I am in Barcelona and I am learning.

When dining alone, always bring a pen and something to write on.  While my neighbour has chosen the safety of postcards, I prefer to hound Barcelonian waiters for elusive pens, beg for scraps of paper on which I scratch strings of words, and pause self-importantly to absorb the Plaza’s inhabitants. Ernest Hemingway? No, just another obnoxious North American stretching out 900 pesetas worth of alcohol for indeterminable lengths.

So far I am deeply impressed by Barcelona’s embrace of innovation its architecture and art.  As for the people, I am less impressed. If you are paranoid that Spaniards are not so secretly talking about you… they probably are.  Trust me. Today as I proudly wore a Covent Garden designer blouse splashed with large yellow daisies I was shot down by two fashion critics on the Metro, one of whom had a lame angel wing tattoo on her back and red tartan flares.  I could only capture fragments of the commentary, being that it was in Català and not Spanish, but the message was clear.  Later, another shirt episode. In fairness, even I was dismayed as I extricated it from my backpack.  But does that justify a complete stranger pointing my way and singing at the top of his lungs in Spanish “you have to iron your shirt…”?! Unvindicated from my former encounter, I turned around, looked him squarely in the eye and snapped “I know, buddy, so back off.”  I can only surmise the reaction that followed was a string of Catalan phrases targeted squarely at my bosom.

This trip to Barcelona was a spontaneous response to the seismic shift my life was undergoing. Within a few weeks I was leaving Birmingham, my freshly-exed contract job and freshly-exed boyfriend of five years to move back into my parents’ in Toronto to try and find a career and myself. England had been difficult.  With a reduced standard of living (do not get me started on the size of the flat’s refrigerator), a string of unfulfilling temp jobs and superficial friendships, I considered it my “Outward Bound” training. I was strangled and lonely.  When I saw a return flight to Barcelona for £99, I jumped on it.

Alas, I have not yet found it easy to meet people in Barcelona. Not to say I have not met anyone, but my options have been suboptimal.  There was Maya from Los Angeles who had never used a book index, and Mike, a plucky guy from London who left Barcelona 30 minutes after I met him. My hotel is a morgue, the only snippets of life ricocheting off the courtyard walls. The metro rumbles below my cell-like room and the courtyard I face is so deep that I have to hang out the window upside down to see if it is day or night.  And the heat! I alternate my one wet washcloth between my face and my feet to trick my body into coolish slumber.

Hold on – what’s a “gallina joven ”*? Did one of the wait staff just call me that?

Oh, I have just been handed extra paper by a very sweet waiter who explained that it was for when I run out.  What a lovely, spontaneous act of kindness! I hope he bails me out when the other waiter discovers I have used all his ink.

Yet again, another reference to the “gallina blanca”. What is it about the Spanish that they think they exist in a vacuum when they comment on the person next to them?  My Spanish friends back in Birmingham do this all the time.

Great, now they are using my extra chair as a parking lot for menus.

I can’t help myself. I am going to confront her.

* * *

When the waitress was by herself I asked in Spanish,

“Excuse me. I speak a little Spanish but I am trying to learn local slang.  I heard an expression recently but I do not understand it.  What does gallina blanca mean?”

The coward pretended like she had no idea what I was talking about and covered up by calling over another waiter and asking him what it meant. The male waiter answered that a gallina is someone who is weak and scared, and boasted that he was no gallina. I asked if I was, to which he responded, liberally fondling my arm, “no, no eres.”  With that cue I returned the empty pen and left.

* young hen

Took the metro to Parc Güell where I ascended endless flights of stairs because I was not smart enough to try the energy-saving escalators (dormant until one stands on them at which point they magically begin to work). I met a lovely pair of Japanese girls who spoke marginally more English than I Japanese, and together we, along with the rest of the tourist population, discovered Gaudí, eventually ending up between the columns under the benches. I was suddenly swarmed by six hyperactive seven-year-olds asking if I was an extranjera (good guess) on a scavenger hunt for foreigners.  Like a juicy apple I was proudly presented to their teacher.

I headed up to Montjuïc with ambitious plans of immersing myself in the glories of Joan Miró.  I was surprised to be the only person waiting for the funicular.  Of course, absolutely everything was closed. Determined not to waste the effort, I walked around for what seemed like hours as my feet began to swell prodigiously. When the bloating became painful I bought the tourist bus day ticket and descended to Port Vell. Realizing that half a pastry, an ice cream bar and two bottles of water was not enough to sustain me, I patronized the promising-sounding “el Tapas Bar” and as luck would have it chose a table next to another single traveler.

With my most disarming “Come here often?” I opened up conversation with Garry the Londoner.  When he accepted my invitation to eat off my plate, I knew I had met a kindred spirit. After he had sorted his octopus issue and my peseta traveller’s cheque was denied (I failed to convince the waiter of its cash-like qualities), we followed the Rough Guide’s wisdom and visited the Palau Güell.  The house gave me the idea for the perfect tourist souvenir: Gaudí hats inspired by the colourful chimneys of the Palau.

