Waiter, my check please.

After 8 days in Catalunya, we were all starting to feel pretty burned out, but Wednesday dawned cool and sunny, so we decided to make a pilgrimage to Montserrat anyway.

As most of my readers know, I'm a fan of mountain climbing, ruins, and holy relics; Montserrat, with its oddly shaped peaks, abandoned abbeys, and ancient objects of veneration represented an irresistable combination of all three.

There are several ways to reach the monastery complex: aerial tramway, cog-wheel train, and automobile. Since my kids are both averse to great heights, we opted to take the car. Even so, the twisty, winding road up had both white-knuckled.

Montserrat is in fact, a single gigantic batholith that rises up from the surrounding plains like the jaws of a prehistoric monster. Even from afar, it's imposing and immediately commands attention. Little wonder that it has been a focus of spiritual activities for more than a millenium.

We arrived around lunchtime, so our first stop was one of the cafeterias where we tanked up for the exertions ahead. The monastery caters primarily to pilgrims, not tourists, so the food was good, but relatively inexpensive. We were also pleased to find that no admission fees were being charged to enter the basilica, nor was the church sticking their hands into our pockets at every opportunity with pleas for donations. A refreshing change.

We stopped briefly to admire the basilica's facade, then got right into line to see the famous La Moreneta (Black Virgin), the patron saint of Catalunya. Despite multiple signs calling for respectful silence and adjuring visitors to refrain from flash photography, neither request was heeded by the busloads of mainly Polish and French tourists waiting in line. The line snaked from the front of the basilica, all the way to the rear, and up a long flight of stairs to reach the statue sitting on its throne of silver, high above the altar. We passed through several small chapels on the way that contained various tableaus. One in particular was downright creepy; a large canvas featuring a pale, ghostly figure clad in a black robe. It was difficult to determine the gender of the subject, but we first assumed that it was some particularly severe female saint. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that it was, in fact, a painting of the young Saint Benedict, the founder of the monastery's order, done by Catalan painter, Montserrat Gaudiol.

After roughly 20 minutes in line, we finally began the ascent to the throne. The hallway was tiled with mosaic images of various saints. Soon, we could see the statue itself, surrounded by a heavy plexiglass shield, with only the Virgin's right hand partially exposed to enable the pilgrims to touch the globe that it held, which we referred to sacrilegiously as God's Right Ball. If there's a hell, I'm probably going there for that one.

I often wonder what people pray for in these sorts of situations. Miracle cures, no doubt, form a large portion of their supplications, but I suspect that the vast majority of requests are pretty selfish and pedestrian: winning the Lotto, regrowing hair on bald heads, enlarged breasts, and longer-lasting erections probably figure prominently...kinda like SPAM. As an unrepentantly lapsed Catholic, I made no pretense of prayerful contemplation. To paraphrase the guy in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "It's only a statue."

We made our way down from the platform and stopped in the Holy Chapel of the Blessed Virgin's Backside, behind the altar. The sickly-sweet smell of roses filled the air...offerings to Mary.

On our way in, we had noticed a funicular railroad climbing almost vertically up the side of the mountain. Mark and I were enthusiastic about doing a little hiking, so we dragged the rest of our entourage to the ticket office and took the brief ride up to the top of Sant Joan, a point from which several trailheads began. To spare the non-hikers, we chose a route that was mainly downhill, which would bring us back to the monastery. It took us about 50 minutes to complete the hike, and the views from the trail were spectacular. My wife and daughter had unwisely chosen to wear open-heeled sandals, so they had a difficult time maneuvering down the the steep, pebble-strewn path, but they made it unscathed.

After stopping at the gift store, we returned to Barcelona. Mark suggested that we all drive to a large outlet mall that evening to do some shopping. We spent a couple of hours looking around, then returned to the city. Mark and Rosa decided to eat dinner at their apartment, so the rest of us taxied over to an Indian restaurant.

