A PERFECT DAY IN BARCELONA

Deb and I had decided that on this trip we would do our best to avoid running around crazy trying to do and see everything.  On our first day in Barcelona  we managed to do just that.

As we lug our bags up the steps of the  the metro, we leave the cool darkened underground  behind.  We blink in the mid-day  sun plunging into the hustle and swirl of La Rambla, the main pedestrian artery of  Barcelona.  Googlemaps chirps from  my phone, “You have arrived at your destination”.  For once, Googlemaps is right...I look up a side street to see Rene waving at us from a second floor wrought iron balcony.   

We climb the stairs to a modern three bedroom flat which is to be our home for the next five days. We drop our bags and relax for a few minutes before hunger drives us out the door in search of a late lunch.  We wander through  narrow lanes of dark stone in search of a place not just to eat, but to dine; hopefully in the grand style of the Catalunyans.  Our path is through El Gotic, the old city of Barcelona. Tourist shops with t-shirts flapping in the breeze are intermingled with stout, elaborately  carved wooden doorways. Small balconies  bracketed with light sconces protrude over our heads.  Limestone, polished by millions of footsteps over hundreds of years is luminous in the late afternoon light. 

After several twists, turns and false starts, we spy an elevated terrace shaded by large deciduous trees.  Following the signs around the building we find the entrance and a maître d who guides us up to a terrace above the Placa Nova.  We peruse the menu.  The prices shock us after two weeks in Portugal but we put it in perspective…it is still much cheaper than California and to be frank, at this point we really don’t care because we are sitting on a terrace on a perfect 70 degree day, we are starving, we are in one of my favorite cities in the world, and  we have come half way around the world to meet up with Mike and Rene (Deb’s brother and his girlfriend) for what is to be a great reunion.  We have not seen them for several months and we have a lot of catching up to do.  In short, life right here, right now, is absolutely perfect. 

   

Thirsty and starving we order what seems like half the menu along with a bottle of Cava to celebrate, and several beers to quench our thirst. Over the next few hours we dine in traditional Catalunyan style tasting course after course of vegetables, meat, seafood and paella.   Feeling like  fat lizards on a hot rock in the midday sun, we order espresso to gain some semblance of coherence and stagger out into the street.


 

Disoriented and somewhat inebriated, we wander off into the narrow back streets of the quarter hoping to find our way back to the apartment.  As is often the case at times like these, we stumble (did I mention the streets were uneven cobblestones?) upon the city cathedral. We gaze at the  soaring spires of the high-gothic architecture of the church. Lacy stone buttresses, brackets and accents that seem to defy physics and gravity tower above our heads. (Oh, the power of faith and engineering) After the obligatory photos we find our way back to our apartment for a much needed siesta.  (I said we were working on our Catalunyan style) 

 

Los tres amigos

Hangin' with Betty

We wake up logy from the travel, the food and the wine. After stumbling around the apartment for awhile, I look at the clock; 10:30 PM.  After a bit of fuzzy deliberation, we decide to hit the streets for a walk before  going back to bed.  I suggest that we take a walk down La Rambla, toward the harbor to bid the statue of Christopher Columbus a good night.  When we get there he is already in the dark, and gone to bed.  (They turn off his lights at midnight).





 So we retrace our steps back up La Rambla.   Rene announces she is a bit hungry and we all agree we could use a snack (even though after our prolonged lunch we all had agreed we would not eat again).   We step off the Rambla down a narrow side street. It is after midnight and it soon becomes apparent we are late for dinner even by Catalunian standards.  Most of the restaurants are closed or closing.  Almost in despair, we are about to turn back to the  the Rambla which never seems to sleep, when Mike spots a large market umbrella down an alley.  We walk quickly down the narrow lane which opens out into the Placa Real to find a fairyland of sidewalk cafes huddled under giant market umbrellas lit with twinkle lights and vibrating with people.  (It is an Alice through the rabbit hole experience).  In the center of the grand square street lights, designed by Antonio Gaudi, throw pools of light on the cobbled square. 




