Hello, America!

On the River Arno

 

"Never underestimate the power of

stupid people in large groups."

~ George Carlin

(Note: As with yesterday, since I couldn't take photos in customs, I'm just filling with a few others.)

Let me just put it out there: Some people are just idiots. 

If I'm tired and I encounter an idiot, I become very cranky very quickly. Travel days, especially international travel days, are the worst. My crankiness by the end of a travel day will be in direct proportion to the number of idiots with whom I come in contact.  Tuesday, on the cranky scale of 1-to-10, I hit about 9.7.  A certain airport that we flew Tuesday has more than its fair share of idiots working there. Had one more idiot crossed my path, my head might have exploded.

I'm not going to bore you talking about the almost-eight-hour flight we took from Madrid to Philadelphia the other day.  If you've ever been squished sat in an airplane seat for more than 20 seconds, you already know the hell joy eight hours hurtling through the sky at 38,000 feet would bring.  On the other hand, I'm guessing that most of you have not had the misery pleasure of going through Philadelphia International Airport, so i thought I'd introduce you that abyss pride of the East and the idiots who work there.

Piazza Nettuno

Our flight landed in Philadelphia around 2:30 pm as did another from London, so the herd heading toward Customs was large.  As we hurried along, we saw signs announcing new self-service, automated passport control machines. They were, the signs assured us, easy! Fast! Free!  All US citizens had to use them, so the line snaked around the check-in area.

As we got close to the machines, I noticed that more than half of the machines were empty.

"Oh, good," I whined to Mike, "they have 24 machines, and they're not using more than half of them."  We were, by that time, about 30 people back.  (Explanation note: If you consider that line at this point to be a "U" with the head of the line to be on the right at the top, we were on the left at the top of the "U.") Two women were talking to the customs agent who was directing people to the machines...or not directing them, as it were.

"If we put too many people on the machines, they'll all go down," the agent said.  The two women nodded and said something back to her.

"Why do you have so many machines if you can't use them?" Mike asked.  One of the two women repeated what the agent had said.  "I heard her," he continued, "but that doesn't answer my question."

"Don't start this again," I hissed.  "I don't want to be arrested."  (If you haven't ever heard the story about our coming through customs at JFK, remind me to tell you sometime about the incident then. Mike disappeared for some time, and I thought TSA arrested him.)

"I'm not starting anything. This is ridiculous."

"You don't have to tell everyone that," I pleaded. "Let it go."  Telling  him that was like urging him to continue because he kept making comments.  Loud comments.

"These aren't the people you want to antagonize," an old dude behind us said. "They'll haul you off somewhere."

"I don't know," Mike laughed, "it could be fun."

"Stop," I said.  At this point, we were about five people from the front.

I need this Vespa

 As we got to the head of the line, Mike asked the agent why they had so many machines if they weren't going to let everyone use them. She gave a BS answer about overloading the system.

"Then why do you have so many machines?" he asked her.  Luckily, before she could snap cuffs on him or answer, a machine opened up, and we yanked our luggage over to it.

The machines are straight-forward. You answer a few questions, scan your passport, have your photo taken, assure the machine that you are telling the truth, and press "Submit" to get your little slip so you can take it to a human Customs agent. If you get a giant "X" through your little slip, you have to go to a separate line where a different human Customs agent will look at your "X'd" slip, your passport, and your face, type something into the computer, and stamp your passport before sending you on your way.

Mike answered the questions, scanned his passport, didn't smile for the camera, and checked "Yes" that there was another family member with him. I got to do the same, and we hit, "Submit."  Round and round the little dots went, but no permission slips came out.  "TECHNICAL ERROR" flashed on the screen.

Ferrara

"We've received a "technical error," Mike informed an agent standing near us. "What do we do now?"

"Try again," the guy snapped.  Two men at machines across from us got the same message.

"I'm on my third try," one guy said, "and he's already tried four times." He pointed to the other guy.  We repeated the procedure and got the same result as did the couple at the machine next to us.  Suddenly, everyone was getting the same "TECHNICAL ERROR" message.

"What do we do now?" Mike asked again.

"Try again," the guy said.  Mike started the process again, and I saw an older woman approach a group of agents huddled in a corner.  She whispered something to them about the system being down and hurried away. That irritated me.

"We have a connecting flight," I said to an agent near me.

"Everyone has a connecting flight," she snapped and walked away.

