Expecting to see Rome in Barcelona is a foolish inclination of an amateurish tourist. If it is your first thought than you might want to jump back on the plane and head back to the eternal city. Otherwise, stick around for a pleasant surprise. Barcelona is a great Pandora box of revelations starting with an aeroplane’s approach to the city that offers sweeping vistas ranging from the sandy Mediterranean waterfront to the jagged picks of Montserrat. To us, the city appeared to be sandy and bright even in the slightly gloomy tones of the cloudy winter sunset.
A Bit of Latin
Upon entering the airport building I was pleasantly soothed by splashy advertisements that I could understand! After all, Spanish (Castilliano) is used in Barcelona contrary to some tourist information pointing to Catalan as a definite language of preference. At least, advertisers did not think so – what a relief. The rest of the airport is a true picture of what you might expect – dirtier and a bit more chaotic as compared to nearly sterile Copenhagen airport with few more bags lost per capita – who cares when Latin life seems to pulsate even through marble floor tiles. More importantly, Barcelona has probably the closest airport to the city centre out of all other airports I have visited in Europe. It is a mere ten-minute taxi ride from the very heart of the city (in no traffic, of course) – so one does not require a New York size wallet to use mechanical rickshaws here. For the cheaper stock there is a twenty-minute train ride – great introduction into the local environment, as many regulars take this commuter train. Besides, the classical music accompaniment was a definite highlight of our short trip. By the time we got to the Central station – Sants Estacio, I was so enchanted by the surroundings that I almost broke a cardinal rule of independent minded traveller by listening to my dear wife insisting on knowing our directions in this decidedly unknown environment. We needed to take a subway train number “four”, instead we nearly departed for a train ride to suburbia from the platform number “four”. Apart from still lingering fright at the perspective of one-hour ride into nebulous Catalan surroundings, the rest of the journey on the subway was uneventful apart from being short-changed by the station clerk – forget about pickpockets, there were some duly authorised rip-offs here. The first lesson: when in Barcelona, make sure to buy a ten-ticket carnet – works out to only 0.53 Euro per ride – a great deal save for walking which is always the cheapest option.
The emergence from the subway tunnel was accompanied by expected cacophony of sounds, smells and overall level of street activity despite rather late hour by my standards – 8PM – Barcelona was living up to its billing as the party central of the continent. Our street was very narrow, crowded, festive and loud. Christmas lights stretching right between the buildings adorned the whole length of the street. Our rather bulky and out of place suitcases hardly made it through due to all sorts of legs that were in the way – human, dog and cat alike.
Given the price of our room (50E per night), the quality and cleanliness of our digs was a surprise, albeit the size of it nearly left us standing all night. We were greeted by disgustingly multilingual man called Fransisc, who seemed to have a faculty for about any language that came to my mind including Russian. As it turned out later, the facility for Russian had been instilled by his girlfriend about thirty years his junior – love knows no borders - age, language, immigration or otherwise.
The festivities on the street died down at about 10PM, giving us hope that some locals were humans after all and required some sleep. Despite the lower level of decibels at this hour most of the local stores do stay open till about 2AM and offer a limited but cheap variety of local foods, Liquidation World style. These and phone stores turned out to be primarily Pakistani run – Barcelona was no less cosmopolitan than the best of them. We could not, of course, stay in the room and rest – the sleepless reputation was calling – it was not like I needed extra boost to stay awake with the insomniac self, anyway.
After swarma and coke – spirits lifted. As we got closer to La Rambla, the city displayed less and less of its desire to ever go to sleep. The central tourist artery itself was not affected by the clock at all – it was swirling with activity – people walking, laughing, eating and drinking, dogs littering and us dragging. It was a great first glimpse into the life of the city. The neighbourhood that was got stuck in for a moment between our hotel and La Rambla called Reval was apparently replete with borderline culture and suspect individuals. We survived and were even pleasantly surprised at the ability of the locals to find space for parks and play ground spaces. I guess that their social conscience has not been totally privatised yet. To top it all of, Reval boasts a thirteen-century Romanesque church surrounded by palm tress, litter and drying laundry.
Montjuic and Fira de Barcelona
The next day, as all others during our stay, offered a splendid sunny weather that made us forget about our rainy and soggy home with much less than plus 15 C temperature to offer. We jumped on the funicular (part of Metro – 0.53E ride) that delivered us to the middle of Montjuic (Jewish Mountain). The whole ride was spent in straining our ears trying to understand bits of the French conversation happening nearby. To my disappointment, I discovered that my French required further work – voila! The middle of the mountain is strategically connected by another funicular (not part of Metro – 5E ride), this one was a pricey option for poor Canadians, making hiking up the mountain more attractive. We did not regret it as we encountered habitual local stray pets of Southern Europe – cats, basking in the sun and not worrying about the next furry day. Cats sat next to the swimming pool that offered incredible vistas of the city – especially from the diving board! Sort of like the Olympic Ski Jump in Innsbruck that offers an incredible local cemetery view. In any case, jump at your own risk and make sure that there is a least some water in the pool. The walk also took us through a local park and gave us a glimpse of many regulars enjoying the day – 5E ride was reserved for well-financed foreigners it seemed. The higher we went the better the views, more cosmopolitan the crowds and more picturesque the surroundings were. The only problem - there were many folks on the top who subscribed to the same point of view. So take your pictures fast if there is a break in the hordes otherwise you might have difficulty finding yourself on the print.
