Last week Best Beloved
swept me out of my bucholic Paphos existence, down the motorway to
Larnaca, aboard Ryanair's flight to Girona on the Costa Brava and
into the Anba Deluxe B&B in central Barcelona. He did this
despite my protests and churlish sulks (after nearly eithteen years
together he has developed a leather hide, immune to my behavioural
quirks and difficulties) and with the active connivance of Sophia who
insisted that looking after the Littles for three days would not be a
problem.
I admit: I didn't want
to go. The thought of eight hours travelling for three nights and
two days away put me off, and I hate driving and flying more with
each passing year. Call it age or timidity, but both scare me to
death. OK. Call me chicken.
He ignored my tantrums
and booked anyway, assiduously researching wine shops and restaurants
and sending me a booking form for a cooking workshop. Amid my
grumblings last Thursday evening, he loaded me into the car, handed
me the keys, and said “Let's go.”
I expected the drive to
be a nightmare. It wasn't. I expected Ryanair to be shabby, late,
and awful. It wasn't – packed to the gills, yes; charging for
extras like the Light Brigade, yes; comfortable, no – but what
airline is these days, except maybe, Emirates? We landed near
midnight at Girona in a chilly mist and walked from the plane through
a miasma of cow smells (I love walking from the plane like in the old
days – it gives a whole new set of images about the country that
you are entering – the plumeria smell mixed with rain and jet fuel
in Honolulu, the dust in Israel, the pollution in Cairo, the goat
scent that used to greet travellers in Larnaca before Cyprus got
'civilised' and acquired jetways), to the courtesy bus that took us
to the airport hotel.
The next day we bussed
into Barcelona and walked the couple of hundred metres to our
accomodation. Leaving our bags we started our on foot exploration of
the city centre, its plazas, its tapas bars and its shops. I had the
Lumix with me, and BB was patient but I was far too excited to
concentrate on photography. Wide avenues, narrow streets, trees,
shops, vistas, squares, crowds. I was a boondocker, a
sticks-dweller, in one of Europe's major cities, and I'm sure it
showed. We lunched on tapas, and later stopped by Picasso's
hang-out, the Four Cats – but couldn't get a table for coffee. A
heavenly dinner came with a Michelin star – the tasting menu at
Sauc – where I tried sea snails and learned that even
Michelin-starred chefs cannot make cauliflower palatable. The
dessert (chocolate brownie) came embellished with gold leaf. We
staggered back to Anba, replete.
Saturday was
dedicated to wine shopping and cooking class. BB found his wine shop
and made his purchases, and we killed an hour or so in a quiet cafe
before heading to class at Espai Boisa, a relatively new concept run
by Venezuelan Claudia and her Catalan husband Pep which strives to
make available – to visitors and residents alike – fresh,
seasonal, organic ingredients and the instruction and space to turn
them into wonderful meals. Together with California web-designer
Joe, and Ohio lawyers Jill and Jeff, we made lunch of a sparkling
gazpacho, a Catalan tortilla with eggs, onions, and potatoes, a salad
of marinated peppers and eggplants, a paella with elements of surf
(clams, mussels, and shrimps) and turf (traditional Catalan pork
sausage), and a typical flan. We also consumed several bottles of
local cava and wine, and listened to Venezuelan chef Alejandra
expound on everything from the importance of organic agriculture and
ingredients, to the state of her home country, to the evening's match
between Madrid Real and Barcelona. Sparkling, vivacious,
well-informed, and with graceful technique, she guided us through the
meal and sat with us while we ate before leaving on her motorcycle to
'teach a cooking class'.
Any of my loyal readers
planning a trip to Barcelona? I cannot recommend Espai Boisa enough.
Not only do they teach cooking workshops, they also do catering and
food and wine appreciation evenings with a range of different
cuisines. Multilingual, young, passionate about what they do,
Claudia, Pep, and Alejandra are a real asset to the cultural life of
the city.
The walk back to Anba
took us about an hour, and after a short rest, we plunged again into
the heaving streets. I had seen some shoes that I wanted, and I
wanted to take BB to the artisan cheese and sausage stalls that I had
discovered the evening before. We crisscrossed the old city for
hours, sometimes in narrow lanes, sometimes jostling along the Rambla
with Christmas revellers and football fans. At sometime around
eleven – early for Barcelona – we returned to the B&B and
tucked ourselves into bed.
The next morning, there
wasn't time for much. A leisurely breakfast, the packing of our
small bags, a walk through the winter sunshine to the park near the
bus station where we sat and read until it was time to return to the
airport. A winding down.
We didn't do the
touristy things – the almost obligatory visit to the Sagrada
Familia Cathedral or any of the museums or parks – there simply was
not enough time to savour them. But now I know what to visit if –
when – we go back: Gaudi's work is too crazy to miss..
The plane left on
time and arrived in Larnaca early, BB drove us home, and I returned
to my peaceful existence as a housewife and mother in rural Cyprus.
Blessings on two friends who took the Littles Saturday night and
Sunday, blessings on my Big Ones for looking after everything in our
absence, and blessings on Best Beloved for ignoring my bad behaviour
and taking me anyway.
