Barcelona: Deja Vu or, as the Spanish say, Deja Vu

Barcelona unsettled me a bit.  It reminded me so much of so many other places I have been that my first impression was that I was either in Savannah, Vienna or back home in Monterey County.

You may think that the Spanish being spoke all around would be enough to remind me that I was somewhere new but if you think that, you probably have never been to California where Spanish is spoken as prolifically as English.

So I was a bit worried that we had seen so many places in such a short period of time the world was in danger of turning homogeneous for us.  Were we going to need to travel to Laos in order to experience something that seemed totally foreign?  The irony is that Spain is the only place on our list where not one of us had been before.

But then we went to places like Gaudi Park and shopped for FC Barcelona jerseys and then it all eventually sunk in.
Spain.  Barcelona.  We're here.  Crisis averted.

Barcelona: 50 kilometers

We don't do tour buses.
That is to say, Mihai doesn't do tour buses.  I'm willing to hop on one if it means I don't have to wear my feet bloody and raw on the pavement of foreign cities but Mihai is indifferent to the discomfort emanating from his metatarsals.  I think it has something to do with being raised under communism.

But let's face it, how else are you going to see a city up close as well as burn even a portion of the 5,000 calories you are consuming as you sample the local fare?
You walk.  And walk.
And you become intimately aquainted with the city's metro system which in Barcelona is a dream.  Its true that after dealing with the New York City metro system we tend to judge every place by that standard and its true that when you set your bar that low everything but a windowless bus in Los Angeles rush hour traffic can surpass it.
But really, Barcelona has a fantastic metro.  I don't consider myself a tour guide of any shape or form and I'll tell you that as a general rule you should never follow any traveling advice I might be tempted to dispense.  There is one thing, however, that you can take to the bank:  Barcelona's subways are user-friendly and they do not double as the city's public toilet so while its a little stuffy in summer, at least you aren't assaulted by the smell of urine when you descend into the underground.

We tried to see it all.  And I think we came pretty close but since the only research we do before arriving in a city is looking up a couple of restaurants we want to try, usually we have no idea what we are doing.

So for those of you who have lived in or visited Barcelona extensively I'm certain it would appear we barely scratched the surface and managed only to visit the most touristy, unimaginative places the city has to offer.  But since we're clueless about what else is out there, we're pretty happy with the way things turned out.

Who says ignorance isn't bliss?

The Gothic Cathedral and Parc de La Ciutadella

50 km is the total that we walked during our stay

Barcelona: Tapas, Cava and other consumables

Tapas.
Mihai's dream.
This whole trip was about him getting his tapas.  When we were planning our year we each had one Must Go To destination: Istanbul for me and Barcelona for Mihai and all he could talk about was tapas.
Well, sir, you got them.  Over and over.  And in the meantime I gained about 12 lbs and dried out my kidneys with the cava that must be consumed with the tapas in summer.  I hope you're happy. (he is, oh, he is)

This place was standing room only and not just because it was packed but because there were no chairs.  Tapas were originally street food and you stood up while you ate them but now they are served in just about every sit-down type of restaurant.  Except this place which Mihai had to try.  Sometimes he either forgets he has children or he just mistakenly believes they will enjoy being elbowed in the face while shoving tapas with unknown ingredients into their parched mouths (you don't drink soda with tapas at this place my friend-its alcohol or nada)
It was a safe enough area and we sent them out to the street (with the camera to keep them busy) while we sampled half a dozen tapas and I must say the guy who runs the place and who makes the tapas (what is the proper name for him-is he a chef?  a tapas-maker?  what? someone help me out with this one) is a genius.  Wow.
And everyone needs to go to Europe and have a moment when you try to order something that you, with your naive taste buds, imagine will be good.  Everyone needs one of those moments when the chef, waiter, sommelier or butcher gives you that look as if you've just said you would like to try the foie gras with a side of kindergarten paste.  We had one of those moments and now we can die knowing it has not been a life half lived.
Photos courtesy of Lucian.

So I know we were in Spain but my pizza-loving Luci was craving some pizza and we saw a place that had D.O.C underneath its name plaque and all of you true pizza connoisseurs know what that means (Tony D).
So the verdict: um lots better than NYC pizza and there was no blood pressure reading required (also no line, no wait and charming as heck with real Eye-tal-yans running the place).

