This is my ketchup-karma-kuriosities entry. Long and perhaps winding but worth reading to the end I hope. Promises of another WTF contest soon. But first a recounting of our adventures in Barcelona on Thursday-Friday.
We did as we said, woke up refreshed, a quick espresso in the room, some news on TV in English, the BBC, although really who wants to hear about Trump or Boris Johnson, and off we went to walk to the sea, the beach and Barceloneta.
Though this is my third and Steve’s second trip to this fun city, neither of us had ever been past the harbor at Port Vell. We quick stopped for an Americana con leche with a seaview and then continued around the bend to the Barcelona boardwalk. Unbeknownst to me, you can walk for miles along the brown sandy/dirt beach, each cove a different playa name with a rock jetty separation.
Some beaches are shoobie, with tourists buying large, thin parejos from the African vendors to lay on.
Some beaches are upscale, with rentable loungers and umbrellas. And some beaches have stand alone structures on the boardwalk that once you enter have elevators that whisk you down to the chi chi beachfront restaurant for lunch, or a hot club for dancing at night. Not a concept we have in the US.
After a couple of miles of strolling, we turned around to head back and into Barceloneta. Now it wasn’t until 1984 that Barcelona decided to try to renovate and revitalize the city by finally making the city meet the beach and sea. Something that Philadelphia has yet to figure out. But in the way of progress was the small fishing village of Barceloneta. How smart the urban planners were to take over the beachfront and add a promenade but essentially leave the small angled streets of the neighborhood as they were, a working mans village. Still today the narrow streets have tall, small houses with laundry handing every which way from every window, some across, some up and some straight out. The laundry reminds me of the old Hong Kong, but the small streets feel just like Italy.
Our goal was a seafood lunch in Barceloneta, and though I always opt for eating outside with a seaview, those places looked full of touristas and felt way less authentic than we were aiming for. So into the warren of streets we went searching for an old fashioned family restaurant. One choice was to wait for the oldest, most well known one to open at 1:00 (it was 12:30) by hopping into the bar across the street for a drink. This bar appeared to be only men, working men, and looked like a tappie in South Philly from 1945. Or we could go up the street 25 feet to another trés-authentic looking place right away. We headed up and into Paco Alcalde.
There was only one other occupied table, a young Japanese couple, but again the place could have been in South Philly, with walls filled with family oil portraits and signed and framed photos with famous soccer stars.
There was a plate of sliced salami already on every table- was it the amuse-bouche, or was it the Portuguese-style starter, that if you don’t reject it, ends up on your bill? We knew either was possible, didn’t care, ate it, and it was on our bill, but worth it.
We had no dinner reservation, so for lunch we went all out and ordered two tapas- anchovies vinegar (at home they would be billed as white anchovies or boquerones) and papas bravas, the spicy fried potato dish we had come to love on previous visits, and then, as a main, seafood paella for one, to share.
As we dined on the excellent local cuisine we noticed many more Japanese tourists filling the tables alongside some groups of working men at their midday meal. One young couple or pair of Japanese women after another came in to eat. It seemed strange. As we left I approached the owner Paco to tell him how much we enjoyed our food, and couldn’t help but ask him how his restaurant had come to attract so many Japanese tourists.
I asked in Spanish and he understood. He answered in Spanish and I caught only a few words, one being correr which means to run. I was thoroughly confused but the mystery would be solved the next day.
With no plans we strolled slowly back the three miles, bypassing the 40 or 50 African vendors selling fake designer everything. This is one of those things that you see everywhere in Europe. We are still up in the air if these men are better or not coming here, living 10 or more to an apartment, waiting and hoping the cruise ship passengers who can’t afford a real designer bag will settle for their fakes, allowing them to pay what we assume is some Spanish mafia that controls the African sellers and their consigned goods so they can send $100 or $200 home each month to feed their families. Is their life better or worse? I don’t know but I know its sad. I wish we had a great global solution for immigration, peace, and a living wage.
After lunch we stopped to visit the History Museum of Barcelona on a whim. Our hero, Rick Steves, gave it two out of three triangles, partly based on content and partly based on a decent English audio guide. Not sure what to expect, but claiming to be pensioners, for 5 Euro we were in. It turns out that alongside, or actually under, the display of archeological artifacts of the city (mildly uninteresting) was an entire excavation of multiple centuries and layers of Barcelona starting in the third century. You descend in a glass elevator perhaps 30 feet, and go back in time 2000 years.