Via Farini

 By this time, the two guys across from us were one their 8th or 9th tries, and Mike and I were on our 4th or 5th.  Nine agents huddled in that corner, and one guy was walking around. In addition to the five officers working the non-US citizens, there were three Customs officers sitting in their little cubicles doing absolutely nothing because the machines were down. That made me furious.

"What is the back-up plan?" Mike asked him. I didn't even try to keep him quiet at this point.

"Keep trying," the guy said.

"The machines are not working. What is your back-up plan?" Mike was hot, and I was trying to keep both him and me from exploding.  People‚—and there were more than 200—who were still waiting in line to get to a machine started to complain.

"We have flights."

"Do something.  This is ridiculous." 

The agent just shrugged.  "Keep trying."

"You said that," Mike said, "but the machines are down.  What is the back-up plan?"

"We're trying to figure that out now, sir," the guy said.

"Who's trying?" MIke asked.  I pointed to the people standing around. "Who's trying?" The agent walked away without answering.

"Ten of them are just standing there," I exclaimed. "This is ridiculous."

One of the guys behind us finally got his golden ticket, and he ran to one of the idle Customs officer's lines.  "How many tries was it?" I yelled after him.

Portico in Bologna

"I lost count around 12," he told me and waved.  "Good luck."  We switched to that guy's machine since he had gotten through.  The other guy's machine finally spit out his ticket.  Our new machine screamed, "TECHNICAL ERROR" on our first and second tries with it.  Every few minutes, one of the machines would actually work, but people were getting really angry and yelling.  The huddled mass of agents stayed away from us all.

Finally, on our 8th or 9th try, we got our magic tickets and headed to the cubicles.

"Are you together?" one of agents asked us.  We nodded. "Then you have to go to that line." She pointed to a line of about 50 people.

"Now what?" MIke asked.

"We have a connection," I snapped.

"You have an "X," Ma'am," she snapped back at me.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"That means you go in that line," she replied and walked away from me.  Another flyer who, after trying numerous times to get his ticket, started to complain to that agent.  "Write an op-ed about it," she said and walked away from him, too.

Crowd in Madrid's Plaza del Sol

 

"Why was I flagged?" I asked the Customs officer when we finally got to his cubicle.  Stout with close-cropped hair, he chomped his gum in much the same way Riley chews on rawhide.

"No idea."  He held my passport up to the light and then examined the stamps I had in it. He typed my name into his computer, studied the screen, and looked at the "X'd" slip.  He held up my passport again,  looked at the photo on it, compared it to me, and continued to clack his gum.  He lowered the passport, stamped it, and waved us on.

"I bet his mother would be proud to see him chewing gum like that," Mike said loudly as we walked away.

"Can you wait until we get to where he can't hear you?" I still had visions of missing our flight because Customs wasn't happy with someone's remarks.

"I want him to hear me," Mike replied.  I rolled my eyes and hurried on.

A regional train

We finally got to our connecting gate about two hours after we landed.

"This is great," Mike said as he stared at the filthy seats in front of us.  A few of them were torn, and most of them were repositories for food particles and  trash.  "You would think that an airport of this size would have the decency to clean the gate areas."

Rather than get into a discussion about the filth, I went to get us dinner at Wendy's in the food court.  I ordered two singles because, "Them is the smallest burgers we got," the gal at the counter told me.

"I also want two small drinks," I added.  "One Coke, and one Coke Light."  (In Europe, they refer to Diet Coke as Coke Light, and I wasn't thinking American soda yet.)  The kid stared at me.

"Huh?"

"Diet Coke...Diet Coke"

"You want two mediums?" she asked me.

"I want the smallest you have," I repeated.

"That's a medium," she said.

"Then that's what I want."

"You want mediums, right?"  I looked to my left and right to make sure she was speaking to me and not someone else.  I was sure I had spoken English. Had I not been holding money in my hand, I might have yanked my hair out.

"Sí.  Yes.  Whatever."  I was getting really cranky.

She poured the two drinks and brought them over to me. "You want a carrier?"  No,  I thought, I want to balance one of the two cups on my head while carrying the other and the bag of sandwiches in my hands. 

Berliners from Chök

I hauled dinner all the way back to the gate, and as soon as we started to eat, we noticed that they were changing our gate to another that was half-way back to the food court.

"We have time," Mike said.  "We'll eat this while it's hot and then go."  I just nodded since my mouth was full.  I was already through half of my burger.  As crappy as airport food can be, it was an American hamburger.