We decided to spend Thursday doing a little clean-up sightseeing, so we took the metro over to Sagrada Familia. The line to get inside was massive, so we took a walk around the periphery and split for the Ciutat Vella.

We needed to buy a birthday present for my mom, so we decided to have lunch in the Corte Ingles cafeteria, then browse for gifties afterwards. We came up emptyhanded, so I suggested that we head over to a Dali exhibit nearby where we'd seen these very cool soft wristwatches the previous week. We picked one with a blue leather band and an iridescent dial, that I'm sure my mother will love. Hell, Joyce and I both wanted one for ourselves!

In the evening, Mark suggested that we attempt another visit to the spa, so we navigated the Autopista once again and this time, found it open, albeit a bit crowded. The spa is quite new and it's located in a gorgeous setting amidst a beautiful pine forest in the hills. The temperature of the pools ranged from cold to almost hot, and there were three different types of saunas. We passed a couple of very pleasant hours there, and left feeling very relaxed.

Friday, nobody felt like doing anything at all, but I forced myself to walk over with Mark to attempt another visit to La Pedrera. Once again, the line was unbelievably long, so we simply visited the gift shop, then walked over to the Fundacio Antonio Tapies, a gallery of contemporary art that was featuring a special exhibition on the downside of Spanish tourism (how apropos!). Afterwards, we met Joyce and the kids at a Japanese restaurant for lunch.

When we got back to the apartment, none of us were inclined to do anything, so we simply sat around until 8:00pm, then headed out for a farewell dinner with Mark and Rosa at a nouveau restaurant at Port Olympic called Bestial. We were seated on the patio, at a table overlooking the almost deserted beach, with the famous "Sardine" sculpture looming overhead. It was a beautiful evening. The waiters were pretty goth...dressed all in black, and wearing t-shirts with a picture of Marlene Deitrich on them. I have no idea why. We had an excellent dinner, then said goodbye to our benevolent host and hostess.

The next morning, we departed for the US. Although we made it home without too much hassle, I feel compelled to offer the following advice to prospective travellers:

- Never, ever, EVER attempt to clear customs in Detroit unless it's your final destination or else you have several hours in between connecting flights

- US Customs *will* make you go through the agricultural inspection line if you declare any foodstuffs whatsoever, even if you have only 20 minutes to make your connection

- KLM baggage handlers suck Gouda

- Do not eat Manchego cheese that has sat at room temperature in your carry-on luggage for 17 hours

Finis

Posted by MrBaliHai at 12:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Almost to the end of the meal.

On Sunday morning, we headed up the Costa Brava to the little resort village of Llafranc. Although it's virtually impossible to get a room on the coast during August, through sheer persistence, Mark caught a couple of cancellations and managed to book us into the Hotel Llafranc for 2 two nights. Unfortunately, he and Rosa had to cancel at the last minute, due to an unexpected work committment. However, they accompanied us up to spend the day dining and sunning themselves by the cool, blue Mediterranean.

The hotel has quite a colorful history, and was a favorite haunt of Dali...possibly because his wife Gala's home, Castillo Púbol, was nearby. The village itself is quaint, and has a reputation for being quite a bit more low-key than other resorts along the Costa Brava. A reputation that we soon found out wasn't entirely accurate.

After another long drive up the Autopista, shelling out extortionate tolls along the way, we arrived at the village. The beach was packed, and the town was filled with noisy scooters, cars, and even a tram that shuttled tourists back and forth between the campground and the boardwalk. Fortunately, Mark had made reservations for lunch at the hotel restaurant, otherwise we'd have been SOL, as the other restaurants in town were full.

We eventually found parking for our cars, and checked in. Our room was small, but it had a nice balcony that overlooked the beach. There was no air-conditioning, and the room was stifling even with the doors thrown wide open. Nevertheless, we felt lucky to have gotten a place to stay (at 200 Euros per night).

