It is hot, hot, hot in La Palma de Mallorca. I realized as we waited for the shuttle bus to take us into town, that I should have worn my Tilley hat, hat-hair not withstanding. We're talking really hot - drink-the-bottled-water-while-standing-in-line-waiting-for-the-shuttle-bus hot. And, obviously, the locals know it: there was a street vendor waiting with a load of hats for us as we disembarked. 100% paper, only €10. I bought one.
Here we are, sitting on the verandah of our stateroom, watching the stir as the Marina prepares to leave Barcelona. It's been a great couple of days. Yesterday we took the Hop On Hop Off tour of the city, picking up the bus just a block away from our hotel on Av Diagonal (which my brain persists in seeing as Diagon Alley). Saw some spectacular architecture, beautiful vistas, and learned much about the people of Catalonia. We even saw some of Gaudi's work, though I must say that it's not really my cup of tea. His buildings look quite creepy to me, and his sculptures, just incomprehensible.
Went back to Piscolabis for dinner, and had more ham and bread, plus their version of bravas. I'm liking bravas a lot! We also drank quite a lot of wine. We must have been there close to four hours - we considered the waiters part of the family by the time we left! It's a real testament to the city that we felt so welcome. After all, here we are in a foreign country, understanding neither the language nor the culture. It also takes a leap of faith on our part to open ourselves to the experience.
We've been ordering food and wine not knowing what we're getting and, usually, not even knowing what it will cost. (The restaurant bills have so far been pleasant surprises.) We have been communicating mostly with gestures and English words of one syllable, and receiving similar replies. We say gracias a lot. (We don't know how to say sorry in Spanish. :-))
Goodbye, Barcelona. It was very nice to meet you!
"You like ham?" the waiter asked. "You like bread?" And so we were introduced to two of the Catalan specialties at Piscolabis last night.
We have, mostly, no idea what we're ordering to eat. But, then, it's one of the things that makes travelling, well, adventurous! In the hotel bar, the waiter's English was only marginally better than our non-existent Spanish, so we just ordered the first three items on the menu - bravas, grilled baby squids, and foie and mushroom croquettes. We asked the waiter what "bravas" was, and he said "potatoes", "fried" , "spicy" and, I swear, "ice cubes". We ordered them anyway. When our cavas arrived with what looked like potato chips, we figured they must be the bravas, since they were both potatoes and fried, though not spicy at all, and we had clearly mis-heard the ice cube bit. Seemed a bit steep to pay €7.50 for potato chips, but, when in Barcelona ....
The bravas, which subsequently arrived, were squares of potatoes (like ice cubes!), deep fried, with a dollop of sauce on top. And, yummy. And a staple on the tapas menu, apparently.
I've decided that learning a second language, at least the syntax, is over-rated anyway. At Piscolabis we said "wine?", the waiter said "white/red?", we said "white", he said "sweet/dry?", and I pointed at Tom and said "sweet" and at myself and said "dry". He gave us a big smile, tapped his head as if to say "Got it!", returned with two bottles of wine and proceeded to pour us each a glass. Excellent choice!
We had deep-fried artichokes and deep-fried brie with the ham and bread. Tom has decided that he can live on the ham and bread alone, they're so good.
I'm liking this close-your-eyes-and-point method of menu selection.
I re-read "Pollyanna" on the flight from Calgary to Toronto, courtesy of the GVPL's e-book lending program.
(Someone once called me a Pollyanna - not intended as an insult, he said. I thought about it for a while, and decided he was right. Thereby proving it ...?)
So, despite 13 hours of flying from Victoria to Barcelona, I am glad that:
- the Mayor of Calgary flew (economy) with us to Toronto
- all our connections had enough wiggle room in them so that we didn't have to run like hell from one gate to another, even though both the Calgary and Toronto flights arrived late
- there were golf carts waiting and available to transport us from domestic arrivals to international departures - one end of the Toronto airport to the other
- the woman with three screaming kids on the flight from Calgary to Toronto sat in front of us, not behind
- the flight attendant on the flight to Barcelona whispered to us that the wine wasn't complimentary but, for us, it was on him
- Tom was fed before he died of starvation (see "wiggle room" - no time to eat between flights!)
- we're in Barcelona!
When I was five and six, we lived in an upper duplex on Parent Street in McMasterville. I still have fragmented memories of that time.
... a huge kitchen with an icebox, the ice arriving in a big block and lifted by a wicked-looking pair of tongs
... Dad playing the accordion
... punching the kid across the street in the nose and making it bleed
... the power going out at my sixth birthday party, on Friday the 13th
... flattening pennies on the train tracks at the end of the street
... learning from the kid next door that "Comment vous appelez-vous?" was actually pronounced "Cammatt stappell?"
... a balcony that stretched from one end of the apartment to the other.
This balcony figures prominently in my most vivid memory. I had been reading Mary Poppins, and was quite impressed with her mode of travel, so I decided to try it for myself. Though a curious and adventurous child, I was also a pragmatist. Before risking life and limb, I first sent the umbrella over the balcony on its own. Instead of drifting gently down, it tumbled end over end and smashed into the ground at the bottom. Mary Poppins would get no competition from me.
The duplex is still there on Parent Street. The insul-brick has been replaced by vinyl siding; the new balcony is a shadow of its former self.
They've turned the community pool into a hockey rink. The Pool was a favourite hangout when I was a teenager. It was also the site of the first (and only) time I jumped off the high diving board. It took me all summer to work up the courage to take the long climb up the ladder. Once there, my courage quickly faltered but, with the drama of a teenaged girl, I decided that it was better to die at the bottom than suffer the humiliation of making all the kids behind me back down the ladder so I could change my mind. Walk to the front of the board, pinch my nose, step off ... SPLAT! OUCH! Down, down, down, DOWN! ... NO! I want to go UP! ... up, up, up, GASP! Breathe in ... SPLUTTER! Dog paddle to the side of the pool. Take a bow, just in case anyone is watching. (I'm never doing that again!)
Walked to the store this morning to pick up some groceries for my mum, and was reminded again of the differences between city and suburban living. The streets of Beloeil are empty - EMPTY! No cars, no people, no sound of lawnmowers or children playing. It's as if Beloeil exhales its life force at 6:00 am every day, holds its breath for twelve hours while Montreal plays, then inhales it back again at 6:00 pm.
