Portable Mind: A sort of travel guide

Pickpockets in Barcelona, part II

Dan finally provides his own account of the pickpocketing incident in Barcelona. Well, sort of.

Losing control

A sign...

I returned to the hotel and approached the front desk to tell them what had happened to us, hopeful that they would be able to advise me on what to do; or, at the very least, give me a free glass of rioja to make me feel better. No such luck. The front desk attendant gave me a weak smile (dare I say, disdainful?), and said he was sorry to hear about our trouble. When I remained at the desk, he asked me if I wanted to call the authorities? I didn't really, and resigned myself to what had happened. He said to me that it is a common story, being robbed in Barcelona, as if that was supposed to provide me with comfort. Anger changed hands with concern, and I began to wonder whether Dan would return or not.

He had taken off from where I left him to find the neighborhood ring of thieves, in the hopes that someone would lead him back to his wallet. He asked around, and it didn't take long before he found himself in the Arabic section of Barcelona, in a plaza where I'd taken his picture a few days earlier. For 50 Euros, he was told he could get his wallet back. Someone handed him a key and led him to a building, where he waited outside for further instructions. There was an argument, followed by confusion about why he was there, and when he was asked 'where's your girlfriend, the blonde?', he decided that entering the building and continuing on his quest was no longer a good idea. (this is my version of the story - Dan, feel free to fill in the details...)

Almost two hours later, he returned to the hotel in one piece with an adventure story buzzing in his head, which became even more interesting when this story broke, not a month after that night.

Despite the distressing first hours of new year, we managed to recover the next day.  At sunset, we found a place in Port Vell with a view of the harbor and the sea, where we sat outside under heat lamps. It was our first meal on New Year's Day, and over rioja and a gorgeous paella, we recounted the unexpected adventure and astonishing beauty we'd found in Barcelona, and decided to keep it on our list. Of places to return to.

Trouble in Barri Gotic

New Year's Eve started out like any other day, really. It was Monday and Barcelonians were up and working, stores were open, the city was buzzing. We began with one of the better meals of the trip, at Flash Flash Tortilleria. Flash Flash opened in 1970 and apparently hasn’t changed since. It's style is once again of the moment, a lounge decorated entirely in white with black Twiggy-esque murals on the walls. The food was terrific and not expensive, bustling at 2 in the afternoon with families and couples enjoying, I imagine, their first real meal of the day as we were.

In the evening, we wandered back to Ciutat Vella in pursuit of some of the small bars we’d seen on our strolls. As usual, we hadn’t made plans for dinner so we thought we’d get lucky if we tried to get into a restaurant early – and we were right. We passed by several places that had a prix fixe menu, but chose a tapas place in El Born. It was perfect, low key and reasonable.  As we dined, the place filled up rapidly. Lucky indeed.

After dinner we wandered around until we stumbled upon the Sub Rosa bar. It was a tiny place in an ancient building, and we found a corner table where we would sit and drink until ’07 became ’08. People came in and out, including a guy who seemed to zero in on us – he entered the bar and immediately approached our table, holding one rose and wouldn’t leave us until we paid him something for it. It cost 1 Euro. Thinking back, it may have cost us more.

After midnight, we left the bar and started down one of the alleys. We ended up in an enclosed courtyard, and before we knew what was happening, a young guy was on top of us, pushing us together, yelling fervently for us to kiss one another. I had a sense that something wasn't right, but couldn’t get my bearings before the guy was gone. And so was Dan’s wallet.

Yes. We should have known better.

It happened really fast, and it was maddening. My opinion was to return to the hotel immediately and call the credit card companies, maybe even call the police? I didn't know. In all my traveling, I'd never been robbed before. We started walking, and when we reached La Rambla - still packed with people celebrating the New Year - Dan announced that he wanted to try to find the guy that robbed us so he could get his wallet back. Full stop.

We didn’t argue about it for long. I tried to convince him that he wouldn’t find anything but trouble, running after thieves in Barcelona, but he didn’t waver. I spun around and started walking back to the hotel, thinking - of course he’ll follow me. He wouldn’t let me walk all the way back to the hotel by myself in a foreign city at 1am on New Year’s eve. (full disclosure: this was a calculated move to win the battle. I wasn’t worried about walking back to the hotel)

He didn’t follow me. Two blocks later I figured it out, and it was too late to turn back.  I had to keep going and leave Dan behind, to do whatever he wanted.

Sunday sermons

in Santa Maria del Mar

The city is an intermingling of gorgeous deterioration and grandiose modernism. Wander deep into the alleyways off of crowded La Rambla and you’re in eerily quiet pedestrian lanes that recall medieval Spain. We found ourselves exploring the Ciutat Vella quarters later that night - Barri Gotic and La Ribera. They are at once charming and sepulchral, and every lane beckoned us towards a new adventure.

Without any direction, we followed the alleyways and got caught at Basilica de la Merce, a gloomy church overlooking a quiet, desolate plaza. It was a dramatic contrast to the warm afternoon we’d had - the well-meaning drunken stranger had been replaced by shadier characters and an unexpected, darker Barcelona.

