June 4, 2015 - We begin our Barcelona learning in earnest

We've decided that we really like our hotel. The Hotel Regencia Colon, just a block from the Placa Nova, has a lovely breakfast room and a lovely breakfast. Everything is fresh, fresh, fresh, and they cater to our American tastes with scrambled eggs, wonderful sausages, plenty of coffee, and real food - whole milk, real sugar, plain Greek yogurt, freshly squeezed juices and freshly cut fruit. Interestingly, we seem to make it from breakfast at 8:00 a.m. to lunch at 1:30 p.m. with no morning letdown. Hm.

Our room is really nice, the water is hot and plentiful, the beds are comfortable, the management is nice, ready to suggest interesting things to do at night - if only we could stay awake ....

This morning we set out at 9:00 a.m. and began our studies as our instructor has intended. We are learning about the architecture and a little bit of the history of Barcelona from Roman times forward. As we sat in the shade in the Placa Nova across from the cathedral, little walkie-talkie thingies tuned in to Channel 2, Arleen began with the Roman walls and towers, and described the building materials and techniques of those wily Romans. It's completely understandable that they conquered the world and ruled for hundreds of years - those guys were masters of design and planning, and tried very hard to build systems that worked. So interesting to see how the city has grown over the last 2,000-plus years, with sediment and new buildings raising the ground level at least 10 feet, and more in some areas where there are hills.

(Above - Our group, lined up on the wall, beginning our journey of architectural exploration. Yes, that's Mike in the foreground. Sorry, honey.)

Just as impressive is the general Spanish and specific Catalan commitment to preservation. Though the city has grown exponentially from its very small outpost beginnings in Roman times, the people have willingly (most of the time) taken great pains to preserve history. The result is a unique mix of ancient and modern, with careful attention paid to details like texture and color. Apartments have been created within the ancient watchtowers, spaces have been filled to accommodate businesses. It's not uncommon to pass a small shop with wonderful clothes and shoes, obviously marketing to Barcelona's hip young folks, with an entrance through an ancient arch, or outside walls sporting ceramic plaques with quotes from the Bible or St. Augustine, and a gargoyle perched on the second floor cornice. As I noted earlier, the result is charming, a testament to the possibilities of design, and true to the idea of form following function. (And form following function is a concept that will be debunked at a later date by our esteemed professor. Sorry, my education is really, really out of date.)

(Above - Modern covered walkway exiting a medieval cathedral - note very modern sculpture. Love this!)

(We will pick up our Roman studies again tomorrow, in Besalu.)

After another outstanding lunch at what is becoming our favorite tapas hangout, we walked greater distances from our home base, becoming more confident as we begin to be familiar with the area. We shopped (mostly just looking), people-watched, then gathered at 2:30 and marched to meet our bus for a trip to Montserrat.

Montserrat is a mountain, a basilica and a monastery. The name means "the serrated mountain," and it looks like the giant teeth of Grendl, sprouting from the earth. Our guide on both the bus trip and the walking tour, a delightful young man called Julio, shared this: the Pyrenees (which are somewhat to the north) will grow taller over the next millennia, as the tectonic plate of Africa pushes against the Iberian peninsula and makes those mountains move. Who knew?

Montserrat itself is a lovely locale, inhabited on a permanent basis by only 80 monks, but host to hundreds of thousands of tourists and pilgrims. It's a very sacred spot to Catalan's Catholic faithful (and others from around the world), and houses the Black Virgin, which legend says was discovered as a result of divine direction by a group of children in the year 980. Then the original was hidden in a cave to protect it from enemies, and somehow the Catalans just forgot exactly where it was. So a replica was carved in the 12th century. While this sounds a bit odd, the fact is that the statute in the basilica is very, very old.

The Madonna is a wood carving, darkened over the centuries, which sits behind glass high above the altar of the magnificent basilica, whose soaring arches and high windows draw the eyes heavenward. The faithful can climb stairs behind the altar and pass very close to the Black Virgin, who holds an orb that extends from behind the glass. Pilgrims are welcome to touch the orb and seek blessings from the Holy Mother.

Outside the church itself are the buildings and library of the monastery. There is a wonderful shop that's attached where one can sample the fine liqueurs produced by the Benedictine order, or perhaps purchase herbs and spices - herbs grown in the monastery gardens. The views from the placa are of the soaring teeth of the mountain, the blue sky, and the valley far below. What a wonderful side trip, one that won't be forgotten! We only wished we had more time, perhaps to take a hike to the cave where the Virgin was discovered, or maybe even take the funicular to the very top - which is very, very high!

