Some twenty years ago I visited Barcelona with my late husband Harold (The Major). Older readers may remember the Gay Umbrella
post on Chocs Away! Old Girl. This time I went with Gorbals which was a
marginally less stressful experience. No football stadium pilgrimage
for one thing.
Gorbals' idea of a holiday comprises two things,
sleeping and drinking, both of which he could do in Brussels. But once
dragged from his pit, he can be enticed on long walks by a
Hansel-and-Gretl trail of bar-hopping. His first project, once Abroad,
is to learn what the local beer is, how it is drunk and how to go about
ordering a large one. He has a good ear for languages, and even managed
this in Poland. In Barcelona the local brew is Estrella and the
servings are "jarra" (normal size) or "grande" (pint) (accompanied by
helpful mime action). There is also a "cana" which is about a
mouthful, which he didn't bother learning. Due diligence done, he was
ready for Barcelona. But was Barcelona ready for Gorbals?
I
don't mind a cold jarra at the end of a long hot day, or even at
lunchtime, but I was in search of a fruit-based drink for the evening.
In Barcelona, the drink de rigueur is vermut. Or vermouth if you
will. Nothing so manufactured as Martini Rosso, here every bar makes
it to their own recipe. I asked a waiter como se bebe el vermut, he told me con hielo.
On the rocks. My first taste was very pleasant. It became my
Barcelona drink. Red, mostly, or they also have a white version. Or
sometimes I had a sangria for a change, to fulfil my five a day. They
certainly know how to do a fruit-based drink for the ladies.
We
both speak enough Español de Vacaciones to get by, Catalan is another
story. But luckily everyone in Barcelona speaks Spanish. And English.
And in the area we were staying, near the Arc de Triomf, Chinese. Our
local downstairs bar turned out to be Chinese, but the morning coffee
was as good as anywhere. A Spanish breakfast is one of the great
breakfasts of the world in my humble opinion. Spanish caffe con leche is up there with Portuguese meija leite, and accompanied by a freshly squeezed Valencia orange juice and a light flaky pastry, is the perfect start to the day.
A
word of warning: Barcelona is a tourist trap all year round, and the
Gaudi buildings are magnets for busloads of camera-clickers. Online
advance booking is the way to go here, as I found belatedly. The queue
to go inside the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's quirky cathedral, looked very long, so I shelved that for another visit. I had already been inside the Casa Batlló with
Harold, and Gorbals was more interested in where the next bar was, so I
crossed that off my list. On the Sunday we took a bus up to Parc Güell (which I had already visited 20 years ago) only to find it was 'full'. A park! Oh güell. There is still a terrific view over Barcelona from outside the gates.
I
had not ventured as far as the beach on my previous day trip with
Harold, and Barcelona is very much a beach town. The beach is walking
distance from the city centre, if you're not too knackered, otherwise
public transport will take you there. This is where the Barcelonés come
to play. There is a massive noisy funfare with flashing lights and
those whirligig things with girls screaming their heads off which make
you queasy just looking at them. In the harbour was a magnificent
megayacht called Kaos which turned out to belong to Nancy Walton Laurie
of the Wal-Mart family and had just been cleaned up after being targeted
not once but twice by those naughty environmental activists and their
pot of red paint. It's no fun being a megayacht owner. (I confess to a
bit of a fascination with megayachts and have been known to browse
yachtporn on occasion).
We had our first dinner in Barceloneta, at Taverna Iberia
in the old quarter a few streets back from the beach. Restaurants in
Barcelona appear to be mostly run and staffed by subcontinentals of
some description (Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi) but the food is
typically Catalan. I had garlic prawns, which were so good I ordered a
second dish. Gorbals had a tortilla. Now, in my judgment the
tortillas in Barcelona were not as good as the ones in the Basque
Country. They were individual size and clearly cooked earlier and kept
warm, meaning they lacked the oozy gooiness of Basque tortillas de
patatas which are much bigger and slightly undercooked to start with,
left on the counter under a cover and served in slices. There is even a man in San Sebastian who makes one dish a day - a huge tortilla, serving
about 12 - and people queue up hours ahead to eat it.
Barceloneta old town is very much the place to eat, especially seafood. Another evening we ate at Can Ramonet
opposite the market. Anywhere in the vicinity of a market is a good
bet. Here, the fresh fish was on display at the entrance. I ordered
monkfish, and Gorbals had a fish & rice soup which came in a tureen
(two full helpings, which he duly demolished).
I cannot resist a market, so we poked our noses into several. The Mercat de la Boqueria
just off Las Ramblas is the most famous one. Heaving on the Saturday,
we slipped out of a side entrance out of fear of being robbed. Our
landlord had issued grave warnings about the chances of being robbed or
pickpocketed. However, we were not even threatened. I wonder why.
A boat trip is a must-do on a city break. In Barcelona the harbour tours go from the bottom of the Ramblas opposite the statue of Christopher Columbus. We had a jaunt down the coast a little way, then back for a tour of the harbour where a number of mahoosive cruise liners were moored. Some were 12 decks high and held more passengers than a small town. Some of them waved desperately from the upper decks, possibly signalling to be rescued.
Spanish
markets are a feast for all the senses. We went back to the Boqueria
on the Monday before heading to the airport and ate lunch in one of the
market restaurants under the colonnades, Pez Gordo
(The Fat
Fish), where we found ourselves squeezed between a friendly Japanese man
and his grown up daughter, who ordered a huge plate of seafood "con
todo", and a pair of middle aged ladies from Tasmania who overhead us
discussing the film "Scent of a Woman" (the accordionist had just
played Por Una Cabeza) and jumped in. We ended up spending the whole
meal talking to them and learned their whole life story. They had made a
last minute decision to fly to Barcelona to surprise the daughter of
one of them, who was celebrating her 21st birthday with a round-Europe
tour and had invited lots of friends to join her on the big day in
nearby Badalona. I do hope it went well. Things like that can
backfire.
Anyway, I highly recommend the restaurant. A word of advice: Restaurants or bars serving food near the market will not serve you just a drink, you need to head for a basic bar that does not serve food.
I
bought vac-packed serrano ham and olives to take home. We also stocked
up on Clipper lighters. An odd choice, you might think, but it turns
out (courtesy of Gorbals research department) that they are made in
Barcelona, and we do like to help the local economy. Gorbals says they
are far superior to Bic disposable lighters, as they are refillable and
have a handy little removable flint stick which can be used to tamp down
the tobacco in your home rolled joint gasper.
They do a handy purse-size model of which I bought a few in the local
Chinese pound shop. We have an ongoing fight in our house over
lighters. Mine invariably disappear, and are often found in Gorbals'
pocket. However, he spotted in the tobacconist's window a metal Clipper
which he spent a whole 9 euros on. He now says he can't give up
smoking due to amortizing his investment. I on the other hand have no
excuse.
The muscles from Brussels