We were seated at a nice table out on the restaurant patio, and ordered our lunch. The hotel is famous for Arroz Negro (Black Rice), a paella dish made with squid ink, and filled with mussels, chicken, and shrimp. Mark and I decided that was the ticket. For starters, we had Xipirones, tiny, deep-fried baby octopii, that were absolutely delicious. We also determined that it would be necessary to drink at least 2 pitchers of Tisana, a type of sangria made with sparkling Cava wine; this would prove to be a very expensive choice, as we would later discover.

The food and drink didn't disappoint, and we enjoyed people watching. A man at the table next to us could've been Picasso's twin brother (or maybe Ed Asner's). He berated the waiters loudly, and drank an entire bottle of wine by himself, then stumbled off. We also examined the celebrity memorabilia on the walls of the restaurant and bar that included a huge photograph of Dali over the bar, along with smaller pictures of former guests Kirk Douglas, Elizabeth Taylor, and Sylvester Stallone, who was represented by a hilarious porcelain plate that was imprinted with an image of him in full Rambo regalia. Speaking of which, the hotel bar is called "Rambo" and features a gigantic cocktail served in a cognac glass about 2 feet tall! No, we didn't try one.

When the bill came, we were shocked to discover that they'd charged us 56 Euros for the 2 pitchers of Tisana! Apparently, they assess 7 Euros per serving and each pitcher holds 4 servings. Outrageous, but since it had been made with top-shelf Cava and brandy, we decided that it'd been sort of worth it and kept our mouths shut.

After lunch, we all spent a couple of hours on the beach. Once again, we confirmed to ourselves that people who like to get naked are generally people who shouldn't. The sight of children urinating on the beach was also quite off-putting. At least nobody made Number 2 (as far as we could tell).

Later, Mark suggested that we drive over to Aigua Blava, a gorgeous cove with high cliffs and deep-blue water. We'd anchored there two years earlier during our sail up to the Isles Medes. I will never forget watching the sunset over that beautiful place. There is a also a fine parador there, so we stopped to have an afternoon drink and admire the retro-70's interior.

When we returned to Llafranc, it was getting to be suppertime. We searched in vain up and down the boardwalk, but couldn't find a restaurant with a patio table, so we settled for sitting inside a third-rate bistro with unpleasant service and forgettable food.

Mark and Rosa said goodbye, and my family and I settled into our hotel room. There was a stiff breeze blowing off the sea, but it didn't cool us off at all. In addition, the noise from the boardwalk below us was incredible and went on far into the wee hours of Monday morning.

Exhausted after our unpleasant night, we sleepwalked through breakfast and spent the next several hours on the beach resting. My son and I did some swimming, and I was surprised at how cold the water was. Afterwards, we decided to walk along the coastal trail over to the next village which was called Calella de Palafrugell. The village proved to be far less crowded than Llafranc, and much less touristy. The weather had turned cloudy and it started to sprinkle, so we ducked into the Restaurant Robert for lunch.

We had a lovely and relatively inexpensive meal. I started out with a very simple salad of tomato with mozzerella, and chopped olives, followed by an excellent plate of Bacalao con Allioli, a salted cod topped with fresh garlic mayonnaise and grilled red peppers. Joyce and I also enjoyed a much cheaper pitcher of Tisana that was only slightly less tasty than the hotel's version.

After returning to Llafranc, I booked a table at the hotel restaurant to ensure our getting a decent meal on a cool patio, then we hopped in the car and drove a short distance to the medieval stone village of Pals. We spent an hour or two admiring the ancient town and shopping for souvenirs in the fine shops, then returned to our hotel for dinner.

We started out with Buñuelos de Bacalao (cod balls..no, not *that* kind), followed by the house cannelloni. The main course was a type of paella made with noodles instead of rice, called Fideuà; it was good, but not as good as the Arroz Negro. This time, we avoided the extortionate hotel Tisana, and went with a far cheaper, but still tasty, bottle of Vino Blanco. For dessert, I had profiteroles, which were so rich and sweet that they probably should've come with an ampule of insulin and a hypo.