Because by this point I was contorted with foot failure, Garry kindly held my hand to help me up the ramp to the Palau’s cellar.  But no sooner did he start to ascend when he was suddenly sliding past me down the ramp.  I lurched along a couple more paces, using my biceps on the handrails while Garry made a second attempt. Slap – slap – slllishhhh, Garry was barely able to stand upright, let along propel himself up the 30-degree ramp. Inexplicably, Garry’s shoes had no traction. What a pair, the gimp and banana peel boy. “Screw this,” we said unanimously and went barefoot in the Palau, ignoring Spanish disdain.

* * *
1 a.m. and just back from dinner with Meri, the striking Spanish model I know from Birmingham. Enjoyed every morsel of my monkfish soup, salad with tuna and cod, and potatoes with melted cheese, crispy bacon and fried onions. I had a minor culinary faux pas when I inadvertently rested my cutlery in the international sign of “meal over” and then wrestled the confused waiter when he tried to take my plate away. Hands off the potatoes, amigo.  Meri and I discussed the Spanish proclivity to talk about someone in front of their face, and she agreed it was a terrible characteristic (without admitting her own guilt).  She suggested that perhaps the woman in the restaurant yesterday did not actually say “gallina” but something else. Perhaps.

* Where is the chicken fountain? In the oven of hell.

We found ourselves on a street filled with tons of Australians and Americans (and two Basques, one German and one Canadian).  While we pushed into one bar I met a cute Argentine from Rosario, but upon my return from my “drip dry” bathroom trip he had gone.  We navigated the throngs, popping inside, outside, all the while Lambert and Mikel teasing me about being checked out by guys. By 2:30 am there was a definite Birmingham-like male-to-female ratio in my favour and with much better looking guys.  Yum, I like Basque tapas. We crawled in as dawn was breaking. I completely slept through my alarm and rushed madly to the airport.

I allowed myself the liberty of looking closely again at the ETA fugitives. The one who so fascinates me was born July 27, 1970 and is named Ainhoa.  She actually looks a lot like my cousin Janis.

I sure hope no one has brought a bomb on this flight because passing through security was a complete circus.  The woman right behind me buzzed as she went through and when the guard asked to examine her she just flashed her bracelets and made poo-poo noises in French which he sheepishly accepted. Say what you will about the English, their security is thorough.

* * *

Back in Barcelona, I bypassed the 600 peseta sandwiches on the Ramblas, heading straight for the Mercado, picking up ample provisions for less than a pound. I loved hearing the delicate “click” my cherry pits made as they hit the pavement. Near the Fundació Antoní Tapies I could see part of the back of Casa Batlló, the Gaudí apartment building with balconies shaped as masks.  Even better, I could see that the shopping centre behind it had a great view.  The fourth floor had a back patio to which I would have normally been refused entry, but because there was a guy working outside the salesperson allowed me to go.  This vantage point, rarely seen by tourists, took my breath away with its mosaic roof, wrought ironwork, blue tiled walls and beige tiled floors.

Tried my luck for the second time at Montjuïc where I took in the expansive view of the city; had it been super clear I might have seen Mallorca. This time the Joan Miró Foundation was open and surprisingly difficult to navigate. Without my guidebook I surely would have missed the civil war lithographs and the donations by his wife. A piece he painted just for her he had named “Morning Star.”  Could that be more romantic?  Why are so few men artists?

As dusk approached I surveyed my options for returning to town. Walking was ruled out because the mountain was now almost abandoned and my route would have been through a tunnel of graffiti. An older gentleman with an extravagant vein cascading down his nose recommended the bus, but when he abruptly commenced a passionate and irate tirade about the failure of North American tourists to heed his advice, I rapidly made my way to the simple, quiet funicular.

Back to the hotel I walked through Plaça de Catalunya and joined a large crowd watching an Ecuadorian band perform.  As I stood there, anticipating the next song, I sensed someone looking at me.  I casually glanced behind me to see a very dark-skinned man. I began thinking about how difficult it must be for someone in Spain to be such an obvious outsider, especially in such an historically intolerant culture, when suddenly he was next to me whispering “hello”. My peaceful Andean reverie was shattered as he invaded my personal space.  Notwithstanding my sympathies as one outsider to another, I realized my vulnerability and, unwilling to discover his motivations, got the heck out of there.

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.

As I left the hotel with my bags, who should appear but Maurizio. It was like a reunion with an old friend. We strolled together to the Plaza, Maurizio merrily jabbering on in Italian, providing the blow-by-blow of his previous evening from which he had returned many hours after he had left us. We bid each other a genuinely fond adios at the top of Las Ramblas, and while I awaited the bus I munched on one of the mangoes I had bought earlier at the Mercado.

The plane ride home was uneventful, save for the bizarre chanting by the crew over the plane’s PA system as we were waiting for takeoff.  They actually sang, “One, two, three, four, we are happy and secure!!” I was surprised they didn’t follow this with, “and thanks for flying Air Goofy.” I began to question the wisdom of taking British discount airlines.

Back to Birmingham, back to end and back to the beginning.