I shared an apartment in Barcelona for two months with a lovely young dancer from France. Being French, she provided me with an opportunity to practice the language when we both should have been studying Spanish. Or Catalan.
When you work in a foreign country, it is always best to have someone living with you. A local might be ideal, but I like exploring a new place with other foreigners. A local can show you the ropes and make it easier, but you can share the experience with another foreigner. In this case, I did not pick my roommate or apartment. I just got lucky.
The outside door to the Barcelona apartment looked like every other door on a street full of residential buildings that all pretty much looked the same. It took a few days to find the right door on the first try. Beyond the front door was a dark and gloomy hallway that I imagine would have been right at home behind the Iron Curtain. I'm still surprised whenever I see anything in Western Europe that reminds me of Eastern Europe. Up several flights of constantly cornering stairs was another door that looked just like every other door. The only saving grace was that there was only one door per floor. As long as you were on the right floor, it had to be the right door.
Everything changed as soon as that door was opened. The apartment interior was bright and airy. The high walls and ceiling were all various shades of white and there were large windows taking up an entire wall of the living room and kitchen. The bedrooms had smaller windows and they faced south, so there was less light. The living room and kitchen faced east, letting light flood in almost every morning, weather permitting. There was only one bathroom, unfortunately, and it was tiny and dark. The building was at least a hundred years old. Probably older. The kitchen was obviously remodeled some time in the last five years. The living room and bedrooms were decorated in a different decade, but everything was clean and in one piece. The bathroom might have been older than the building. I have seen better equipped outhouses.
The bathroom was clean, but almost useless. The water pressure was a joke. Turning the shower up all the way provided little more than a trickle. We adjusted the water heater in every way imaginable, but that did nothing for the pressure. Eventually, a maintenance person told us that Barcelona was simply a city of low water pressure. I could not help but think he was just being lazy. The water pressure in the kitchen sink was amazing. It was so high that it forced a bowl out of my hand one of the first times I washed dishes. In the kitchen, we had to turn the water as low as possible. In the bathroom, nothing worked better than a bus station.
The bathroom and kitchen were night and day. I loved everything about that kitchen. Not only was there more than enough light in the daytime, there was more than enough counter space at all hours. The refrigerator, oven and washing machine were all new and high tech. Each could be programmed a million different ways that we never understood. Partly because neither of us were used to appliances that require an internet connection and mostly because we both arrived knowing pretty much no Spanish. The kitchen came loaded with all manner of dishes, utensils, silverware, pots and pans. We were surrounded by food all around the city, but could make practically anything in that kitchen.
The apartment had doors everywhere. Each bedroom had a door that led to the living room and another door that led to the hallway that led to the front door. Both the living room and kitchen had doors to the hallway and another door that separated the two. On our first few nights in the apartment, we closed all of the doors for safety, but quickly abandoned that idea and left most of the doors open all the time. With doors open, the light from the living room and kitchen went almost everywhere. Except the bathroom.
The front door was the most complicated. From the outside, there was a single lock that could only be closed by pulling the door tightly shut and forcing the key far more than felt right. From the inside, there were three different locks, one of which had different layers of latching. When we were home, it would have taken a battering ram for someone to force their way in. When we were out, a simple credit card could do the trick.
The best thing about the apartment was that it was an actual apartment. I stayed in an apartment when I worked in Paris and it made all the difference in the world. It felt like I was living there, if only temporarily. The Barcelona apartment was less elegant, and the neighborhood was not as photogenic, but it felt far more genuine than a hotel. I would never want to buy that particular apartment, but it was a nice place to stay for a couple of months.
Showing posts with label Spain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spain. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Sunday, December 9, 2018
Veneza de Portugal
Aveiro, a tiny coastal village in central Portugal, is called the Venice of Portugal, for some reason. It has a few canals running through the city, but is above sea level and not likely to be flooded into extinction any time soon. I have never been to Venice, but I have to assume it is far more beautiful.
We took the train from Porto to Aveiro, which is a pleasant little 45 minute ride along the Atlantic coast. Unfortunately, we spent less than 12 hours in town, and I was working about half of that time, so what I know about Aveiro can fill two or three paragraphs.
Aveiro is not a crowded town, at least not in October. The largest crowd we saw on Aveiro day was at the Porto train station. Porto is not nearly as big as Barcelona, but there were more people milling about the station than I would have expected. The Porto train station is a popular tourist site, mostly for the murals on the ceiling, but once you pass the lobby, the crowds thin out. There were hundreds of people in the station, but almost no one waiting for our train.
Aveiro is famous for salt, I have been told. Everywhere we went, people were selling salt. I never bought any because salt should cost less than 20 euros for a 4 ounce bottle. Salt in different colors and mixed with herbs and spices does not impress me much. The ceramic trinkets and knick knacks were more impressive, but I generally don't buy souvenirs if they are only going to sit on a shelf and never do anything.