That night was less humid, but even noiser as some nitwit decided to park their van on the street below our window around 2:30am and pumped their stereo up to earbleed volume. I finally closed the doors to the balcony which quieted things down enough for us to sleep fitfully until the tractors began grooming the beach at 5:30.

We checked out the next morning shortly after breakfast, and drove to the city of Figueres to visit the Dali Theater-Museum. But first, we stopped at Castillo Púbol and admired Gala's little love-nest where she had trysted with her many gigolos. I'd feel sorry for poor Dali, except for the fact that he did plenty of trysting of his own.

Since I was running out of cash, I made a couple of attempts to use an ATM, but for some reason, my credit cards weren't being accepted anywhere. To save money on tolls, we decided to avoid the Autopista and drive to Figueres on a two-lane highway. What we discovered to our dismay, is that semis are forbidden to use the Autopista on Tuesday, and consequently they take over the smaller highways. I saw my life flash before my eyes again and again as we were nearly sideswiped and driven off onto the shoulder by these crazy bastards.

When we arrived at Figueres, we were immediately subjected to near-total gridlock attempting to reach the museum. There was no parking to be found anywhere in the city due to the increased crowds desperate to visit during the Dali Centennial. In typical European fashion, no provision had been made to ease the congestion, despite the fact that the city's government could hardly have failed to realize that visitors to the museum would increase dramatically.

Almost broke, and with no place to park, we had little choice but to head back to Barcelona. Unwilling to play chicken with the semis again, we decided to get back on the Autopista and hope that we had enough Euros left to pay the tolls. We made it, but prompty got totally lost trying to find our apartment. Eventually, I wound up driving back to the airport and retracing my route. We finally found our street late in the afternoon. I dropped off my hungry and exhausted family, and went hunting for a parking spot, but after 20 minutes of circling the neighborhood, came up empty-handed. I eventually gave up, and called Mark who had arranged for me to park at his private garage for a very reasonable sum until our departure.

That evening, feeling much better after some food and a rest, we walked to Mark and Rosa's apartment. They'd graciously invited us over to sample a variety of wine, cheese, and sausage, as well as some Pan y Tomate. Mark produced two bottles of excellent reds from different Spanish wine-producing regions that I was totally unfamiliar with. Afterwards, Joyce and the kids returned to the apartment, while Mark and I walked over to one of Barcelona's 3 Polynesian bars, called "Aloha", for a nightcap.

Walking inside, we were amazed by the decor. It had been built almost 27 years ago, and whoever had designed the joint knew their Polynesiana: lighted terrariums built into the bar, lots of bamboo, tiki masks, and even their own line of unique mugs, made in Madrid.

It was still "early" by Barcelona standards, so the place was deserted except for us. We asked the bartender for a Mai Tai, and he immediately started grabbing random bottles and pouring them into mugs unmeasured, never a promising sign. I also noticed that there was no rum in these concoctions. The final product was weak, dark blue, and tasted like the Kool-Aid Man's ass. Just awful. Mark and I joked that they were probably going to turn our poo blue in the morning.

Mark wasn't about to sit still after being served such an abominable libation, so he immediately began giving the bartender a large ration of shit about the foul taste and lack of rum. The man simply shrugged his shoulders and poured about 5 fingers of Bacardi Silver into each mug, then walked off. Needless to say, the addition of the rum did nothing to improve the drink, so when the bartender's colleague took over, we asked him for a more straightforward Ron y Limon made with 7-year Cuban Rum. These proved to be quite acceptable. The gentleman apologized for his cow-orker's lack of expertise with the drinks, and we paid our bill (30 Euros!) and split.

(To be Continued)

Posted by MrBaliHai at 12:29 PM | Permalink

Well, I was able to sleep until 5:30am this morning. I guess that's progress. Here's part the second of my excellent Catalunyan adventure.