Wending your way around and up on glass catwalks was like experiencing Barcelona through the ages. It was a great bang for the buck.
After a respite in our room we headed out for dinner. Steve’s pick tonight, undisclosed to me, was a small tapas place in el Born, a very artsy hip area near our hotel. We twisted and turned past quirky shops and small new designer ateliers, a bit lost but not caring. As we passed one shop a jacket caught my eye.
The open loft above where the designer was clearly sewing her creations caught Steve’s eye. In we went and in less than ten minutes out I walked with a fabulous jacket tucked into a bag, also hand sewn by the designer. You can check it out this fall - I will be the first in Santa Fe, or maybe the US, to rock an original Bono Bono.
We then headed straight to El Chigre 1769, a very hot tapas bar, with no reservations. I was sure we wouldn’t get in, but maybe we passed the Studio 54 line test, and though we had to wait 15 minutes outside with complimentary drinks (new drink of the summer, Vermouth on the rocks with an olive and an orange slice), we did get seats inside on stools at a slim counter.
Another order of anchovies and an amazing potato croquette with blue cheese mousse might have been enough, but our unbelievably adorable waiter had convinced us to try the pulpo, a house specialty. The char-grilled octopus was on a rectangle of potato galette and topped with citrus chimmichurri sauce that was to die for. I want it again before we leave.
Which brings me to my next story, the karma. For our last stop of this trip we will spend four nights in Paris. We are so lucky to have a friend there with an atelier for us to stay in. Of course, more than that we were looking forward to spending time together - until it turned out he had to be out of town on business and not returning until our last day/night in Paris. Though disappointed, we settled for one good dinner on the 19th with him and his partner. But sometimes things just work out, and it turns out his work is in - Barcelona! So tonight we will have drinks and maybe tomorrow we can take him back to El Chigre.....he loves pulpo. I know this blog is long but one more story before I end. Today we had tickets for a tour at Parc Guell, the Antoni Gaudi creation. We had been to Sagrada Familia and to the famous Gaudi apartments last time. The Park is for a 2nd or 3rd visit to Barcelona if you are not Gaudi crazy, and we are not. Our guide was the typical energetic, charming, funny even in English handsome guy. He had stories galore about the history of the park.
But the most interesting one was this:
In 1984 Gaudi was not well known outside of Spain. Barcelona had about 3 million visitors a year, mostly European. Gaudi was famous here, maybe in France or Portugal but nowhere else. UNTIL a Japanese whiskey company decided to create an ad campaign featuring all of Gaudi’s architecture. As soon as it aired, Japanese tourists began flocking here to visit his buildings. And so, though I have no idea how the word correr spoken by Paco at lunch yesterday is tied in, at least we have come full circle and understand why there ARE thousands of Japanese tourists here today.
Back on our rooftop, relaxing in the sun, loving Barcelona!
Though this is my third and Steve’s second trip to this fun city, neither of us had ever been past the harbor at Port Vell. We quick stopped for an Americana con leche with a seaview and then continued around the bend to the Barcelona boardwalk. Unbeknownst to me, you can walk for miles along the brown sandy/dirt beach, each cove a different playa name with a rock jetty separation.
Some beaches are upscale, with rentable loungers and umbrellas. And some beaches have stand alone structures on the boardwalk that once you enter have elevators that whisk you down to the chi chi beachfront restaurant for lunch, or a hot club for dancing at night. Not a concept we have in the US.
After a couple of miles of strolling, we turned around to head back and into Barceloneta. Now it wasn’t until 1984 that Barcelona decided to try to renovate and revitalize the city by finally making the city meet the beach and sea. Something that Philadelphia has yet to figure out. But in the way of progress was the small fishing village of Barceloneta. How smart the urban planners were to take over the beachfront and add a promenade but essentially leave the small angled streets of the neighborhood as they were, a working mans village. Still today the narrow streets have tall, small houses with laundry handing every which way from every window, some across, some up and some straight out. The laundry reminds me of the old Hong Kong, but the small streets feel just like Italy.
Our goal was a seafood lunch in Barceloneta, and though I always opt for eating outside with a seaview, those places looked full of touristas and felt way less authentic than we were aiming for. So into the warren of streets we went searching for an old fashioned family restaurant. One choice was to wait for the oldest, most well known one to open at 1:00 (it was 12:30) by hopping into the bar across the street for a drink. This bar appeared to be only men, working men, and looked like a tappie in South Philly from 1945. Or we could go up the street 25 feet to another trés-authentic looking place right away. We headed up and into Paco Alcalde.
