One Paella, Two Paella

Close-up of paella mixta

" If I'm in Rome for only 48 hours,

I would consider it a sin against God

not to eat caccio e pepe, the most

uniquely Roman of pastas . . ."

~ Anthony Bourdain

"Where was that place I had paella when we were here before?" Mike asked me when we arrived in Barcelona last week.

"I have no idea," I replied. "I remember it was along Las Ramblas, and we sat on the second floor.  Other than that, I don't know."

"Didn't you write it in your journal?" he wanted to know.  It was eye roll time because I had written it in the journal seven years ago, but I didn't take it out and read it.

"Yes, and I don't remember."

"We'll have to ask for another good place to have paella," he said.

L'Oliva

"We'll have to ask for another good place for *you* to have paella," I added.  Paella, if you don't know, originated in Valencia, Spain, and is a rice dish that combines several types of seafoods and meats. Most people consider it the national dish of Spain, although most Spaniards consider it a regional dish.  That doesn't stop restaurants in tourist areas from pushing it, and a lot of tourists have to try it since paella is a uniquely Spanish dish.

 For five days I checked out tripadvisor recommendations for paella, and I finally found a few places that offered it as well as foods that I would eat.  (You may remember that the other night I mentioned that I cannot eat fish, mussels, and a few other things that make me sick, so I wanted to make sure we headed to a place with other choices.) One of the restaurants, L'Oliva, was near our apartment, so we decided to check it out last night.  The restaurant itself was very nice (top photo), and we arrived just as they opened for dinner at 7:30. (Barcelona is famous for its late dinner times.  Some restaurants don't open until 8 or 9.)

Sangría

 The owner greeted us and seated us in the window. I opened the menu.

Paella mixta. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . €12,95
 (Mínimo 2 personas)

Paella mariscos . . . . . . . . . . . .€14,95
  (Mínimo 2 personas)


I tried not to get sick immediately.

"What are you going to have?" Mike, who somehow always fails to notice the fine print, inquired.  I let the question hang in the air a few seconds. He put his menu down and waited.

"I guess I'm having whatever you're having."

"Why?" he wanted to know. Since he was staring at me, I didn't roll my eyes, but I wanted to.

"The paella has a two-person minimum."

"Oh."

When the waiter came over, I asked if they could please put the meat on one side of the dish and the seafood on the other.

"No, it's all mixed together. No."  I knew that, but I tried.

Caprese salad

"We'll have the mixed paella, caprese salad (photo above), and sangría," I told him.  The salad was very nice, although I did find that the tomatoes in Spain are not anywhere near as good as the tomatoes in Italy or the US.  For some reason, they tend to be pinker and tougher.  I could see that the owner made the sangría, mixing wine, juice, fruit, and brandy.

"This is a lot stronger than the sangría you make," Mike commented.

"That's because this is authentic," I said as I drained glass number one.  "I make the wussy American version with wine, juice and no brandy."

"I like yours better," he said. 

"Yeh, it's strong," I added.  "I'm already seeing three of you."  I was joking a little, but my eyesight was starting to get a little fuzzy.

Paella mixta

 It takes a good 30 minutes to make good paella, and about 40 minutes after we ordered, the owner proudly delivered the pan of paella (photos above).

"Don't touch the handles," he warned us. "They're very hot."  I took another swig of sangría.

"Your sangría is very good," I told him as he walked away.

"Maybe you can eat mostly rice and the meat." Mike was trying to be helpful.  "There is meat in it, isn't there?"

I have to be honest. I wasn't sure that there was meat in it.  There were shrimp, clams, and mussels on top, and mixed in with the rice was something that maybe looked like chicken (which I might eat), or rabbit (which I would not eat), or some other type of fish (another no-can-do).  I spooned out a little rice, one of the clams, and a piece of chicken-rabbit-fish-whatever-the-heck it was.

"You know how much I love you," I said to Mike. "I would not do this for just anyone."  I took a small bite of the rice and tried not to gag.  Rice absorbs flavor, and when there's so much seafood, it's going to overpower everything else.

I have no idea what this was....don't *want* to know.

 I chewed the piece of the chicken-rabbit-fish-whatever-the-heck it was. The texture was not anything like chicken.  "I don't think this is chicken. It might be rabbit or fish," I told Mike, drained the second glass of sangría, and refilled my glass.

