The challenges of buying fruit in Spain, the busiest museum ever and an Italian/German g-rated menage a trois. (Barcelona)

Shortly after 7 am I went in search of a fresh fruit breakfast. I sauntered cheerily, rubbing my sleepy eyes in kinship with the other early risers. Little did I know how much energy I would require to navigate the bewildering process of buying a piece of fruit in Spain.

The first woman at the market told me not to touch the fruit. Then she started uncontrollably chucking handfuls of plums into a brown paper bag, yelling,

“You want half a kilo?  A kilo?  Five kilos?”

“No, just one, please,” I sputtered meekly.

“YOU CANNOT BUY JUST ONE!” roared the dragon.

The next woman was happy to sell me a single peach… for 130 pesetas (which I remind you was enough to provide me with an entire meal.) Unwilling to surrender to such unbridled greed, I ran around, increasingly desperate to find a sympathetic face amongst the apples. Finally I saw a stall with two kind-faced women from whom I triumphantly scored a peach and two plums for 73 pesetas.

Caught the bus to Museo Teatro Dalí in Figueres. The museum was a nightmare. Northern Europe must have been empty because all its inhabitants were at the museum.  It was, by far, the most crowded museum I had ever visited.  Take away every Bjorn and Ursula and it would have been fantastic. I spent more time looking for the bathroom and the exit than seeing the exhibition. Were I to do it again, I would go in the winter, stay over night in Figures and be the first in line.

Waiting in a park for my return bus to Girona, a Spanish woman sat on my bench and un-self consciously launched into gay chatter.  It amazes me that the vast majority of Spaniards have plowed ahead in Spanish despite my looking like gringa girl from the mall. We discussed her unhappy marriage, her life in the mountains as a shepherdess, and the problems with money, drugs and the youth of today.  She was also happy to promote her small restaurant in the beach town of Rosas, equipping me with piles of leaflets even though I was leaving the country the next day.  Walking to the bus I was then stopped by a French-speaking Swiss gal who claimed she had been robbed of everything and wanted 25 pesetas to go to the bathroom.  I tried to suggest many alternative strategies using a type of “Espfrancais”, but she aggressively rebuffed my suggestions.  Presumably this lost Swiss miss was exactly the type of person about whom my shepherdess friend complained; however, I caved and gave her the 25 pesetas.

Alas, the hordes of Figueres tourists (particularly a large, lumpish group from Poland) followed me to Girona, but at least there was more space to avoid them. I indulged in a slice of Judaism, a taste of Christianity and a morsel of Islam.  I visited the Jewish quarter and its small museum, but was disappointed there was no reconstruction of a Jewish household interior or for that matter any recreation of daily Jewish life in old Spain.  The Cathedral was dramatic in its massive, single, gothic knave and impressive façade. I visited the Arab baths designed by Moorish craftsmen after the 1492 expulsion, and finished my time in Girona with a walk along the old city walls and gardens.

Back at the hotel’s reception I noticed a man in his late thirties with slicked hair and unbuttoned shirt and though to myself, “ugh, wouldn’t want to hang out with him.”  Heading to my room I passed a geeky-looking guy writing postcards in the common area. After freshening up I popped by the front desk, asking the receptionist if there were any single travellers who might be interested in heading out on the town – maybe Americans? Canadians? Brits?  She thoughtfully considered my request and answered, “Wait! I know un muchacho italiano who wants to go out.  Let’s go to his room.”  I protested, saying that I did not speak Italian, was not sure about this, and had the sinking feeling that it might be… sure enough, it was the greasy guy I had seen earlier in the lobby.  As there was no way to bow out graciously, I cautiously arranged to meet Maurizio an hour later. As I retreated to my room, puzzling over the situation in which I had landed myself, I noticed the postcard writer was still there.  So I invited a very delighted Martin from Frankfurt to join me on my date.

At 9 pm the three of us met in the lobby – jovial Martin, relieved me and obviously-disappointed Maurizio.  An interesting cross-cultural trio:  me, native English speaker with pretty good Spanish, un petit peu de francais and fragments of Italian and German; Martin with German, pretty good English and even better French but no Italian; and Maurizio who steadfastly stuck to Italian, injecting the occasional word of English only when absolutely necessary.  Amazingly, we all managed to communicate.

I deciphered that Maurizio wanted to go somewhere non touristy, so I suggested Barceloneta, the residential part of the port where the best tapas in Barcelona were allegedly to be found. We selected a restaurant devoid of tourists and English. Once we had Maurizio comfortably seated with his back against the wall we began our feast. Pan con tomate came as raw, unpeeled garlic, whole tomatoes and a dish of all i oli which we rubbed and spread on thick toasted bread.  We dove into seafood salad, gorged on fried calamari, wondered over mysterious items stuffed with spinach, fed ourselves silly with bacalao served with sautéed onions and potatoes, and finished with an assortment of bite-sized crèmes caramel.

Conversation was surprisingly lively, with Maurizio chattering on in Italian and Martin and I pretending to understand. After Martin made an off-hand joke about tourists’ complaints about small food portions in Barcelona, I cackled with glee as Martin tried for the next twenty minutes to translate the joke for our stubborn and insistent Italian friend.

We selected a quaint Villa Olimpica bar showcasing wrestling on a giant screen TV (Maurizio liked the music). On the dance floor Italian’s arms swung like windshield wipers while the German shifted back and forth almost to the beat but not quite.  After Maurizio smoked a joint (I thought straight-laced Martin was going to have a seizure) we walked back to the hotel. And walked. And walked.  Finally we hit a point where Maurizio wanted to go right and our internal compasses pointed left, so with a mumbled “ciao” the Italian went his own way.  Thank goodness Martin had come out.  I wondered if the sweet PhD candidate had ever been on a date before.  I would not have enjoyed being alone with Maurizio. Besides being almost unintelligible, he was weird.  Mind you, he did have the most sexy bedroom eyes that crinkled in a lovely way when he smiled… but the rest of the 37-year old package I was happy to leave on the backstreets of Barcelona.