The military fortress on top offered the best views and some Piccasso; the latter was duly skipped till a later date. Instead, we thoroughly enjoyed the orange tree grove with some oranges still hanging - 7-foot tall people appeared not very common. The descent on the West Side of the mountain offered the shortest hiking route to the Olympic Stadium. The stadium itself was built back in the 30s with subsequent deepening of the field to accommodate more seats for the 1992 Olympic Games. The stadium primarily serves as a home base for the second and least liked child, orphan really, of the Barcelona football scene – Espanyol. Even the home stadium team shop appeared forlorn offering only a very small variety of team paraphernalia – it is a shame for a team that is still playing in the same league with likes of Real Madrid and Barca. Aside from this tragic note, the surrounding Olympic facilities are situated in the beautiful sunny location that affords sweeping vistas of the city below and the mountain above complete with palm and fig trees. A short walk across the street – and voila – you in the midst of 1928 site of the world Expo – Fira de Barcelona. The site consists of many rather non-descript exhibition pavilions crowned by multilevel fountains and National Museum that presides on the top of the main cascading fountain ensemble. The fountain ensemble is the site of the famed music and light show that is replayed for few hours every day – unless the caretaker happened to be indisposed (more info later). The bottom of the Expo site is rounded by the square called Espanya and a mini more contemporary version of the Roman Coliseum – ostensibly designed for bullfights in the past and now spurned as anything Castilliano.
Nou Camp
I could not wait to go to the site that really mattered in football terms – the famed Nou Camp, the home field of Barcelona FC (christened by locals as Barca). This is the site of pilgrimage for true football fanatics from around the world and their unfortunate significant others. The attendance of the club museum costs 5E and is worth it as you can enter the stadium and soak up the atmosphere one of the biggest football venues in the world – 120K seats as some local sources claim. The stadium is bit worn down monster with a magnificent trackless football pitch. The stands are steep and offer good views from just about anywhere. The museum prompts a good insight into the past and present of the addictive game with the European Champions Cup of 1992 as the main attraction.
The souvenir shop offers a number of paraphernalia ranging from prohibitively expensive regulation T-shirts to female negligee and cheap trinkets such as table coasters. Guess what section of the store appeared to be the most compelling to yours truly. Nothing is the answer. I felt my best shaking the recalcitrant vending machine that dispensed precious Barcelona FC merchandise. The machine refused to dispense the pack of nuts wrapped into Barca colours. The museum attendant, who tried to help by risking his precious Euro coin, equally shared my outrage – so we proceeded to shake the machine until it gave up the loot. It complied after all, not only repaying its debt but also spitting a couple of extra Barca-clad packages. Satisfaction was had by all, or nearly all!
Basketball Hopes
No football games were scheduled during our stay in the city. As a result, I turned to European basketball, as Barcelona FC basketball club was presumed to be entertaining a team from Rome the next day - New Years Eve, according to the team’s schedule posted on Internet. The workers at the ticket booth corroborated this info. However in general the ticket clerks appeared to be unimpressed by my eager inquiries betraying a failure of some tourist literature claims that trumpeted basketball as a second only to football. Anyway, I reserved some enthusiasm for a next day trip to the basketball game.
Touring Around
The best way to travel around the city is the local bus if you can figure out a schedule and directions. There is always a plenty of rubs with the local riders supplemented by passing sites of the city that offers a tremendous amount of shops – the highest concentration In Europe as some reference materials claim. The parts of the city closest to the epicentre of the tourist activities – La Rambla – boasts the most incessant and incredible variety of retail establishments peddling anything from luxury to basics with Zara offering the best value for money, if you are into fashion of course. The latter was a bit of a disappointment however for my North American steroid grown bottom as did not appear to be willing to fit slinky European fashions despite presumably matching sizes. While shopping we also came across a fair number of beautiful apartment buildings with well-attired and groomed doormen eager to man gold-plated door handles and chase away any riffraff. I did not notice any bulletin boards offering places for rent – you must need more than money to enter – all this old Europe snobbery crap – how mesmerising.
The double-decker bur tour is a great way to get a better grip on your orientation and is quite affordable – something like 12E per person. You can visit all major monuments on your first round and then attend each one separately to get value for money. You can meet nice fellow tourists, be vowed by Sagrada Familia, entertained by dainty handiwork of Gaudi without getting off the bus. In addition, the top of the bus offers great opportunities for sun tanning under right conditions. The best feel of the city of course is attained through walking – it is not only my “cheap” opinion. Some of the most picturesque and character filled streets of the city are simply out of limits for anything larger than a bicycle. The tight network of old street in the Gothic quarter lead to many tucked away wine, coffee and souvenir shops mingled with private galleries featuring world renowned and local talent.
Theatre – European Style
Visiting Europe and not attending some cultural event of significance is a bit of a touristic Faux Pas. Barcelona, of course, is one of the more substantial operatic venues in Europe with Liceu as its crown. As it is well known, crowns do not come cheap, especially in Euro-land. However, there are always a few loopholes. Everything has its price tag, even when it comes to anything Mozart in busy European venues. “Cosi Fun Tutti” was no exception – as we had to wait at the door guarded by a stern box office guard for about 30 minutes just to get inside the ticket office and try or luck. The time was not wasted, as I attempted with some moderate success to help out our stern man, as he had not included English in his interpretative repertoire. The theatre’s doorsteps turned out to be a good venue to practise some translating including Italian, which I have hardly any clue about – poor Atruscan sobs! Forget about it! Rome does not rule any more, neither does the Latin of Squadra Azzura! I even managed to squeeze some German – anyway, time well spent.