"Are you sure they didn't give us seafood paella?" he wanted to know.

"I have no idea," I replied while swallowing more sangría.  I picked all of the chicken-rabbit-fish-whatever-the-heck it was out of the rice and nibbled on the rice while drinking more sangría with each bite. "I'm trying."

"Do you want a shrimp?" Mike asked me.  I shook my head. I do eat shrimp, but not when it still has its legs and whiskers.  "Or, how about a mussel?"

I drained the glass. "God, no."  I picked up the lemon quarter and squeezed it on the rice on my plate.  "Well, that helps a bit," I said.  By that time, I had no idea whether it was the lemon, the wine, or both, but I was able to finish the rice on my plate.  "I'm sorry," I repeated.  "I just cannot eat anymore of that."

The empty seafood shells (Mike's)

Mike finished the seafood (photo below), but he ate very little of the chicken-rabbit-fish-whatever-the-heck it was since neither of us could figure out what it actually was.

"I'm sorry you didn't like it," Mike apologized. "I thought maybe the rice would be okay."

"It's okay," I said. "I'm sorry I couldn't eat more of it." I finished another glass of wine, and put the empty pitcher on the table. I have no idea how many glasses of wine I had, but by the time the pitcher was empty, my head was spinning.

 I picked fruit out of the pitcher and ate it.

"Trying to get rid of the taste?" Mike asked me.

"Trying to get more alcohol in my system." I started laughing and couldn't stop. We kept cracking jokes, and I kept thinking, "I have to remember that.  I have to remember that." Alas, I didn't remember them. I had hard time walking to a gelateria, but I deserved a good amarena gelato after that dinner.  I went to bed immediately when we got home, and my stomach protested all night while my head pounded and continued to run in circles.

The empty sangría pitcher (Mine)

I do not drink much, and I was worried about how all that wine would affect me.  I didn't sleep much, but when I got up, I didn't have too much of a headache. Luckily, I was able to sleep a bit on the train ride from Barcelona to Madrid this morning.  When we got to the flat, the owner was telling us about places to go and restaurants that have good food and wine.

"If you're interested in good paella," she started to say, and I stopped her.

"Nope. We're paella'd out," I said.

"Ok," she continued.  "El Boqueron has good tapas. You can get them shrimp, clams, oysters, mussels, cod croquettes at a reasonable price."

Yeh, thanks for that info, but I think we'll be looking for something a little more turf-themed.

Tune In

 “It seemed that I performed better

sober than drunk. Who knew?”

~ Craig Ferguson

It seems I write better sober than when drunk.

Of course, if you know me, you know that I have been drunk maybe....MAYBE.... three times in my life.

Tonight is one of them.

See that pitcher of sangria (above)?  

See that almost-empty pitcher of sangria (below)?

There's a reason I drank most of it and a reason why this is about all I'll be writing in the blog tonight since I can barely see the keyboard.

Story at 11.  No, wait.  That was the news.

Story tomorrow when I can think, type, and see straight.

Ham, Olives, Fish & Chocolate

Produce vendor at edge of Boqueria

  “I've long believed that good food, good eating, 

is all about risk. . .food, for me, has always 

been an adventure” 

~ Anthony Bourdain

 I like to say I'm a foodie, but I have to admit that I definitely am not a foodie. I am not willing to take a risk when it comes to food.  I know what I like, what I don't like, and what makes me sick—literally and figuratively—if I eat it.  For example, foods I iike include steak (medium rare), salad with oil and vinegar, asparagus, cherry pie, and pasta. I do not like well-done steak, salad with Thousand Island dressing, brussel sprouts, mince meat pie, and bulgur.  Among the foods that make me sick are fish, onions, liver, garlic, bleu cheese, and anything else I deem gross (squid, octopus, mussels, tongue). Sorry. I just can't do it.

Produce inside Boqueria

My husband, the man who grew up in a household where the only "pasta" he had was Chef Boy-ar-dee,  is more willing to try different foods than I. The only vegetables he liked before we married were corn, beans, potatoes. Now he eats almost all of them (except brussel sprouts and onions neither of which he likes).