After returning to Barcelona, seven of us had dinner in a little restaurant on a side street about halfway back to our hotel. Red wine, cava, pints of local beer - gazpacho, avocado salad - and hamburgers! But what hamburgers - topped with local cheese, local ham, onions, Dijon mustard, special mayonnaise, and accompanied by tiny baskets of just the right number of very small fries.

Truly this is a gastronomic adventure as well as an architectural one.

Tomorrow - Besalu!

June 3, 2015 - Contemplating Barcelona from Barcelona

June 3, 2015, The Hotel Regencia Colon - With a view of the Cathedral

After an uneventful although boring flight (but upside, watched "The Second Best Marigold Hotel") direct from Atlanta to Barcelona, we arrived in Spain about 8:30 a.m. Getting through passport control and finding our private bus took a little while, but after a longish ride alongside the port of Barcelona and through the working side of town, we walked the half-block from the bus stop to the hotel and finally got into the lobby around 11:30 a.m. We had hoped that our rooms would be ready, but, alas, no luck. So we stowed our luggage in the quiet breakfast area, and set out to do a bit of exploring.

First on the agenda - get oriented. Last summer in Florence, we set our sights on the Duomo, knowing if we kept it in view we could always find our way back to the hotel. In Barcelona we will use the Cathedral. Its spires are ultra-Gothic, its carvings and bas-relief intricate. We're looking forward to going inside, and maybe riding the elevator to the top just for the view, but that's an adventure for another day.

We can't help comparing Barcelona to Florence, at least as far as ambience and general vibe - and we know it's unfair. We've been here only a few hours. But here are a couple of observations: Mike says he feels a little more at home here. He thinks it's because all around us we hear Spanish (or Catalan, or English, or French, or German, or, well, whatever). We're from Florida. We are comfortable with Spanish, and Spanish-speakers. It's kind of homey.  This is my first impression: We are surrounded by ancient architecture which peeks through layers of centuries of renovations and changes, at least as far as the buildings are concerned. But all the public art we've seen, with the exception of the Christropher Columbus statue, is ultra-modern. We're assured by our amazing instructor, Arleen Pabon, that we will see quite a bit of ancient art, also. But it stills feels different from Florence. The vibe is young, avant garde, in-your-face. We pass a building facade designed by Picasso - and it's unmistakably Picasso. This is going to be way cool.

But lunch is in order, and we stop into a tapas bar which has come highly recommended. Tapas plates and bowls line the bar in two tiers - little sandwiches made of wonderful ham and great cheese, red sweet peppers stuffed with some of the best tuna salad I've ever tasted, little bowls of what looks like American canned fruit cocktail, but which turns out to be lovely fresh fruit, cubed very small, mostly yellow, with one perfect raspberry. Every plate's contents is skewered with a long wooden toothpick. (A small sign says, in English, "Pick up sandwiches by the bread." I think English-speakers must try to use the skewers as handles, thereby sending the sandwiches flying apart and onto the floor.) Mike finds the one turkey sandwich (just one - and the wonderful sweet lady behind the counter knows the word "chicken" but says "not chicken" and I say "big chicken?" and mimic a gobble and she laughs and nods - and it's pavo, I'm pretty sure), chooses another ham and cheese, (carefully picking them up by the bread), and I take the tuna-stuffed sweet red pepper and the little bowl of fruit, and he has water, and I have water, and we have lunch for 8.55 euro. Ha! Bonus: the sweet server who brings drinks to our tables (there were at least eight of us from the group of OLLIs) is from Cuba, and somehow we feel as though we've met someone from home.

After lunch, Arleen takes us on a kind of unplanned and not-in-our-syllabus walk, then we return to the hotel by around 1:15 and collapse around the lobby until our rooms are ready promptly at 2:00 p.m.

(Above - the view from our room.)

(Above - the view OF our room.)

The rooms are comfortable and nice, the closet has 12 hangers (a European record, in my experience), the air conditioner works very well, and we have a little balcony. Plus we have a great window shade over the French doors, and it goes up and down electrically. We unpack, turn up the air, bring the shade down over the window, and crash into oblivion until the alarm wakes us at 5:30, at which time we dress and head to the lobby for our first group meeting, having finally brushed our teeth for the first time in about 30 hours. I know, yuck.

