Mom reserved a room for us through AirBNB - in an apartment owned by a designer in Barcelona. I learned about AirBNB through my neighborhood listserv in Austin and it's a very cool thing. People rent out rooms in their homes, or entire houses, apts, etc. Perfect for us, as we like to meet people and since the more affordable hotels in Barcelona look really unappealing. This place was really cool, and Miguel, our host, was super sweet.
When I got there she was napping - it was pouring rain, as it would continue to do for a couple of days, on and off. The place was one of those big apartments from the Belle Epoque - large enough for a family to spend a lifetime in. Long and narrow - it was one third of the entire floor of the building. It was on the 4th, top floor. To get up there we could walk the spiral, marble stairs, or take the ancient elevator. I love those old elevators that feel like they could break at any minute but will probably be working for another hundred years. You get in and close the metal screen by sliding it shut and then close the mini French doors and push the big button for the floor you want. The elevator starts with a little jolt and sails up to the top. It always makes you feel like you're in an old movie being in those lifts. A great way to get to the front door.
I wrote a little before about the rain in Barcelona so I won't go into that much here. But it was raining so hard it was coming in under the doors of cafes, so we were limited to hanging out, pretty much. We had some great coffee and some great meals in Barcelona. And hung around those adorable little bars that are about as big as a living room and have maybe 6 or 7 tiny tables or booths. Each one was so distinct - a tiny little style universe.
We went to pick up the rental car to head up into France. I think I commented before on our lack of a really good map, which turned out to be a blessing and a curse. We had no problems getting going in the right direction but didn't have much info about what was in between Barcelona and the French border. We stopped for a late lunch in a town called Hostalric. http://www.turismehostalric.cat/en/coneix_hostalric/pagina/34 One of those ancient towns that are so common here but each one blows your mind. Dating from 12th century, the town was built mostly along one road, so we walked up it looking for a place to eat. There were a few places, and we chose the most ancient looking one, the one filled with men only and where the waiter looked like Billy Crystal in the first part of Clean and Sober. When we peered into the place the front dining room was empty and looked, honestly, like it must have looked for eons. Heavy, dark wooden tables that looked like something Friar Tuck would have been seated behind at a dram shoppe in Nottingham. You get the picture. I hope. The kind of service where the waiter doesn't ask you if you'd like a table, but why are you standing there like that - sit down! Well, it's just that we have a question or two - we don't eat meat. No problem! No problem! Sit down and we'll find something for you. Mom looks doubtful - I've been in Spain long enough to know lunch isn't going to be good no matter where we go (Barcelona was far away, already). So we made our way through the deserted front dining room into the back room, which was about half filled with a few tables of guys, aged from about 30 to 65, all enjoying a very long lunch and who were visibly disturbed by our entrance. Deal with it, I say silently.
We order wine, and now a second waiter comes over - even more of a basket case than the first one - makes Billy Crystal over there look sort of fit. A person whose skin is truly a tribute to a lifetime of cigarettes, fried food and a total disregard for vegetables unless they're fried. Looks like he probably has a great sense of humor and appreciates a good joint. Definitely could be from Long Island if he wasn't from Hostalric.
The food part of lunch is yucky and mysterious and we almost can't deal, but we're hungry and they keep checking on us to make sure their fussy lady fishetarians are happy. We go through a plate of fava beans prepared in such a way that they are completely grey and drained of any trace of the flavor of fava beans. I can detect a trace of salt but alas it was added after the poor beans were boiled long enough to cook a goat, so you have to happen upon a grain of the salt by chance. It's a grain of salt in a hay stack situation. We've ordered cod, and when it comes out, well, it would've been great to have been able to run out the back door and go somewhere else, but there we were, with all eyes on us. We were champs, I must say, and made it through enough of it to be able to claim we weren't really hungry anyway. I can't remember if we had dessert but we must've because we hung around long enough that some of the guys were going out onto the balcony to smoke. This left an opening for the men left inside to strike up a conversation with us. Turns out one of them had been living in Ecuador for the last 20+ years and was home visiting his brother who was outside smoking. Absolutely freeking charming man, around 55 or 60. His brother and a younger man (maybe 35) were outside smoking.We got into a lively conversation about the history of Spain. Those are the moments I'm glad I took out all those loans to go back to school - we had a great time and everyone relaxed and started smiling and they bought us a round of the disgustingly sweet apple digestif served so often in Spain. Not only is it gross tasting, but hard to turn down because it doesn't have alcohol, so you can't refuse on the basis that you don't want more alcohol. You either smile and accept it or out and out say No, I don't like that. You can guess which of those options is more conducive to making friends. Blech. We hung out there so long that the younger guy (who had had too much to drink with lunch) started to get a little twinkle in his eye and we had to split. Another amazing old Spanish man adventure. They're everywhere and I love them.
It was getting late so we headed back out on the highway North. We were headed to Narbonne (home of Charles Trenet) to see my lovely old friend from my year at the Universite de Toulouse 20 years ago. Unreal.
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