The alarm clock went off, I think, but I didn’t hear it. Jet lag and angst got the better of me. Carli slept in too, but by eleven AM we had eaten breakfast, dressed and were on our way out the door. The sun was brilliant and drying off the last of the puddles left from the day before.
Carli had been studying the bus and metro diagrams on the map she bought. Between the two of us, we figured out how to find the tourist bus line we had spotted through torrential rain. They offered a two day ticket with the ability to get on and off at any of their stops, take the time to look around and get on the next bus at no extra charge. A good deal. We toured all afternoon and got a feel for the city and learned it’s history through a recorded eloquent female British voice. In the past, I’ve taken tours where the recorded voice was so garbled or spoke the language so poorly I had no idea what they were talking about. Not the case with Barcelona Tourist Bus orange and green lines. At most of the stops there were small cafes or bars where you could use the facilities for the price of a beer or soda and a couple of tapas.
The different neighborhoods are fascinating, especially the old ones in the original parts of the city. Many of the houses on the main streets of Passig Gracia and Las Ramblas are opulent in an upper 5th Avenue Manhattan way; original owners vying for prestige with the fanciest house. On Passig Gracia the styles range from Gaudi masterpieces through every architectural style known to man from the 18th century through the present. The area of Barcelonetta, originally an ancient fishing village, appealed to me with it’s narrow streets and smaller homes. The scale was comfortable, homey and gave the feeling of a true neighborhood. Carli is attached to the area where our apartment is located and I have to agree because of its accessibility to bars, restaurants, bakeries and tiny convenience stores packed with everything under the sun. After four days we are already buddies with the Indian family who run the closest mom and pop market and the nice young man at the telephone store.
Taking the tour bus gave us a quick tour to decide areas we want to go back and poke around in some more. There is a big flea market we’ve targeted and a leather factory outlet. After all, we need something to go with the new shoes we bought on our visit to Corte Ingles.
It happened to be my birthday, so Carli took me for dinner at the highly touted Pudu Can Manel by the harbor. Supposedly the place to go for paella. The first course arrived, a typical Spanish salad of lettuce, chunks of fresh tuna, hard boiled eggs, carrots, and succulent garden tomatoes. The next course was seafood paella filled with rice and very few hidden shrimp, calamari and some mystery seafood that is probably better left unknown. I found it disappointing. It was tasty but rather dry. Dessert was a flan out of a package.
But the place was just the sort I remembered, like our “local” favorite seafood restaurant in Fuenterrabia (now Hondarribia to satisfy the Basque). Sparkling white tablecloths and shining glassware, walls wooden and graced with pictures of owners going back to the 1800’s, service brusque and competent, all typical of Spain’s myriad of old style seafood eateries. It was a very pleasant evening all in all, and the fact that it was capped off by an ice cold shot of peach liquor was icing on my birthday cake.
Tag: Barcelona
Day 4 Barcelona In The Sun
The alarm clock went off, I think, but I didn’t hear it. Jet lag and angst got the better of me. Carli slept in too but by eleven AM we had eaten breakfast, dressed and were on our way out the door. The sun was brilliant and drying off the last of the puddles left from the day before.
Carli had been studying the bus and metro diagrams on the map she bought. Between the two of us we figured out how to get to the tourist bus line we had spotted through the rain. They offered a two day ticket with the ability to get on and off the bus at any of their stops, take the time to look around and get on the next bus at no extra charge. A good deal. We toured around all afternoon and got a feel for the city and where we were.
It was interesting to learn some of the history of the city through listening to an eloquent female British voice who was clear in her explanations. In the past I’ve taken tours where the voice coming through the earphones was so garbled or spoke the language so poorly I had no idea what they were talking about. Not the case with Barcelona Tourist Bus orange and green lines. It saved our feet and took us through all the neighborhoods we had seen on the internet when looking for an apartment. At most of the stops there were small cafes or bars where you could use the facilities for the price of a beer or soda and a couple of tapas.