We cruise by a few restaurants and find a menu that appeals to us and we settle into chairs at the edge of the square for a midnight nosh.  Fried anchovies, crisp green salads and gazpacho washed down by fresh white wine provide a light and traditional Catalunyan repast that seems appropriate for the late hour.

We walk back through through quiet streets through  balmy night air to find our apartment and fall into our soft beds to sleep and perhaps to dream of our perfect day in Barcelona.

THE SOUL OF SPAIN

Sometimes in our travels we find ourselves in the right place at the right time.  (This more than makes up for those times we are in the wrong place at the wrong time)  Sometimes it is just dumb luck, but more often then not, a random conversation with a local,  a glimpse of a show card, or just stumbling into the midst of some festival, results in an  experience that reminds us why we travel. While in Seville, we asked our Airbnb host about a good place to see some Flamenco.  As luck would have it, a famous Spanish Flamenco dancer, Andres Pena, was performing that night.

The auditorium is buzzing with conversation.  I catch the odd word here and there but it is difficult to eavesdrop with my rusty Spanish.  The house lights dim as the stage lights come up. The unmistakable sound of a Spanish guitar catches the audience’s attention.  A black clothed figure is bent backwards over a wooden kitchen chair that is laying on the stage.  The music intensifies and a heavyset balding man enters stage right singing in alto range what sounds almost like a Muslim call to prayer.  The black clad figure slowly rises to perform a ballet with the chair as his partner.  While graceful, his movements are tortured, anguished and he appears troubled.  The stage lights brighten to reveal three more dark suited figures at the rear of the stage.  Each in turn sings haunting phrases that seem to entreat the dancer to  come alive;  to dance.  The dancer moves his whole body in a series mesmerizing arabesques, twists and turns and finally sinks to the floor while caressing a pair of flamenco boots.  He rises and delicately balances while slipping a boot on each foot.  He composes himself while the guitar and singers again seem to entreat him.  Tentatively at first he makes a few steps back and forth across the stage.  Seeming to find his muse, he begins to dance and dance he does.  I watch, totally enchanted by the control he has of every part of his body.  His sinuous movements slowly become more animated and soon he is in a full on, all out, stomping, twirling, flamenco dance as all four singers shout out in  accompaniment  to his dancing.  The crowd shouts out a chorus of “Oles” as the music and dancing crescendos into a chaotic yet fully controlled finale.  Suddenly the music and dancing stops and the crowd goes wild. 

The lights dim and a figure enter stages left.  As the stage lights come up the guitar starts again.  A woman is revealed dressed in classic flamenco garb with a bloused top and huge flouncy skirt that trails behind her.  A bright orange mantilla covers her shoulders and arms.  She delicately taps her way onto the stage. She reaches center stage and starts to twirl the mantilla up and around her head, shoulders and body in a delicate ballet of obvious mastery and grace.  I am mesmerized by the ability she demonstrates with this fringed piece of cloth.  The music intensifies.  The guitarist picks up the pace, plucking out notes so fast I can barely follow.  The woman’s feet keep pace with the guitar in a staccato beat. Her feet move so fast they blur in a frenzy of movement.  All the while she is twirling while swishing and kicking her skirt around and out of her way while continually swirling her mantilla up and around her head and torso.  The music starts to slow as do her feet and she ends with a flourish, with her chest heaving in exhaustion and lungs gasping for air.  Again the crowd goes wild with applause and a chorus of “Oles”.