I fixated on La Merce and tried to capture its gothic architecture with the camera before we finally continued on, winding back through the gothic quarters to Plaza de Santa Maria and the basilica, Santa Maria del Mar. It seemed odd that we ended up at three different churches that day, each one extraordinary in its own way. Santa Maria del Mar was, by far, the most beautiful, humbling and serene; but there is no denying the significance of Gaudi’s brilliance – or obsession, perhaps – and the powerful presence of La Merce. It was La Merce that would stay with me - it became the scene for the nightmares I had during the rest of my stay.

Sunday sermons

Sagrada Familia

It was Sunday, and crowds were lined up outside the Sagrada Familia. We shouldn’t have been surprised, what better day to visit the famous church? We’d gotten coffee, and made a plan to try to see at least one important landmark that day. But he crowds deterred us, so we roamed around the building, took photographs, and gazed in awe at Gaudi’s extraordinary building. A solid attempt.

In search of a meal, we strolled through the quiet streets of L’Eixample and found what seemed to be an unpretentious, if benign, neighborhood restaurant redolent of cigarette smoke and heavy food.  We sat by the bar and ordered a perfect state of mind - café con leche, beer and Catalan bacalhau.

Deep in conversation about creating the perfect online travel guide, we were interrupted by a man who looked like Santa Claus, sitting at the bar with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His name was David and when he’d heard us speaking English, felt compelled to say hello. He pulled up a chair and over several beers, told us his colorful tales – he was a Canadian ex-pat working for a company that may or may not have been legal, had lived in Morocco, had been homeless, and had mysteriously destroyed a marriage somewhere along the way. Tears in his eyes and full of regret, he passed along his wisdom: Live in the moment, be passionate, hold onto the people you love.

Wonderland

Barcelona is a cool beauty. A city borne out of exotic cultures with a gothic quarter that dates back to the Roman era, juxtaposed with some of the world’s most incredible modern architecture. Exciting and glamorous, a beloved destination for many travelers and yet, it was not as warm and convivial as I’d imagined it would be. It seemed impossible to get beneath the surface of this multifarious place. Still, we tried. We referred to our guidebooks and made plans, but in the end they were of no consequence. The city would reveal to us only what she wanted us to see.

It didn’t take long. Our first day began after dark, and as we headed into the heart of L’Eixample, extraordinary architecture spilled onto the streets around us. First, Fundacio Tapies, a museum and library upon which the striking Cloud and Chair sculpture sits like an apparition (and was an odd foreshadowing of what was to come), then Gaudi’s Casa Batllo housed on the corner of Arago and Passeig de Gracia, amongst mosaic covered benches and gorgeously ornate lampposts designed by Pere Falques. We had landed in Wonderland.

On sidewalks tiled by Gaudi, we wandered until we found Laie Libraria Cafe, a restaurant located on the second floor of a bookstore.  It was 9pm, about an hour shy of prime dinner-time in Barcelona and probably the only reason we were seated fairly quickly. Considering that it had been about 12 hours since our last meal, the quality of the food was almost of no importance, but we got lucky. Our meal was a somewhat hearty, if interesting, fusion of flavors inspired by different regions in Spain and, more importantly, the Rioja was perfect.

The evening rounded out in our hotel neighborhood, at a bar called Outside. A late night place, the bartenders drank more than the customers and kept our glasses filled with cheap Spanish wine until our tastebuds finally protested. To cleanse our palates, we grabbed a bottle of Cava from a bodega and ended the day at 4am, gazing at the lights and toasting the city from our balcony.

The next day opened slowly and we ventured out mid afternoon to Café Zurich, located at the top of La Rambla. A prime location for people watching, we thought we’d write while we sat and drank café con leche, taking in the sunshine and 60-degree winter weather. Instead, we were too stimulated by the city and the desire to keep moving, so we immersed ourselves in the crowds and walked La Rambla until we found Columbus and the sea. We picked through an open air market by the waterfront, a garage sale set under several tents, and I found stacks of old postcards from Spain and France written in the most beautiful handwriting. I was tempted to buy them all, at 3 euros apiece, but they seemed too personal. Stealing letters.

At sunset, we turned our backs on the Mediterranean and headed into evening, in search of tapas.

Down the rabbit-hole

The trip to Barcelona was a leap of faith in some ways. I hadn't been on a real vacation in awhile and I was traveling with someone new, to a city I'd never visited before. I didn't put much thought into the trip at all, save for choosing the hotel and deciding to completely disconnect while there (no laptop, no cell phone). My loose plan was to not have any plans - to simply arrive and let the city guide me to wherever I was supposed to be.

Barcelona took me to some very unexpected places.

We arrived at the Hotel Cram early in the morning and were lucky enough to check-in immediately. Our intention was to drop our bags and try to stay awake, in order to adjust to Barcelona-time, but we lagged and fell asleep. Turns out everyday would be like the first - and we would find that there are no mornings in Barcelona, only glimpses of dawn as the shades are drawn and you fall asleep.

Barcelona

New Years Day at Port Vell, Barceloneta. Sunset, a chill in the air, dining by the sea on hearty paella and rioja. Perfect.