Upon entering the box office, I undertook a diligent review of various price options for the spectacle. They ranged anywhere from 7E to 150E. Loath to spend the top dollar, my avarice led me directly to the 7E mark. Now, the next lowest price was 20E, so I was in the conundrum as to what 7E meant exactly – perhaps seat in the cloakroom. It turned out that the 7E seats had no view of the stage, although some of them offered television screens. Alternatively, you can lean over the 4th and 5th story balconies in absence of strong propensity for vertigo. So, two out of three or four remaining cheap seats were promptly purchased – there are some other cheap people in the world after all. Since “Cosi Fun Tutti” proved to be such a hot ticket, my wife and I were separated – she went to a very ritzy 4th story box and I ended up with the riffraff against the balcony wall – very unnerving for the vertigo afflicted self. And all this after an earlier scare of nearly missing the performance – you see, unlike North America, once performance starts no one enters the theatre until the intermission one and a half hours away. We were the last ones with some asthmatic Italian grandma in a fur coat to make the cut under the despising glances of the theatre crew who hustled us into the respective slots with promptness of a fire drill in Faulty Towers.
What is the enjoyment derived from such retched experience should you ask. Well, the enjoyment is two-fold – you enjoy the music for the first half and then you enjoy the music and the stage view from a 100E seat for the second half (which is sometimes longer hence better value in my books). You see, the true opera fanatics are few and far between in the modern world – this, of course, makes Brittany and Posh Spice more popular than Lucciano. So apart of the abject few who possess seasonal tickets the crowd is divided into three main categories – “villains”, “suckers” and “boyfriends”.
The latter usually engage in purchases of rather costly tickets with the hope of impressing their escorts. Surreptitiously, they really want to escape into more intimate surroundings. Alas, it rarely works pandering to splendidly clad societal sensations of a weaker sex. The ones that do manage to escape obligingly vacate their seats for “villains” who move just as happily from 7E to 100E seats with hardly any additional crimson on their faces. Now, this is not the easiest thing to do and requires a considerable amount of gall but the final reward is fantastic – beautiful music, vintage view, money in the pocket and no commitment to season tickets. The rest is pure bliss. What about the “suckers”, should you ask. Well, the title explains it all – they remain in their respective (7E through 150E) seats for the entire performance.
My wife is quite uncertain about her aspirations in this area. As a result, I usually have to take lead. Unfortunately this time, she was somewhat on the edge – the foreign ambience, unknown language and all. It is somewhat risky and one has to be persistent. Our first try was a dud. After being chased, we eventually managed to settle on a pair of the central lower balcony nests with two beside to spare for insurance. Unfortunately for my wife, a late pair arrived claiming the empties profusely apologising (in Spanish I might add) in the process. In addition, two teenage looking people occupied the nearby steps. The situation was getting uncomfortable if not outright tense. I had some reserves and was ready to duke it out. Tracy, on the other hand, interpreted it all wrong. Even the melodic Spanish apology resonated in her ears as a thundering curse. As a result, she promptly left while I remained to mine the treasure for two more enjoyable hours – teenagers, as starting “villains” did not pose any more threat and than the apologies of the late birds.
It was not all as Tracy needed a gracious exit strategy. Luckily remembering my educational touches, she went through an ordeal unscathed by faking a cough (leaving for a bathroom break so soon after an intermission is another unforgivable Faux Pas in the solemn art of European opera) and being escorted into a cafeteria with equipped with closed circuit TVs and English subtitles. Voila, she ultimately got to understand the opera! Undisturbed and comfortable, she did not mind it at all while the place was essentially bare since this experience is usually reserved for only few rarely successful and frequently bored “boyfriends” craving a few sips of cava.
In any case, we got more than what we had bargained for with few useful lessons to boot.
Foraging
A Bit of Latin
Upon entering the airport building I was pleasantly soothed by splashy advertisements that I could understand! After all, Spanish (Castilliano) is used in Barcelona contrary to some tourist information pointing to Catalan as a definite language of preference. At least, advertisers did not think so – what a relief. The rest of the airport is a true picture of what you might expect – dirtier and a bit more chaotic as compared to nearly sterile Copenhagen airport with few more bags lost per capita – who cares when Latin life seems to pulsate even through marble floor tiles. More importantly, Barcelona has probably the closest airport to the city centre out of all other airports I have visited in Europe. It is a mere ten-minute taxi ride from the very heart of the city (in no traffic, of course) – so one does not require a New York size wallet to use mechanical rickshaws here. For the cheaper stock there is a twenty-minute train ride – great introduction into the local environment, as many regulars take this commuter train. Besides, the classical music accompaniment was a definite highlight of our short trip. By the time we got to the Central station – Sants Estacio, I was so enchanted by the surroundings that I almost broke a cardinal rule of independent minded traveller by listening to my dear wife insisting on knowing our directions in this decidedly unknown environment. We needed to take a subway train number “four”, instead we nearly departed for a train ride to suburbia from the platform number “four”. Apart from still lingering fright at the perspective of one-hour ride into nebulous Catalan surroundings, the rest of the journey on the subway was uneventful apart from being short-changed by the station clerk – forget about pickpockets, there were some duly authorised rip-offs here. The first lesson: when in Barcelona, make sure to buy a ten-ticket carnet – works out to only 0.53 Euro per ride – a great deal save for walking which is always the cheapest option.
The emergence from the subway tunnel was accompanied by expected cacophony of sounds, smells and overall level of street activity despite rather late hour by my standards – 8PM – Barcelona was living up to its billing as the party central of the continent. Our street was very narrow, crowded, festive and loud. Christmas lights stretching right between the buildings adorned the whole length of the street. Our rather bulky and out of place suitcases hardly made it through due to all sorts of legs that were in the way – human, dog and cat alike.
