Atlantic 408 - Destination Barcelona: Pax Catalonia

Pax Catalonia

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Atlantica staff writer Jonas Moody seeks out Mediterranean enlightenment in the serene streets of Barcelona.

PHOTOS BY PÁLL STEFÁNSSON

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he old Catalonian women stand in the surf with their skirts hiked up and let the waves come in over their calves.

These austere Zen masters appear as a gathering of weathered buoys with their wild, gray hair bobbing slightly with the incoming tide.

In hushed voices they speculate on the price of pata negra ham at the market. They wonder about the completion of the Sagrada Familía cathedral, which was started when their grandmothers stood out in the surf. And they chuckle about how the Spanish stuffed shirts in the federal government will never understand the Catalonian way.

While other historical nations under the Spanish flag toil to demonstrate their autonomy from Madrid, the people of Catalonia and especially the community in its capital Barcelona seem quite confident in their national identity. More than just an independent language, Catalonia upholds the pacifist ideals of beauty and profound tranquility in all its undertak-

ings—from lazy strolls through the baroque spires and mosaics of Gaudí’s whimsical Park Güell to the simple pleasure of sipping a milky orxata on the Mediterranean breakwaters at the midday siesta.

However, Barcelonans guard their enviable life under the sun with a fierce sense of ownership, loath to reveal the best tapas bars in the village-like Gràcia neighborhood, the secret courtyards ferreted away in the convoluted streets of Barri GÒtic or the quieter stretches of the seemingly never-ending public beach. To understand the bliss of Barcelona one must try harder than wolfing down patatas bravas from the street vendors or hunting sun-kiss along the waterfront. Pax Catalonia may not be the easiest state to achieve, but it’s well worth the effort.

BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA I’m frazzled when I spy the old ladies in the surf.

At the end of a hectic week in the office I find

myself on the sun-drenched boardwalk of the sleepy Barceloneta neighborhood, desperately wanting to be able to unwind and drink in the balmy climate, the unhurried pace of the city and unruffled mien of the locals. But I feel too much the tourist to be able to slip directly into the Catalonian rapture.

Although I’m tempted to wade out into the ocean and ask the old women personally how they manage such aplomb, little grasshopper resists the urge. They might think I’m a nut, chattering away in my broken Spanish. Besides, my khakis and Converse wouldn’t take well to seawater. Instead, the cogs of my journalistic brain begin to turn. Before I can become one with the Mediterranean, I need to get some perspective on this city.

Taking my quest for a decent vantage point literally, I find myself precariously dangling some 150 meters over the port of Barcelona in a fire-engine red gondola of the Transbordador Aerí. The aerial tramway (see By Hook or By

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More than just an independent language, Catalonia upholds its pacifist ideals of beauty and profound tranquility in all its undertakings.

Crook on pg. 40), constructed in 1929 as part of the World’s Fair, only takes about five minutes to reach Montjuïc hill. But the thrill is in the ride as it whisks me to its upper terminus and the sweeping views it affords along the way over the city’s sprawling landscape.

From the heights of Montjuïc I can begin to see what an enclave Barcelona actually is. The city sits on a plateau girded in from the northwest by the immense Serra de Collserola mountain range. To the southeast it spills out into the Mediterranean through a waterfront glistening with lotion-slathered sun worshipers and sparkling lots of new Nissans and SEATs waiting to be hauled away by commercial freighters.

The most striking scene from my perch is the peak directly across from me where a white, needle-shaped tower looms over the city like a conductor’s baton stiffly poised to set the symphony in motion. The Torre de Collserola tower on Tibidabo mountain is my next destination as I tarzan my way from peak to peak in search of the most elucidating view of Barcelona.

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From the tippy top at Castle Montjuïc I zip down the hillside and into the depths of the metro. On line #7 I am surrounded by statuesque Barcelonans, stately if reticent, as if in a train full of anonymous flamenco dancers dressed in their civvies. We pass through a series of pastel underground stations—Gràcia in powder blue, Pl. Moline in lemon chiffon, Pàdua in dingy peach. At the final station I emerge from the underground and join the gaggle of other Tibidabo-bound travelers.

Across the street from the metro stop an antique trolley car creeps up a tree-lined hill through a neighborhood of magnificent, walled homes with bougainvillea bursting from every chink. At the top all passengers leap off the car before it stops completely, racing en masse to the Tibidabo Funicular ticket booth. Not exactly sure what sort of contraption the Catalonians had devised to hurl me up this mountainside, I am less than eager to rush to my uncertain vertical fate.

Fortunately, I miss the first departure up

the mountain and am able to poke around the curious funicular railway (see By Hook or By Crook on pg. 40) that’s meant to hoist me up to Tibidabo. When I ask the quiet woman in the ticket booth whether the car ever slips and crashes back down the mountainside she coyly replies, “Only a few times a month, but never on Thursdays—so you’re safe.”