Aveiro also has colored boats that take people around the canals, but I never went on one.
During my time in Porto, several people said nice things about Aveiro. I'm sure there is something to it that I missed, but I was simply not there long enough.
We took the train from Porto to Aveiro, which is a pleasant little 45 minute ride along the Atlantic coast. Unfortunately, we spent less than 12 hours in town, and I was working about half of that time, so what I know about Aveiro can fill two or three paragraphs.
Aveiro is not a crowded town, at least not in October. The largest crowd we saw on Aveiro day was at the Porto train station. Porto is not nearly as big as Barcelona, but there were more people milling about the station than I would have expected. The Porto train station is a popular tourist site, mostly for the murals on the ceiling, but once you pass the lobby, the crowds thin out. There were hundreds of people in the station, but almost no one waiting for our train.
Aveiro is famous for salt, I have been told. Everywhere we went, people were selling salt. I never bought any because salt should cost less than 20 euros for a 4 ounce bottle. Salt in different colors and mixed with herbs and spices does not impress me much. The ceramic trinkets and knick knacks were more impressive, but I generally don't buy souvenirs if they are only going to sit on a shelf and never do anything.
Aveiro also has colored boats that take people around the canals, but I never went on one.
During my time in Porto, several people said nice things about Aveiro. I'm sure there is something to it that I missed, but I was simply not there long enough.
Thursday, December 6, 2018
A Invicta Cidade do Porto
While I was struggling with Spanish, made harder by the fact that the language of Barcelona is Catalan, we went to Portugal. Catalan feels like a dialect of Spanish, but I'm told it branched out of Latin, independent of Spanish. In writing, Catalan looks similar to French, but the pronunciation sounds slightly more Italian. Not that it ever really mattered. Everyone I met spoke Spanish. If you grew up in Catalunya, you learned Spanish in school. Older people were even forbidden to learn Catalan when they were younger. And a lot of people in Barcelona speak English. Except at Tim Hortons, for some reason. No one who works there spoke English. Fortunately, I know how to say, “Diez timbits para llevar, por favor.” What flavors? That is why pointing was invented. Even if everyone in the donut shop speaks the same language, you point at what you want. Except at Krispy Kreme. Then you only have to tell them how many boxes of glazed donuts you want.
Portuguese is a horse of a different color (un caballo de un color diferente, probably something diferente em portugues). In writing, it looks similar to Spanish, but nothing sounds the same. Read something aloud in Portugal the way you would read it in Spain and the person you are speaking to will have no idea what you are talking about. Let them read the paper and they will understand it completely. It reminded me of Chinese, except that Portuguese and Spanish are entirely different languages while Chinese and Chinese are region specific.
We spent a week in Portugal, in the small coastal city of Porto. By Portuguese standards, Porto is considered a large city. It has about as many people as Richmond, Virginia, so I consider it a small city. When you live in China, anything with fewer than 5 million people is a small city. Under 500,000 is a tiny village. Porto is one of those little European villages that likes to think it is an old city. As an American, I'm supposed to be impressed by how old it is. Porto was founded almost one thousand years before my home state. But again, living in China changes your perspective. By the time Porto got its own flag, China had already had a hundred civil wars, rebellions, insurrections, uprisings, insurgencies and revolutions. One hundred might sound like embellishment or hyperbole, but I'm probably low balling it.
We flew to Porto even though there are plenty of trains to and from Barcelona. The idea was that planes are faster. But with a train, you buy your ticket and get on the train. You can arrive at the station five minutes before your train leaves. There are probably restrictions on what you can bring in your luggage. Bombs and rocket launchers might not be allowed. But no one ever checks. Bring whatever you want on the train. Airports are a little more strict. Water, of all things, is forbidden. You can bring water on the plane, but you have to buy the $10 bottle from the airport. A two hour flight takes seven hours, at least. Then you have to get from the airport to wherever you are going. Airports are rarely anywhere near the city center. Train stations are mostly downtown.
Downtown Porto was a nice looking city. I can't say it was the best looking city in Europe. There is too much competition for that title. But it was nice to look at, especially at night. The lights along the river and across Ponte de Dom Luis I were far more subtle than anything I see every day in Hong Kong. When you are in Porto, you have to walk across the bridge. It's like going up the Eiffel Tower. You never see the locals doing it, but it is always packed full of people.
We rarely used the metro, but it looked like your typically efficient European public transportation. And it has to be. Porto is a hilly city. It's like San Francisco on steroids, with cobblestones instead of smooth pavement. And more hills. San Francisco has the Embarcadero and Golden Gate Park. I never saw any flat areas in Porto. Even the riverbanks went from water to hills. Walking around the city counts as a daily workout. There are a couple of streetcars, so you can get around and still see the city, but they are overpriced and don't really go anywhere. I think they are strictly for the tourists.
