The adventure continues: Barcelona, part one
“Ooooh, what’s over there?”
That question has been my mom’s mantra for as long as I can remember. She’s the one who peers in alleys, takes the less beaten path, looks around the dining room to see what others are eating, and always invites us to stop by one more place “for just a minute”. Never a minute. Always wonderful.
We were in the dazzling, dizzying city of Barcelona. Both of us had visited before but it was our first time together. We were astonished that we couldn’t remember the last time the two of us had traveled together, just a mother and daughter exploring a place. Was it when I was in high school? Maybe. We were in the city of Gaudí and Catalan Modernism and there was something to see wherever we turned.
At night we were sprawled on the bed with paper and Google maps, my own Black Book of Barcelona, and heaps of enthusiasm. We sketched out our visit. Museums and other cultural places, a concert, walks, walks, and more walks. There were our favorites to see again: Casa Batllo and its rainbow of tiles invoking a swerving dragon; the colonnade of the Palau de la Música Catalana; and of course, La Sagrada Familia, forever a work in progress.
And then there was the food. Tins of seafood, café con leche, sweet buns, deeply-perfumed slices of cured meats, and fruit each day. We ate and drank every Spanish delight during a night of flamenco. We sauntered back to our hotel room warm from wine, moving our hips, and laughing into the evening. Late at night, we again tucked into tasty cheeses, olives, and chocolate from the grocery store. The tapas alone deserved their own story so they’ll get one. Same for my favorite, paella…
Oh, that market! Like the other great markets around the world, the Mercat de Sant Josep de la Boqueria, better-known as La Boquería, never disappoints. Begun in the early 1200s, it has expanded and shifted over the centuries. The present iteration dates to 1912. Inside are mounds of familiar and exotic fruit with citrus everywhere. Redolent spices stop you in your tracks (this is the land of smoked paprika after all) until paper cones of fried seafood call your name. And we answered.
The best moment, however, was when we settled in the jamon section of the market. Giant legs of prosciutto-like goodness were somehow both dry and glistening. We came, we gazed, we tasted. Should we get this one or that? The response was always, “both and.” Salty. Creamy. Musk-like. Sweet. Delicious. Our room smelled like that corner for our entire stay!