Once the next car is available I grab a prime seat with a front-row view of our nearly vertical ascent. The driver, who looks about nine years old, steps into the cab and gives a toot to signal we’ll soon be on our way. My hand suddenly reaches for a seatbelt that’s simply not there.

To say the ride is bumpy is an understatement, but that’s soon forgotten as we rise above the station to see the city splayed out behind us. Midway up the railroad we meet the other train on its way down the hill. For a few seconds it looks as though we may collide. A few of my fellow riders let their white knuckles show, but at the last second the rails split and we jerk left while the descending train veers right. Our

The fantastical gates of Antoni Gaudí’s Park Güell in the Gràcia neighborhood.

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toddler-like driver gives the obligatory toot-toot and certain death is avoided.

Although I don’t perish in a fiery funicular collision, Jesus still greets me with open arms at the top of Tibidabo. Coming out of the station I encounter the imposing façade of Sagrat Cor church topped with an impressive statue of Christ with arms outstretched. His left hand points to the Torre del Collserola tower, which I saw from Montjuïc, while his right hand gestures to Barcelona’s oldest amusement park, simply called Tibidabo.

The park features a collection of old-school attractions (some dating back to the 19th century) like bumper cars, a pendulum ship, flying chairs, and even a hall of creepy coin-op anima-

tronic mannequins. The grounds are situated on six terraces carved out of the mountainside, meaning the park’s main attraction is simply the knee-quivering views out over the city. On clear days I’m told you can see all the way to Majorca some 180 kilometers off the coast of Barcelona.

The name Tibidabo is a line taken from Latin Vulgate Bible. The phrase, meaning “I will give you,” is what the devil said to Christ as they looked down from an “exceedingly high mountain upon all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them.” From Tibidabo, it’s not the city’s expanses that are so stunning, but the way the white houses and red roofs seem to undulate in the sunshine. Successfully tempted, I can

BY HOOK OR BY CROOK aerial tramway \‘erēəl ‘tram,wā\ noun, a type of aerial transportation in which a cabin or ‘gondola’ is suspended from one cable while being pulled up or down an incline by another cable. If you’re afraid of heights you might want to take the stairs. funicular \fyoŏ‘nikyələr\ noun, a railway system mounted on a mountainside or other steep incline in which counterbalanced cars are simultaneously drawn up and lowered down through a system of cables. While you never leave the ground, you do get practically vertical and your life literally hangs by a single thread—albeit a steel one.

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h BARCELONA BARES ALL

Heaven on wheels Meet up with Mahrou to see the city by bicycle. cruisingbarcelona.com What’s cookin’ Get the skinny on Catalonian gastronomy with Bego, Barcelona’s epicurean extraordinaire. cookandtaste.net Go native Like-a-local arranges activities that get you into the real Barcelona, hosted by local people. like-a-local.com Walk like a Catalonian Local Barcelona brand Camper shoes are cheap, comfy and stylish to boot. camper.com Book early, eat late Barcelonans are fond of eating out. Their main meal is a long, late lunch (look for Menú del día from 12 noon to 2 pm), followed by a nice siesta.

Dinner doesn’t get eaten until 9 or 10 at night.

For the budget traveler Stay at any number of cheap hostels around Avinguda Paral.lel or Las Ramblas, but don’t expect a/c or a mint on your pillow.

Fair price, good location For a little more stay at Hesperia del Port at the foot of Montjuïc. hesperia.com For the globeratti Casa Camper (not just shoes anymore) is the clear choice for style-conscious travelers, situated in the former-red-light-turned-hipster neighborhood of El Raval. casacamper.com Go nuts! For a unique refreshment try a sip of orxata (horchata), a sweet, milky drink made not from milk, but ground tiger nuts.

hardly move my legs fast enough to get back down into the tumult of the glorious kingdom.

EASY RIDERS Pedaling up on her lumbering beach cruiser with fake flowers woven through the mesh basket mounted to its handlebars, Mahrou looks every bit the dewy-eyed city cyclist. But looks can be deceiving, as the twenty-something local proves to be a maverick on the move atop her singlegeared steed threading through the streets and passageways of Barcelona’s core.

“It’s no Amsterdam, but Barcelona is becoming a more bike-conscious place,” Mahrou says of her adopted city, having moved from her native Arnhem in 2004 with her husband and partner, to open a messenger service and bike tour company, Cruising Barcelona. Two wheels are clearly the metropolitan’s locomotion of choice with biking up 80 percent since 2007, and

the city’s omnipresent red, public-usage bicycles becoming an icon of Barcelona.

Under the 'Bici' program, city dwellers can pick up one of 1,500 bikes at 100 stations around town. The service is free for the first 30 minutes, after which the rate is only €0.30 per half hour for up to two hours. Sound too good to be true?