The lights dim and then rise again The male dancer is on the stage lying  as if dead. The guitarist plucks out a mournful lament.  A singer raises his voice and others  join in as the dancer slowly rises. As before, he is tentative at first but soon he is dancing in wild abandon yet again completely in control of every movement of his body.  I admire how every line, every gesture and every movement of his body is perfect and a perfect expression of the music.  He stomps and  whirls  quickly and violently with passion and grace.  Streams of sweat fly in a halo about his head.  He dances beyond all human endurance and then keeps dancing.  After what seems to be an impossibly long time, the music and dancing again crescendos into a frantic finale.  The audience leaps to its feet shouting choruses of  “Ole” and “Bravo” over and over.  There is hooting and hollering accompanied by deafening endless applause. The crowd can not and will not stop.  They know they have witnessed something special.  Finally, after a fifteen minute standing ovation the crowd seems to take pity on the exhausted performers and the applause slowly, reluctantly, fades away. 

The house lights come up and the crowd chatters excitedly as they exit, knowing they have witnessed and been a part of  something exceptional;  something extraordinary.  As for me, I feel like I have gazed into the very soul of what is Spain.

A SWEET LITTLE TOWN BY THE SEA

I step out of the car into the warm sunshine.  Golden sand stretches for a hundred yards to the azure blue sea.  Waves rush to the shore in frothy white exuberance before spending themselves on the gilded sand.  The sand sparkles with millions of grains of pyrite in the late afternoon sun.  

 Fishwives on stools preside over baskets of sun dried fish dressed in traditional garb of horizontal striped knee socks beneath multi petty coated skirts, with white blouses topped by heavy wool sweaters and crowned by babushkas to protect their dried apple faces from the harsh Mediterranean sun.  Behind large nets on wooden frames filled with crucified fish dry in the warm breeze.

Dried fish anyone?

I turn to gaze at pastel buildings across from the esplanade.  Passersby of every shape, size, description and nationality provide a moving river of color against the backdrop of colonial architecture.  Shopkeepers smile at the passing crowd.  No pressure here.  Let the wares speak for themselves.  The smell of fresh seafood, roasting fish and meat, and the occasional smell of some exotic perfume drifts on the sea breeze.  Sidewalk cafes are full of tourists and locals alike drinking beer, coffee and the ever present vinho branca. 

The sound of workers hammering, drilling and sawing provides a backdrop of white noise broken by the occasional crash of a load into the dumpster; new replacing old at a feverish pace.

Yet somehow there is an essence that is one hundred percent laid-back-beach town.  The sights, sounds and smells  a mélange of near perfection. 

A rare old deux chevaux

We have just landed on the west coast of Portugal in the town of Nazare.  Once a sleepy little fishing village, it now makes its living catering to the tourists of Europe and beyond.  Despite that, it has retained its sweetness and its culture of living off the bounty of the sea.  Locals intermingle with tourists in a fully integrated society that has become so rare in a tourist destination.  The people are unfailingly polite, welcoming and friendly.  

I meditate on a surf and turf skewer

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Aside from being a tourist destination, Nazare has laid claim to possessing some of the largest waves ever surfed.  A few years ago,  Garrett McNamara surfed a nearly 100 tall foot wave off of the point of Nazare beach.  Hard to imagine on a day like today with the one foot swell, but Nazare has a system of intersecting underwater canyons that, when conditions are right, produce some of the largest waves ever observed. (Check out Garrett's big ride at :   www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlrqyHIE4wc   It is totally insane! 

Lighthouse on Nazare point. (Site of the big wave)

It is late afternoon now, and I beckon Deb back to the car and we soon find a sweet little hotel on the strand complete with balcony overlooking the beach and waves.  We grab a few beers from the downstairs bar and sit on our balcony relaxing after the day’s drive and watch the sun sink into the ocean. 

 

I run downstairs to book for two nights which becomes five.  We can’t tear ourselves away from this sweet little town by the sea.

WILD FLOWERS IN THE WIND

Sometimes in our travels we come upon scenery, sights and vistas that overwhelm us with their beauty.  It seems that more often than not, this happens when we least expect it.  It is one of the reasons we like to travel with very little itinerary,  sometimes  even without a destination (and sometimes totally lost.)  Today, totally unexpectedly, we found ourselves driving through vast swaths of wildflowers.  Watching the windblown wildflowers got me to thinking about how much our lives, experiences and even history are shaped by forces like the wind.  Our lexicon is full of references to the wind;  the winds of change, throw caution to the winds, three sheets to the wind,  a bag of wind, and... breaking wind.  As we are blown down the road  (of life),  I feel like we are wildflowers in the wind.