Mushrooms are not cheap

All of that said, I love going to markets, and the best one we've ever gone to is La Boqueria in Barcelona. Dating back to the 13th century, the current Boqueria opened in 1840 in an area on Las Ramblas, one of the city's most famous streets. At that time, it was an open-air market, but in 1914 the city installed a metal roof, and it still protects the market today.

Catalan candy (nougat)

 You will find everything in La Boqueria. Everything. Vendors sell candy, nuts, olives, fruit, fruit drinks, vegetables, vegetable drinks, Serrano ham (the Spanish prosciutto), sausages, spices, fish, wines, cheeses, and probably anything else you want.  In addition, there are stands that sell prepared foods and snacks.  There are cafes where you can grab paella or chicken or empanadas if you're hungry.

Fruit drinks are all the rage.

The Boqueria assaults your senses. There are so many colors, sounds, smells, textures, and—I'm sure—tastes under that metal roof. Mike and I walked by one of the many vendors selling fruit drinks (above) the other day, turned a corner, and the smell changed.

"Oh my goodness," I exclaimed. "GAG."

"Oh, stop," Mike said. "It's fish." (below)

"It's disgusting," I insisted, "both to smell and to look at. I'm going over there." I pointed to an area where there were no fish.  The smell was better, but I ended up in front of a meat case that had a cow tongue in it "Oh, dear God," I said.

Fish of some sort screaming at me

 We walked down that aisle, and soon Mike was complaining about the smell.

"There must be olives near here," he said.  Olives are one of the foods Mr. Adventure won't try.

"Right behind you." I pointed at them and went over to look (below). I love olives and would have bought some if they had been packaged.  I wasn't wild about seeing little gnats hovering above them.

Olives

 We walked down a couple of more aisles and found ourselves near hams and sausages (below). I love sausage and prosciutto, but I have to admit that I will be happy not to have a cured meat for some time after I get home.  I've developed some sort of aversion to them because no matter where we go, we see ham.  Barcelona even has a HAM MUSEUM.  Close to the Boqueria, the Jamon Experience  (Click that for more info.)costs 19 euros per adult. I'm not sure if you get to taste ham, but I'm not going to find out anytime soon.

Ham

Most of the ham vendors have, in addition to the honking big hams with hoofs still attached, sausages hanging in their booths.

"I'm glad I'm boycotting sausage right now," I told Mike, "although ever if I weren't we wouldn't be trying any of these things."  (below). While I've seen black sausage before (I think it was blood sausage), I've never seen green or beige.  Mike said nothing because he was turning green just looking at them.

Sausage

Before we left, we checked out the candy (both photos below).

"I wonder who buys all this stuff," I said as I snapped a photo of marzipan shaped like hamburgers, hot dogs, eggs, cheese, and more.  Marzipan is one of those things I don't like.

"I have no idea," Mike answered, "but that lady is filling the empty spots, so someone must buy them.  Do you want some chocolate?"

"No, thanks." I didn't want to hurt his feelings, but I wasn't about to deprive the little gnats of their dessert, either.

Marzipan

 Although I was tempted by the cute chocolate porcupines (below). I just wasn't too sure what those spots on their backs were.

Chocolate

And I didn't want to find out they were, well, you know.


If you are interested in seeing a few videos of the Boqueria, here are links to a few I shot:

Boqueria I

Boqueria II

Boqueria iII

It's My Husband's Fault

Chöks (donuts)

“What you see before you, my friend, 

is the result of a lifetime of chocolate.”

~ Katherine Hepburn

I lied again. Technically, I really didn't lie because I said I might talk about the Boqueria, the castellars, and the correfoç soon. Soon doesn't necessarily mean tonight.  Actually, soon does not in any way mean tonight, but I don't think you'll mind as I'm talking chocolate and sweets. Blame my husband.

"Let's walk down here," Mike said to me Saturday morning.  I had nothing better to do, and he had the apartment key, so I went along.

We walked down a couple of alleys behind our apartment, and when we emerged on a main street, I saw an amazing site in front of me.  "Ooooo, look," I exhaled.  Across the street from where we stood was a beautiful store extolling the virtues of chocolate.  Chök. The Chocolate Kitchen.

