Rambling the Rambla
Sorry about that. I was just looking at the bed and woke up four hours later holding my camera bag and passport. The flight and time difference (Barcelona is eight hours ahead of Utah) must have caught up with me.
It’s Friday morning here. 7:15 a.m. to be exact. You probably just finished watching the nightly news and are heading to bed. We’re going to Zaragoza.
After regaining consciousness yesterday, it was time for an evening stroll. We were a bit nervous because we’re Americans and it was September 11. As it turns out, September 11 is also remembered in Barcelona, ironically for a similar reason.
Barcelona is NOT, as any drunk will tell you (and there were a lot of them last night), a part of Spain. It is actually the capital of Catalan, a mostly autonomous and completely better region of Spain. On September 11, 1714, Barcelona had the crap kicked out of it by Spain and it’s still mad about it. It’s been a reason for getting drunk ever since. At 5 a.m. this morning a crowd of hammered kids were still loudly discussing it five stories below our hotel room.
Ancient politics notwithstanding, we enjoyed a pleasant evening walk along The Rambla. It’s a mile-long pedestrian only park that cuts through the center of weird in Barcelona. With almost no imagination, it’s reminiscent of the bar scene in the first "Star Wars." Street performers, shops, and sidewalk art galleries were swarmed by a crowd comprised of every nationality in the galaxy.
We had a late dinner at the American Restuarante on the Rambla. I ate the best paella marinera I’ve had in 40+ years. It was a platter the size of a Cadillac hubcap filled with saffron rice, vegetables, clams, mussels, fish and squid. It doesn’t get gooder than that.
The evening ended with a walk down to the Columbus monument near the waterfront. We’ll be taking a cruise through the Mediterranean from there in a couple of days.
My wife called home from the monument. Our daughter picked up just as a police car went by with its distinctive Euro siren going: “Naught-ee, Naught-ee, Naught-ee.”
Our daughter heard it and asked, “What did Dad do now? You haven’t even been there a day yet.”
It’s Friday morning here. 7:15 a.m. to be exact. You probably just finished watching the nightly news and are heading to bed. We’re going to Zaragoza.
After regaining consciousness yesterday, it was time for an evening stroll. We were a bit nervous because we’re Americans and it was September 11. As it turns out, September 11 is also remembered in Barcelona, ironically for a similar reason.
Barcelona is NOT, as any drunk will tell you (and there were a lot of them last night), a part of Spain. It is actually the capital of Catalan, a mostly autonomous and completely better region of Spain. On September 11, 1714, Barcelona had the crap kicked out of it by Spain and it’s still mad about it. It’s been a reason for getting drunk ever since. At 5 a.m. this morning a crowd of hammered kids were still loudly discussing it five stories below our hotel room.
Ancient politics notwithstanding, we enjoyed a pleasant evening walk along The Rambla. It’s a mile-long pedestrian only park that cuts through the center of weird in Barcelona. With almost no imagination, it’s reminiscent of the bar scene in the first "Star Wars." Street performers, shops, and sidewalk art galleries were swarmed by a crowd comprised of every nationality in the galaxy.
We had a late dinner at the American Restuarante on the Rambla. I ate the best paella marinera I’ve had in 40+ years. It was a platter the size of a Cadillac hubcap filled with saffron rice, vegetables, clams, mussels, fish and squid. It doesn’t get gooder than that.
The evening ended with a walk down to the Columbus monument near the waterfront. We’ll be taking a cruise through the Mediterranean from there in a couple of days.
My wife called home from the monument. Our daughter picked up just as a police car went by with its distinctive Euro siren going: “Naught-ee, Naught-ee, Naught-ee.”
Our daughter heard it and asked, “What did Dad do now? You haven’t even been there a day yet.”
posted by Robert Kirby @ 11:59 PM |
1 Comments:
Enjoyed reading this one, and the one of Zaragoza, having been in Spain '57-'58. I took a high-speed train trip from Cartagena to Madrid. High-speed back then was anything over 15 miles an hour. It took all night and most of the next day. The Rambla wasn't much different back then than your recent walk. The Spanish liked to walk up or down the Rambla or any street in the evening, taking a paseo, to exhibit themselves and greet friends, was a great pastime and economical. We bought our pesetas from the hotel desk clerk who bought them from who knows, but it was always a higher rate than the official 38.
From a new subscriber, Oscar.
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