Spain: More Toys In Our Food

As hard as it was to say goodbye to my family (and baguettes) in Paris, Cynthia’s enthusiasm for our next stop—Spain—was contagious to say the least and made our departure from the city of lights a little easier.

In her junior year in 2002, Cynthia studied for a semester in Barcelona.  She loved it, and she’s wanted to go back ever since.  My first visit to Barcelona, while far shorter, was no less memorable: a couple-day stop with my cousin Sean that included raucous late-night partying and some ill-advised (oily) beach massages.  Although that sounds really creepy, Barcelona was actually one of my favorite stops of that trip.

Now together, Cynthia and I were excited to be back.  Naturally, Barcelona was our first stop.

We started eating whole lychee fruits in Paris. It continued in Spain.

While we were in Paris, Laëtitia (from Paris, in words), my cousin’s girlfriend, was kind enough to arrange for us to stay with her uncle who lives in Barcelona.  His name is Jean Claude.  Jean Claude is awesome.  But as we walked through the slick, marbled atrium of Barcelona’s airport, we didn’t know this yet.  With nothing more than a piece of paper with a name and a phone number (“Jean Claude:  524-4444”—just kidding, that’s Pizza Hut’s number), we didn’t quite know what to expect from our expatriated French host.  In addition to the natural anxieties that will arise before staying at a stranger’s home (albeit a trusted one in this case, but a stranger nonetheless), we also didn’t want to unnecessarily burden anyone or make them feel obliged to play host for us, especially on such short notice.

After getting our bags at baggage claim, we had two partially successful conversations with Jean Claude from a pay-phone (I don’t remember pay phones being this overpriced, complicated, or panic-inducing).  While the phone’s digital timer ticked away in front of us at a dizzying speed like we were contestants on some FOX-concocted game show combining the likes of The Amazing Race and something from the deplorable “swap” variety (perhaps “The Amazing Uncle Swap”), we were only able to get directions to the metro stop closest to Jean Claude’s apartment.  But from the rushed nature of the conversation (and a minor language barrier), it was unclear if Jean Claude had said “I’ll meet you when you get here” or, rather, “I’ll see you when you get here”—with the latter, we presumed, requiring us to navigate, at night, through unknown streets without a map or a guidebook.   Even if he did plan on meeting us at the metro stop, we didn’t even know what he looked like, and it was clear from his deep, no-nonsense voice on the phone that he wasn’t a “poster-board-and-sharpie” kind of uncle (“WELCOME TO SPAIN!”).  We were nervous.

An hour later, we stood at the top of the escalator of the agreed upon metro stop.   We scanned the square for anyone that looked to be waiting for strangers: nothing.  Then, from across the square, we noticed a silhouette of a man sitting on a bench in the dark shadows of dim, overhanging street lights.  He rose and stepped out of the darkness.  He was wearing all black—a villainous amount of black.  Black gloves, black sweater, black scarf.  His long, even strides and his black wooden-soled boots created a slow, fear-inducing series of thuds as he crossed the concrete square.  For a second I thought about grabbing Cynthia’s hand and running.  Instead, like Shaggy from Scooby Doo in one of his direst predicaments, I stammered out: “Jean Claude? Jean Claude…is that you??”

Like, Zoinks!

It was Jean Claude.  He’s just a normal dude that likes to wear an intimidating amount of black (at all times, without exception, every day, head-to-toe).  Our anxieties were quickly put to rest, though, as Jean Claude welcomed us into his home and, over the next few days, unexpectedly showered us with fine hospitality.

Our first night there, Jean Claude took us to a tapas bar in a popular Barcelona neighborhood where we enjoyed some beers and a few small plates.  The next morning (and every morning we were there), he treated us to a breakfast of fresh croissants from the bakery and a pot of home-brewed coffee.  That night, to celebrate Three Kings Day, he cooked dinner for us and treated us to a bottle of “natural” wine, bottled by a friend of his on a vineyard in Lyon, France.  After dinner—and with knowledge of my fondness of certain circular, flaky treat with toys inside (I may have mentioned it)—Jean Claude surprised us with a galette for dessert!  Yes, I got the toy, again (good luck for a year!), and yes, I wore the paper crown for the remainder of the night, again.

During this dessert (the traditional pastry to eat on Three King’s day), Jean Claude told us more about the holiday.  Similar to the US, Christmas day in Spain is a time for eating and celebrating with family.  However, unlike the US, no gifts are given on this day.  Neither adults nor children give or receive a single gift until Three Kings day (January 6^th, the twelfth day of Christmas, twelve drummers drumming, etc.): the day when Jesus received his gifts from the Magi.  This sparked ideas for how we could convince our kids to wait for their gifts until we take advantage of after-Christmas sales (“If Jesus can wait, then certainly…”).

The areas of Barcelona outside Jean Claude’s apartment were nice too.

We wandered through the streets and ate seafood paella at Cynthia’s favorite restaurant.  We marveled at the city’s remarkable architecture—the most notable being that of a modernist architect and visionary, Antoni Gaudi.  The first of Gaudi’s works that we visited was Park Guell: a massive, hillside park that—due to its oversized columns, mosaics, rock carvings and general candy land-like architecture—has a whimsical quality that makes visitors feel more like they’ve just stepped into Alice’s Wonderland than simply a park on the city’s west side.  We sat and took in the lively atmosphere: groups of musicians (taking advantage of the park’s favorable acoustics) nestled in little nooks and performed all types of music.  In one corner of the park’s main terrace, groups of kids chased over-sized bubbles brought to life by a “bubble clown”.   In another corner, sadly, a skilled magician performed his tricks to an audience of ZERO.  I found the lonely magician particularly depressing as I’m a bit partial to slight-of-hand tricksters.  My  Dad used to practice magic as hobby and, without complaint or compensation, would showcase his skills to kids whenever needed, enriching the neighborhood birthday circuit, block parties, and school fairs, alike.  Mildly indignant with Barcelona youth’s preference of bubbles over magic, we watched sun’s last rays dance off the park’s colorfully glistening, mosaic-tiled roofed houses—strange houses, like gingerbread houses with cake-frosting roofs, melting in the end-of-day heat.