There are little markets, bars and restaurants on virtually every street in Barcelona.  It makes eating and drinking all the time so easy.  So deceptively easy...

A midnight snack in our apartment and look Monica, they sell blocks of quince paste by the kilo!

And last but not least we did not forget about our wonderful San Francisco B-44: Marius and Monica, this is for you guys.

I think this says it all.

House Party

As I mentioned in the last post, we've got a full house lately.  11 total.  That is to say, 11 of us that are sleeping here each night.  At some point throughout each day or evening anywhere between 8 to 15 extra people will show up and spend several (or more) hours eating, drinking, talking and generally hanging about the premises.
Dan and Nohora like to party.
No, not the get-drunk-fall-down-and-make-a-fool-of-yourself kind of party.  I mean the talk, laugh, eat, sing, repeat kind of party.  The kind where you remember it all the next morning and the only thing you regret is that you should not have had that 5th piece of cake because the next-day-sugar-overload-nausea is just not worth it.

The boys love the clamor and activity. I lose track of them for hours at a stretch while they play on the top of the hill and I wash the dishes and engage in mental aerobics trying to keep up with the rapid Romanian being shouted/sung/spoken all around me.
No one expects me to wash these mountains of dishes alone.  I do it because I suffer from obsessive/compulsive cleaning disorder and also because it provides me with a much-welcome relief from the rapid-fire conversation. People offer to help but I decline because sometimes I don't want to chit chat, I want nothing but the sound of the water running and the glasses clinking as I set them in the drying rack.

But sometimes people don't take no for an answer.  They don't take nu for an answer either.  And then I'm stuck (oh, stuck is such an ungrateful sounding word).

Which is not to say that it's all awkwardly uncomfortable. No. It's a lot of fun.  And it goes a long way toward improving one's fluency with the language because its absolutely sink or swim.  Because just as all things natural and Italian require conversation in close quarters, so too does any evidence of a lack of understanding as might be manifest by a certain foreigner holding a dish rag.
There is a direct proportion to the number of millimeters of personal space they allot you in conversation and the amount of words you appear to understand during said conversation.  To put it another way: the greater the understanding, the more breathing room.
There's a trick to it, though, you can't just say you understand while your face is caught in a twist of confusion and bafflement.  No tell-tale beads of sweat forming on the upper lip; no hard, dry swallows; your gaze must not flicker as you privately, desperately hope that someone will come and translate for you.  No.  The secret lies in maintaining direct eye contact, keeping the forehead unfurrowed (unless the speaker begins to frown and shake his head in which case you immediately frown along with him).   Your head must nod, not too often, not too seldom, while you try to appear relaxed and engaged even while inside your brain alarms are ringing and you are thinking "oh dear lord, that's six words in a row that I don't know...what is bglrplo? is that the past tense of "to swim" or is that the word for "election"?  is it germane to his conversation?  he seems to be using it often, will he switch subjects before I am found out?"

If that happens (you are found out or you in any way confess to being confused), there will inevitably occur what I have come to think of as "the laying on of the hands."
As we all know, when someone doesn't understand English, the best thing to do is to shout the words because volume is what imparts understanding of the English language.

But its different with the Romanian language.  When someone doesn't understand Romanian, the only remedy is simply to get closer, grab ahold of them around the shoulders and repeat exactly the same words in exactly the same order.
And of course it works because when have you ever seen this sort of thing happen when the listener didn't automatically exclaim (while pulling away and calmly wiping spittle off their cheek) that they now understand perfectly, no, there's no need to say it again because they totally get it and they feel absolutely the same way as the speaker does on the subject at hand.
At this point the speaker beams and looks around as if to say "Behold! My magical powers of knowledge-transfer-via-touch-and-body-fluid-spewing have worked again!"
So for all of you preparing to come visit, you might want to practice the various inflections for the word "Da" (as in "oh really?", "yes, that's awful" and "I agree completely") and check your face in the mirror to make sure you've got your "relaxed and engaged" expression down pat because they will catch you faking if you're not careful.

I'm putting the photos in collage form because by themselves, they are not interesting but I'm hoping that all grouped together will somehow make them so.

Isn't it funny how the best conversations with family take place over a snack in the kitchen at midnight?

And now we're off to Barcelona; Gabi and Anca go back home to Vienna; Dan, Nohora and Nicolas go to Rome and Silviu and Pia get some peace and quiet for the next six days until we all return.