When it came time to board, we pre-boarded because of the problems I've been having with my foot.  In front of us, there was a gentleman who had just had a knee replacement.  "Let him and his party board first since he's in a wheelchair," the gate agent requested.  Fine by me.

When they brought the guy to the ramp, a group of 20 people got up and started to follow him to the plane.  Only one of them, and that was the one in the wheelchair, needed help.

"Wait," the gate agent said. "Are you all with him? Do you all need to board?"  They all answered by filing on behind the guy.

When we other pre-boards got on the plane, most of the group had put their luggage in the overhead bins. They stood in the aisle talking to the knee-replacement guy who was sitting.  No one could get past them.

"Ah, maybe you can hurry so we can all get on" Mike said.

The lady in front of me dropped her suitcase to make a little noise.  I sighed loudly.  They didn't notice and kept joking around.

"For crying out loud," I almost yelled.  "Get out of the way."  No one moved.  At this point, they had started general boarding, so a line formed behind the pre-boards.  "COME ON." I did yell that.

The flight attendant who was standing in the seat next to where I was finally got a clue.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "can you please move out of the aisle as we have a long line forming here."   Finally.  Finally. Finally, they moved.

Mailboxes in Bologna

 The flight was full, and we were late pushing back from the gate.  Slowly, slowly the plane went from one place to another.  Almost an hour after we were supposed to take off, the pilot made an announcement.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he started. "Now that we've completed our tour of Philadelphia International Airport, we're in line for take-off.  Apparently there is only one working runway, and there are nine planes in front of us.  It will be another five-to-ten aviation minutes before we're in the sky.  After that, we'll have a smooth five hours to Las Vegas."

Mike promptly fell asleep.  I don't sleep well on planes, even when I'm exhausted. I spent most of the time reading or watching people cruise the aisle. I have never seen so many people walking barefoot in a plane in my life.

And I hope I never do again.

Adios, España

The old Hispanic-Olivetti in our flat in Madrid

It is always sad to leave a place to 

which one knows one will never return.

 Such are the melancolies du voyage: 

perhaps they are one of the most 

rewarding things about traveling.” 

~ Gustave Flaubert,

(Note: Since I couldn't take photos related to today's post, I'm including others.)

Mike and I had a very long day yesterday (30 September).  We had not slept well the entire time we were in Barcelona and Madrid, and Monday night was no different. I woke up almost every hour from 3:15 am on, and Mike was usually awake, too. We finally got up around 6:30 and got ready to leave.

The antique elevator shaft in Hotel Continental (Genova)

At 8:30, we walked to the Atocha Train Station to catch the AeroBus to the airport.  Easy (especially since the walk was downhill).  The bus was there on time. Double easy.  The fare was €5/each, a lot less than what a taxi would have charged for the 35-minute drive to the airport. Good deal.

Once we were under way, I noticed that the bus had stops at Terminals 1, 2, and 4.

"Oh, crap," I said to Mike. "I don't know which terminal is the right one."

"Do you want to ask the lady behind us?" he wanted to know.  No, I didn't want to ask the lady behind us. I really wanted to figure it out myself. Given that the bus noted only the terminal numbers and not the airlines each housed, I knew I was going to have to ask the lady behind me.

Mike in front of the elevator...I have no idea what I was doing.

 "Excuse me," I said to her, "but are you flying internationally?"

"Yes," she told me. "I'm going to New York. Where are you going?"

"Filadelfia. Which terminal will you go to?"

"What country is Filadelfia in?" she asked me. If I had not been looking at her, I would have rolled my eyes. She's never heard of Philadelphia?  At any rate, I told her it was in the United States. She perked up.  "I'm going to the United States, too! New York is in the United States!"  No lie. I had no idea.

"Which terminal?" I asked her again.

"One," she said.  "I'm flying Delta, are you?"  I told her we were flying US Airways. "I just don't know then."

"We'll just get off at Terminal 1, and if it's the wrong terminal, we can take the shuttle to the next terminal," Mike decided. He had gone up to the bus driver and asked him if he knew which terminal we should go to, and the guy knew nothing.

We got off at Terminal 1 and stepped right into a sea of chaos. We flew US Airways out of Adolfo Suarez Madrid-Barajas International Airport, and airport that is as honking big as its name is. We found the arrival/departure screen several doors (and 4 million people) down from where the bus dropped us off.

"There is no US Airways flight on this screen." I checked my email to make sure I hadn't screwed up the airport somehow.

"Maybe we need to go to Terminal 2," Mike thought. "Maybe this just lists the departures for this terminal."