 

The window at Chök

Staring at me from the huge window in front of Chök were stacks of Kronuts and Chöks (donuts). I looked inside and saw more Chöks calling my name.  Come in here, Cristina. Come in and see us.

Chöks on the wall

I have to tell you that I had been very good on this trip.  Before Mike joined me in Bologna, I had only two gelatos. Two.  Since he arrived 10 days ago, I've had five.  I've also had more chocolate since he got here than I had all six weeks added together, and that includes the jars (Yes, yes.  Plural. Two. Jars.) of Nutella that I had in Bologna. We were standing in front of Chök because *he* wanted to walk a different way.

"I have to go in," I said as I headed through the doorway.  Behind the counter were rods holding different kinds of Chöks. The counter groaned under the weight of cookies, truffles (18 kinds!), marshmallows, churros, and chocolate salami.

"What do you want?" Mike asked me.  I wanted it all, and had he not asked me, I would NOT HAVE BOUGHT ANYTHING.  But, he asked, and I had to be polite and get something so he wouldn't think I was rejecting his kindness.

"What are *you* getting?" Letting him decide first gave me a few extra seconds to decide.

Cookies and chocolate salami

"I think I'll get one of the cookies (above)," he answered after thinking a bit.  Now, you can't tell by looking at the photo, but those cookies were the size of his hand. I couldn't resist. We both ended up with chocolate chip cookies dipped in chocolate.

"What's that?" I asked the guy and pointed to what looked like chocolate muffins with a bit of chocolate on top (below).

"Chocolate muffin stuffed with Nutella," he told me. 

"Oh, my goodness." I almost passed out.

"You don't like Nutella?" he wanted to know.

"I love it," I said, and Mike simultaneously said, "She loves it."

Raspberry and Nutella stuffed muffins

 I was glad I got the cookie because had I not, I would have had to dive into one of those muffins right then and there.

"Come back tomorrow," the guy said to me, "sometimes we have muffins with raspberry sauce."

Chocolate-covered marshmallow logs

The cookies were wonderful. Chök doesn't use a lot of sugar, which is a good thing. The had added a bit of orange peel to the batter, and it blended so well with the dark chocolate chips and dip. I had to hand Mike my cookie after five minutes or so.

"Take this and hide it from me," I insisted.

"Don't you like it?" he wanted to know.

"I love it, but I'd inhale the entire thing if you don't take it." I shoved it in the bag he was carrying. "Keep it away from me."

Chök suckers (and muffins on left)

 He kept it for the rest of the day and hid it in the refrigerator when we got back to the apartment.  I found it after dinner and ate some then and the rest before bed. Who wants to let a good cookie get stale or, heaven forbid, go to waste?  Not I.  I'm sure those of you who went to St. Nick's Elementary School would agree that the Sr. Agnes Marie, O.S.U., would have a fit if I wasted food because there are starving children all over the world.  If Mike had hidden it better or eaten it himself, I would not have had to eat it myself. 

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.


PS  If you're interested in reading about Chök, click here.  Some of the site is in Spanish, and some's translated, so flip through the pages.

Too Close to the Maddening Crowd

The gegants

 “...I thought how I hate any kind of mob - 

I hate mobs of sports fans, mobs of 

... demonstrators... I tell you, mankind 

is bearable only when you get him on his own.” 

~ Steve Toltz

I hate crowds. We came to Barcelona for Feste de la Mercé, the major annual festival in Barcelona. Major festival means major crowds.  Major crowds means I am uncomfortable. Majorly uncomfortable. I won't go shopping on Black Friday or the day after Christmas or any day when stores expect a lot of shoppers because I cannot stand being pushed and shoved and being constrained by flesh.

We accidentally happened on La Mercé seven years ago when we first came to Barcelona, so I knew what we were getting into by coming for it.  It wasn't so bad on Friday night, so I was pretty hopeful. Last night we went to the parade of the Gegants (Giants) in the Plaça Sant Jaume (above), and it was packed (below). We were lucky enough to accidentally end up right near where the giants stopped, but people were too anxious to get photos of the giants and pushed and stepped on everyone in their way. Of course, they also raised their cameras, thus raising their arms. That would not have been bad except quite a few forgot to bathe this year, and almost asphyxiated those of us around them.