After our meeting, we head to a favorite restaurant of Arleen's. As she explains it, she and her family have made it a tradition to dine at Restaurente Los Caracoles www.loscaracoles.es on the first night of every visit to Barcelona. Los Caracoles (The Snails) has been a Barcelona fixture since the eighteenth century, and the decor is delightful. There are carved snail newel posts on the staircases leading to the second and third levels, food being prepared right in front of patrons on the first level, low ceilings, narrow passageways, white linen, plain china and glassware - and bread cooked in swirls that look exactly like a snail's shell. And the food - wonderful. We did all the touristy things (Arleen says we have to get it out of our system), having pitchers of sangria, paella, and the Catalan version of flan for dessert. A feast!

Then back to the hotel through the dusk, watching the shops close and the lights come on. The Cathedral is beautiful in the special light of evening. The restaurants and bars are just beginning to stir as the bells chime at 9:00 p.m. The old folks from Tallahassee, Florida, U.S.A., are full of good food and wine and worn to an absolute nub. To bed.

Contemplating Barcelona from a small city in Florida

Artist's rendering - La Sagrada Familia (The Holy Family)
Maybe it will look like this some day ....

With just over a week before we leave for Barcelona, I'm surrounded by and drowning in lists.

I have a TO DO list, a TO TAKE list, a TO BUY list. I have a list of lists. With all of these reminders, I'm beginning to think I have things under control, that we will actually get up on the morning of June 1 and be completely ready to pack, methodically, not missing a thing, and that each suitcase will miraculously weigh just under 50 pounds. Or less.

SO - I'm giving myself permission to sit with my guidebooks and the marvelous novel, "The Shadow of the Wind," by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, and plunge into learning about the city.

The novel is spellbinding. Though it's set in the years from just after World War II until the 1960s, it's evocative of Victor Hugo or even Charles Dickens. Dark and brooding, the story twists through the wintry streets and squares of the city as it mesmerizes the reader with mystery, romance, and even a bit of farce. It makes fascinating treadmill fare - the most boring hour of exercise melts away as I turn the pages. Here's my favorite phrase so far - and it was tough to pick one out - as the author describes Barcelona: " . . . a very faraway city, trapped between a moon of mountains and a sea of light, a city filled with buildings that could exist only in dreams." And this for La Sagrada: " . . . a large hair comb made of melting chocolate." This is my second favorite.

Thanks to the wonderful OLLI at FSU Maymester classes on Spanish art (with a generous helping of art history), we feel as though we might be able to refine our list (a list, again) of what not to miss into a manageable plan. I suspect we could stay for far more than two weeks and still not have scratched the surface of what-to-see and what-to-do. But we have discovered this about ourselves: We want to take our time. We want to bring our sensibilities to the experience. We want to sit and have a glass of cava, or perhaps dip a sweet bun into a warm chocolate pudding and let the city get into our heads. 

I can't wait to find out if what we're anticipating will indeed be the reality - or if it's even better than we are imagining. 

If it's May, it must be time for travel! Yes, Mike and Nancy are about to embark on yet another adventure. This time we're traveling for OLLI Study Abroad in Barcelona - departing in early June. (And again, marauders beware - the homefront will be guarded by a brave knight and his fearless dog companion.)

I'm composing this on my ancient Netbook, now five years old and, miraculously, still working like a charm. I love this little machine and its wonderful keyboard. And although I could be using my regular computer, I decided to post using this small one, just to make sure it still works. The older I get, the less I trust a lot of things, and computers are high on that list.

Currently, Mike and I are whetting our appetites for Barcelona in a wonderful OLLI Maymester class, "Art. Spain. Ole!" This class is taught by Dr. Arleen Pabon, who will be our instructor in Barcelona. Arleen is a native of Puerto Rico and an expert in architecture and a true lover of Spain's second city. Mike and I came to this experience knowing almost nothing about Barcelona, but a combination of class, computer research, guidebook reading, and talking to others (our dermatologist proclaims Barcelona to be her favorite city) has piqued our curiosity and raised our excitement level by a factor of at least 10.

So now I'm pulling out last year's Florence trip lists, searching madly for electricity converters, finally remembering to buy some decent earbuds for the plane (that flight is exactly four movies in length), and trying not to think about what in the world we're going to pack. And when. And how we're getting to the airport. And home from the airport. And on and on.

I still have my list of recommended over-the-counter meds (which were a lifesaver). I wrote a note to myself to remember a washcloth (thank you, Susan, for having an extra last year in Florence). The question arises: why do Europeans eschew washcloths?

I'll also take soap. Otherwise, we're good to go. Rick Steves' "Barcelona" in hand, we can't go wrong!

I'll keep writing once we get there, and try to chronicle our adventures. These musings are a great help when we get home and are trying to remember exactly which church was in which city. Most of all, they evoke such precious memories.