"It lists departures for Terminals 1 and 2," I told him.  "We need information."  Information, it turns out, was back near where we entered the building. We fought our way back through the 4 million people between us and it.

Mike's real eggs in Barcelona

 There were two agents at the information desk, and the one who was not talking to another customer was staring into space while picking at his teeth with the little finger on his right hand.

"Excuse me," I apologized.  I didn't want to interrupt his very important business, and he apparently wasn't too happy that I had, either. He glared at me. "We have a US AIrways flight, and I don't . . . "

"Terminal 4," he snapped and turned his head back in the direction he had been staring.

"Ok. Thank you, but how do I get to Terminal 4?" He turned toward me again.

"Bus. Five minutes. Outside." He pointed in one direction and turned his head back to the other and started picking at his teeth again.


We found the bus, and after it dropped off people at Terminal 2, it seemed to head away from the airport grounds. After six or seven minutes, we pulled into the middle of nowhere where Terminal 4 stood in all its humongous glory.

"Holy crap. This one's bigger than the first terminal," I exclaimed.

"This is what Las Vegas should do," Mike said. Since that statement had nothing to do with what I said, I just looked at him.  "They should put the airport 30 miles outside of town. There's plenty of land out there."  While I agreed, I was more interested in getting to the gate.

Gelato with fudge and raspberries

We walked into the terminal and into the middle of even more chaos than we found in Terminal 1.  Iberia, the national airline of Spain, had dozens of ticket counters and backage drops.  US Airways was, of course, at the far end of the terminal past Iberia and the 6 million people flying on it and other airlines.  We got in the relatively short US Airways line to get our boarding passes.  The first person to approach us was a security/customs person.

I'm not going to go through the entire process of getting out of Spain, but let me tell you that security procedures in the United States pale in comparison to those in other countries. When I left the States two months ago, I went through the regular TSA bit, and the gate agent checked my passport as I boarded the flight to London.  To get out of Spain, we went through four separate security checks, with the first and fourth being pretty minor questions: "Who packed your bag?" "Who has handled your bags?" "Are you carrying a weapon?"

When you put your carry-ons through the scanner, you have to take out *every* electronic device—laptop, tablet, iPod, phone, and camera. You can keep your shoes and belts on, but any bit of metal comes out of your pockets.

"Whose bag this is?" The behemoth behind the scanner pointed at my backpack.

"Mine." I couldn't figure out what I had left in it.

"Take out tablet," she demanded.

"It's already out," I said as I pointed to my iPad in the purple pan.

"You have other," she insisted.

"I don't.  Look."  I opened the backpack, and she stuck her big hands in.  There was nothing electronic in it except the cords for the laptop.

"This.  Out." She yanked out the cords. "These go through."  She put them in a separate pan and sent them and the backpack back through.  I passed.

 

Honking big espresso machine

 Mike, having seen my problem with the cords, pulled his out before his bag went through the scanner.

"Whose bag this is?" She pointed to Mike's backpack.  "Take out camera."

"My camera is here," he said as he pointed to his camera in the pan.

"You have other," she insisted again. Is this sounding familiar?  She shoved her hands in and pulled out his video camera. Oops.

Once we finished with her, we headed to the terminal's M, R, S, and U gates. Hanging near the tram was a sign  advising how long it would take to get to each group of gates.  M—10 minutes. R—22 minutes. S—10 minutes. U—20 minutes.

When we finally got to the "R" gates, we had to go through passport exit control. Before the agent stamped our passports, we had to tell him how long we had been in Europe, where we'd gone, and why we were there. STAMP!  We were on to yet another security stop and the gate.

Madrid cafe and bookstore

Four hours after we left the apartment, we were rolling down the runway. Two months down. Seven hours and 54 minutes to go.

Tomorrow: Philadelphia International Airport is not your friend.

On My Way Home

Beautiful Marks

My grandmother, Liberata Crugnale Berarducci

 “Travel changes you. As you move through this life 

and this world you change things slightly, you leave 

marks behind, however small. And in return, life—

and travel—leaves marks on you. Most of the time, 

those marks—on your body or on your heart—are 

beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.”

~ Anthony Bourdain

All day long, I've been trying to decide what to write about today.  There are so many things I want to cover, but I'm going to save them for when I get home.  Tonight, I might just throw out some loose thoughts.