Given the price of our room (50E per night), the quality and cleanliness of our digs was a surprise, albeit the size of it nearly left us standing all night. We were greeted by disgustingly multilingual man called Fransisc, who seemed to have a faculty for about any language that came to my mind including Russian. As it turned out later, the facility for Russian had been instilled by his girlfriend about thirty years his junior – love knows no borders - age, language, immigration or otherwise.
The festivities on the street died down at about 10PM, giving us hope that some locals were humans after all and required some sleep. Despite the lower level of decibels at this hour most of the local stores do stay open till about 2AM and offer a limited but cheap variety of local foods, Liquidation World style. These and phone stores turned out to be primarily Pakistani run – Barcelona was no less cosmopolitan than the best of them. We could not, of course, stay in the room and rest – the sleepless reputation was calling – it was not like I needed extra boost to stay awake with the insomniac self, anyway.
After swarma and coke – spirits lifted. As we got closer to La Rambla, the city displayed less and less of its desire to ever go to sleep. The central tourist artery itself was not affected by the clock at all – it was swirling with activity – people walking, laughing, eating and drinking, dogs littering and us dragging. It was a great first glimpse into the life of the city. The neighbourhood that was got stuck in for a moment between our hotel and La Rambla called Reval was apparently replete with borderline culture and suspect individuals. We survived and were even pleasantly surprised at the ability of the locals to find space for parks and play ground spaces. I guess that their social conscience has not been totally privatised yet. To top it all of, Reval boasts a thirteen-century Romanesque church surrounded by palm tress, litter and drying laundry.
Montjuic and Fira de Barcelona
The next day, as all others during our stay, offered a splendid sunny weather that made us forget about our rainy and soggy home with much less than plus 15 C temperature to offer. We jumped on the funicular (part of Metro – 0.53E ride) that delivered us to the middle of Montjuic (Jewish Mountain). The whole ride was spent in straining our ears trying to understand bits of the French conversation happening nearby. To my disappointment, I discovered that my French required further work – voila! The middle of the mountain is strategically connected by another funicular (not part of Metro – 5E ride), this one was a pricey option for poor Canadians, making hiking up the mountain more attractive. We did not regret it as we encountered habitual local stray pets of Southern Europe – cats, basking in the sun and not worrying about the next furry day. Cats sat next to the swimming pool that offered incredible vistas of the city – especially from the diving board! Sort of like the Olympic Ski Jump in Innsbruck that offers an incredible local cemetery view. In any case, jump at your own risk and make sure that there is a least some water in the pool. The walk also took us through a local park and gave us a glimpse of many regulars enjoying the day – 5E ride was reserved for well-financed foreigners it seemed. The higher we went the better the views, more cosmopolitan the crowds and more picturesque the surroundings were. The only problem - there were many folks on the top who subscribed to the same point of view. So take your pictures fast if there is a break in the hordes otherwise you might have difficulty finding yourself on the print.
The military fortress on top offered the best views and some Piccasso; the latter was duly skipped till a later date. Instead, we thoroughly enjoyed the orange tree grove with some oranges still hanging - 7-foot tall people appeared not very common. The descent on the West Side of the mountain offered the shortest hiking route to the Olympic Stadium. The stadium itself was built back in the 30s with subsequent deepening of the field to accommodate more seats for the 1992 Olympic Games. The stadium primarily serves as a home base for the second and least liked child, orphan really, of the Barcelona football scene – Espanyol. Even the home stadium team shop appeared forlorn offering only a very small variety of team paraphernalia – it is a shame for a team that is still playing in the same league with likes of Real Madrid and Barca. Aside from this tragic note, the surrounding Olympic facilities are situated in the beautiful sunny location that affords sweeping vistas of the city below and the mountain above complete with palm and fig trees. A short walk across the street – and voila – you in the midst of 1928 site of the world Expo – Fira de Barcelona. The site consists of many rather non-descript exhibition pavilions crowned by multilevel fountains and National Museum that presides on the top of the main cascading fountain ensemble. The fountain ensemble is the site of the famed music and light show that is replayed for few hours every day – unless the caretaker happened to be indisposed (more info later). The bottom of the Expo site is rounded by the square called Espanya and a mini more contemporary version of the Roman Coliseum – ostensibly designed for bullfights in the past and now spurned as anything Castilliano.
Nou Camp
I could not wait to go to the site that really mattered in football terms – the famed Nou Camp, the home field of Barcelona FC (christened by locals as Barca). This is the site of pilgrimage for true football fanatics from around the world and their unfortunate significant others. The attendance of the club museum costs 5E and is worth it as you can enter the stadium and soak up the atmosphere one of the biggest football venues in the world – 120K seats as some local sources claim. The stadium is bit worn down monster with a magnificent trackless football pitch. The stands are steep and offer good views from just about anywhere. The museum prompts a good insight into the past and present of the addictive game with the European Champions Cup of 1992 as the main attraction.
The souvenir shop offers a number of paraphernalia ranging from prohibitively expensive regulation T-shirts to female negligee and cheap trinkets such as table coasters. Guess what section of the store appeared to be the most compelling to yours truly. Nothing is the answer. I felt my best shaking the recalcitrant vending machine that dispensed precious Barcelona FC merchandise. The machine refused to dispense the pack of nuts wrapped into Barca colours. The museum attendant, who tried to help by risking his precious Euro coin, equally shared my outrage – so we proceeded to shake the machine until it gave up the loot. It complied after all, not only repaying its debt but also spitting a couple of extra Barca-clad packages. Satisfaction was had by all, or nearly all!