The different neighborhoods are fascinating, some old in the original part of the city. Many of the houses on the main streets of Passig Gracia and Las Ramblas are opulent in an upper 5th Avenue Manhattan way of original owners vying for most prestige by having the fanciest house. On Passig Gracia the styles range from Gaudi masterpieces through every architectural style known to man from the 18th century through the present. The area of Barcelonetta, originally an ancient fishing village, appealed to me with it’s narrow streets and smaller homes. The scale was comfortable, homey and gave the feeling of a true neighborhood. Carli is attached to the area where our apartment is located and I have to agree with its accessibility. It’s a neighborhood with bars, restaurants, bakeries and tiny convenience stores packed with everything under the sun. After four days we are already buddies with the Indian family who run the closest mom and pop market and the nice young man at the telephone store.
Taking the tour bus has allowed us to decide which areas appealed most to us and where we want to go back and poke around some more.
There is a big flea market we’ve targeted and a leather factory outlet. After all, we need something to go with our new shoes.
We stopped briefly at Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s masterpiece. And it truly is breathtaking. We were too tired to go inside, it will have to wait for another day.
It happened to be my birthday, so Carli took me for dinner at the highly touted Pudu Can Manel by the harbor. Supposedly the place to go for paella. The first course arrived, a typical Spanish salad of lettuce, chunks of fresh tuna, hard boiled eggs, carrots, and succulent garden tomatoes. The next course was seafood paella filled with rice and hidden shrimp, calamari and some mystery seafood that is probably better left unknown. I found it disappointing. It was tasty but rather dry. Dessert was a flan out of a package.
But the place was just the sort I remembered, like our “local” favorite seafood restaurant in Fuenterrabia (now Hondarribia to satisfy the Basque). Sparkling white tablecloths and shining glassware, walls wooden and graced with pictures of owners going back to the 1800’s, service brusque and competent, all typical of Spain’s myriad of old style seafood eateries. It was a very pleasant evening all in all, and the fact that it was capped off by an ice cold shot of peach liquor was icing on my birthday cake.
LAX to Barcelona…Hopefully
Carli and I are on a jaunt to Barcelona for a week in a rented apartment and then pick up The Liberty of the Seas to cruise for fourteen days. We stop at Cartagena, Malaga, Seville and then on to Las Canarias to visit Tenerife and Las Palmas before crossing the Atlantic to Ft. Lauderdale.
Our start is inauspicious. Our plane is more than an hour and a half late leaving Los Angeles. Immediately it’s obvious we’ll miss our connections from Madrid to Barcelona. Carli is booked in Business Class and I’m in the cheap seats so we are both sent to hang out in the First Class/Business Traveler’s lounge. Pretty cool, it’s a nice place with surprisingly good food and very pleasant attendants. After stuffing ourselves on Beef Bourguignon, cheeses and drinks, they call our flight.
Did I say we are traveling with a dog? Carli brought Baby, her companion/service dog.
Baby is a Chorgi, a Chihuahua-Corgi mix for you non-dog people. He’s about as mellow as they come and takes all adversity with aplomb. There is something about his big upright Corgi ears and greenish yellow eyes that instantly captivate everyone who meets him. He’s a true gentleman who looks up and submits graciously to ear rubs, neck scratches and compliments
Carli travels airports in a wheelchair. She’s piled high with Baby, his bed, bags, coat, carry-ons, and I’m schlepping along with a cart filled with our two carry-on bags, handbag, raincoats, neck pillow, books, computer…like that.
Almost at our gate, the cart I’m pushing falls backwards on me. The cart and I end up in a not-so-loving embrace as we sprawl ass over teakettle onto the marble floor. Ignominious. Embarrassed. Slightly in shock. I don’t seem to know how to get my various parts working well enough to get back up. Two men run to my rescue and manage to haul my unhelpful body upright. It must have been akin to trying to right a tipped cow. I thank them profusely. Did I say embarrassed? I limp my way along to the plane, bleeding a bit from one hand and decidedly sore in yet undiscovered places. Ouch!
Carli is delighted to see me moving. She watched the fall in horror and later tells me she thought we were off to the emergency room instead of on the plane.
I’m still groggy as an air hostess leads me to my seat where I paw around in my carry-on bag to find a book and instead find a fistful of some gucky stuff covering the interior contents of the bag. Some unknown thing has managed to squish itself out of its prior confinement when I fell on it. Very bad show indeed!
Face cream? No, too clear looking. Looks more like snot but clearer and cooler.
The Argon oil I bought at the book fair last week and just had to bring along? No, not oily enough.