I saw that Anthony Bourdain quote recently, and it hit home with me.  Travel of any kind can change you if you're willing to let it do so. I think it teaches us so much about each other and about ourselves. Five years ago,  I wrote the first essay about my grandmother's journey from Italy to the USA, and since that time, learning more about what she experienced has been an obsession for me. That obsession led to the love affair I have with Italy.  No matter our ethnicity, Americans know something about the culture of our ancestors, but we know a sanitized version of it, don't we?

i have wondered if I could survive what my grandmother survived.  My little game of living in Italy for six weeks showed me that I could live there, but I had a lot of conveniences she didn't have.  I also had a ticket home, and a loving husband who supported me.

My hero

 Speaking of my husband, I thank God that he is supportive. I don't know anyone who would push me to follow the crazy, nutty dreams and schemes I have. I know it was hard for him to be alone while I was gone, and I thank every single one of you who invited him over for dinner while I was gone.  I think he gained some weight.  ;-)

Due Torre in Bologna

 I miss Bologna. In a lot of ways, I'm glad we are coming home from Spain instead of Italy. It's made it easier for me to come home.  I'm afraid that if I were still in Bologna, Mike might have to push me onto the plane.

I have developed such a fondness for Bologna even though my history is in the Abruzzo region. I  find the people in Bologna to be among the most genuine and kind that I've come across in any town in Italy.  I miss Bologna a lot, but I know I'll be back soon, so that makes it easier.

Down the street from my flat in Bologna

 My friend, Bob, asked me a few weeks ago if Italy had been as fruitful for writing as I had hoped.  Yes, it has. I wrote some very difficult essays about my other grandparents and father that might never go anywhere, but I got them out. I also thought a lot about my book, and I decided was that the stories about those horrible times were not meant for the book.  I found its focus on this trip, and the stories in it are the happy, funny stories that speak to what my grandmother taught me about life.
 I hope some of you might want to read it when I finish it.

Finally, I want to thank those of you who have read this blog. I appreciate the comments and personal notes a lot of you have sent. I'm going to continue writing it when I get home because there is so much of life to share.

So, I'm leaving here with a heavy heart, but it's also a happy heart. 

I'll see you on the other side of the world tomorrow.

Art is Not What You Think

Pierrot Playing the Guitar - Dali

"Modern artists say their work is not meant to be beautiful.

Is there any doubt they have succeeded?"

~ Scott Burdick

(Please note: Before I get into this post, let's agree that we can disagree about what is art, okay?  After our visit to the Pompidou in Paris last year, my post practically caused an international incident because some people didn't like my opinions. I'm talking art here, not kids or pets or anything really important.  Thank you for your cooperation.)

"If you turn your head sideways, maybe you can understand it."

 Mike decided I have not had enough culture in the almost-nine weeks I've been in Europe, so he dragged me to El Prado and the Museo Reina Sofia today.  El Prado is Spain's national museum and houses a huge collection of European art that dates from a few centuries BC (some sculptures) to the early 19th century.  Reina Sofia, located a few blocks away, features more modern art. 

Still Life - Dali

We bought our Prado tickets yesterday and arranged to be there first thing in the morning since our "invitation" to see the El Greco exhibit was at 10, the time the museum opened.  We arrived about 25 minutes early, and by the time the museum opened at 10, hundreds of people queued behind us.  As a Spanish major, I had studied a lot of Spanish painters, and it was pretty exciting to see their work in person. I always like El Greco and Velazquez, but Goya's work (except for the Maja Desnuda and Vestida) usually gave me nightmares.  We weren't permitted to use cameras as I found out when I tried to take a photo of Maja Vestida.

"NO fotos, Señora," yelled a guard. "NO FOTOS."  I jumped about five feet (luckily not falling down again).

"Ok, sorry. I didn't know,"  I replied as I put the phone away.  The guard glared at me.

All the photos in this post, therefore, are from Reina Sofia which does allow photos except in the Guernica exhibit (of course).

Dali

After lunch, we headed to Reina Sofia and found out Sunday afternoons are free. In addition to a huge Picasso exhibit that includes Guernica, the museum had a special exhibit by British artist Richard Hamilton.  They also have a good number of works by Dali and other modern European artists.

Dali

I agree that I do not understand Dali's work, and truthfully, I am not going to try to understand it because I am no longer in college and don't have to appreciate crap art just so Joanne Latavo gives me an "A."  I want to know why a plaster cast of a foot, an aluminum foil glove, a crappy high heel, and some other objects are considered art.  My suitcase should be on exhibit.  It has all of that and more, and my stuff is clean.