Basketball Hopes
No football games were scheduled during our stay in the city. As a result, I turned to European basketball, as Barcelona FC basketball club was presumed to be entertaining a team from Rome the next day - New Years Eve, according to the team’s schedule posted on Internet. The workers at the ticket booth corroborated this info. However in general the ticket clerks appeared to be unimpressed by my eager inquiries betraying a failure of some tourist literature claims that trumpeted basketball as a second only to football. Anyway, I reserved some enthusiasm for a next day trip to the basketball game.
Touring Around
The best way to travel around the city is the local bus if you can figure out a schedule and directions. There is always a plenty of rubs with the local riders supplemented by passing sites of the city that offers a tremendous amount of shops – the highest concentration In Europe as some reference materials claim. The parts of the city closest to the epicentre of the tourist activities – La Rambla – boasts the most incessant and incredible variety of retail establishments peddling anything from luxury to basics with Zara offering the best value for money, if you are into fashion of course. The latter was a bit of a disappointment however for my North American steroid grown bottom as did not appear to be willing to fit slinky European fashions despite presumably matching sizes. While shopping we also came across a fair number of beautiful apartment buildings with well-attired and groomed doormen eager to man gold-plated door handles and chase away any riffraff. I did not notice any bulletin boards offering places for rent – you must need more than money to enter – all this old Europe snobbery crap – how mesmerising.
The double-decker bur tour is a great way to get a better grip on your orientation and is quite affordable – something like 12E per person. You can visit all major monuments on your first round and then attend each one separately to get value for money. You can meet nice fellow tourists, be vowed by Sagrada Familia, entertained by dainty handiwork of Gaudi without getting off the bus. In addition, the top of the bus offers great opportunities for sun tanning under right conditions. The best feel of the city of course is attained through walking – it is not only my “cheap” opinion. Some of the most picturesque and character filled streets of the city are simply out of limits for anything larger than a bicycle. The tight network of old street in the Gothic quarter lead to many tucked away wine, coffee and souvenir shops mingled with private galleries featuring world renowned and local talent.
Theatre – European Style
Visiting Europe and not attending some cultural event of significance is a bit of a touristic Faux Pas. Barcelona, of course, is one of the more substantial operatic venues in Europe with Liceu as its crown. As it is well known, crowns do not come cheap, especially in Euro-land. However, there are always a few loopholes. Everything has its price tag, even when it comes to anything Mozart in busy European venues. “Cosi Fun Tutti” was no exception – as we had to wait at the door guarded by a stern box office guard for about 30 minutes just to get inside the ticket office and try or luck. The time was not wasted, as I attempted with some moderate success to help out our stern man, as he had not included English in his interpretative repertoire. The theatre’s doorsteps turned out to be a good venue to practise some translating including Italian, which I have hardly any clue about – poor Atruscan sobs! Forget about it! Rome does not rule any more, neither does the Latin of Squadra Azzura! I even managed to squeeze some German – anyway, time well spent.
Upon entering the box office, I undertook a diligent review of various price options for the spectacle. They ranged anywhere from 7E to 150E. Loath to spend the top dollar, my avarice led me directly to the 7E mark. Now, the next lowest price was 20E, so I was in the conundrum as to what 7E meant exactly – perhaps seat in the cloakroom. It turned out that the 7E seats had no view of the stage, although some of them offered television screens. Alternatively, you can lean over the 4th and 5th story balconies in absence of strong propensity for vertigo. So, two out of three or four remaining cheap seats were promptly purchased – there are some other cheap people in the world after all. Since “Cosi Fun Tutti” proved to be such a hot ticket, my wife and I were separated – she went to a very ritzy 4th story box and I ended up with the riffraff against the balcony wall – very unnerving for the vertigo afflicted self. And all this after an earlier scare of nearly missing the performance – you see, unlike North America, once performance starts no one enters the theatre until the intermission one and a half hours away. We were the last ones with some asthmatic Italian grandma in a fur coat to make the cut under the despising glances of the theatre crew who hustled us into the respective slots with promptness of a fire drill in Faulty Towers.
What is the enjoyment derived from such retched experience should you ask. Well, the enjoyment is two-fold – you enjoy the music for the first half and then you enjoy the music and the stage view from a 100E seat for the second half (which is sometimes longer hence better value in my books). You see, the true opera fanatics are few and far between in the modern world – this, of course, makes Brittany and Posh Spice more popular than Lucciano. So apart of the abject few who possess seasonal tickets the crowd is divided into three main categories – “villains”, “suckers” and “boyfriends”.
The latter usually engage in purchases of rather costly tickets with the hope of impressing their escorts. Surreptitiously, they really want to escape into more intimate surroundings. Alas, it rarely works pandering to splendidly clad societal sensations of a weaker sex. The ones that do manage to escape obligingly vacate their seats for “villains” who move just as happily from 7E to 100E seats with hardly any additional crimson on their faces. Now, this is not the easiest thing to do and requires a considerable amount of gall but the final reward is fantastic – beautiful music, vintage view, money in the pocket and no commitment to season tickets. The rest is pure bliss. What about the “suckers”, should you ask. Well, the title explains it all – they remain in their respective (7E through 150E) seats for the entire performance.
