Lost in Spain

Sometimes You Know When You’re Lost

I love markets. I enjoy going to supermarkets when I’m home or when I’m traveling in the States. I like to explore those little convenience stores at gas stations. 

On Tuesday, I went into the store at the gas station across the street from the hotel to buy a bottle of wine. He said he didn’t have any, although he had bottles of spirits on the shelf, as most places do.

I turned to leave and realized I must be wearing down. I had asked “tiene usted rio tinto?” (do you have red river). It’s a good thing he didn’t have any in stock; it’s not what I wanted. I wanted vino tinto. That he had.

It’s a red wine made in the region. I think I had a glass of it last night after my cab ride. At least, the cork was out of the bottle this morning. I don’t remember.

The market on La Rambla Catalunya is called Boqueria and except for a few stalls closed for vacation, was in full swing when I got there Wednesday afternoon.

This is where you go to buy ingredients. Very little besides the wine is packaged. You can buy dried or fresh fruit, sheep heads, tripe, tongues, and other internal organs, as well as the roasts, steaks, and ubiquitous ham.

I don’t know how many different sorts of oysters, clams, and langostinos there are, but it seems all of them are for sale in a circular fish department in the center of the marketplace.

A stand was doing brisk business in fruit juices of irresistibile colors. So I didn’t try to resist. I had a drink combining coconut and papaya. The straw kept getting plugged by the fruit pulp. This wasn’t a drink, but a meal.

The gumdrops looked irresistible too. But when the price for a dozen turned out to be 7.5 euros (about $10 American) I passed. 

There is very little odor from the meats or fish because they are so fresh. But you can turn the corner and get hit in the face with the fragrance of oranges.

Across from the market is a two-story bookstore. Translating dictionaries, phrase books, and teach-yourself guides for various languages are displayed by the door. I found a pocket-size Catalan-English translator.

It was time for cervesa (as it’s spelled in Catalan) and to enlighten myself. Among the mysteries cleared up over beer: The value of “x” in Catalan equals “sh” in English; the “j” is pronounced as in French; “ll” is not treated as a separate letter, as in Spanish, and has the sound of the “lli” in “million.” The Catalans have no Castilian lisp.

I thought about going over to my favorite neighborhood near the Seu, but decided to take a detour down a narrow street that went the opposite way. I’m walking around looking at shops and architecture, and thinking to myself, yeah, the cathedral is the other way, but this is new territory, and besides I can find my way back. I’m starting to get some of Larry’s knack for finding my way around colorful cities all over the world. 

This is why travel is broadening. You can always be a wise-ass. Lord knows I’m proof of that. But damn, it doesn’t take long to realize that you’re the butt of the joke. In other words, it teaches you humility, want it or not.

I knew I was going in the wrong direction, so I sort of made a note of where and which way I turned. I have no idea how accurate my mental map was, because I never got to use it. I was lost from the start.

After several minutes of exploring, I saw something familiar, a mural of stick figures that decorates the wall of the tourist office, which sits right across the square from the Seu. 

My sense of competence was severely shaken, so I had to put myself to a test.

Why not go back to the tapas bar where the man gave me directions to get to the Temple of Augustus? I almost know how to get there. 

From the cathedral square, it’s short walk to the city hall square. I go diagonally across that and take a short curving street to the square that has a construction that looks like it’s made of giant wire coat hangers, and then begin to explore from there.

Of course, I didn’t find it on the first try, so I came back to the coat hangers and started over. Along the way I stopped to read a sign or to look at something curious in a window. 

I heard a voice say, “Are you from Montclair, New Jersey?”

This is why you always have to behave. Wherever you go there is someone who can identify you to the authorities.

I turned a saw a man I see several times a week because we take the same train from Watchung Station. He was with his wife, and they were doing the same things I was doing—walking the old streets, seeing the sights, trying the bars.

His name is George, and they have been in Barcelona for a week. His back is sore from walking, but he can’t stop. Sounded familiar to me. 

A little while later, I was walking down a street behind a man who was leading a toddler. They were chatting as parents do with children, and I remember his attention was so wrapped up in the child that he walked into a sandwich board sign on the sidewalk.

That street led me to the place I wanted. It faces a triangular plaza and serves people at tables outside, as well as inside. 

I went in, but the barman wasn’t there. I ordered a red and a couple of pinchos—a type of tapa that consists of a topping on a slice of baguette, in my case an anchovy with chopped tomato and a sausage with cheese.

While I was eating and making notes, in walks my friend from the other day. With the toddler. He was the guy I’d been following down the street.

He knows I look familiar, so I tell him that I found the temple with no trouble and was back to say thanks.