Considering how torrid it'd been since our arrival, we thought that Thursday might be a good day to take a trip down to the Tarragona area to visit the Costa Caribe waterpark and Port Aventura. Mark had procured discount coupons to the former, and free passes to the latter, so it looked like a relatively cheap way to get outside and have some cool fun in the sun. Boy, were we wrong!

We got on the road around 10:30 and soon hit a big traffic jam on the Autopista; fortunately, it didn't last too long. As we rolled down the highway, we noticed that the outside temperature was slowly climbing.By the time we reached the gate to the park, it had climbed up to 35C (95F) with a humidity level to match. We also noticed signs at the entrance saying that the waterpark had already reached full capacity, and was closed. So much for cooling down.

We parked and headed towards the ticket lines that stretched back about 30 people deep from all of the booths. We waited in the sweltering heat, sweating, and losing hope that this was going to be anything other than a disaster. We finally reached the ticket window about 20 minutes later, only to be told that we would have to take our free vouchers over to the customer service window to exchange them for passes. Naturally, there was a huge line at that window as well.

We finally got into the park about 45 minutes after we'd arrived. The heat was relentless. The crowds were huge, mostly shirtless (despite the signs urging them not to disrobe), and extremely rude; everywhere we went, it appeared to be perfectly acceptable to push people out of the way without so much as a "perdón". I had to resist the urge to push back.

Port Aventura is divided into "countries": Mediterrania, Polynesia, China, Mexico, and the Far West (Europeans seem to have an inexplicable fascination with the American cowboy culture). We passed quickly through Mediterrania, and headed into Polynesia, where I hoped to at least find some nice tiki bar where I could down a couple of potent umbrella drinks to numb myself into having some semblance of a good time. No luck.

The park had posted sandwich boards in front of all of the ride entrances that gave approximate waiting times. We were very dismayed to see that the park's big roller-coaster, the Dragon Khan, was closed. Based on the wait information, we decided to pass up the Tutiki Splash, and headed for a simulator ride called Sea Odyssey, figuring that if it was indoors it would at least be air-conditioned. After about 45 minutes in line behind a couple with an extremely obnoxious young boy, we were ushered inside the simulator. It was pretty well done, although I wanted to garrote the cute, talking dolphins.

After that, we all were ready for food, so we grabbed some ham sammiches (the staple lunchtime food of Spain). Mark noticed that the Dragon Khan was running again, so we high-tailed it to China before everyone else in the park figured that out and swarmed over there too.

Joyce and Emma aren't coaster enthusiasts, so they hung out in the plaza while us men rode the Khan. I have to admit that it was an awesome ride. Those 8 loops had me screaming like a little girl. When we exited, we found the ladies and decided that we'd all had quite enough of Port Aventura. Mark drove us back to the apartment where we cooked our own dinner, and spent the evening relaxing in air-conditioned splendor.

Friday dawned, and it seemed that the heat wave had finally broken. On our last visit to La Rambla, we had walked past an exhibition of primitive Oceanic, African, and American art at the Palau de la Virreina, sponsored by the Barcelona World Forum, so we decided to head back and take a look. We bought our tickets, walked into the first gallery, and quickly realized that it was an exhibit of erotic primitive art (I suppose the name of the exhibition, "El Primer Eros", should've been some sort of tipoff)! My poor 10-year old daughter was totally unprepared for the prominent genitalia on display and did a lot of self-censoring, while my 15-year old son was mostly amused, especially by descriptive text like, "In many primitive cultures, placing your hand on another man's penis is considered a gesture of friendship". After hurrying through the exhibits, we spent a more leisurely time viewing a gallery of fine photography that featured images of Salvador Dali and his wife, Gala.

Afterwards, we ate lunch at a small family-run Catalan restaurant in the Barri Gòtic. I had the set menu of Gazpacho, Catalunyun sausage with white beans, salad, and orange-raisin flan for dessert. It was simple, but cheap and delicious!