Trying to figure out a Dali

All that said,  I've never understood the fascination with Dali.  To begin with, he was a creepy little man. Some of his work is okay, but some of it is downright bizarre.  I like the painting—Pierrot Playing the Guitar—at the top of this post, but some of his other stuff gives me the creeps (in addition to nightmares).  Melting clocks and guitars and such are plain weird, and I invite anyone who thinks otherwise to tell me why you think they are not. Please. Help me understand what you're seeing that I'm not seeing.

Richard Hamilton

Moving on.  Richard Hamilton, a multi-faceted artist if I've ever seen one.  He's famous for his paintings,  photography, collages, and more.  His early work started with basic form drawings, but he evolved.  Someone, ManRay if I remember correctly, gave Hamilton a polaroid camera, and he started letting people take photos of him with it.  Then he started doing self-portraits that he embellished with paint and such (see photos below).

Self-portrait - Richard Hamilton

"What's the art in this?" Mike asked me.

"Beats me," I answered.  Thank God we both agree.

Self-portrait - Richard Hamilton

 I love good photography.  I even like some bad photography if it tells a story.  The only story I can get out of these self-portraits by Hamilton is that he doesn't like his looks.  Either that, or down deep, he wants to be a graffiti artist.

"I've seen better graffiti than this in Genova," I told Mike.  It's true, too. We saw graffiti on posters and signs all over the city, and the graffiti made more sense than this.

Self-portrait - Richard Hamilton

"I'm going to work on a few self-portraits when I get back to the flat," I announced as we walked home tonight.

"You don't have paint," Mike informed me.  I rolled my eyes.

"Duh," I said. "I'll use Photoshop.  It's faster and cleaner, anyway."

"And what will you do with them after that?" Mike wanted to know.

"I'm going to put them on the blog and sell them as art," I told him.

He snorted at me.

Self-portrait - Richard Hamilton

 My husband actually snorted at me.  I'll show him.  I'm submitting this to the next call for art submissions that I find. . . unless someone wants to buy it before then.  What do you say?

Self-portrait - Cutler

Starting bid: €.01

Pride Cometh Before the Fall

Celery mojitos

 “...the habit of falling hardens the body, reaching 

the ground, to in itself, is a relief.” 

~ José Saramago

There is a moment just after you start to fall that you realize you have no control over what is going to happen next. At that point, all you can do is hope you land easily and don't break anything. If you're lucky, you end up with a few bruised body parts and, if anyone—especially a restaurant full of people— saw you, a bruised ego. 

Let me start at the beginning.

Metro Bistro

 Mike and I went to a Spanish restaurant tonight because we wanted to have Spanish food that, as he put it, we could both eat and enjoy.  Apparently he wasn't too thrilled with the paella the other night, either, but that's another story.  Metro Bistro (above) is a rather new place, and the chef cooks Spanish with his flair.  We were thrilled there was no paella on the menu, but they did offer some interesting dishes (below).  I also checked them out on tripadvisor and found very good reviews of the service, food, and prices.

El menu

"Maybe you can have the tartare," I told Mike.  If you read the blog last year or if you are one of my friends that I have told 3000 times, you might remember that we went to a restaurant last year and Mike ordered "chianina cruda" without realizing it was steak tartare. He had to send it back.

"Actually, I was thinking of the pork," he said without acknowledging my joke about the steak. "What are you going to have?"  I thought Mike might have the squid, but he's not into risotto, so he nixed that idea.  Since he was going with the pork, I thought I might try the lamb or "lacquered" guinea hen.

"Not sure yet," i said as the waitress came by to give us a green beverage (top photo).  Mike frowned. "It's a celery mojito," I told him.  "Tripadvisor reviews give it high marks."  I took a sip.  "It's very good even though it's celery.  Try it."  Mike had a mojito once and hated it, and he was not too thrilled about a celery mojito.  However, he was a good sport.

"It is good...tastes like celery," he commented.  "I'm surprised you like it."  I don't like celery, but the rum did something to it, so drink was good.  "It could be the sugar on the rim," he added. 

Chocolate/rosemary, corn/chili, and white bread

  The waitress brought us a glass of cava (a sparkling Spanish wine) and three breads (above) that they make at the restaurant. They were a corn/chili, chocolate rosemary, and plain white breads.  The chocolate was odd, but the other two were very good.  She took our order for dinner.  Mike ended up with the pork, and somehow I ended up ordering the bacon/veal hamburger without crispy onions or cheese. 