My wife is quite uncertain about her aspirations in this area. As a result, I usually have to take lead. Unfortunately this time, she was somewhat on the edge – the foreign ambience, unknown language and all. It is somewhat risky and one has to be persistent. Our first try was a dud. After being chased, we eventually managed to settle on a pair of the central lower balcony nests with two beside to spare for insurance. Unfortunately for my wife, a late pair arrived claiming the empties profusely apologising (in Spanish I might add) in the process. In addition, two teenage looking people occupied the nearby steps. The situation was getting uncomfortable if not outright tense. I had some reserves and was ready to duke it out. Tracy, on the other hand, interpreted it all wrong. Even the melodic Spanish apology resonated in her ears as a thundering curse. As a result, she promptly left while I remained to mine the treasure for two more enjoyable hours – teenagers, as starting “villains” did not pose any more threat and than the apologies of the late birds.
It was not all as Tracy needed a gracious exit strategy. Luckily remembering my educational touches, she went through an ordeal unscathed by faking a cough (leaving for a bathroom break so soon after an intermission is another unforgivable Faux Pas in the solemn art of European opera) and being escorted into a cafeteria with equipped with closed circuit TVs and English subtitles. Voila, she ultimately got to understand the opera! Undisturbed and comfortable, she did not mind it at all while the place was essentially bare since this experience is usually reserved for only few rarely successful and frequently bored “boyfriends” craving a few sips of cava.
In any case, we got more than what we had bargained for with few useful lessons to boot.
Foraging
Let me dispel one of the biggest tourist myth associated with Barcelona – you can eat anytime you want and do not have to wait until 11PM to have a first crack at dinner. Now, they might choose to call it lunch at 5PM, but if you want food you can order it then all the same. Money has apparently better hold on human behaviour than traditions – whoa, what a surprise! So do not worry, they will try to accommodate you and not the other way around. Now, there might some local restaurants that do ignore North American dinner hour mentality. However, if you manage to stick around the tourist swirls of La Rambla – be my guest and eat any time.
Nevertheless, it is great to stick with the local preferences for meal schedules to get the most experience. I have to admit that the locals appear to be willing to dine at any time. It is like as if they do not have any kind food in their homes. Just imagine waking up for a 2AM snack just to discover that there is nothing to eat in your fridge. Well, in North America, the Coscos work feverishly around the clock to stock up those fridges. So this scenario does not arise in the ever-efficient North America, in Barcelona you get quite a different sensation. They all seem to wake up and drop for a quick bite to eat right about the same time you open your fridge. They just do it while dressed, when we do it in our pyjamas or less.
After fun and meaningful experience at Liceu, which ended after midnight, we headed for a local bite to eat type of place. The joint was sort of half deserted, as you would expect at 12:30AM. We ordered, drank, enjoyed and observed. The crowd got bigger and bigger, and by the time we left at about 1:30AM and the place was full with meal ordering customers – gotta be that mid night snack! Many with children enjoying their share of parents’ schedules!
In general Barcelona delivers on a variety of fronts with prices ranging from few Euros to more elaborate expensive affairs. Our New Years meal must have been the most interesting gastronomical experience that was preceded by things less or more appetising – depends on whom you ask. One New Years eve, we set out first and foremost to the central market. Attending this place on any day is a must for anybody staying even just a few days in the city. The market is very bright, vibrant and overcrowded place you would expect around any holidays. The fruit and vegetable displays provide a much superior picture to anything marketed on this side of the Atlantic. The overall Latin flamboyance, kaleidoscope of colours and aromas, multitude of languages and freshness of produce together create an incredible presentation worth at least some of your time. The stalls that soft-hearted North Americans might want to avoid are the butcher ones. They typically display most of the products that we are used to – pork, beef, and chicken delicacies. However, the site of hundreds of flailed and fury rabbit carcasses could cause some consternation – so Canadian types need to be aware.
The primary driver for our foray into the bountiful market stalls was driven by the desire to stick to local custom of swallowing an individual grape with each gong of the midnight bell announcing the arrival of New Year – for luck of course. Having bought some grapes we also discovered that instead of going through sumptuous pitted fruits we could have just bought a can containing exactly twelve grapes just for occasion – just imagine the mark-up on this! Not to worry, a couple of cans were promptly acquired for souvenir purposes, of course. Some rich concern planners must have just rubbed their hands at the success of their underhanded capitalist trick!
Basketball Hopes Dashed – New Years Celebration
The grand design for the New Years eve festivities was to commence our celebrations at the basketball game that was presumed to take place next to Nou Camp with the participation of the local Barcelona FC playing whoever else -–it did not matter. I just wanted to experience an adrenaline rush in Spanish. The game was announced on the club’s Internet site and was tentatively acknowledged in the club’s office. I guess I should have been more diligent. As we approached the presumed venue, the silence around us was so eerie that a cemetery visit would have appeared to be a carnival. The short inspection of locks, dark entrances and lack of anybody to offer us some bootleg tickets convinced us that we had extra two unexpected hours to kill.
Reluctant to resign to my lack of diligence and understanding of local advertising techniques, I proceeded imposing on my wife’s expansive graces to continue the search in the area. Despite the total lack of any human activity, I was convinced that a magic basketball game was just around the corner. Here was the gym – may be they use dumbbells instead of orange leather to confirm their Latin masculinity. That was not to be. Oh, let’s see, there was an alley that led through a completely deserted campus of the University of Barcelona – “perhaps it might lead to the proverbial basketball el-dorado” – somewhere in the half time by now. NO.
With ever increasing speed to beat the game clock with raced thought the deserted corners of the university campus. Alas, the only site of life was an interesting rotating circle of cars that seemed to form a continuos string of activity just about a block away from us. These cars would just go up and down this deserted street in incessant procession - strange. Tracy remarked about some surprising habits of local janitors – all leaving at the same time to celebrate the advent of the New Year at the warm Hearth with their children, spouses, nice wine and lucky grapes. This illusion almost became a reality before being shattered as soon we reached the venue of this mechanical parade.