When I walked around, I saw construction. Everywhere. I don't know if it is always like this because of all the old buildings or I came at the wrong time, but it felt like every corner I turned led to more scaffolding and large machines making heavy noises. Mercado do Bolhao, easily the most famous market in the city, was completely closed for renovation. There was a temporary market a block away, but it was much smaller and had absolutely no charm.
It was also impossible to walk anywhere without a busker around the corner. I only saw one or two in Barcelona, but they were out in force in Porto. I can only imagine what it is like at the height of tourist season. Most of them were not especially good, but they all played songs I recognized. One busker at the Ribeira stood with his back to the river and sang “Tiny Dancer”, “Imagine” and REM's “Nightswimming”. He only had an acoustic guitar and a weak voice, but he obviously loved what he sang. Hearing familiar songs in public is becoming increasingly rare the further I grow out of touch with today's music. The buskers of Porto, at least, were as stuck in the past as I am.
Just outside the city, at the mouth of the Douro River, is the Atlantic Ocean. As oceans go, it was a nice change of pace. There were long beaches along the Foz do Douro, but it was still not good beach weather. It was a sunnier day than when I went to the Barcelona beach, but it was still October. I'm sure the Atlantic Ocean is colder than the Mediterranean. I have nothing to back that up. It's just an assumption.
In Porto, we stayed in a hotel that called itself an apartment. The Barcelona apartment was an actual apartment. It looked and felt like an apartment, and had obviously been around a while. The Porto “apartment” was shiny and new. It had a tiny kitchen and separate living room/bedrooms, but it felt nothing like an apartment. Since we were only there for a week, it never really mattered. A week in a hotel can be a nice break. For a month or two, a genuine apartment is always better. Hotels can get old pretty fast, and you always feel like a visitor. In an apartment, you can pretend you actually live there. The funny thing is, I spent twice as much time in Barcelona as I did in Paris a few years ago, but I felt more like I was living in Paris. Maybe it was a greater familiarity with the language and culture. Or maybe I just like Paris better. Barcelona seems like a good place, but I never felt any real connection. Maybe I have to go back some day.
Portuguese is a horse of a different color (un caballo de un color diferente, probably something diferente em portugues). In writing, it looks similar to Spanish, but nothing sounds the same. Read something aloud in Portugal the way you would read it in Spain and the person you are speaking to will have no idea what you are talking about. Let them read the paper and they will understand it completely. It reminded me of Chinese, except that Portuguese and Spanish are entirely different languages while Chinese and Chinese are region specific.
We spent a week in Portugal, in the small coastal city of Porto. By Portuguese standards, Porto is considered a large city. It has about as many people as Richmond, Virginia, so I consider it a small city. When you live in China, anything with fewer than 5 million people is a small city. Under 500,000 is a tiny village. Porto is one of those little European villages that likes to think it is an old city. As an American, I'm supposed to be impressed by how old it is. Porto was founded almost one thousand years before my home state. But again, living in China changes your perspective. By the time Porto got its own flag, China had already had a hundred civil wars, rebellions, insurrections, uprisings, insurgencies and revolutions. One hundred might sound like embellishment or hyperbole, but I'm probably low balling it.
We flew to Porto even though there are plenty of trains to and from Barcelona. The idea was that planes are faster. But with a train, you buy your ticket and get on the train. You can arrive at the station five minutes before your train leaves. There are probably restrictions on what you can bring in your luggage. Bombs and rocket launchers might not be allowed. But no one ever checks. Bring whatever you want on the train. Airports are a little more strict. Water, of all things, is forbidden. You can bring water on the plane, but you have to buy the $10 bottle from the airport. A two hour flight takes seven hours, at least. Then you have to get from the airport to wherever you are going. Airports are rarely anywhere near the city center. Train stations are mostly downtown.
Downtown Porto was a nice looking city. I can't say it was the best looking city in Europe. There is too much competition for that title. But it was nice to look at, especially at night. The lights along the river and across Ponte de Dom Luis I were far more subtle than anything I see every day in Hong Kong. When you are in Porto, you have to walk across the bridge. It's like going up the Eiffel Tower. You never see the locals doing it, but it is always packed full of people.
We rarely used the metro, but it looked like your typically efficient European public transportation. And it has to be. Porto is a hilly city. It's like San Francisco on steroids, with cobblestones instead of smooth pavement. And more hills. San Francisco has the Embarcadero and Golden Gate Park. I never saw any flat areas in Porto. Even the riverbanks went from water to hills. Walking around the city counts as a daily workout. There are a couple of streetcars, so you can get around and still see the city, but they are overpriced and don't really go anywhere. I think they are strictly for the tourists.