After lunch, Mark went to run some errands, so the rest of us visited Museu Picasso. Like everything else in this city, it was packed with touristas, but it
was interesting to see some of Pablo´s earlier, rarely seen works from his Blue and Pink periods, before he went all Cubist on our asses. I had an amusing political exchange with the guard who took our tickets, that went like this:

"Where are you from?"
"The US"
"Who do you like, Bush or Kerry?"
"Nobody!"
"I don't like nobody too!"

Later that evening, we had an absolutely wonderful dinner at Asador de Aronda that was the culinary highlight of the trip. I had first eaten there 2 years ago, when Mark and I spent 6 days sailing the Costa Brava.

First, he drove us all up to Tibidabo Hill so we could have an apertif and look out over the city while he drove back to his apartment to pick up Rosa. I sipped a fine sherry, Joyce had wine, and the kids drank their ubiquitous Coke Light with lemon, while we watched the lights of Barcelona slowly twinkle to life as evening descended.

The Frare Blanc house is marvelously Modernisme, and the food is faboo. Mark had reserved a prime table out on the patio near a trickling fountain, under a canopy of leaves so we could watch the stars and the silvery moon up in the sky while we dined.

We started out with another sherry and some olives, then the waiter brought us a plate of typical Castilian appetizers: roasted red peppers, white asparagus in a mayonnaise sauce, and assorted spicy sausages, including a delicious blood sausage mixed with cracked bulgur wheat that tasted very Morroccan.

The main course featured the milk lamb of course; it was utter perfection, seasoned with only salt and the smoke of the oak oven. It was served with a simple ensalada and we uncorked a bottle of wine from the Ribero del Duero region...a big robust, fruity red...that complemented the meat perfectly. The waiter brought out little lambie chops for our kids.

Postres was very interesting- a small bowl of hard little donut-like pastries that tasted of anise, followed with a shot of an herbal digestive liqueur. I also had a Cafe Cortado which kept me awake most of the night.

It was simple food prepared very simply, but with the freshest ingredients and the utmost skill. I´ll take it over fussy haute cuisine any day.

On Saturday morning, Mark drove me to the airport to pick up my rental car. Like a lot of the other things we'd done over the past 5 days, this proved to be quite a hassle. We arrived at noon, and the line to the Hertz counter had about 100 people in it! The other rental agencies had practically no one waiting. After 20 minutes, we had made zero progress towards the counter, so Mark strolled up to the front of the line and asked if we could pick it up later, or at the Hertz agency in downtown Barcelona. It was a no-go on the other agency, but they agreed to hold the reservation for me until 7:00pm or so.

Joyce was feeling somewhat out of sorts in the stomach region, so after my aborted trip to pick up the car, she stayed in the apartment while I took the kiddos to nearby Montjuïc (Jewish Mountain) to visit a recreated Spanish village called Poble Espanyol. The village wasn't terribly interesting apart from the opportunity to view several different Spanish architectural styles in one location, and a nice gallery of contemporary Catalunyan art, so we walked over to the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya and viewed their excellent collections of medieval religious art.

We went back to the airport at 6:30. The line was much shorter but it still took me almost an hour to get everything squared away. Since they were almost out of cars by that point, the service rep gave me a BMW 525 diesel instead of the pokey Ford that I'd originally reserved; that definitely made the pain and frustration of waiting a lot easier to bear. However, I noticed that the car had a number of scratches that didn't appear on the damage report. Since I've been gouged by car agencies in Europe before over failing to report this sort of thing, I attempted to flag down a Hertz rep. After a fruitless half-hour waiting in line again, I decided to split and take my chances. Somewhat surprisingly, I found my way back to our apartment with no trouble.

Mark and Rosa had to attend a party that evening, so they graciously invited us over to spend some time at their apartment to watch cable TV in English and use the Internet. After almost a week unplugged, the kids were very receptive to both activities.

(To be continued)

Posted by MrBaliHai at 11:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)