You see, after turning the corner, I noticed a female figure carefully bundled into a nice long black coat that exuded class and knowledge of the situation. By this time a set of directions to the local metro station were emerging as a priority. So, I asked the woman for directions – in turn, she gave me a brief moment of attention without leaving any further illusions with respect to her occupation. It must have been either her heavy make-up, or rather provocative lack of dress to cover the negligee or perhaps the hitchhiking pose that did not point to any direction along the highway but rather to the cul-de-sac that served as a turning point for the car parade – take your pick.
Given her rather pleasant response, Tracy exhibited an urgent desire to exit the car parade alley as soon as possible, as she whisked me away with such a velocity that I had hard time catching some of the peculiar details associated with two other ladies just up the street. One of them was engaged in changing her scant attire next to her car despite a rather chilly New Years Eve. My fleeting and innocent observations were met with ferocity of an interrupted short-tempered co-worker looking at a porn Internet site. With hardly a ten-second interval to breeze, we quickly found ourselves by the subway station. With our basketball dreams ultimately smashed, I convinced my wife to stop by Sagrada Familia to contemplate the soaring art in more nocturnal and hence spiritual fashion – to atone for sins of looking perhaps… The sight of the beautiful masterwork did not let us down – the projector beams starkly emphasised the mystery of the magnificent edifice. They still had electricity in Barcelona hence “must hear more from poor privatisation experts”, as all this light hardly elicited more than 10 onlookers at this hour – bad value for money – “just ask George W”.
Most of the streets were entirely deserted, as New Years celebrations apparently effect only few select Barcelona destinations – La Rambla and Plaza Catalunya are the most obvious suspects. In almost complete silence we enjoyed our walk to the lesser Arc de Triumph. Despite getting closer to some more obvious celebratory venues, we hardly saw any human beings still. Here was the time to worry about a cozy table. The clock was ticking and Tracy started panicking. By the time we had taken, unsuccessfully, the picture of the Arc, my wife was in the state of panic. The projected distance of about half a mile to the fireworks location on the beach with an hour and a half to spare utterly convinced her that we would not be witnessing the fiery display let alone having a New Years dinner – shocker!
To exacerbate the situation, she envisioned having to cross a ten-lane highway in order to make to the already visited Port Olimpico. Needless to say, we covered the remaining distance within ten minutes, we crossed one-lane monster without incidence and foretold gore. Finally we located about twenty restaurants within a span of 200-meter walk. Despite such fortune, finding a restaurant that suited my better half proved to be a bit of additional ordeal – the choices included: discos with no food, places with too much light and people and finally, pleasant enclaves for decidedly too much money with full reservation requirements. Fortunately, after a few rounds around the place, we managed to locate a nearly perfect spot with wine, paella and grape eating staff. More so, the location was just in front of the fireworks display. The wine proved potent, paella superb, grape eating and pot banging entertaining, fireworks sparkling and my wife satisfied – tremendous success!
On our walk back towards La Rambla, the amount of New Year revellers increased exponentially with every next block. It all culminated at the statue of Columbus, where a few sufficiently drunken “yuts” decided to best one another in climbing skills. The scene was reminiscent of Russians storming Reichstag in 1945, or French brining down the Bastille in 1789. In any case, it was a scene to behold – few ambulances were on hand – just in case. La Rambla itself was splitting at the seems with crowds spilling into the narrow veins of Reval, Gothic Quarter and other neighbourhoods – New Years came with a bang, alcohol and hangover. A true post-modern Christian tradition!
Nevertheless, it is great to stick with the local preferences for meal schedules to get the most experience. I have to admit that the locals appear to be willing to dine at any time. It is like as if they do not have any kind food in their homes. Just imagine waking up for a 2AM snack just to discover that there is nothing to eat in your fridge. Well, in North America, the Coscos work feverishly around the clock to stock up those fridges. So this scenario does not arise in the ever-efficient North America, in Barcelona you get quite a different sensation. They all seem to wake up and drop for a quick bite to eat right about the same time you open your fridge. They just do it while dressed, when we do it in our pyjamas or less.
After fun and meaningful experience at Liceu, which ended after midnight, we headed for a local bite to eat type of place. The joint was sort of half deserted, as you would expect at 12:30AM. We ordered, drank, enjoyed and observed. The crowd got bigger and bigger, and by the time we left at about 1:30AM and the place was full with meal ordering customers – gotta be that mid night snack! Many with children enjoying their share of parents’ schedules!
In general Barcelona delivers on a variety of fronts with prices ranging from few Euros to more elaborate expensive affairs. Our New Years meal must have been the most interesting gastronomical experience that was preceded by things less or more appetising – depends on whom you ask. One New Years eve, we set out first and foremost to the central market. Attending this place on any day is a must for anybody staying even just a few days in the city. The market is very bright, vibrant and overcrowded place you would expect around any holidays. The fruit and vegetable displays provide a much superior picture to anything marketed on this side of the Atlantic. The overall Latin flamboyance, kaleidoscope of colours and aromas, multitude of languages and freshness of produce together create an incredible presentation worth at least some of your time. The stalls that soft-hearted North Americans might want to avoid are the butcher ones. They typically display most of the products that we are used to – pork, beef, and chicken delicacies. However, the site of hundreds of flailed and fury rabbit carcasses could cause some consternation – so Canadian types need to be aware.