When I walked around, I saw construction. Everywhere. I don't know if it is always like this because of all the old buildings or I came at the wrong time, but it felt like every corner I turned led to more scaffolding and large machines making heavy noises. Mercado do Bolhao, easily the most famous market in the city, was completely closed for renovation. There was a temporary market a block away, but it was much smaller and had absolutely no charm.
It was also impossible to walk anywhere without a busker around the corner. I only saw one or two in Barcelona, but they were out in force in Porto. I can only imagine what it is like at the height of tourist season. Most of them were not especially good, but they all played songs I recognized. One busker at the Ribeira stood with his back to the river and sang “Tiny Dancer”, “Imagine” and REM's “Nightswimming”. He only had an acoustic guitar and a weak voice, but he obviously loved what he sang. Hearing familiar songs in public is becoming increasingly rare the further I grow out of touch with today's music. The buskers of Porto, at least, were as stuck in the past as I am.
Just outside the city, at the mouth of the Douro River, is the Atlantic Ocean. As oceans go, it was a nice change of pace. There were long beaches along the Foz do Douro, but it was still not good beach weather. It was a sunnier day than when I went to the Barcelona beach, but it was still October. I'm sure the Atlantic Ocean is colder than the Mediterranean. I have nothing to back that up. It's just an assumption.
In Porto, we stayed in a hotel that called itself an apartment. The Barcelona apartment was an actual apartment. It looked and felt like an apartment, and had obviously been around a while. The Porto “apartment” was shiny and new. It had a tiny kitchen and separate living room/bedrooms, but it felt nothing like an apartment. Since we were only there for a week, it never really mattered. A week in a hotel can be a nice break. For a month or two, a genuine apartment is always better. Hotels can get old pretty fast, and you always feel like a visitor. In an apartment, you can pretend you actually live there. The funny thing is, I spent twice as much time in Barcelona as I did in Paris a few years ago, but I felt more like I was living in Paris. Maybe it was a greater familiarity with the language and culture. Or maybe I just like Paris better. Barcelona seems like a good place, but I never felt any real connection. Maybe I have to go back some day.
Sunday, December 2, 2018
La Capital de Catalunya
I spent almost two months in Barcelona, but I really can't say much about the city. I spent most of my time working, and we did a quick tour in Portugal. I saw very little beyond the immediate neighborhood around my apartment. I walked past la Sagrada Familia and a couple of Gaudi houses almost every day, but I never went inside any of them. In another neighborhood, I took the telefèric up to Castell de Montjuic. But I don't know anything about the castle's history. I do know there are great views of the city from the castle and cable car. I think the most time I spent outside of work was at el Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya. The building and grounds were works of art as much as the collections inside. At the top of a lot of steps, it also had great views.
The people in residential areas were friendly, but the more crowded areas had too many tourists. The first time I went to la Rambla was a Saturday night, so I thought that was why it was so crowded. I went again on a Wednesday morning and it was almost as bad. I think there are simply some parts of Barcelona that are unbearable no matter what time or day.
You would think living in Hong Kong made me immune to immense crowds, but there is something oddly different about Chinese overpopulation compared to overcrowding in places like Europe and North America. It is almost comfortable in China. Maybe not comfortable. Tolerable might be a better word. Trudging through an endless river of bodies in Europe is one of my least favorite ways to spend the day. Other than la Boqueria, I did not see much reason to visit la Rambla. Unless you like overpriced shopping. La Boqueria was a loud little market, infinitely better in the morning than later in the day. It reminded me of le Marché Provençal in Antibes. It was nice, but far from the best local market in the world. That would be Mahane Yehuda in Jerusalem.
The Barcelona metro (el Metro de Barcelona) was efficient, but there does not seem to be a smart card system like Hong Kong's octopus or Tokyo's Pasmo. There were a million different ticket types, so I just went with the monthly pass. Much like Paris, every station required walking up and down multiple flights of stairs, with only the occasional escalator. I don't know how people in wheelchairs get around. Europe has some amazing looking cities to walk around, as long as your body is fully functional.
Unfortunately, I can't say anything about the food. I ate plenty of it. I usually eat a lot while rehearsing, and maybe a little less between shows, so I used to have plenty of opinions about the food around me. In Barcelona, I had some empanadas, escalivada, and a lot of potatoes, mostly with aioli. I don't think you are allowed to eat potatoes without aioli in Barcelona I ate paella because you have to when you are in Spain. That's another law. And tapas, of course. You can't walk two blocks in Barcelona without running into a tasca or tapas bar. There were a lot of tomatoes, potatoes, eggplant and peppers in practically everything. Before this trip, I could not remember the last time I ate eggplant. In Barcelona, I can't remember a day without it. The city is on the Mediterranean, so there was plenty of olive oil everywhere. No hummus, though. That was disappointing. I'm sure there is some somewhere, but I never saw any.