"I thought you were going to have the lamb," Mike said after she left.

"I was, but she came over, and the next thing I knew, I ordered the burger."  It couldn't have been the wine because I hadn't had any yet, so I have no idea why I ordered the burger.  I guess I thought the combination of veal and pork would be good.

Cheeses with hazelnut, almond cake, apricots and quince (not seen)

Before our meals, we enjoyed some cheese (above), and they nicely replaced the bleu cheese with manchego.  Mike also, for some reason, ordered croquetas (below) because the reviews on TA were very high.  These croquetas have serrano ham, cheese, and mushrooms and are covered with pumpkin and sesame seeds.  Many of the restaurants in Madrid serve cod croquetas, so I made sure there was no fish anywhere near these things before they arrived.

Croquetas

 When our food arrived, I thought mine (two photos down) looked great.  Mike's (below) looked a little too purple for me,  He stared at it a minute.

"Yours looks good," he said.  He stuck his fork in the sauce of his. "This is almost like jelly."  I didn't want to tell him, but it looked pretty disgusting to me.  "I guess I'll see if I like this cabbage." He cut one of the cabbage rolls in half and ate it.

"Does it make you gag?" I asked.  He doesn't like cabbage, or so he says.  That country soup we had in Lucca was full of cabbage, and he loved it.

"Nah," he answered.  "It's okay."

Pork with cabbage rolls

 Mine was pretty good, too. I'd say it's pretty hard to mess up hamburgers, but I've had some horrible ones.  Of course, this was not an ordinary burger as it was veal and bacon.  It was tasty.

"They might have cooked it a bit more," I said.  While I like most meats medium rare, this one was not enough medium for me.

Veal/bacon burger with yucca

Because of my incident with the sangria the other night, I took my time with the cava and only had one glass. At no point did I feel light-headed, dizzy, or fuzzy-eyed. That's why what happened after we had the complimentary candies (below) shocked me so much.

Mike paid, and we talked to the owner for a few minutes.  Mike stood up, and I started to slide out of the booth. In a split second, I realized that no part of me was touching the floor or the seat. Everything blurred, and I saw streaks of gold in front of my eyes. There was nothing I could do but gasp. I gasped.

Amaretto and Passion fruit candies and Mike's finger

My head banged the wall. I heard the people sitting at the tables all around us gasp. My ankle, hip, and elbow hit the concrete floor in rapid succession.  Mike and the owner rushed over to me.

"I'm  okay.  I'm okay," I assured them.  I hurt like hell.  "I'm fine." I was totally embarrassed.

"Do you want to sit down?" Mike asked me.  Everyone was looking at me.

"No, I'm fine," I lied.  The owner grabbed my elbow and offered me a seat.  "No, really. I'm okay."

"Do you want a glass of wine?" he asked me.  I shook my head. "Water?"

"No, thank you. Thank you.  I'll be okay." I just wanted out of there.

Moi in the booth just before the fall

I'm still not quite sure what happened.  I think when I went to get up, I didn't realize how close to the edge of the bankette my seat was. As I turned to slide out, I slid off of the leather seat and into thin air. Even though I didn't have far to go, it was a long fall down.

"Did you pick me up? Did the owner? Did I get up by myself?" I wanted to know as we headed home.

"I grabbed you, and you stood on your own," Mike said. "I tried to make sure you didn't fall again."

He can't take me anywhere, I tell you.

Five Fun Facts About Barcelona

Battló House (with the spire)

 ” Allow me to state here how much I 

love Barcelona , an admirable city, a 

city full of life, intense, a port open 

to the past and future ”

~ Le Corbusier

 Mike's wanted to go back to Barcelona since we went there seven years ago.  For our 30th anniversary, we took on a cruise that ended in Barcelona, and we just happened to be there for Feste de la Mercé. I had chosen that particular cruise because I'd majored in Spanish and, while I lived in Mexico for a summer semester, I had never gone to Spain. Mike really enjoyed Barcelona and the Mercé, and he wanted to experience it again.

When I was planning my summer in Bologna, Mike suggested that instead of coming to Italy, we go to Barcelona.

"You want to see Spain," he said to me. 

"I *wanted* to see Spain," I replied.  Long story short, we compromised.  I went to Bologna, and then we went to Spain. It turned out to be less expensive for him to fly to Bologna first, so that's why he joined me in Italy before we went to Barcelona.

I thought I'd pass along five facts you might not know about Barcelona.