Plaça Sant Jaume filled for the gegants

At the end, we left with the crowd, inching forward for what seemed like forever until our crowd met another crowd walking in the opposite direction. Everyone was at a standstill. Everyone. A few drunks behind me started pushing.

"Stop pushing me. Where do you expect me to go? No one's moving." I was not happy.  Some idiot elbowed me between my shoulder blades. "#@* &*%^!! STOP PUSHING."  Somehow, Mike got me out of there before I got trampled or I killed someone.

"We're going to have to leave the apartment early tomorrow," I said to Mike as we headed back to the apartment after we escaped.  We were anxious to see the castellars and the correfoç today, and I knew that they were going to be crowded. (Note: The castellars build human towers, and the correfoç are fire runners...I'll explain those in the next day or so.)

"What time do they start?" he wanted to know.

"The castellars are at noon, so we better get there by 10," I advised.  "There are a few other activities, so we can watch those." I was hoping they wouldn't be as popular as the castellars.

Plaça Sant Jaume at 10

We got to Sant Juame at 9:30 or so, and found the plaza relatively empty (above).  We staked out a place across from the city hall because the castellars build the towers in front of it.  We were lucky enough to find a marble pillar that, including the huge ball on top, was about four-feet tall.

"You can stand on this to see better," Mike told me.

"You can stand on it. I can barely stand on level ground if it gets crowded."

Plaça Sant Jaume at 11

 By 11, the crowd had started to gather (above).  The falcons were performing on stage (More on them later, too), and they drew a larger crowd than the dancers had at 10.

Plaça Sant Jaume at 12

 At noon, the plaza was jammed (above).  I have no idea how anyone moved in that crowd. Since we had staked out a place away from the castellars, it wasn't quite as bad as yesterday. A few of the non-bathers showed up again.

"GAG," I said to Mike at one point. "Some people need to take a bath."  No one seemed overly concerned with my comment, so they either didn't hear me or they ignored me. By now, I'm used to both of those.

The Castellars of Barcelona surrounded by the mob

 In the midst of the group in the photo above are the castellars from Barcelona. You can see them with red in the center. We have no idea how they—or the castellars from Villafranca (below) or Tarragon— were able to move into the plaza and form a tower with the crowd crushing them. Perhaps that's a good thing, though.  If they fall, the take out a few crazy tourists.

The castellars of Villafranca building their tower

Tonight we headed to the correfoç (below). Basically, the participants dance down a street twirling huge sparklers above their and the crowd's heads.  There were a gazillion people there, too, but since they're lining a street, they weren't as jammed in on each other as they were in the plaza. The braver—or drunker—ones also danced along with the correfoç. 

The correfoç heading our way

Still, I couldn't wait to get out of there. I got stepped on by more than one person, pushed by a few others, and burned by one of the flying sparks.

"I'm going over there," I screamed above the drums to Mike and ran for cover in an alley away from the craziness. He stayed an videotaped them for a bit and then came to find me.

"That was great," he said.

"It was," I agreed, "but I'm glad to be getting away from the madness."

"What are we going to do tomorrow?" he asked.  I didn't answer because, quite frankly, I don't know.

Whatever it is, however, will not involve crowds.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince...

The bed when we arrived.

I think insomnia is a sign that a person is interesting.

~ Avery Sawyer

Last night I said I might write about La Boqueria Market today, but I changed my mind. Sorry. I need another day at the market first. Besides, we had a bit of a rough evening last night. 

We decided to go to bed at 10:30, roughly about the time Alma Afrobeat Ensemble started playing in Plaça Catalunya which is about a half block from our apartment.  To add to the fun, there was a second concert by Baloji beginning at 1:30am. Luckily the street cleaners broke up the party at 3:00 or so.  That, however, was the easy part.

The bed after we added the blanket and pillows under it.

"I think these people bought the old mattress from my mother's house," Mike yelled to me as he went to bed a few minutes before I did.  The mattress at his mother's was old, and we rolled to the iddle whenever we slept there. 


I got in bed, and sure enough, I rolled to the middle.  "Great," I said. I have a hard time sleeping in strange beds to begin with, and one like that would not be fun.  "I'm taking a sleeping pill."  I take 1/2 an Ambien when I have a really hard time sleeping, and last night qualified.  I fell asleep but kept waking up every time I turned because I not only rolled to the center but also because the bed squeaked if you so much as breathed.  (Of course, I did have music to entertain me each time I woke.)