I don't know what anything tasted like, but most of the food looked familiar. Empanadas are essentially the same as sambousek. Dough stuffed with food is pretty common all over the world. Paella is Spanish jambalaya. Tapas and dim sum are the same concept. I had crema catalana in Barcelona, which is crème brulee, and pastel de nata in Portugal, which is available at bakeries all over Macau and Hong Kong.
Interestingly enough, tortillas in Barcelona are nothing like Mexico. They are omelettes, frittatas or any similar egg dish. I saw a sign for tortillas at one of the stalls at la Boqueria and thought about bringing some back to the apartment to use later. The stall owner was confused when I wanted a dozen. I was pretty sure it was not a language issue. I know that doce means twelve, and I know what a tortilla is. Or so I thought. When he held up a large plate of an even larger omelette, I learned what a tortilla is in Spain. I never found any Mexican tortillas, under any name, in any of the grocery stores. I guess they never confuse the two if they only have one.
I can't say much about the beaches. October/November is not ideal beach weather and I only went once. It looked like it was going to rain the entire day, so the only people out beyond the promenade were the surfers. It is probably a nice area during summer.
Shopping is ridiculously easy in Barcelona. My apartment was between a large Carrefour and a small Condis. There were tiny 24H convenience stores every two blocks in every direction. They all seemed to be owned and/or operated by Arabs, which only reminded me of Apu and the stereotype of certain minority groups covering certain occupations. We don't see a lot of that where I live. In China, every 7-Eleven is staffed by Chinese people. Every taxi driver is Chinese. Every gardener is Chinese. The richest people, and those who do all the work for them, are all Chinese.
The apartment was in a residential neighborhood, but only a few blocks from la plaça de Catalunya, probably the most important plaza in the city. As far as I could tell, plaça de Catalunya is the shopping, entertainment and transportation hub of the entire city. It is surrounded by shopping malls, department stores and pedestrian malls. Several museums are just north of the square, with theaters and churches in every direction. You can catch several different L trains, a few R trains and dozens of buses, including the airport express bus. Most importantly, it had a Tim Hortons.
La Boqueria is the famous market, just south of plaça de Catalunya and a 20 minute walk from the apartment. But there are less crowded options at el Mercat de la Concepció, just off el Passeig de Gràcia, and el Mercat de Santa Caterina, a few blocks from the Cathedral. Unlike Paris, Barcelona does not close on Sundays. There was no reason to go hungry, so I never did.
The people in residential areas were friendly, but the more crowded areas had too many tourists. The first time I went to la Rambla was a Saturday night, so I thought that was why it was so crowded. I went again on a Wednesday morning and it was almost as bad. I think there are simply some parts of Barcelona that are unbearable no matter what time or day.
You would think living in Hong Kong made me immune to immense crowds, but there is something oddly different about Chinese overpopulation compared to overcrowding in places like Europe and North America. It is almost comfortable in China. Maybe not comfortable. Tolerable might be a better word. Trudging through an endless river of bodies in Europe is one of my least favorite ways to spend the day. Other than la Boqueria, I did not see much reason to visit la Rambla. Unless you like overpriced shopping. La Boqueria was a loud little market, infinitely better in the morning than later in the day. It reminded me of le Marché Provençal in Antibes. It was nice, but far from the best local market in the world. That would be Mahane Yehuda in Jerusalem.
The Barcelona metro (el Metro de Barcelona) was efficient, but there does not seem to be a smart card system like Hong Kong's octopus or Tokyo's Pasmo. There were a million different ticket types, so I just went with the monthly pass. Much like Paris, every station required walking up and down multiple flights of stairs, with only the occasional escalator. I don't know how people in wheelchairs get around. Europe has some amazing looking cities to walk around, as long as your body is fully functional.
Unfortunately, I can't say anything about the food. I ate plenty of it. I usually eat a lot while rehearsing, and maybe a little less between shows, so I used to have plenty of opinions about the food around me. In Barcelona, I had some empanadas, escalivada, and a lot of potatoes, mostly with aioli. I don't think you are allowed to eat potatoes without aioli in Barcelona I ate paella because you have to when you are in Spain. That's another law. And tapas, of course. You can't walk two blocks in Barcelona without running into a tasca or tapas bar. There were a lot of tomatoes, potatoes, eggplant and peppers in practically everything. Before this trip, I could not remember the last time I ate eggplant. In Barcelona, I can't remember a day without it. The city is on the Mediterranean, so there was plenty of olive oil everywhere. No hummus, though. That was disappointing. I'm sure there is some somewhere, but I never saw any.
