One. 9 a.m.
Ah. There has been a travel romance. Not mine- I just saw the aftermath of this one, while having coffee at my hostel this morning. A kid who works at the desk is outside, kissing the hand of a blonde girl with a backpack. Clearly, she is headed off in the direction of the square with the taxis. He is deadly serious as she walks off, and he stands there watching her woefully all the way down the lane. There is despair. Coming and going all day, I have seen him 5 or 10 times at the desk. He looks like a shipwreck.
Two. 10 a.m.
Another great street, and another great plaza. Marques de Lanos, ending in Plza de la Constitucion. This street was designed in 1882, in the style of the Chicago School. I actually like it better than La Rambla in Barcelona. On La Rambla, you are separated from the street fronts on either side by busy and congested streets, and you are essentially confined to the pedestrian median. Here, the street is all yours, storefront to storefront. It's a beautiful street, and a Spanish Plaza at the end where people are gathered, and sitting, and lounging by the fountains- for a minute I thought I was in Italy.
Three. 10:15 a.m.
The fake statue people followed me here. There were just three of them today, though, and they seem to be a club: one Gandalf, one Orc, and one Dwarf costume. I don't know why we are doing Lord of the Rings in Spain. But then, I don't know why we are doing any of these fake statue things.
Four. noon.
On a quest for boots. I know. I already bought boots. But I have a specific need. I suffered pangs of jealousy in Italy, over Italian fashion in general and the tall boots in particular. Almost everyone on the street wore some variation of knee-high boots, with some combination of sweater/dress/long coat on top. The first step towards getting what you want, is being able to name it. I want that look.
Five. 3 p.m.
I am wearing my standard Dansko clogs and beat-up travel jeans as I duck into the PIcasso museum to check the closing time. I am bogged down by a shopping bag holding new boots, and also now Spanish groceries, (I decided Italian Pasta night would be more fun if I could also have a Tapas Night at home.) The guard yawns as I walk in. He could not be more bored. I walk back to my hostel to unload. I put on the new fancy jeans I bought at H & M yesterday, and the new black boots I just bought on sale. I am not sure about this look. I do not wear Italian-style skinny jeans tucked into tall black boots. But the only way to find out whether you can rock a look, is just to go out and wear it like you mean it. All the better if you are somewhere far from home with no permanent witnesses.
Six. 3:20 p.m.
Back at the Picasso Museum, 20 minutes later. The yawning guard, who was pretending to be a statue person 20 minutes ago, is now falling all over himself with welcome. He directs me excitedly to the "tickets" window and practically escorts me up the stairs.
I am keeping the new jeans and boots.
Seven. 4 p.m.
Small communication breakdown: I speak no Spanish, so it's all a guessing game which I don't mind. In a Spanish gourmet shop, buying a present, I see a sign that says "bocadillos." They are like 1.80 euros, so I figure it must be something small. They have one with "jamon york," and since I have developed a ham problem here between Italian prosciutto and Spanish serano ham, I order one. The shopkeeper fires a question at me in Spanish, and when it's clear that I'm baffled by this, she smiles and makes a flipping motion with her hands, so I assume it means "heated."
I thank her, pay, and leave; when I open my bag later, I find a football-sized ham sandwich. Ah- not "heated," but "buttered." There is a good 1/8" thick layer of butter on my ham. Wrong wrong wrong.
But it was tasty.
Eight. 9 p.m.
I just did a bad thing. I decided to go to a tapas place, recommended by my hostel, for dinner. They had a note posted saying, "The puntalitos are great!" So of course I ordered some. I was curious about what they would actually be- some form of vegetable? some kind of bread-y thing? Something with ubiqutious ham?
No. Puntalitos are baby squid. Teeny-tiny fried baby squid.
I am fine with calimari- and if it's sliced in rings and looks like something other than squid, all the better. But these: whole, deep-fried, crispy, BABY squid, no bigger than a quarter. Baby carrots are great; baby corn, baby peas, what have you; miniature vegetables, no problem, but eating baby animals of any kind just seems wrong, wrong, wrong, too. Right?
But they were tasty too.
Nine. 10 p.m.
Last food adventure. On the way home I spot something that looks glazed, crunchy, and sweet in a window. I get a choice of honey or sugar. When I order it in my best Spanish, which is bad, the girl tries to give me ice cream. I finally manage to communicate. When I get it, is....wet bread. I have no idea what it was supposed to be- but, essentially, I have wet bread, with honey on top. Yuk.
But, I have had communication difficulty all through Spain. My sister and I figured out later that I'm used to hearing Mexican Spanish, because I have at least watched Dora the Explorer with my godson and I know a handful of words. Nothing here sounds like Dora the Explorer. I say, "Gracias," and they say, "Glathia." It's tricky. But Analucia is its own place, and so is Barcelona, and well, by now, I'm quite comfortable looking like an idiot anyway.