He’s apparently the owner. He helps himself to a few pinchos. “Tengo hambre.” and a beer. A woman has charge of the boy, who is at the bar playing with crayons and paper. He looks up at the man and calls out “Papa.”

Later Papa changed the boy’s diaper in the bar.

A lot of people can’t understand me when I try to speak Spanish. Or maybe because I am always mixing it up with alien words—especially Italian and French when I’m trying to be Latin—they pretend not to get it.

Anyhow, the lady tending the bar spoke little English so I reordered in Spanish: “Un vino mas, y dos pinchos. El mismo.” I believe this means “One more wine and two pinchos. The same.” Then to clarify, I added “salsichon con queso y tamate con anchoa.”

I think I did it mostly right­—sausage with cheese and tomato with anchovy—because that’s what I got.

At one point, a man wearing a hat with feathers in the band and hair halfway down his back walked up to the bar. He was carrying what looks like a disassembled harpoon.

He had a drink of something and went outside to light up. OK, this is too much for my curiosity. I go out and ask him what he’s carrying. It’s a bow with arrows from South America. He just bought it.

He is originally from the Pyrenees, and still goes back to the mountains to hunt. That’s what the bow is for. He hunts rabbits and small deer. Talk about eye-hand coordination.

He says he goes on long winter hunts in Sweden. He takes a kilo of salt, a couple of flour. He finds a spot among the pines where the snow is shallow enough to remove. Then he pitches a tent on the ground and covers it with snow. He says he has to keep a flap open at night or he would die of the heat.

He stays for about three months, but comes back when he is sick of himself.

I offered to buy him a drink, but he said he doesn’t drink. He’s a survivalist who doesn’t drink, but he smokes cigarettes. I wonder how many of those he lugs to the hills of Sweden. Or maybe he puts up with the nicotine fits. 

This guy looks to be about my age. He could actually be telling me the truth. Or some, anyway.

Next, I went out to try my luck some more. I went down to Admiral Columbus’s column and took a street that starts there. I had remembered that this led me somehow to La Cerveteca, the first night I was in town. 

This is the Carrer Ample. Among other attractions, it houses the Marijuana and Hashish Museum of Barcelona. I doubted they were selling samplers in the gift shop, so I walked on. 

Somewhere on this leg of the journey I saw the man with the bow and said hi. 

At the end of Carrer Ample, you turn left, and on the next corner is one of the world’s extraordinary beer bars, right here in a super wine country.

They sell 40-euro bottles of brew here. They may even be worth that much, but I didn’t buy one.

The lineup of draft beer was different this night. Farigola is a lager like no other I’ve tasted. It had as much flavor as Blue Point Toasted Lager. There was something else in there, maybe some kind of spice, something like mace, added to the malt and hops. Or maybe just terrific hops.

Then there was Chateau Oregasmic. Right, with a name like that, I’m going to pass that up. It was an ale with a deep smoky flavor, not too sweet.

I had also ordered a tapa of salchichon (llonganissa in Catalan), described in English as horsemeat sausage, served with points of toast. The menu also had helado de queso, described as “two cheese ice cream balls with jam.” 

I was waiting for that at the bar when two men came up and asked the barman in accented English about the drafts. They mentioned Farigola, and I said it was good. So one of them ordered it.

When the sausage came, I offered to share because there was more than I could handle.

His name is Paul, and he is on a family trip. He is from Minnesota, which explains the accent.

He and nine members of his family drove from Madrid a few days ago.

There had been 15 together in Madrid, but five, including his mother, went home from there. The rest came to Barcelona in three rented cars. 

Paul went to rejoin his family group and I had a new companion. A medium size dog came in with a couple and was very interested in what was on the bar. He was wiggling and trying to jump up for a look.

Maybe he liked beer, or maybe he smelled the sausage. In any event, I gave him a slice of horsemeat and he calmed down.

My third beer was Belgian called Slaap. Tripel. “Slaap.” is spelled with a point, but I’m not sure what the abbreviation stands for, but Beer Advocate’s website has an entry for Slaapmutske Triple Nightcap. This was strong, sold only in the 300 milliliter glass. And tasty as all Belgian ales are.

That was about it for me. I went out onto the street and wasn’t sure which direction to take to find a subway station, so I gave up and hailed a cab. I have a feeling I’d still be out there looking for a station if I had tried to do anything else.

Today’s photo is from the Boqueria. Spanish and Catalan food are not big on chiles, but the colors made this a popular photo. Three other people shot this stall in the two minutes I was there.

Be well all and keep warm. I hear that it’s bitterly cold in New Jersey. I’ll be getting my share of that Saturday when I come home.

Harry