I don't know what anything tasted like, but most of the food looked familiar. Empanadas are essentially the same as sambousek. Dough stuffed with food is pretty common all over the world. Paella is Spanish jambalaya. Tapas and dim sum are the same concept. I had crema catalana in Barcelona, which is crème brulee, and pastel de nata in Portugal, which is available at bakeries all over Macau and Hong Kong.
Interestingly enough, tortillas in Barcelona are nothing like Mexico. They are omelettes, frittatas or any similar egg dish. I saw a sign for tortillas at one of the stalls at la Boqueria and thought about bringing some back to the apartment to use later. The stall owner was confused when I wanted a dozen. I was pretty sure it was not a language issue. I know that doce means twelve, and I know what a tortilla is. Or so I thought. When he held up a large plate of an even larger omelette, I learned what a tortilla is in Spain. I never found any Mexican tortillas, under any name, in any of the grocery stores. I guess they never confuse the two if they only have one.
I can't say much about the beaches. October/November is not ideal beach weather and I only went once. It looked like it was going to rain the entire day, so the only people out beyond the promenade were the surfers. It is probably a nice area during summer.
Shopping is ridiculously easy in Barcelona. My apartment was between a large Carrefour and a small Condis. There were tiny 24H convenience stores every two blocks in every direction. They all seemed to be owned and/or operated by Arabs, which only reminded me of Apu and the stereotype of certain minority groups covering certain occupations. We don't see a lot of that where I live. In China, every 7-Eleven is staffed by Chinese people. Every taxi driver is Chinese. Every gardener is Chinese. The richest people, and those who do all the work for them, are all Chinese.
The apartment was in a residential neighborhood, but only a few blocks from la plaça de Catalunya, probably the most important plaza in the city. As far as I could tell, plaça de Catalunya is the shopping, entertainment and transportation hub of the entire city. It is surrounded by shopping malls, department stores and pedestrian malls. Several museums are just north of the square, with theaters and churches in every direction. You can catch several different L trains, a few R trains and dozens of buses, including the airport express bus. Most importantly, it had a Tim Hortons.
La Boqueria is the famous market, just south of plaça de Catalunya and a 20 minute walk from the apartment. But there are less crowded options at el Mercat de la Concepció, just off el Passeig de Gràcia, and el Mercat de Santa Caterina, a few blocks from the Cathedral. Unlike Paris, Barcelona does not close on Sundays. There was no reason to go hungry, so I never did.
Saturday, November 24, 2018
Thanksgiving Birthday
I was born on Thanksgiving. Every once in a while, it lands on my birthday, but I have only had one Thanksgiving birthday in Hong Kong. That one feels like a lifetime ago. Most of the time, Thanksgiving is not on my birthday and once or twice I was out of the country. This year, I am in Barcelona.
Thanksgiving is not an important holiday in Spain. In fact, they really don't seem to care at all about Pilgrims and Indians making corn and pumpkin pie. No one cares about Thanksgiving in Hong Kong either, but there are enough American and Canadian expats that you can always find something happening somewhere.
A few years ago, I was in Tokyo during Thanksgiving. Japan cares about the holiday even less than Spain, but we found a restaurant owned by some American expats who did a big Thanksgiving dinner every year. Unfortunately, they closed down last year. I don't know why. It seemed like it was the go to place for Americans in Tokyo who wanted a genuine American breakfast. That was my most American Thanksgiving since I moved to Hong Kong. Until this year.
In Barcelona, I went to a place called Flaherty's, one block east of la Rambla, between Placa Reial and the beach. It is an Irish pub that serves a combination of Italian entrées, Mexican appetizers, English breakfast, Irish pies and American sandwiches. They are apparently famous for their annual Thanksgiving dinner. They even show American football games on TV, something no one did in Tokyo. I don't care about football unless the Vikings win the Super Bowl, which has yet to happen. But sometimes it is nice to be in a large room full of other expats talking about our shared culture. I was an American living in China and celebrating Thanksgiving at an Irish pub in Spain, but I was far from the only one away from home.
Flaherty's Thanksgiving menu looked pretty good. They had all kinds of food that sounded like Thanksgiving on the surface, but were not quite Thanksgiving where I come from. There was pumpkin soup with smoked parsnip, date tarts with goat cheese, herb mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with a Guinness glaze, cranberry sauce with thyme infused red wine. For dessert, they had bread and butter pudding and apple pie. Yet again, I could not find any pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. They had pumpkin soup, so there must be some pumpkins somewhere, but no pie. The Tokyo restaurant had pumpkin pie, but I think they used Japanese pumpkins. My genuine pumpkin pie quest continues. Although, I suppose at this point, it really does not matter.
