20 December 2017
I called it “hit the wall Wednesday.” Woke up so tired. I have been clocking the steps and today even approached 20,000. It’s like asking our bodies to hit the interstate after bumping along on a dirt road. But once you hear the sounds of the street the pull is inevitable. So far, no sickness or strains, but lots of soreness.
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| Eggs at El Ninot |
The market is always a wonder. I stand back and watch and watch because once you step up the pressure is on: “what do you want?” “how much do you want?” and “this is how much you pay.” I get so confused because I want it all. I end up focusing on the simplest menus because I get so overwhelmed. For example, tuna fish salad. We step up to buy celery and onions. You cannot touch the produce. The woman pulls out various stalks and presents them. “No, too much, no not enough.” Then she has to prep it for us. Finally, with pantomime we understand – how much of the leaves do we want left on, “this much?” or “this much?” It goes on like this so that by the time we get to paying I am totally rattled. And that was just the onions and celery! At the egg stall, they have 10 different types of eggs. (Lorena: “Look they still have feathers and egg delivery goo on them.”) they even have Emu eggs. Wonder what it would take for me to buy an Emu egg? I have seen them done on TV but TV and reality are a long way apart when confronted with the size of the Emu egg.
We’ve decided to get a grilled chicken for lunch and fixings for a future tuna salad (the canned tuna here is extraordinary). The pollo place is just across the street from the market. We checked in with them to find out when they would be available for sale: it’s a tight window and this is our third attempt to buy a chicken. Hard to believe there could be any competition as the wall is filled with about 25-50 chickens turning on rotisserie.
We return to the apartment to set up lunch on the back balcony. We soak up the warm sun in t-shirts (the cold weather warning is surely past) and dine on chicken, cheese, oranges, bread, butter and almonds. Each ingredient is fresh and flavorful. I realize that some want a balcony with a sea view or a mountain view, but we love this urban courtyard view, and imagine the lives around us.
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| Catching the Sunset |
An extended siesta follows. The canaries are out singing on the porches. I try to listen to Rachel Maddow, but all I get is the first line or so before dropping off to sleep: “It’s a big night in Washington…” I seem to have the urge but not the energy to keep up with American politics. A man asked us in an elevator yesterday if we were “happy” with the politics in the US. I clearly have to work on my Spanish Trump elevator pitch: all I could get out was “crazy” and “idiots,” but I do think he sensed our passion and that we were far from happy with where the US has descended.
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| Sunset at the Catalan Art Museum |
When we woke up from our nap, we could see a nice sunset in the making. We were out of the door in record time and on our way to the art museum. Interesting interaction on the subway. Pickpockets abound here (they are famous—some of the world’s best). A train is waiting when we round the curve and a man holds the door of the first car for us. “What a nice man” we think as we get on, breathless as everyone watches and the train horn sounds in protest. We thank him, but then notice he is exchanging glances with another fellow who approaches us. We assume defensive mode as they surround us, and eventually get a seat where we feel more protected. We watch them do the same to another woman—exchanging glances, and then moving in. Nothing ever happened, but it felt close. Somehow we’ve never been robbed here, though have been set up at least twice before (that we know of). It feels as though we dodged another bullet.
We make it to the Plaza España and make our way up to the art museum to watch the sunset. As we had hoped, it is spectacular. There’s a small crowd gathered for the show. The Caixa Forum is
nearby. It’s an old factory converted to a museum. There are no shows we want to see, but wander around looking at the architecture. There are patios interspersed throughout and it looks as though it was built with workers in mind. Kitty says it still reminds her of Dickens.
We head down the Gran Via towards our place and look for a restaurant. I have a couple marked in the El Raval area. There is “Tickets,” but that demands reservations and dressing up a bit and getting mentally prepared for those multiple courses. We head for a basic tapas bar called “Lolita,” but it is closed (no reason given). Kitty spies a restaurant across the street from “Tickets,” “Bodega 1900.” I recognize the name and whisper furtively “this is a really nice restaurant!” Turns out they had a corner table available.
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| Ensalada de Naranja |
We are situated to watch food preparation. We order multiple items to share and get guidance from our waiter, who is outstanding: very helpful and humorous and attentive. It’s pretty traditional Catalan, which means lots of fish. My favorite dish was probably the simplest: orange salad in olive juice. The “olive juice” was like a fine but viscous oil with some middle-eastern seasoning. Kitty slurps it by the spoonful. We get “fried fish” and it is the whole fish. When faced with this dish last year on the food tour, I’d had plenty of wine and jumped right in to bite off the head. Tonight, only one glass in me, but I still manage to eat the whole fish, bones and all. Actually, it was very mild and beautifully fried. The other stand out dish was the mussels: smaller than anything I’ve seen at home and in a red vinegar-based sauce. Really different and delicious.
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| Food Prep at Bodega 1900 |
At Bodega 1900 I got to sit right next to the prep station so I had a bird’s eye view of the sous chefs. What concentration. They all had big tweezers that were obviously not interchangable as some had colorful patterns on them. Reminded me of stethoscopes. They had many little pots and Tupperwares of pre-prepared items that they combined to do the salad dishes. After dumping a couple of those in a bowl they cut all the produce. Then came the mixing with various sauces all squirted out with what I would call plastic ketchup bottles. Then they poured it out onto a dish and started arranging the components with the tweezers. All this is all done with their heads about 9 inches from the plate. What time it took and attention.
We walk home through the Raval, something we probably wouldn’t have done on our 1985 visit. The neighborhood still has its rough spots, but is largely re-gentrified. We pass a converted Moritz beer factory just buzzing with the cool crowd. To bed by 11:30 after reviewing our meal again and again.
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