La Sagrada Familia

In his signature bizarre, modern style, Gaudi also designed two mansions (now museums) in the city center and a Roman-Catholic Cathedral by the name of La Sagrada Familia.  The latter, the most ambitious of Gaudi’s works, is a ridiculously awesome site to see (even just from the outside) and the circumstances surrounding its construction are no less interesting.  Construction was started in 1882 and, at the time of Gaudi’s death in 1926, it was only one-quarter complete.  In 2010, the city rejoiced because… wait for it…it’s now half-way done!  That’s right: almost 130 years later, this thing is still being built.  To the builders’ credit (who knows if it’s what Gaudi originally envisioned?), what’s standing is massive, wildly ambitious, and fascinating to look at.  And the snail-paced construction hasn’t seemed to matter much.  In fact, I think the site has become one of Barcelona’s biggest tourist destinations because of its unthinkably slow construction rather than in spite of it.  The ground floor now holds a museum charting the history of the project, and you can now tour some of the cathedral’s completed towers.  People who visited Barcelona years (or even decades) ago want to go back to see how much things have progressed.   Although not much had changed from what we remembered seeing in 2007 and 2002, it was still great to appreciate again the awe-inspiring combination of modern art and traditional religious imagery, especially on such an enormous scale.  The current “anticipated” completion date is now set for 2026—the centennial of Gaudí’s death—but, more likely, this date will simply come and go as others have before it, and no one will really care.

On our last day, after Jean Claude and I swapped some music*, Cynthia and I took a quick flight south to Seville.

Southern Spain

Moon over church. Seville, Spain

Although lacking the hospitality and rich cast of family and new friends from just north**, Southern Spain introduced us to some new foods and gave us an appreciation for the Arabic influences that largely shaped the culture and history of the region.   Seville and Granada (especially Granada which sits at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains) retain a great deal of evidence of the Muslim Moorish empire that ruled the Iberian Peninsula (present day Spain and Portugal) from the 8th to 15th centuries.  The most notable relic is undoubtedly Granada’s Alhambra—a massive palace and fortress complex constructed during the mid-14th century.

Mist over an Alhambra turret

The undisputable highlight of our few days in Southern Spain, however, was churros: a tube-shaped fried dough treat eaten with a cup of chocolate dipping sauce.  Churros taste similar to funnel cakes or elephant ears, and the dipping sauce seems to be an even mix of pudding and hot fudge.  It’s outstanding.  We first thought it was a “touristy” snack (like roasted nuts from street vendors in Manhattan or Ghirardelli chocolate in San Francisco).  But every day in Granada, between the hours of 4-7pm, without exception, locals of all ages (and fitness levels) descend on any of the city’s many fried dough providers.  The churros restaurant that our hotel directed us too is called Alhambra ***.  This relatively large establishment—complete with a counter and two separate dining rooms—serves nothing but churros and chocolate.  In the late afternoon and early evening, the place is packed with people (families, kids in strollers, toddlers on booster seats, grandparents, young couples, men reading newspapers…).  Behind the counters (but perfectly visible to those near-by), the cooks stand at huge black kettles filled with boiling-hot oil into which the dough is coiled into concentric, bubbling circles.  Hot out of the oil, the churros are broken into pieces with long wooden sticks, placed on a plate, and brought directly to tables of hungry churros enthusiasts.  Serving the masses is a seasoned team of dough slingers: ten to twelve guys wearing identical, yellow bowling shirts, pirouetting through the crowded dining area with silver trays of hot dough and chocolate held high.  We went every day.

Churros, chocolate and coffee

From Granada we took a train to Algeciras, a port city of Spain on the Mediterranean.  From there we boarded a ferry and sailed across the Straits of Gibralter to our next continent: Africa.

Notes:

*Jean Claude has a huge music collection: an impressive wall of CD’s and vinyl and a sizable digital collection to match.  We spoke about music a good bit and shared with each other a few of our favorite artists.  I got him into Band of Horses, and if you want to listen to (and begin to respect) some soothing, contemporary French music, download Dust Lane by Yan Tiersen.  It’s good travel music too.

**A few characters from Southern Spain deserve honorable mention including a strange Canadian guy at our hostel in Seville who wore Buddy Holly frames (curiously without lenses) and had unnecessarily loud Skype calls on his laptop with his mom in the hostel’s common area; and our host at our hotel in Granada: a tiny, effeminate man named Jose who, despite not being able to speak much English, gave us a phenomenal introduction to Granada.  With amazing penmanship and four different colored highlighters—one color corresponding to each category of restaurants, sites, bars, and banks—he  turned  our map of a Granada into a one-page, color-coded guidebook that we couldn’t leave our hotel room without.

***Capitalizing on name recognition of the Alhambra, many things in Granada go by this name, including a few other (nearly identical) nothing-but-churros establishments.  Very confusing, but supposedly “our” Alhambra is the best in the city for churros.