Adios, Barcelona

Fun in the Metro

3 de Enero.

It was full circle today. I hopped Metro to the stop called Catalunya and made a quick tour of La Mercat de Boqueria again early in the afternoon.

Now that I know the way, I retraced the route to Bahia, the tapas shop where I met the survivalist with the bow. After a glass of vino tinto and a couple of pinchos (two variants of tuna salad, I think), I wandered downhill from there. 

After a few turns, because none of the streets goes far without a twist and a change of name, a sign told me I was back in Carrer Ample. Still not interested in the Hash Museum and not craving a beer for the moment, I went to Passeig de Colom. The Spanish for that would be Paseo de Colon.

During some ramblings the other day, by the way, I stumbled on the Archive of Catalunya. (There is also an Archive of Barcelona, which is near the Seu.) On the wall at the Catalunya archive, there is a large photo reproduction of one of its documents, the articles signed by Columbus and by the Catholic kings, Ferdinand and Isabela, before he set off to prove that you could reach India in three or four weeks by crossing the Atlantic. He was to get one-eighth of whatever wealth his expedition earned by means of trade or conquest.

The Passeig de Colom (according to my Diccionari Catalá-Angles, the first word is pronounced “pa-saich,” with accent on the second syllable) is a broad avenue full of cars. The ship masts and amusements of the Old Port, Port Vells, are on the other side. 

I walked down to the main post office to send a postcard to Karl and his family. Then I started uphill, eventually finding myself back at La Rambla, not far from the Boqueria.

I drafted the text so far into my pocket notebook while sipping wine at the bar Sukaldari, a Basque place next to the market. 

I was feeling very worldly, almost naturalized Euro-trash, sipping vino, making notes, reading a menu in Catalan and French (they knew I was foreign, but not what flavor), and watching people stroll by. Some wore funny hats with ears.

I also saw that the Second Story Santa was persistent, if not very efficient. I had seen him the day before, his bandanna pulled up and his shades on, trying to break into the same apartment. He has a henchman who was scaling a balcony across the Rambla.

Later on, after a break at the hotel, I set out roughly for the same neighborhood to find a street in the Old Town that I had noticed earlier in the day, Carrer dels Escudellers. I think it means street of the shield-makers. I had a flash of all these aristocrats in the old days going down there to order their bespoke shields. (For all I know, they did.)

After all that speculation, I found that “Escudellers” is not in my translating dictionary. There is an entry for “escudella.” It means “bowl” or “basin.” Maybe that’s what the aristocrats came to this street to buy.

In a subway during the trip, I heard a man play “Auld Lang Syne” and “Red River Valley” on a one-stringed Chinese fiddle. During the ride over, a couple of uniformed security guards walked into my car. They were wearing an official badge that said “Vigilante de Seguridad.” So I got to see subway vigilantes.

When I got to the stop marked on the Google map, I realized I wasn’t sure which way to take on the Rambla. Three or four glasses of wine can disrupt a sense of direction, especially one as poor as mine. I usually have to remember how I hold a pen to be sure of right and left.

So of course I walked the wrong way for about a mile. The street I wanted was not far uphill from the Passeig de Colom. So I asked a man on the street which way to the passeig, and had to backtrack.

It is an interesting street, once you find it. There was one place called Caracoles that I wanted to investigate. With a name that means Snails, it sounded promising. But after reading the menu, I decided that I didn’t want to run the equivalent of eighty or ninety bucks American for dinner for myself.

There’s another restaurant close by that always seems to have a dozen people lined up at the door waiting to get in. Maybe they’re the owner’s cousins paid to do that to make the place look really good. There are too many good places down here to stand in line for anything.

After all, I got a seat in the hottest part of town on New Year’s Eve just by walking around, which is something I’d do anyway. 

I found a place with open seats at the bar, where I had a Catalan salad (familiar, actually—greens, tomato, olives, hard-boiled egg, yellow corn, onion) and Catalan sausage with white beans. I think the word for them is “seques.” It might have been a “g” instead of a “q.” 

The English menu said it was “boiled sausage.” I asked the bartender about that, and he assured me that, no, it was not cooked in water. There must have been an unfortunate typo, because this sausage was broiled black and delicious.

I had three glasses of wine to really screw up my sense of direction. But I found the Metro station somehow. I was supposed to go left and left. On reflection now, I think I didn’t go izquierdo y izquierdo, but derecho y derecho. Still the same general direction, but out of the way. A man handing out fliers for a restaurant called Sinatra pointed me the last part of the way.

4 de Jener

I went around the corner for breakfast this morning and drank couple of cafe americanos, while everybody else in the place was drinking beer or Calvados. I decided to save my beer drinking for the train station. Checkout time was noon and my train left at three. The Metro ride, walks, transfer, and all, would take 45 minutes tops, so I’d have a lot of time to kill.

There were some steps to climb both up and down to make the transfer in the Metro, but there were also some escalators up and in one station an escalator down. So lugging the bags to the train wasn’t so bad.

Sure, I was breathing hard at the end, but hey, at least I got there.

After seeing where I’d have to go for my gate, I had a couple of San Miguel drafts in a cafeteria at the station while I played with the computer for a bit.

I found a little place with some interesting looking sandwiches and tried one with a can of Estrella. The sandwich consisted of chopped ham and maybe a few other things baked into a roll, sort of a Catalan calzone.

It was actually pretty doughy and bland, but it was 1:30 in the afternoon and breakfast was six hours in the past, so I enjoyed it, and the beer.

The train ride to Madrid alternated between dozing off and looking at the scenery. The vines in the vineyards are all bare. The windmills were still today.

Right now, the clock says 17:34. I think we’re coming into the railyards outside Atocha station.

19:45.

Checked in to the TRYP Diana, the airport hotel, a little while ago.

I expected to have more trouble getting here because there is a Metro strike. As it turns out, trains are running at half service, about every six minutes when I got there around six.

The train from Atocha Renfe was packed and stayed that way until one stop before my transfer station. Since I was heading to the end of the line and away from the center of the city, the second line was not so bad, although those damn bags had to be a nuisance for a few people. 

Sorry about that, people.

The beer I had at Barcelona Sants station has worn off. I’m going downstairs now to have some tapas and vino tinto. 

Be well, all. Have a blast.