The primary driver for our foray into the bountiful market stalls was driven by the desire to stick to local custom of swallowing an individual grape with each gong of the midnight bell announcing the arrival of New Year – for luck of course. Having bought some grapes we also discovered that instead of going through sumptuous pitted fruits we could have just bought a can containing exactly twelve grapes just for occasion – just imagine the mark-up on this! Not to worry, a couple of cans were promptly acquired for souvenir purposes, of course. Some rich concern planners must have just rubbed their hands at the success of their underhanded capitalist trick!
Basketball Hopes Dashed – New Years Celebration
The grand design for the New Years eve festivities was to commence our celebrations at the basketball game that was presumed to take place next to Nou Camp with the participation of the local Barcelona FC playing whoever else -–it did not matter. I just wanted to experience an adrenaline rush in Spanish. The game was announced on the club’s Internet site and was tentatively acknowledged in the club’s office. I guess I should have been more diligent. As we approached the presumed venue, the silence around us was so eerie that a cemetery visit would have appeared to be a carnival. The short inspection of locks, dark entrances and lack of anybody to offer us some bootleg tickets convinced us that we had extra two unexpected hours to kill.
Reluctant to resign to my lack of diligence and understanding of local advertising techniques, I proceeded imposing on my wife’s expansive graces to continue the search in the area. Despite the total lack of any human activity, I was convinced that a magic basketball game was just around the corner. Here was the gym – may be they use dumbbells instead of orange leather to confirm their Latin masculinity. That was not to be. Oh, let’s see, there was an alley that led through a completely deserted campus of the University of Barcelona – “perhaps it might lead to the proverbial basketball el-dorado” – somewhere in the half time by now. NO.
With ever increasing speed to beat the game clock with raced thought the deserted corners of the university campus. Alas, the only site of life was an interesting rotating circle of cars that seemed to form a continuos string of activity just about a block away from us. These cars would just go up and down this deserted street in incessant procession - strange. Tracy remarked about some surprising habits of local janitors – all leaving at the same time to celebrate the advent of the New Year at the warm Hearth with their children, spouses, nice wine and lucky grapes. This illusion almost became a reality before being shattered as soon we reached the venue of this mechanical parade.
You see, after turning the corner, I noticed a female figure carefully bundled into a nice long black coat that exuded class and knowledge of the situation. By this time a set of directions to the local metro station were emerging as a priority. So, I asked the woman for directions – in turn, she gave me a brief moment of attention without leaving any further illusions with respect to her occupation. It must have been either her heavy make-up, or rather provocative lack of dress to cover the negligee or perhaps the hitchhiking pose that did not point to any direction along the highway but rather to the cul-de-sac that served as a turning point for the car parade – take your pick.
Given her rather pleasant response, Tracy exhibited an urgent desire to exit the car parade alley as soon as possible, as she whisked me away with such a velocity that I had hard time catching some of the peculiar details associated with two other ladies just up the street. One of them was engaged in changing her scant attire next to her car despite a rather chilly New Years Eve. My fleeting and innocent observations were met with ferocity of an interrupted short-tempered co-worker looking at a porn Internet site. With hardly a ten-second interval to breeze, we quickly found ourselves by the subway station. With our basketball dreams ultimately smashed, I convinced my wife to stop by Sagrada Familia to contemplate the soaring art in more nocturnal and hence spiritual fashion – to atone for sins of looking perhaps… The sight of the beautiful masterwork did not let us down – the projector beams starkly emphasised the mystery of the magnificent edifice. They still had electricity in Barcelona hence “must hear more from poor privatisation experts”, as all this light hardly elicited more than 10 onlookers at this hour – bad value for money – “just ask George W”.
Most of the streets were entirely deserted, as New Years celebrations apparently effect only few select Barcelona destinations – La Rambla and Plaza Catalunya are the most obvious suspects. In almost complete silence we enjoyed our walk to the lesser Arc de Triumph. Despite getting closer to some more obvious celebratory venues, we hardly saw any human beings still. Here was the time to worry about a cozy table. The clock was ticking and Tracy started panicking. By the time we had taken, unsuccessfully, the picture of the Arc, my wife was in the state of panic. The projected distance of about half a mile to the fireworks location on the beach with an hour and a half to spare utterly convinced her that we would not be witnessing the fiery display let alone having a New Years dinner – shocker!
To exacerbate the situation, she envisioned having to cross a ten-lane highway in order to make to the already visited Port Olimpico. Needless to say, we covered the remaining distance within ten minutes, we crossed one-lane monster without incidence and foretold gore. Finally we located about twenty restaurants within a span of 200-meter walk. Despite such fortune, finding a restaurant that suited my better half proved to be a bit of additional ordeal – the choices included: discos with no food, places with too much light and people and finally, pleasant enclaves for decidedly too much money with full reservation requirements. Fortunately, after a few rounds around the place, we managed to locate a nearly perfect spot with wine, paella and grape eating staff. More so, the location was just in front of the fireworks display. The wine proved potent, paella superb, grape eating and pot banging entertaining, fireworks sparkling and my wife satisfied – tremendous success!
On our walk back towards La Rambla, the amount of New Year revellers increased exponentially with every next block. It all culminated at the statue of Columbus, where a few sufficiently drunken “yuts” decided to best one another in climbing skills. The scene was reminiscent of Russians storming Reichstag in 1945, or French brining down the Bastille in 1789. In any case, it was a scene to behold – few ambulances were on hand – just in case. La Rambla itself was splitting at the seems with crowds spilling into the narrow veins of Reval, Gothic Quarter and other neighbourhoods – New Years came with a bang, alcohol and hangover. A true post-modern Christian tradition!
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