SO - more to come!

                                   A SMALL TRIBUTE

I read one of those year-end wrap-up kinds of columns in the newspaper today – you know, the ones that talk about New Year’s resolutions, either the failed ones from last year or the hopeful ones for the coming year – and this author’s version of that annual exercise was intriguing.

                She contended that one should stop to be grateful for the quotidian, the mundane. She begins her recitation of gratitude with praise for her washer and dryer. I was hooked.

                As a young wife way back in the early ‘70s, I did laundry as my fellow Navy wives did: at the laundromat. We moved around so much, six months here, three months there, six weeks elsewhere, and we lived in furnished apartments and once, memorably, in a single-wide trailer parked at the side of a country road. My husband was training to be a pilot and we began in Pensacola, transferred to Corpus Christi, had a brief time in Newport, RI, and finally landed for what was to be four years in Jacksonville. Through all of that first 18 months of marriage, I hung out in apartment complex laundry rooms or in commercial laundry joints, where the machines were huge and pretty much mangled everything.

                In Jacksonville, we bought our first house. It was modest, located in a rural area, tiny, immaculate. It had a laundry room. No garbage disposal, but definitely a laundry room. We agreed that we could buy a washer and dryer on time. My husband, who grew up in a Navy family, had pretty rigid ideas about things like appliances. Sears was the first and only store we visited.

                Since I had gone straight from living in a college dorm (where, you guessed it, we had a laundry room) to living the nomadic life of a pilot trainee’s wife, I hadn’t used an actual laundry appliance that was located in an actual home in years. An important part of my day involved building my collection of quarters. I had been known to make several stops for small purchases simply for the joy of the 25-cent pieces I would receive in change. Quarters were the living embodiment of ease at the laundromat. And the lack of quarters – alas! Torture.

                So as we wandered through the appliance area of our local Sears store, I marveled at machines that had no coin slots attached. I lifted lids and read directions. I twirled knobs and peered into tubs. I read brochures. I compared Kenmore to Whirlpool and, Cadillac of washers, Maytag.

                My husband, who never shopped without having read Consumer Reports, interrupted me in mid-caress of a particularly attractive model in the trendiest Harvest Gold: “We are buying only Kenmore. And no color. White. It’s ten dollars cheaper.” I had faith; he had not let me down, ever, in matters of money. “Okay,” said I. I didn’t care – I was about to have an Actual Washing Machine in my Actual Laundry Room.

                And so it happened. A few days later, the Sears delivery truck pulled off our dirt road and into our driveway, and lickety-split, the laundry room was occupied as its creator had intended. Gleaming white, shiny, quietly efficient, there stood our very own Washer and Dryer. I was daydreamed about starring in a TV commercial where two women are discussing the joys of fabric softener.

                This happened 42 years ago. That Kenmore dryer dried my laundry for over 30 years, and I replaced it with another Kenmore. I have owned a few more washers than dryers, and my current one is a modest Maytag. (My butt-crack appliance guy told me, “Git the bottom Maytag. Same washer, not so many electronic things to break down, does a great job. Don’t let them salesmen talk you into anything fancy.” Mr. Butt-Crack has always steered me right.)

                The following is no exaggeration:  When I do laundry, I experience a little thrill, truly a twinge of pleasure. Every. Single. Time.  I have my own appliances. No coin slots. No scrounging for quarters (“Don’t give her the correct change, are you out of your mind? I need those quarters”). I’ve experimented with detergents, fabric softener sheets, Woolite for the Washing Machine, even those dry cleaning things (which don’t work). I’ve thrown the kids’ shirts in the dryer to “de-wrinkle.” I’ve washed baby spit-up, baby poop, dog spit-up, dog poop, and, on one particularly awful weekend, lots of vomit. And, miraculously, all those awful, gross, disgusting, smelly things have disappeared, leaving clean sheets, towels, blue jeans, sweatshirts, and ugly Christmas sweaters sparkling clean.

                The word “miraculous” is perfect. And I will never, until the day I do my last load of laundry, stop feeling grateful. 

Our last day in Florence

This morning we caught a commuter train to Arezzo, which was an interesting experience in itself. Though it's been decades since I traveled by train in Europe, I remember it as being quite a pleasant way to move from place to place. This train didn't disappoint. Though it stopped many times between the two cities, it was comfortable, cool, and very smooth - a marvel of electricity and automation.

What had been planned as an all-day excursion had to be shortened because our group has been invited to a little celebration of our visit put on by the proprietors and staff of our most excellent hotel. It was decided that we would spend only a couple of hours in Arezzo so as to have most of the afternoon in Florence to do a few last-minute errands, complete our packing, and enjoy our party.