Sagrada Familia

 1. The most popular tourist attraction in Barcelona is the Basilica de la Sagrada Familia (above and below).  Designed by Antoni Gaudi, the Sagrada Familia is still not complete.  Work started in 1883, and when Gaudi died in 1926, it was not even 25% complete.  In 2010, about 50% of the work was done, and Pope Benedict consecrated it as a basilica. (Side note: A basilica differs from a cathedral in that a cathedral is the "seat" of a bishop.)  Work is contingent on private donations and fees for touring the church.  The contractors hope to finish the entire project by 2026-28.  To give you some idea of its size, it is  300 feet in length by 200 feet in width (The nave is 150 feet wide.), and the tallest of the 18 spires (Only eight are currently complete.) will be more than 550 feet high.

Gaudi, who also designed the renovation of the Batlló house (top photo), died after being hit by a street car.

Sagrada Familia

2. After Spain colonized the Americas in the 17th century, they brought cocoa to Europe.  Chocolate as a beverage was so important in most of Spain that Spaniards drank more of it than coffee.  One popular breakfast item in Barcelona is churros with chocolate.  While churros are not necessarily Spanish (Think 'Mexico.'), dipping them in molten chocolate is popular.  Also popular is hot drinking chocolate which is nothing like hot chocolate in the states.  Instead of milk flavored with chocolate powder, think of how a melted, dark chocolate bar would be.

Boqueria chocolate

 In La Boqueria, there are a number of stands that sell all kinds of chocolate (above).  Considering they are a tourist trap, I'm not sure how good their chocolate is.  I preferred Chök, the pastry shop about which I wrote the other day.

Low-foam cappuccino

 3. While coffee has caught on in Barcelona, it's not really very good. Of course, I'm pretty prejudiced as I prefer Italian coffee, but Mike even agreed with me.  I ordered a cappuccino one morning (above), and I swear the barista blew bubbles in the milk before he poured it into the espresso.

Awful foam

"I don't get why people like foam," Mike says way too many times.  "It doesn't taste like anything." I always roll my eyes because I'm a cappuccinolier (a sommelier of cappuccino).

"Actually," I always reply, "a good foam is flavorful."

"What does it taste like?" he finally asked me the other day. 

"Warm whipped cream," I answered.

"I think they put something extra in your cappuccino," he replied. 

I wish.

Sign in Catalan

 4. Barcelona is part of Cataluña. The official language in Cataluña is Catalan, not Spanish, although everyone does speak both. The first time we were in Barcelona, I saw a lot of Spanish signs. This year, I saw very few.

Three days before we arrived, people held a huge demonstration in Barcelona requesting a referendum on independence from Spain. It was so large that the US State Department sent us a notice that the demonstration was going to happen and that we should stay away if we were in town at that time.  (Side note;  I always register with the State Department when we go out of the country so that, in a crisis or emergency, they know we are somewhere.)

Sardana, Catalan folk dance

When Franco was dictator, he forbid the use of regional languages and the celebration of regional customs. A lot of that was due to the fact that the people of Cataluña fought so hard against him.  When he died, they brought back the dances, the festivals, and the language.


"How are you doing with the Spanish and Italian?" Mike asked me last week.

"How do I know?" I snipped.  "With the Catalan thrown in, my head is constantly whirling."


If you're interested in seeing a Catalan folk dance, click here and here.  The first is the Sardana (photo above).  The second is the Bastoner, a dance done with sticks.

Starbucks

5.  There are over 20 Starbucks in the city center of Barcelona. Since I had been in one in almost two months, we headed to one the morning after we arrived in Barcelona.  The coffee there did not taste the same.

"Does this taste right to you?" Mike wanted to know.

"It tastes like brown water."  I was glad  it was hot, though since that morning was pretty cool.  "I might be too used to Italian coffee now, though."

"In a way, maybe," he said, "but I don't think it tastes right."

Just like home

Imagine my surprise when I saw that Starbucks was serving AMERICAN pancakes (above). I walked over to the counter to see what they looked like (below).

"Their pancakes are probably worse than their coffee," I told Mike.  "They look like toaster pancakes."

Toaster pancakes

One Starbucks is located in a historic building in the Barri Gotic, the old Gothic district of the city.  We went to that one two or three times, and Mike waved to passers-by.  He finally got a few people to wave back.

"I think they were so annoyed they decided they had to wave back just to get me to stop," he said.

That guy from Las Vegas is a friendly fellow.

He is something else, I tell you.  People are probably still talking.