SOUTH PACIFIC

•Sydney

•New Zealand

EUROPE

•London, May 2007

•London, October 2006

•Barcelona

•Nice, France

ASIA

•Busan, South Korea

•Changwon, South Korea

•North Korea

UNITED STATES

•Austin, Texas

•Milwaukee, Wisconsin

•Seattle

•Los Angeles

27 september, 2006

bad news at gatwick airport

Checking email as we wait for our gate to be announced, I read Rita's email: she and Brian will not be meeting us in Barcelona. She says that Brian was jumped after a rugby game Friday night in Sydney. He had to have his jaw wired shut.

Her news is shocking and frightening, especially as the events reveal themselves by reading emails in reverse order. First I read that "Dad is okay and has been released". What does Rita mean? Her dad, Brian is on his way to Barcelona.

Gene is struggling to get his internet kiosk working and he's just far enough away from me that I have to flail a bit to get his attention. I have trouble getting the message across: Brian's not coming, Brian has been hurt.

Then the logistical problems sink in. Brian had made all the arrangements and done all the research for the French leg of our trip. All I know is we’re taking a train from Barcelona to Perpignon and renting a car to Canet. I have the address of the villa in Canet and I’m sure we can find it. I had been so happy to relinquish the role of organizer to Brian. I was looking forward to just tagging along. Now we are doubly glad that Linda will be waiting for us in Barcelona. She will be there, won’t she?

With the devastating news about Brian, our flight delay provokes more anxiety than it should have. Gatwick pens all passengers in the shopping area and announces departure gates just prior to boarding. This system adds to our stress and we wonder if there will be Customs to deal with in Barcelona. Nothing is clear. We resolve to travel with an international cell phone from now on, no matter the cost.

La rambla

Linda is waiting for us in the mezzanine bar of Hotel Jazz. She is tired, her eyes red from sleeping in contact lenses, but we are all happy to see each other. We have a drink. It is 11:30 p.m. when we think of food.

The place settings on the dining tables have been cleared and the lights dimmed. The desk clerk tells us we must go to La Rambla for food at this hour. The restaurants on La Rambla are closing, but we find a narrow, brightly lit, one-notch-above-cafeteria tapas place willing to serve us. We order half-bottles of red wine, tiny pitchers of sangria and garlic shrimp, mushrooms, mussels and salads. The food is great and we linger a long time, catching up and discussing Baked Ziti's next Channel 102 project.

The streets are full of young, drunk kids and the homeless are bedded down in the nooks and crannies of the street. The street smells like piss and they feel dangerous.

La Rambla at night

Hotel Jazz

We unseal the room’s mini-bar, drink the splits of champagne plus the leftover red wine Linda carried back from the restaurant. Its a typical first night with Linda; we lose track of time as we listen to Judee Sill and Harry Nilsson and download CDs to her iBook. She brings up the champagne from her mini-bar. At 4:30 or 5 a.m., we go to bed and agree to meet at noon.

hanging out in Linda's room

28 september 2006

too much fiesta means long siesta

I sleep deeply, but awaken several times. I can’t tell what time it is, but it feels too early to wake up. In two twin beds shoved together, Gene feels far away, especially without the dog sleeping between us. When I awaken for real, I find my watch and it says 2:30 p.m. The time doesn’t make sense to me so I twist Gene’s wrist around to see his watch and confirm. We throw on clothes and meet Linda in the lobby 15 minutes later.

I know its siesta time between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. and we wonder if we’re going to find an open restaurant. There’s nothing breakfasty at this hour, but we find an open lunch place. Linda orders the pre-fixe; she gets peas and ham as a first course, and jumbo fried squid rings as a main. The coffee with milk is as good as the cappuccino in London and I have two. Gene and I have tortellini. The carmel-covered flan looks wobbly, but Gene and Linda finish it and say it is good.

Playa Catalunya

We try to find one of the restaurants on the list of recommendations I have for dinner this evening. That is our only mission. We cut through Playa Catalunya which seems to be the Trafalgar Square of Barcelona. We shop from the jewelry vendors in the street. We go down Via Les Laietana and find The Cathedral, which has no other name but The Cathedral. We browse the flea market outside. Gene finds an 8mm W.C. Fields film for €30 in a market full of watches and glassware. The Cathedral itself is brilliant, much larger and older than St Patrick’s Cathedral in New York.