Arezzo is a lovely town. We had an opportunity to visit the Chapel of St. Francis and view the wonderful frescoes depicting the Legend of the True Cross. We also visited Il Gelato, which is one of the Top 10 shops listed in our guidebook. The gelato is homemade and features some unusual flavors. Mike and I had some of the pine nut flavor. Delicioso indeed! Bill suggested that I point out the reference to his little shop in our guidebook to the proprietor, and when I did, he smiled and said he already knew that. Guess we weren't the first Americans to seek him out . . . .

Upon our return to Florence, we came back to our hotel and got as much packing done as we could before we finish up tonight. As our flight leaves at 6:30 a.m., we'll be up in the middle of the night, catching a cab. Needless to say, the less we have to do at 4:00 a.m., the better.

Mike and I decided we would take one last leisurely stroll around the neighborhood. After a very successful visit to a leather shop (a new PURPLE bag), we wandered the streets in a section that is frequented by the many college students who are doing study abroad here in the summertime. We found a little bar, sat on the street and had a coffee and a beer, and just indulged in a little people-watching. What a treat! We're trying to inhale the ambiance of Florence and keep these images fresh until we can get home and look at our photos and match them up with our recollection. Even though we had thought two weeks would be enough, that we could then move on to travel to other cities and countries, we now admit that the idea of a return visit is extremely attractive. After all, we have discovered a perfect hotel and know this city like the back of our hands! Well, maybe not so much - but we are certainly comfortable wandering on our own. The presence of the Duomo, visible from almost anywhere in the central city, gives us a landmark by which to find our way back to our very comfortable "home." We love it here.

So now I sit and record these thoughts in the hotel bar. Today is very hot, so the window is closed and the air conditioning is turned on in the bar for the first time since we arrived. We listen to Pierpaolo as he deals with new arrivals and answers the phone, shifting easily from Italian to English and back to Italian. The large flat-screen TV in the now-deserted breakfast area chatters away, featuring a sort of Italian soap opera (we think). It's just another late afternoon in Florence, at Hotel Casci, Via Cavour 13. How we will miss all of this!

The Pitti Palace and LOTS of shopping

This morning everyone slept in a bit, then a few of us gathered and set out for the Pitti Palace. As we were in no hurry, we went by the mercato nuovo to let one of our group put a coin in the boar's mouth. It slipped from the boar's bronze tongue right down into the grate - which means that Fran will return to this citta bellissima.

Onward to the Pitti Palace, once the home of the Medicis, then later remodeled and refurbished by Lorraine-Hapsburgs. What an amazing place! We wandered the Palatine Gallery and the royal apartments and most thoroughly enjoyed our peek into Napoleon's bathroom (which Rick Steves assures us he never used, and we have found our boy Rick to be completely authoritative!)

After a quick walk through a portion of the Boboli Gardens and a peek inside the Grotto, we moved across the street and had a bit of lunch and some acqua naturale (and used the W.C.) Then we started our serious shopping. On our initial trip we had spotted a jewelry store that was more reasonable than the gold markets along the Ponte Vecchio, so on our trip back, we stopped and browsed the earrings. We looked at fabulous mosaic work, wonderful leather gloves lined with cashmere, and T-shirts. I really wanted one that said "Ciao, Bella" in rhinestones, but they were definitely sized for young women who weigh 85 pounds - not for those of us with more matronly figures. But I may go back tomorrow . . . .

Now we're back at the hotel, finishing up little dribs and drabs of bottles of wine, some cheese, some crackers, some pesto. I sit in my favorite spot near the open window, writing these words and chatting with friends, sipping the wine. We are waiting for the six of our group who journeyed to Rome this weekend, and plan to have dinner with them and hear all about their adventures. We have become a close-knit group, thoroughly enjoying each other, laughing at our misadventures and marveling at the serendipitous happenings we've encountered. For instance, at last count Mike and I have seen four bridal parties, one of which had groomsmen clothed in kilts! This was in Cortona, and was surprising, to say the least.

We have chatted with vendors and gracious salespeople from all over the world. Some speak English, some speak a tiny bit of English, and some speak no English at all. All of them have been smiling and friendly, and with our cobbled-together Italian, we have done just fine. We startled one sandwich-maker with a request for bruschetta with tomatoes AND cheese, but for the most part, folks just smile and give us that "crazy Americans" look and wish us buongiorno or buona sera - or perhaps even give us a "ciao" as we leave a shop. We are old hands. If we had just one more week . . . .