The first time I flew to Europe my plane ticket cost $250 and was procured through a travel agent. Back then we carried our paper tickets, accordion maps and guidebooks in our hands and changed dollars for pounds. This was 1996, and my friend and I flew across the Atlantic to visit our roommate studying abroad, and my god, British food was terrible and everything was expensive. Little did we know we booked what we thought to be a fancy hotel in a posh neighborhood when really it was a hovel where we paid a pound an hour for heat and a communal bathroom was located on every other floor.
We took an overnight flight and I remember the cab ride to the hotel–how we pressed our faces to the glass just to see everything, and we did the thing we weren’t supposed to do: we dropped our bags and collapsed into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. Come nightfall we woke, ate and drank, and we proceeded to do that for the days that followed; our bodies never really adjusted to London time.
Perhaps this is a long-winded way of saying that after 18 years you would’ve thought I learned something because the first thing I did when I arrived yesterday morning in Spain was SLEEP. I’d sleep for two hours, walk to the supermarket, ramble in Spanish, walk home, eat, sleep, edit my novel (how?) and sleep again. I woke at seven to darkness and I spent thirteen hours combing Barcelona and falling in love with a city that reminds me of Paris, minus the caustic attitude.
If there’s one thing I hate doing is planning an itinerary before I go on holiday. While this may sound odd for someone as Type A and methodical as me, however, vacation is the one time I have when I can play my days as they lay. I can wake to a new city waiting to be discovered and there’s a thrill in that, moving amongst strangers and navigating a language that isn’t your own. Yet, I booked two AirBNBs (one for Barcelona and another for Granada), and I decided the day before I left New York that I would book a couple of excursions and I’m glad I did.
After scanning the web, I came across Julia Tours, a reputable, well-rated tour service that covers the basics and beyond. Today, I took a full-day tour of Barcelona, and I’m presently lying supine on the couch with my feet propped up on cushions they ache so much. But it’s a good ache, and today was a magical day.
We started out wandering the medieval streets in the Gothic Quarter, where most of the buildings date back from the 15th century, including the Barcelona Cathedral. We headed toward Plaza Sant Jaume to view the political buildings, including the the Palace of Generalitat and the Town Hall. Most of the tour was on foot, and our expert guides were funny, deft, and shared little known facts about the sites we were seeing. We heard a story about a virgin martyr, Eulalia who was left naked in the city square and then the snow fell, miraculously covering her nudity. She was buried in the crypt of the Barcelona Cathedral and 13 geese are kept in the cloisters to honor her sacrifice.
Leave it to me to remember the macabre.
Back on the bus to take in views of the Mediterranean Sea and the Barcelona Coast on the way to the Olympic Village, home to athletes during the Olympics, and the Port Olympic. Nearby, we took an aerial cable-car and I was in awe of such a beautiful, vibrant, yet oddly serene city. Perhaps it’s the fact that Barcelona is married to so much water. I’ve always been partial to the ocean. Finally, we visited the Spanish Village (Poble Espanyol) to see typical architecture and traditional crafts from different regions of Spain. I managed to sneak in some chorizo, potatoes with aioli, and copious amounts of dark chocolate.
We broke for lunch, and I need to tell you that I nearly ran down to Las Ramblas–all to see La Boqueria in all its glory. And BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY THAT THIS OPEN-AIR MARKET DID NOT DISAPPOINTMENT. Yes, I used all caps because The Boqueria deserves nothing less than bold font. It’s a market I’ve never seen. Rows of tapas bars with hundreds of people pulling apart shrimp and oysters with their slicked fingers. Beer spilling, the quick slicing of raw fish, the sizzle and hiss of pork hitting multiple skillets, and throngs of people sipping on psychedelic-hued juices–the cacophony of the music the food made and the people who gathered around it was unlike any I’d ever heard, and I felt dizzy wandering the stalls, sampling scores of ham and ham, and oh by the way, the juiciest figs I’ve ever had. Cut open, they were practically violet.
Some people travel to see architecture. I travel to fondle fruit. I travel to have six meals a day–just so I don’t miss a taste. I was so delirious I photographed a MUSHROOM. And you guys know how I feel about the WRETCHED MUSHROOM. Of course I didn’t touch it or taste it, but I did admire its composition. I was feeling generous, you see.
Later on, I boarded a bus to survey the façade of La Sagrada Familia (the line to get in was bananas foster, so I plan on returning so my photos don’t honestly do this basilica justice), and continued on to enjoy more of Antoni Gaudi’s masterpieces, including the sculptures, terraces and mosaic-embellished walls at Park Güell. To say I fell in love with the modernist pieces–many of which influenced a young Picasso and many other cubists–would be an understatement. I was particularly drawn to the Gingerbread House (shocker, the macabre fairytale I adored as a child) and how the roof was adorned with inverted coffee cups, symbolic of Gaudi giving up coffee in his 70s.
After thirteen hours, I hobbled home, fixed a HUGE salad (salads, as we know it, aren’t really big here) and some gluten-free pasta with sausage, sundried tomatoes and fried chickpeas.
Tomorrow I’m off to Dali’s seaside hometown and museum. Bring me all the surrealism.
By the way, I’ve consumed more pork today than I have in the past year, and I’m not tired of it yet.
By the way, way, I’m posting a pile of my photos on Instagram. Follow me!