Inside the Cathedral	Kate

Salvador Dalí

We stumble on a Dali Museum nearby and I am amazed at the huge body of Dali’s work. I associate Dali with one or two of his most famous paintings and his handle-bar mustache. With so many drawings and paintings, I can see the themes in his work develop and mutate: horses, bones and skeletal structure, animals morphed.

29 september 2006

Do you know the way to St Tropez?

We consider abandoning the pre-booked resort in Canet completely, since our brochure tells us a car is essential to “fully enjoy the area” and none of us has an international driver’s license. We consider going to Marseille, consider St. Tropez, consider Monte Carlo, and consider going to Nice a week early. Its fun batting these possibilities around, the spontaneity is titillating.

Ultimately a couple of days of relaxation in Canet wins our vote. We decide to stay an additional night in Barcelona and take the train to Canet-en-Roussillon Sunday. We will still probably go to Nice early, when Linda heads back to Barcelona Tuesday night or Wednesday morning.

Gaudí’s La Pedrera

Linda and I try to figure out The Metro. A girl who was 20 cents short on her fare helps us buy a ten-pass ride. We took care of her, she took care of us. We head north toward La Pedrera, the last secular building designed by Antoni Gaudí, the architect who so identified with the architecture in Barcelona. La Pedrera is a Flintstone-looking structure and the line is twenty minutes long to buy a ticket, so we skip it.

La Pedrera

Gaudí’s La Sagrada Familia

We walk to La Sagrada Familia where we admire the unfinished Cathedral from the outside. Another Metro trip toward the sea to Paral-lel and we are confident we know what we are doing now. But we’re tired, and we realize that we still have a long walk to get to the water. We pass the Monument á Colum (Monument to Columbus) that was built to resemble Nelson’s Column in London's Trafalgar Square.

La Sagrada de Familia

Seaside Barceloneta

We look for a seaside cafe; but end up at Barcelona’s World Trade Center plaza, a dismal outdoor seating area that caters to captive office workers. At first, we resign ourselves to this mediocrity, but then we study our guidebooks as we get no service. We spot Barceloneta and decide that might be what we are looking for. We grab a cab.

We pick a café at the tip of Barceloneta and voilá, we find what we suspect is there: blue, blue sea and clean smelling sea air. Its still summer here, there’s sunbathers, craft kiosks and people walking around in flip flops. Its colorful here, unlike the gothic feel of the other part of the city.

We sit at the outside tables of Daguiri and are served by an American waitress. We have a salad and a drink and vow to bring Gene back here tomorrow.

Buzzing

We pick up Gene from the hotel and taxi to dinner. The taxi driver is wild and perhaps coked-up, but likable. Found Buzzing, a restaurant owned by Caryle’s friend. At 9:00 p.m., it is empty except for one other table. By 9:45, the restaurant is hopping.

Best food we’ve had so far: shrimp and pasta appetizer, salmon entré. Linda has pink pork and Gene has ravioli. Dessert is carrot cake soufflé, chocolate cake soufflé; and white chocolate cheesecake. Our waiter brings us complimentary dessert wine. We return to the hotel after dinner and attempt a nightcap in Linda’s room, but we are disinterested, all needing an early night.

30 september 2006

Boquería Market

We leave the hotel at 10:15 a.m. for Boquería Market. The market has dozens of vendor stalls, mostly meat, but also many fruit and vegetable stands. The blended smell is odd. There are a few stalls where people sit at stools and order meals. But each of these sit-down stalls is full, and nothing looks appetizing enough to wait for. We see an adorable terrier looking abandoned but he is following his person through the market at an independent distance.

Surprises at the Boqueria Market

looking for huevos

Linda and Gene want eggs and we find a place on La Rambla that advertises an American breakfast. Jímon and huevos aren’t exactly American, but Linda and Gene enjoy it. I have a croissant. We want more Café con Leche, but we want it somewhere else.

We turn on Ferran Street, another street chock-full of great stuff, toward Princesa and the Picasso Museum. The cavernous orange-adobe museum is in an alley. But the entrance line is long and we decide to go straight to Barceloneta.

Barceloneta Street Parties

Back by the sea, we walk through the jewelry stalls where Linda buys a few trinkets. Gene and I buy silver rings to add to our collection of wedding rings.