"You awake?" Mike asked me at some point this morning.

"Oh, yes," I replied. "It's not too easy to sleep on this thing."

Mike getting in the smelly elevator

"Yep," he answered, "I think this mattress is as old as the building. There's a blanket in the closet. I was thinking I might put it under the mattress to plump it up a bit."  I didn't say anything because, quite frankyl, I thought it would never work as the blanket wasn't really thick. "I might need you to help me."

The worst thing he could have said to me was that he wanted me to help him. If I saw a tear or a dirty mattress, I'd be sleeping in a chair for the next five nights. I knew, though, that I would have to help because he couldn't hold up the mattress and put the blanket down at the same time. (Note: The mattresses here do not have box springs. They sit on slats.)

Mike enclosed in the elevator

"Oh, geez," I whined.  "Don't make me do that. You know how squeamish I am. Why don't we hire one of those bogus sales guys to hold up the middle while we sleep?"  He ignored me and walked into the bedroom.

"It's okay," he called from there. "Come on and throw the blanket under there." 

I walked back and looked at the thin blanket. "It's not going to help," I insisted.  "Let's put the two throw pillows under there, too."  I threw them under and backed away.

"Great," Mike said. "Let's hope this works."

 Mike's just gone to bed, and The Jamboree Big Latin Band has started their 10:30 concert in Plaça Catalunya. The second group, La33, starts at 12:30, so the music might not go as long as last night.  Since we put the blanket and pillows under the mattress, we no longer have a valley in the middle of the bed, we now have a hill.  Instead of rolling to the middle, I'm afraid I'll just roll off of the darn thing.

Luckily European beds are about two inches off the floor, so I won't have far to go.

Changing Cultures

Genova Train Station

 “'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
 

'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to'"

~Alice to the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland

by Lewis Carroll

I tried to get out of Genova early. Our Vueling Air tickets allowed us to take an earlier flight scheduled for the same day.  All we had to do was go to the airport two hours before the new flight and see if seats were available.  We might have actually done it if we had been willing to get up and get to the airport at 5 am. We might not like Genova that much, but we didn't dislike it enough to cause us to wake up at 4 am and head to the airport just to see we *could* leave earlier. Had the flight been full, we would have had to spend 16 hours in a 50s-era airport that has 8 gates and one small coffee bar.

Barcelona Taxis

 

As it was, we slept in and wlked the city. The most interesting thing is that I discovered that there is an Eataly in Genova, so we headed there in the afternoon.  If you aren't familiar with Eataly, you can visit their website by clicking the link at the bottom of this post. Let me just say that it's an Italian market on steroids with fresh produce, meats, cheeses, breads, fish, and all of the Italian products you could ever want.  Mario Batali is part owner, and there are Eatalys in New York & Chicago.  (For my LV friends, Batali wants to open one in LV and is looking for land.)

On advice of the receptionist at our hotel, we decided to take Volabus to the airport because it stops in front of the train station which was a block from our hotel and because it cost 12 euro instead of 35 euro.  she told us to buy our tickets from the bus driver, but as we waited, a young girl who was also heading to Barcelona told me that we needed to buy the tickets from the news stand up the block.

First view from our living room

"Hurry because the bus is coming in two minutes," she urged me.  I obviously made it, but I was not too happy with the hotel receptionist, and if I ever go to Genova again, I'm going to give her a piece of my mind.

"Something makes me think she has nothing to worry about," Mike said. He's right, but I'm not letting him know.

As I mentioned, we took Vueling Airlines, the  low-cost carrier owned by Iberia Airlines. If you buy your tickets far enough in advance, you can fligh for as little as 19-49 euro one way depending on the route you're flying.  Vueling has three levels of ticket— Basic, Optima, and Executive. Each level allows you one carry-on.  Optima allows you to check one bag that weighs no more than 50 pounds, to choose your seat when you book the ticket, and to move your departure up same day if available.  While note refundable, it is transferable to another flight if you have to postpone. Executive gives you the Optima benefits plus supposedly bigger seats and priority boarding.