It is. Currently the program is only available to Barcelonans. But that’s why it’s good to rely on locals like Mahrou who have their finger on the pulse of the city. While I’ve gotten a glimpse of Barcelona from a distance, what I crave now most is to get into the mix and under the skin of this place.

I meet up with the dark-haired Dutchwoman at her Gràcia apartment and bike depot filled with Electra cruisers, a throwback to the bikes of the 1930s, 40s and 50s with balloon tires, big saddles, and wide, curving handlebars. They are one of the more comfortable types of bike availATLANTICA

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in the midst of the stories, the colorful crowds on the street, the thrill of the ride and my winsome guide, I feel inducted into city life. Now that I have my bearings about me as a streetwise local, it’s time to sink my teeth into Barcelona.

TASTEFUL TOURISM “The country is completely divided about the onion!” Bego explains with exaggerated gestures as we begin making our tortillas de patatas.

“It’s almost a religion—it can divide families,” she continues.

“I like the onion, so we will have it!” she pronounces with gusto.

With these words Bego deftly peels the source of national controversy, dices it and adds it to the boiling oil along with the sliced potatoes.

I’m in a breezy kitchen three floors above the

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THE CATALAN CURSE While cycling the streets of Barcelona it’s wise to have a few choice phrases ready in order to avoid incident. Here is a selection of useful exclamations, in ascending ruthlessness…

h

Dispensi “Excuse me” – standard phrase when trying to get around someone.

Em sap greu “I’m sorry” – use this one when you’ve already run over someone’s toes.

Trinxeraire! “Jerk!” – this one is sure to get attention.

Sapastre! Pastanaga! “Idiot!” – you won’t win any friends with this one, but when the circumstances warrant…

Fill de verra! “Son of a pig!” – reserve this one for tight situations.

Ves a parir mones! “Go breed with monkeys!” – one of the more creative Catalan curses—attention-grabbing, yet distinct.

Hugo Sanchez!!! In Catalonia it doesn’t get any worse than calling someone Hugo Sanchez, a despised footballer with Real Madrid.

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Above: Shopping at La Boqueria market. Top right: Bego reveals the culinary secrets of Catalonia. Bottom right: Some of Barcelona’s edible delights.

roiling crowds on Las Ramblas. The city’s main pedestrian artery is surprisingly pleasant when not experienced from the midst of the throng.

Despite its location, the Taste & Cook kitchen is one of the treasures to be found on a strip mainly known for its inflated prices, tourist tat and pickpockets.

Before adjourning to our kitchen-cum-classroom, Bego took us on a trip to La Boqueria public market just up the street. Even in the middle of the most touristed area in Barcelona, La Boqueria is one place where it’s best to have a guide. The sheer range of food available in the market is overwhelming. There are entire booths dedicated to legumes, to dried fruit, to salted cod, to cured hams, to mushrooms, to South American tubers—all set out in artfully arranged displays making the place more museum than market.

Bego herded us through the aisles, stopping to point out the significance of a certain olive or the provenance of a certain stall. While picking up the ingredients for the day’s meal it was clear that she and the sellers are thick as thieves.

She gabbed with the woman who cleans her

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cuttlefish and got the best deal on mussels from the shellfish man. Our cook of the day doesn’t just key us into the right ingredients to use: through her we get a glimpse inside the life of the market.

Back in the kitchen we donned our aprons and got down to business, gathering around our culinary altar: the four-burner gas stove in the middle of the room. The other disciples substantiate an interesting mix of tourists—a young American couple, a mother and daughter from Holland, and a young woman from Australia.

During the course of our lessons it becomes clear that we’re learning about not only local food, but also the locals themselves. While mixing, mashing, peeling and poaching, the group plies Bego with questions about Catalonia, to which she supplies intelligent answers that spur further conversation.

While rubbing crusty bread with tomatoes Bego broaches the topic of Catalonia’s curious literary tradition. Before torching the sugar coating on the crema Catalana we discuss how to tell a Catalonian from a Castilian based on eyewear and suit stripes. And over a pile of

grated goat cheese, our mentor expresses her displeasure with the dying tradition of the midday siesta.

Once we’ve prepared the meal—consisting of a garlicky gazpacho starter, classic Catalonian tomato bread, tortillas de patatas, seafood paella and crema Catalana for dessert—the group settles in with a couple bottles of local red wine and the feast begins.

It’s at this table with the other foreigners and our obliging host that I begin to ease into the Catalonian way of life, as the voices and footfalls from Las Ramblas drift in through the window with the breeze. As it turns out, in Barcelona too many cooks don’t spoil the broth. On the contrary, the beauty and tranquility of this place is best experienced in the company of those willing to open their eyes, ears and mouths along with you to take in all Catalonia has to offer.

Perhaps after lunch we can all hitch up our trousers for a well-deserved stand in the surf and let the waves come in around our calves. a Icelandair flies to Barcelona twice a week.