the first time, I saw the southern cross, while on a night voyage from Fajardo, Puerto Rico to Nanny Cey, Tortola, after the Puerto Rico Rolex regatta. The Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song still reverberates around my brain. I stood there at the dock, mesmerized.
After ten minutes I snapped out of it and wandered back up to the main road, my feet were really starting to ache by now, so I hopped on a bus back up to The Ramblas, getting off in front of my hotel. I could use another beer. All the bars around my hotel were packed with people watching Manchester United vs Aston Villa in the League Cup Final (where my mates were), there was no way I was going into “Cheers” or “Wally’s Australian Pub” so I settled upon the “International Beer Bar”. I would have denied it, but I secretly wanted to see the end of the game, in the hope that Villa would win.
The bar was pretty packed and everyone, except two yanks, sitting under the TV, was watching the game. Now of course the yanks were not just sitting quietly, one was telling the other, and everyone in the bar, his various methods of Bar B Qing, the poor fellow doing the listening, actually looked a little embarrassed, and tried on a couple of occasions to steer the conversation to the game on theTV, but the chap bragging about his BBQ would have none of it, “ah it’s only Manchester United, everybody watches them”. Finally they got up to leave any everyone gave them a round of applause, the BBQ guy actually thought it was a compliment, what world does he live in?
When I got in, there was about 30 mins to play and the game was tied 1-1, wohoo, Villa are in with a chance. They had no Stella and I did not fancy a Spanish draft Guinness so I ordered a sangria, 5 euro for small glass, a long way from 2 euro for a Stella just 10 mins walk away!! With 15 minutes to go MU got a cheap penalty which Rooney converted and that was that, game over.
On my travels all day, I had not seen a bar with such an array of tapas as Sukaldari, so why take a chance when it is only across the road and I’m hungry. Off course Roberto was not there, it was too early, I ordered a glass of Cava while I perused the choices, of course I was going to have rabbit, but what to have with it? Then I spotted a large bowl of anchovies with peppers and olives, sold, with the rabbit, spinach flan and ½ bottle of vina tinto, a perfect late afternoon snack. I then retired to my room for a siesta.
Barcelona is famed for people going out late to eat dinner, but with a 10:30am flight, I would have to check-in by 8ish which meant leaving the hotel by 7:15am, so no late night for me. I decided I should make an effort to go up by Catalunya Square and find a nice sit down restaurant for my final/birthday meal, but as I walked by Sukaldari, just in case Hamza and Redoine were there, Roberto waved me in, what could I do, he had taken such good care of me and the place was virtually empty.
I started with a couple of glasses of Cava, then asked him about his sangria, he was proud of his recipe, so I said I would try it, I did not like it, so he suggested a cava sangria, perfect.
Then in walked Hamza and Redoine, it was like a class reunion. I started by apologizing for not making breakfast with the Japanese, but they confessed, they had also missed them. I explained that I knew the girls had been in, so what time were they in at? They had come in about 10:30 and left at 11:15, wow I had just missed them at 11:20am, what a strange string of events. The boys had been on the Camp Nou stadium tour for the afternoon and were raving about how good it was, after my two trips there on Saturday, the tour could wait for my next visit, which I hope will be soon.
We ordered a bunch of tapas, rabbit included, of course, and spent the next few hours spinning stories (me mostly) and them trying to ask me questions about American politics, of which I have little interest.
Roberto was starting to close up before midnight (so much for late dining) and it was time to bid adieu, we promised to e mail each other but they never did, I tried them but the e mail just bounced back.
Six am came quickly and I was up showered and ready to go by seven, instead of taking the metro which would have been quick and painless, I decided to walk up to Catalunya Square, get the bus and have a last look at Barcelona.
I will be back.