The drive south from Lisbon through gently rolling wildflower covered hills was  a wind blasted challenge.  Our tiny rental car was rocking with each gust and I wrestled to keep the car on the Autoroute.  After an hour drive on the high speed toll road, we branched off onto a narrow two lane road, slowed down, and literally took the time to stop and smell the roses. 

As I step out of the car I am buffeted by a strong wind.  Before me is a broad meadow of yellow and purple flowers. Waves of tall  rye grass roll on an ocean of mustard yellow.   A dappled horse eyes us with curiosity from the top of the meadow.  Above a  brilliant blue sky is torn by clouds racing on the wind.   A narrow dirt track meanders between  meadow and  stout wire fence.  Over the fence a grove of fig trees with leaves like giant hands quake in the stiff breeze.  The meadow rises up to low hills that mask all but the tips of giant blades of windmills that surreally rotate into and out of view.  Behind me the narrow two lane road winds towards the coast.  After several minutes of revery, a passing car reminds me we have miles to go before we sleep.  Reluctantly we climb back into the car and continue on our journey to the end of the world.

We drove past  carpets of yellow or white flowers as far as the eye could see.  Reds, brilliant blues, oranges and practically every color of the rainbow painted the hillsides and meadows. Here and there  small whitewashed villages with red tile roofs interrupted the sea of flowers.  Occasionally,  we would spot an old fashioned masonry windmill with white sails billowing in the wind.  We were on our way to the end of the world.

Old windmill minus its sails

Back in the dark ages, the end of the world was thought to be just over the horizon.  On a windswept promontory that is the westernmost point of Europe, it was generally accepted that the ancient town of Sagres was at the end of the world.  

Until the early 14th century, few sailors  ventured beyond the sight of land for fear of falling off the edge of the earth. The birth of Portugal's most famous son Henry the Navigator, in 1394, changed that.  

 Henry the Navigator became a brilliant scholar who hypothesized that the world did not end at the horizon line. He challenged the generally accepted beliefs that limited knowledge of how big, or even what shape the world was.  (Today, I also question what shape the world is in, but that is a topic for another day)  Henry did more than anyone before to dispel myths and misconceptions and literally launch the great age of discovery. Throughout his life he pushed sailors to go further afield (or a sea as the case may be).  While many of those sailors never came back, the ones that did were a wealth of information; information that Henry used to develop some of the first accurate charts of the ocean and expand the known world.  Henry started a navigation school where some of the most famous seafarers of all time were trained in his navigational techniques.  Names we all learned in school like Magellan, Vasco de Gama and Christopher Columbus passed through the doors of Henry’s school.

Henry founded his school at  Sagres, an ancient town revered by the Greeks, Romans and Phoenicians as a sacred place of the gods;  hence the name which loosely translates as sacred.  We found that Sagres was not only a powerful place, but it seemed like a pretty good place to launch a sailing ship.  A sheltered harbor to the south was a few puffs of wind away from the strong winds that sweep Portugal’s Algarve coast.  Strategic location plus brilliant deductive reasoning plus leaps of faith (coincidentally Henry was very pious) launched the great age of discovery.  (Sorry if I ran on too long with the history lesson, I find the discovery of new places and new ideas very interesting and exciting.  None of my readers would probably ever guess that of me.)

At the end of the world

When we arrived in Sagres, the wind was so strong that it rocked our little rental VW Up like it was a toy.  Stepping out to view the large bastions of a fort built on the end of the peninsula, Deb and I were nearly blown off our feet by the strong gusts.  Wisely, we got back in the car to save our visit for another day.

My lady of the flowers