There was only one other occupied table, a young Japanese couple, but again the place could have been in South Philly, with walls filled with family oil portraits and signed and framed photos with famous soccer stars.
There was a plate of sliced salami already on every table- was it the amuse-bouche, or was it the Portuguese-style starter, that if you don’t reject it, ends up on your bill? We knew either was possible, didn’t care, ate it, and it was on our bill, but worth it.
As we dined on the excellent local cuisine we noticed many more Japanese tourists filling the tables alongside some groups of working men at their midday meal. One young couple or pair of Japanese women after another came in to eat. It seemed strange. As we left I approached the owner Paco to tell him how much we enjoyed our food, and couldn’t help but ask him how his restaurant had come to attract so many Japanese tourists.
With no plans we strolled slowly back the three miles, bypassing the 40 or 50 African vendors selling fake designer everything. This is one of those things that you see everywhere in Europe. We are still up in the air if these men are better or not coming here, living 10 or more to an apartment, waiting and hoping the cruise ship passengers who can’t afford a real designer bag will settle for their fakes, allowing them to pay what we assume is some Spanish mafia that controls the African sellers and their consigned goods so they can send $100 or $200 home each month to feed their families. Is their life better or worse? I don’t know but I know its sad. I wish we had a great global solution for immigration, peace, and a living wage.
After lunch we stopped to visit the History Museum of Barcelona on a whim. Our hero, Rick Steves, gave it two out of three triangles, partly based on content and partly based on a decent English audio guide. Not sure what to expect, but claiming to be pensioners, for 5 Euro we were in. It turns out that alongside, or actually under, the display of archeological artifacts of the city (mildly uninteresting) was an entire excavation of multiple centuries and layers of Barcelona starting in the third century. You descend in a glass elevator perhaps 30 feet, and go back in time 2000 years.
Wending your way around and up on glass catwalks was like experiencing Barcelona through the ages. It was a great bang for the buck.
After a respite in our room we headed out for dinner. Steve’s pick tonight, undisclosed to me, was a small tapas place in el Born, a very artsy hip area near our hotel. We twisted and turned past quirky shops and small new designer ateliers, a bit lost but not caring. As we passed one shop a jacket caught my eye.
The open loft above where the designer was clearly sewing her creations caught Steve’s eye. In we went and in less than ten minutes out I walked with a fabulous jacket tucked into a bag, also hand sewn by the designer. You can check it out this fall - I will be the first in Santa Fe, or maybe the US, to rock an original Bono Bono.
We then headed straight to El Chigre 1769, a very hot tapas bar, with no reservations. I was sure we wouldn’t get in, but maybe we passed the Studio 54 line test, and though we had to wait 15 minutes outside with complimentary drinks (new drink of the summer, Vermouth on the rocks with an olive and an orange slice), we did get seats inside on stools at a slim counter.
Which brings me to my next story, the karma. For our last stop of this trip we will spend four nights in Paris. We are so lucky to have a friend there with an atelier for us to stay in. Of course, more than that we were looking forward to spending time together - until it turned out he had to be out of town on business and not returning until our last day/night in Paris. Though disappointed, we settled for one good dinner on the 19th with him and his partner. But sometimes things just work out, and it turns out his work is in - Barcelona! So tonight we will have drinks and maybe tomorrow we can take him back to El Chigre.....he loves pulpo. I know this blog is long but one more story before I end. Today we had tickets for a tour at Parc Guell, the Antoni Gaudi creation. We had been to Sagrada Familia and to the famous Gaudi apartments last time. The Park is for a 2nd or 3rd visit to Barcelona if you are not Gaudi crazy, and we are not. Our guide was the typical energetic, charming, funny even in English handsome guy. He had stories galore about the history of the park.
But the most interesting one was this:
In 1984 Gaudi was not well known outside of Spain. Barcelona had about 3 million visitors a year, mostly European. Gaudi was famous here, maybe in France or Portugal but nowhere else. UNTIL a Japanese whiskey company decided to create an ad campaign featuring all of Gaudi’s architecture. As soon as it aired, Japanese tourists began flocking here to visit his buildings. And so, though I have no idea how the word correr spoken by Paco at lunch yesterday is tied in, at least we have come full circle and understand why there ARE thousands of Japanese tourists here today.
Back on our rooftop, relaxing in the sun, loving Barcelona!
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