Since it was my birthday, I got a free slice of chocolate Guinness cake and more than a few people offered to buy me drinks. I'm not much of a drinker, but I was surprised to realize that I had not had any alcohol for over a year. When you can't taste anything, it would be exceptionally easy to drink anyone under the table. Everyone else downs a shot and they react immediately, or even sooner. The smell of their drink hits them before it even touches their tongue. I can drink vodka like it is water. Fortunately, I know what would happen if I tried to win that contest. I have always hated getting drunk, especially the next day. So even back when I could taste what I was drinking, I always took it easy.
The weird thing about Irish pubs in Spain, at least this one, was that no one tried to talk me into drinking too much. I don't know if there were fewer opportunists there or if I'm just getting too old for men in bars to try to get me drunk. I like to think I'm still young, but on your birthday, you know exactly how old you are.
Thanksgiving is not an important holiday in Spain. In fact, they really don't seem to care at all about Pilgrims and Indians making corn and pumpkin pie. No one cares about Thanksgiving in Hong Kong either, but there are enough American and Canadian expats that you can always find something happening somewhere.
A few years ago, I was in Tokyo during Thanksgiving. Japan cares about the holiday even less than Spain, but we found a restaurant owned by some American expats who did a big Thanksgiving dinner every year. Unfortunately, they closed down last year. I don't know why. It seemed like it was the go to place for Americans in Tokyo who wanted a genuine American breakfast. That was my most American Thanksgiving since I moved to Hong Kong. Until this year.
In Barcelona, I went to a place called Flaherty's, one block east of la Rambla, between Placa Reial and the beach. It is an Irish pub that serves a combination of Italian entrées, Mexican appetizers, English breakfast, Irish pies and American sandwiches. They are apparently famous for their annual Thanksgiving dinner. They even show American football games on TV, something no one did in Tokyo. I don't care about football unless the Vikings win the Super Bowl, which has yet to happen. But sometimes it is nice to be in a large room full of other expats talking about our shared culture. I was an American living in China and celebrating Thanksgiving at an Irish pub in Spain, but I was far from the only one away from home.
Flaherty's Thanksgiving menu looked pretty good. They had all kinds of food that sounded like Thanksgiving on the surface, but were not quite Thanksgiving where I come from. There was pumpkin soup with smoked parsnip, date tarts with goat cheese, herb mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with a Guinness glaze, cranberry sauce with thyme infused red wine. For dessert, they had bread and butter pudding and apple pie. Yet again, I could not find any pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. They had pumpkin soup, so there must be some pumpkins somewhere, but no pie. The Tokyo restaurant had pumpkin pie, but I think they used Japanese pumpkins. My genuine pumpkin pie quest continues. Although, I suppose at this point, it really does not matter.
Since it was my birthday, I got a free slice of chocolate Guinness cake and more than a few people offered to buy me drinks. I'm not much of a drinker, but I was surprised to realize that I had not had any alcohol for over a year. When you can't taste anything, it would be exceptionally easy to drink anyone under the table. Everyone else downs a shot and they react immediately, or even sooner. The smell of their drink hits them before it even touches their tongue. I can drink vodka like it is water. Fortunately, I know what would happen if I tried to win that contest. I have always hated getting drunk, especially the next day. So even back when I could taste what I was drinking, I always took it easy.
The weird thing about Irish pubs in Spain, at least this one, was that no one tried to talk me into drinking too much. I don't know if there were fewer opportunists there or if I'm just getting too old for men in bars to try to get me drunk. I like to think I'm still young, but on your birthday, you know exactly how old you are.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
Barcelona Or Bust
I'm going to Barcelona today. I thought I would be nervous about the whole thing, but instead, I have been too busy to really worry about it.
I have traveled for work countless times. That is the nature of my job. It always used to be relatively easy. Someone else books the plane tickets and arranges a hotel and/or apartment. All I usually have to do is show up and do the work. This time, I had a choice of places to stay while I'm there. Since I know absolutely nothing about the city, I looked into neighborhoods and transportation. Living in Hong Kong has spoiled me for public transportation. I have reached the point where I actually expect to take trains that run on time to get me to work in half an hour or less. Fortunately, Barcelona's transit system looks pretty good. Of course, I will not truly know until I use it.
I will be there for about eight weeks. That is not nearly enough time to learn the language, so I did a little studying ahead. I knew almost no Spanish a month ago. Now, I know slightly more. The funny thing is, the language of Barcelona is Catalan, which is supposed to be more like Italian or French than Spanish. That would be fine with me. My French is decent, as long as people speak incredibly slow, and I know a few menu and transportation phrases in Italian. There is nothing impressive here, but it is far better than my Spanish.
Ideally, I will be working too much for any of this to matter, but I will have to go out and buy groceries sooner or later. It would be nice if I could get by on my own without relying on the kindness of strangers and colleagues. Some of my favorite memories of new cities are walking around and exploring at random. You don't usually need to speak any language to do that, but sometimes it helps.