Though Barceloneta is a poor area with small, crowded housing, it is experiencing a small renaissance because it is by the beach. But a neighborhood spirit is there; every street looks like it is throwing a block party with fancy decorations above the streets.

Neighborhood Kites	Showing our rings

Daguiri Café

Gene buys a straw hat from a store in the narrow interior streets and we go back to Daguiri and have soda and beer and the same American waitress as yesterday.

If she recognizes us, she doesn’t let on. As much as her American accent is comforting and there is nothing unfriendly about her, she offers no invitation to ask her anything personal, like where she's from and how she likes living here. Its like her Americanism is something she prefers not to discuss. She is not there for us.

Puzzled		Daguiri

Cooling in the Aquarium

The sun is hot and Gene walks ahead of us. We discuss and abandon the idea of a ferry ride. Instead, we head to the aquarium, a perfect antidote to the hot sun. Linda has a large salt-water fish tank at home and she identifies the fish that she knows to us. The aquarium visitors ride a moving walkway where the big fish swim overhead. We see the sharks and their teeth and genitals, and the stingrays and their smiles. The sharks have a double penis.

Smiling Faces at the Aquarium

Traditional Paella

We walk to Cae Callereta, the second oldest restaurant in Spain, dating to 1786. Gene and I have traditional paella, served in an iron skillet that the waitress leaves on the table. Among less pleasant things, we talk about what songs we want played at our funerals. Gene and I stop at a hotel bar called the Blue Moon Piano Bar and Linda goes back to the hotel alone. The bartender is a tall African who reminds of us Lurch in The Addams Family. There is no piano player, but they play Tom Waits’ In the Cold, Cold Ground.

Hotel Bathroom

A couple of shots of the bathroom in our hotel rooms seems mandatory, especially since we spent a lot of late nights there (in the hotel room). We have a typically american fascination with the bidet.

Oh Bidet, Oh Bidah!

1 october 2006

Sunday

Its Sunday in Barcelona and everything is closed. It feels like the right day to leave, like the movie is over and the theater is empty.

Last night, it occurs to us we might not need an international drivers’ license and we consider driving to Canet-en-Roussillon. Linda flies out of Barcelona noon Wednesday and traveling by car would simplify her return. I learn on the Internet that in lieu of an international driver’s license, one can have an official Spanish translation of his or her driver’s license, available at the US Consulate. Okay, that isn't going to happen in the next three hours.

So it will be train travel today.

Who would pick a Chinese restaurant in Barcelona?

We know we can’t be picky about food choices on a Sunday morning and Linda picks a Chinese restaurant that says huevos on the menu in the window. Only one diner occupies the large room and I don’t like the menu selection, but I order scrambled eggs with shrimp and plain rice. Gene order something similar and Linda gets wonton soup and dumplings. It reminds me of the Christmas dinner scene at the Chinese restaurant in A Christmas Story.

While we get our beverages right away, a half hour passes before Linda’s soup shows up. In the meantime, the staff noisily moves and dusts all the chairs, on and on. One employee sponges off the wall and leans over our table and sponges over us. They bang silverware and glasses in opening preparations and we can’t figure out why they seated us if they weren’t open.

Finally, a greasy frittata shows up and I can’t stomach eating it. Gene and I leave to go shoe shopping before the rest of the food shows up. The stores are all closed so we get muffins at Starbucks.

Lack of Informacíon

We arrive at the train station way early for our 4:45 train, but we are allowing extra time to figure out the schedules and protocol.

Informacíon is anything but informative. Informacíon doesn’t dispense information, only tickets. One-way tickets at that, and only for today’s train. Linda can’t even buy a round-trip from the agent. The agent tells Linda that the only train from Perpignon to Barcelona arrives at noon, so Linda will have to return Tuesday and spend a final night in Barcelona.

I suspect the lack of informacíon might be specific to our particular agent and we get back in the line to ask about travel to Nice. The other agent is more helpful.

The train, he says, terminates in Montpellier and we will have to transfer there to get to Nice. His information doesn’t match what I found on the Internet. I wonder if there are multiple train lines or whether companies only give out information about their own trains. We have no idea what to expect when we arrive in Canet, or Perpignon, for that matter, but off we go.