"We invite passengers holding business class tickts to board now," the gate agent announced at 8:50.  About 10 people got up and started down to the plane.  When the last headed through the door, she added, "Everyone is welcome to board at this time."  Of course, there was a mad rush to the gate even though everyone had an assigned seat. One guy pushed in front of me, and I said to Mike that he was probably afraid the plane was going to leave  him if he didn't break someone's foot on the way down.  Geez. (Side note: The inside of the plane looked just like a Southwest plane. In other words, there were no business-class seats. We had no idea what the business class tickets were all about.)

Mike and I had window and middle seat.  "I hope no one sits here," I said to Mike because I was in the middle.  Of course, I had no sooner uttered those words than a guy about 35-40 fell into the seat  beside me.

Las Ramblas

"Allo," he said.  We both returned the greeting.  A couple of times before the plane took off, he got out of his seat, fooled around with his carry-on, and fell back into his seat.  At some point a few minutes into the flight, he started talking.  Mike closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, so I got to listen to the dude go non-stop for the more than 90 minutes we were in the air.  In his defense, he did offer to buy me a beer (BTW, Vueling does not give any drinks to snacks to passengers.) or, when I refused that, anything I wanted.


Here's what I learned (Sorry, but if I had to listen to him, you can at least read his story):

• He's Australian and was going to Barcelona for a three-day weekend.
• He's staying in a hostel because, you know,  those people like to party.
• He shouldn't have worn a white shirt because it would be full of beer and whiskey within two hours of our landing in Barcelona.
• He's a steward on a private yacht owned by "three very rich guys."
• He does all the laundry on the yacht and has three washing machines going constantly fro 8-5 daily.
• He's been all over the world because of his job.
• He wished he'd been a better student in school and studied Spanish because it would have helped him in his job now.
• He got the job because his friend knew the captain who knew they needed to replace two crew members.
• There are 15 employees on the yacht.
• The yacht was in Savannah, GA for almost 12 months last year.
• His favorite stop was Mallorca because the beer is great there.
• He hates the beer they serve on the yacht (NO ONE on the crew likes it.), but they have it because the owners own part of that company.
• He had chicken and crunchy rice and the crappy beer for dinner on the yacht.
• The chef on the yacht used to be better, but he fell in love with some gal in Savannah, so now his cooking is suffering.
• He's going home to Australia for 12 days next month and refuses to fly Qantas airlines because the flight attendants aren't cute and fun.  "Believe it or not, there are some old men working as attendants." 
• He should have let me sleep like my mate, there, but was appreciative that I let him talk.

The view around 6:30 pm

Mother of God, I was so happy to land. We got the baggage and headed to the taxi stand which is an area separated from the rest of the airport exits.  As we started to go through the door, a man stopped Mike.

"Taxi?" he asked.  Mike nodded, and the guy asked where we were going.

"Hotel Alfa Aeropuerto," I replied.  He asked to see the paper with the hotel address.  I showed it to him, and he started walking toward an exit that was not where taxis were.  "Wait.  Are you licensed?"  He nodded and took out some piece of paper that he flashed in front of me.  He asked us to follow him.

"Wait, Mike said. "If the taxi sign is there, why are you going over this way?"

"I don't think he's legit," I said to Mike.  "Let's go to where the real taxis are.  I think this guy is a fraud."

Turns out, we were right.  The taxis in Barcelona are all black and yellow (Second photo above), and our driver told us that guy was pirating work from legitimate taxis.  "They're not allowed to do it, but they don't get caught," he told us. "The government regulates us. He would overcharge you, and there's nothing riders can do."


We dodged a bullet on that one.

This afternoon, we checked into our apartment which overlooks Las Ramblas in Barcelona (Photos above of the view).  It's great, and we've enjoyed just watching the wave of people walking up and down the street.  Luckily, I haven't seen the Aussie dude, but he's probably stuck in some bar somewhere.

Dude, I know an Australian looking for a party

Unluckily, we glanced up and saw this dude on a balcony a few buildings from ours.  Mike thinks he just wanted people to take his photo.  I think he ruined his shirt with whiskey and beer and was waiting for an Aussie to join him.

Tomorrow: The Boqueria (I think...)