I have traveled for work countless times. That is the nature of my job. It always used to be relatively easy. Someone else books the plane tickets and arranges a hotel and/or apartment. All I usually have to do is show up and do the work. This time, I had a choice of places to stay while I'm there. Since I know absolutely nothing about the city, I looked into neighborhoods and transportation. Living in Hong Kong has spoiled me for public transportation. I have reached the point where I actually expect to take trains that run on time to get me to work in half an hour or less. Fortunately, Barcelona's transit system looks pretty good. Of course, I will not truly know until I use it.
I will be there for about eight weeks. That is not nearly enough time to learn the language, so I did a little studying ahead. I knew almost no Spanish a month ago. Now, I know slightly more. The funny thing is, the language of Barcelona is Catalan, which is supposed to be more like Italian or French than Spanish. That would be fine with me. My French is decent, as long as people speak incredibly slow, and I know a few menu and transportation phrases in Italian. There is nothing impressive here, but it is far better than my Spanish.
Ideally, I will be working too much for any of this to matter, but I will have to go out and buy groceries sooner or later. It would be nice if I could get by on my own without relying on the kindness of strangers and colleagues. Some of my favorite memories of new cities are walking around and exploring at random. You don't usually need to speak any language to do that, but sometimes it helps.
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
Working Hard or Hardly Working
I was not finished describing my high school reunion, but something came up. I have been offered a job in Barcelona.
I don't really want to get into any details. Partly because I'm a little superstitious that if I talk about a new opportunity too much before it happens, I will somehow jinx it. Mostly because it is a lot easier to talk about something that has already happened than something that will happen in the future.
But I am free to admit how nervous I am about it. This will be my first performing job since I bumped my head in a car accident last year. I don't know if I'm ready to get back into it. I know I'm ready mentally, spiritually and philosophically. Am I ready physically? I honestly have no idea. I exercise every day, rain or shine. I run and walk around Hong Kong. I rode a bike and went swimming in Minnesota. I climbed a mountain in Miyajima. I have been doing plenty of heavy training for the last six months.
But I get exhausted during my morning runs. I used to run around, go home and start my day. Now I run around, go home and take a nap. The bike ride in Minnesota was one afternoon, and there was a child with us. It was more of a leisurely stroll through the park than a workout. The swimming was in a small pool, sometimes with other people. The mountain on Miyajima was mostly a hike over rocks. The cable cars did most of the heavy lifting.
The benefit to taking the Barcelona job is that it is great practice to see if I'm ready. No one likes it when you tell them their job is just a rehearsal to you, so maybe I should not mention that part. But this is not Facebook. Blog posts do not go viral. Another benefit is the free trip to Barcelona. That was never high on my list of places to visit, and I know almost nothing about the city, but I hear it is nice.
If all goes well, I can go back to work in Hong Kong when I return from Barcelona. If it turns out to be a spectacular failure, then I know I still need to push harder before I'm ready. I have nothing to lose, other than my reputation in Spain. But it's not like I ever had a reputation there anyway.
I should probably look up some Spanish phrases. I don't know much beyond, “Hola, yo me llamo Hailey. Yo no comprendo.”
I don't really want to get into any details. Partly because I'm a little superstitious that if I talk about a new opportunity too much before it happens, I will somehow jinx it. Mostly because it is a lot easier to talk about something that has already happened than something that will happen in the future.
But I am free to admit how nervous I am about it. This will be my first performing job since I bumped my head in a car accident last year. I don't know if I'm ready to get back into it. I know I'm ready mentally, spiritually and philosophically. Am I ready physically? I honestly have no idea. I exercise every day, rain or shine. I run and walk around Hong Kong. I rode a bike and went swimming in Minnesota. I climbed a mountain in Miyajima. I have been doing plenty of heavy training for the last six months.
But I get exhausted during my morning runs. I used to run around, go home and start my day. Now I run around, go home and take a nap. The bike ride in Minnesota was one afternoon, and there was a child with us. It was more of a leisurely stroll through the park than a workout. The swimming was in a small pool, sometimes with other people. The mountain on Miyajima was mostly a hike over rocks. The cable cars did most of the heavy lifting.
The benefit to taking the Barcelona job is that it is great practice to see if I'm ready. No one likes it when you tell them their job is just a rehearsal to you, so maybe I should not mention that part. But this is not Facebook. Blog posts do not go viral. Another benefit is the free trip to Barcelona. That was never high on my list of places to visit, and I know almost nothing about the city, but I hear it is nice.
If all goes well, I can go back to work in Hong Kong when I return from Barcelona. If it turns out to be a spectacular failure, then I know I still need to push harder before I'm ready. I have nothing to lose, other than my reputation in Spain. But it's not like I ever had a reputation there anyway.
I should probably look up some Spanish phrases. I don't know much beyond, “Hola, yo me llamo Hailey. Yo no comprendo.”
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