I have nothing to clean the stuff off with, no tissues, not paper towels. I think of KY jelly. I know I certainly didn’t bring any of that. Through the crowd of eager passengers streaming aboard, I plead for papers towels and the Air Hostess passes along a handful of napkins. That’ll work.
I wipe off Frommer’s “Barcelona,” Dorling Kindersly’s “Spain” and Ursula K. Le Guin’s “Steering The Craft.” My computer case and handbag are covered with sticky goo and I’m stifling the urge to run off the plane and forget about the whole trip. Obviously Mercury is in retrograde and this is not the time to travel.
In my frantic muddling about in the goop in my bag, my seeking hand attaches to a very goopy baggie and there is the culprit—a tube of hair gel, colorless, thank the powers in the universe, that has no bottom. My landing on it must have blown it out, the force making sure that every object in the carry-on was thoroughly covered with the goop, yes, goop. Only slightly relieved I know it had no oil in and should wash off leaving no stain. A small comfort.
The ensuing flight is long. Cramped. Boring. Everything I managed to bruise in the fall starts to ache. My fingers hurt and my palm turns an alarming shade of blue; shortly the sore fingers considerately start to match. My friend Patria, who likes everything coordinated,would approve.
When I went to get out of my seat, my knee refuses to obey without some intense mental prodding. When it does move, it hurts like hell. One way to avoid the pain is to sleep, which I do for most of the trip.
In Madrid, we have a short time to make the next flight to Barcelona, missing the one we arranged for, of course. We are the last off the plane as Carli has to wait for her wheel chair attendant who turns out to be an adorable young guy who takes very seriously his job of herding old ladies around airports. He’s determined to get us to Barcelona and hassles the connection desk to get us on the next flight. It’s leaving in a few minutes. Running across the airport does little for my knee but we make the flight, stumble to our seats, the plane leaves the walkway to stop dead after rolling a few feet. We sit on the tarmac for close to an hour and I’m way back somewhere jammed in the middle seat. I don’t care. Next stop Barcelona. Trip over.
In Barcelona we claim three of our four checked bags; my large bag is the missing one. Of course. With all my clothes. For Barcelona. For a two week cruise. At the airport they said the suitcase would arrive the next morning. The baggage department fills out a claim form, they take the address where we are staying from our apartment confirmation which I underline and hand to the woman taking the information. She gives me a number to call to check on the bags arrival.
One of the first things on my list is to get a disposable rechargeable cell phone. By the time we reach the apartment it’s too late and all the stores are closed. The next day is Sunday. Have to wait until Monday. That will pose a problem as the woman at the baggage department is intent on insisting that I give her a contact phone number. I tell her we intend to get one. In the meantime, I figure I can rely on my computer and Skype.
We arrive at the apartment and are met by someone from the agency. The apartment is suitable but very oddly arranged with bizarre hallways, strange nooks one tiny bathroom, one normal one. Someone with not much design sense had a fling at the remodel. Oh well. We move in. I connect to the internet and call the baggage claim number to find out if the errant suitcase has arrived in Barcelona. The woman on the line tells me it’s arrived and will be delivered in the morning to the address I left.
The shower is not easy to crawl into but it feels wonderful after being in the same clothes for more than twenty four hours. I check out what’s in the small suitcase. One short and one long sleeve tee-shirt. Underwear. Two pairs of jeans. One is the wrong pair. I thought it was the comfortable pair when I packed it. Turned out it was the tight pair. Curses! I have makeup, medicine, toothbrush and toothpaste paste. I’ll survive. But I won’t look smart on the cruise in tight jeans and ugly sandals I wear for Tai Chi and walking. I mean really ugly. The kind you wear and hope your jeans or yoga pants hide them if you have to wear them in public. Comfortable, I’ll give them that…not great to wear on the cruise formal nights.
The next day the suitcase doesn’t arrive, but after half-dozen frantic calls, someone tells me that they had delivered it and it was accepted. Where? Who accepted it? She gives me the address. Down the street at the wrong number! She gives me the name, a boutique hotel. I call, they have it and can I come and pick it up? I’m so relieved I’m effusive with thanks both over the phone and when I walk a block to pick the suitcase up.
Carli and I celebrate by shopping for new shoes and letting out a sigh of relief. I know she didn’t want to listen to me complain about my missing case all the way across the Atlantic!