Barcelona

February 11

La Flauta

I'm starving - yogurt and banana and half a sleeve of butter biscuits this morning are not doing it for me. After spending what feels like hours on the train into the city, I'm finally at La Flauta, a restaurant I read about on the internet. I'm a little confused - there's really no on sitting en terrasse of the restaurants I walk by. Dinner time may not be universal, but I thought lunch was. And the restaurant - long with a bar in front and incredibly under lit - is nearly empty save but a few older customers. There are more waiters than patrons, waiting for I don't know what. My Spanish is even worse than my French - I don't even know if I should be attempting Spanish or Catalan. What's Castillan? I do manage to learn they're serving only cold meat.s Which is fine. Better than fine. I find a seat at the end of the bar and the waiter points to all the things I could order - a lot of plates with anchovies, sandwiches, vegetables. I order two sandwiches: one that's just ham, another that's cheese and lettuce, and a beer.

I devour the cheese sandwich first: it's got manchego and something super soft, spreadable, with an herb I can't place except in my memory. It's a European flavor I haven't been able to find in the States and one I didn't realize I had been missing for more than thirteen years. The differing textures are insanely delicious: crunchy bread, the bite of manchego, the give of the other cheese, the freshness of the lettuce. The ham sandwich is the same crusty bread and layers of Iberico ham, salted and fatty and tasting of comfort. Comfort seems to be a thing I'm chasing with all my meals. The beer is served cold in a chilled glass. The beer is super tasty and that's all I can do to describe it as I know nothing about beer, despite working in a bar for a bit. Estrella Damm is the name of it and is apparently the national beer (or something like that). I guess you could call it a meager meal - simple, is more like, but it's still amazing. Strengthening.

I try to order some little dish of beans and bacon that's been staring at me for the last half hour, but as it can only be served hot, I'm denied and order olives instead. They're served from a giant martini glass and presented on a long and thin oval plate. They're briny, oily, and almost savory - it's got an umami flavor that fills my entire mouth. Shortly after, someone flicks the house lights up and cheers erupt from the patrons that have been trickling in steadily the last few minutes. Now it's officially lunchtime.

With the light, I'm fully able to take in the wall in front of me: it's painted black with chalkboard drawings of a humpback whale that's also a submarine, two different kinds of teapots, a goose in flight, and octopus tentacles wielding a spoon. It's a whimsical juxtaposition to the back of the restaurant which is all terra cotta tiled walls, modern leather banquet seating, and wooden floors. A waiter is trading meows with one of the line cooks - such an impressive imitation, I expect a cat to meander from the kitchen. After dining with cats in Marrakech, I'm not incredibly opposed, despite my allergy and actual dislike of the animals. I'm finished with this satisfying meal and I still need to learn how to ask for the check.

It's 'la cuerto."

La Sagrada Familia

If God were to be contained, this might be one of the places He could do it. It feels like Him - expansive, incomprehensible, beautiful, light, almost too difficult to take in, awe-inspiring. The inside of this great cathedral was designed to feel like a forest - the red columns rise like sequoias. The stained glass on each of the facades streams sunlight, as if through leaves and pine needles. A soft breeze flows through the open Nativity portal. Unlike a forest, however, it's loud - the sound of ongoing hammering, drills, dropped pipes, and the constant stream of tourists speaking without reverence. The architecture and the history of this place have taken away, distracted from, its sanctity. I ask for a bubble of silence to surround the wood and iron pews but I won't get one. This isn't a place to worship God, it's a place to worship the genius and mastery of a creator, Gaudi. I don't know if I feel distance from God, but I always crave his presence when I'm in a church - He's sure to make an appearance there, right? I did start by praying. It's not that I'm out of practice but more out of touch. Is it that I don't know who I am in this time of self-imposed isolation? Is it that I'm tired of praying for my health? Is it that I feel so utterly content despite my problems and issues? Is it that I am so selfish I don't know how to pray for others? No - I think it's that I feel so overwhelmed with the need to be heard by God, I get choked up and can't find anything to say. This place is beautiful - do I have anything to give that will take up space in it?

While inside is warm and light and full of colors, enough to fill the bright, unadorned space, outside is a Gothic chaos. Like art neuveau had a baby with Salvador Dali's paintings. It's as if every inch has a detail, but without the refinery or elegance of say, Notre Dame. There's something vaguely kindergartner mud-pie about it and I don't mean that disrespectively. It's surreal and messy and makes me think of melting faces. But this building is surprising and has multiple personalities - the back side is more structured and while made of stone, it looks like hewed wood - angular, recognizable, hard lines and no softness. This side is called the Passion. There are so many scenes depicting Christ's last hours. I notice a dog carved near the Last Supper, dejected and emaciated; a symbol of loyalty now without hope. Judas greeting Jesus with a kiss: my heart always breaks when I think of the betrayal. The Marys weep in agony while a stony pillar has Christ being flogged, stone ropes wrapped around his wrists. Three soldiers roll dice for Jesus' clothes; their uniforms more colonial Spanish than Roman. Drawing my eyes upwards, there's Jesus, half naked, his head bowed, a cast iron cross on his back. He's not carrying it, he's hanging from it - it's the Crucifixion. He's so square - his face, his shoulders, his torso. The pain and torture are carved into his visage.

You have to move away for any glimmer of good, of hope, of life. Beyond the facade, partially hidden by mosaic towers, is the resurrected Christ, all in gold, looking benevolently over all below. It's a lesson I need to learn: step back from the hurt and look for the golden good.

Tapas Crawl

As I was traveling with a bunch of people, all I could do to document this amazing experience was take pictures and write down the name of each dish. So...

Barna Brewery

- Rossa: Belgium blonde ale

- Potato chips with oil and spice

- Olives Piquales (olives, peppers, anchovies)

Pepa Tomate

- Vermouth de la casa (not bitter at all, tastes of cherries)

- Spinach fritters with honey aoli

- Fried green tomatoes and cheese and tomato jam

- Russian salad (makes me think of food you'd see in a 1972 issue of 'Good Housekeeping)

Parlament

- Red sangria

- Tomato tartare and tuna

- Potato omelette with sopresseta

- Calamari and octopus

Pincho J (where an honor system was used: you collected the sticks that were in your tapas at the end of your meal and presented them to the server)

- Estrella beer

- Pepper, sausage, tomato and egg

- Meatballs (served cold but still yummy)

El Sortidor

- Sweet wine

- Mato: sheep’s cheese with honey, caramel, fruit and nuts

- Bread with chocolate (bread with chocolate ice cream, chocolate mousse, salt, and olive oil)

February 12

Park Guell

Being in Barcelona reminds me so much of Naples and a homesickness I haven't felt for thirteen years returns. There's a feel Mediterranean cities have, like there's salt in the air and in your veins. Even though I don't speak Spanish, it's familiar in how much it sounds like Italian. I got a small glimpse of the water from my terrace yesterday, but viewing it today, through a window, started an avalanche of emotion. I love the water and I was born on this water specifically. I think that's why I always need to be near the ocean - because it's in my nature. I love being in Paris, but I see an end and a beginning of the Seine. Looking out at the Mediterranean now, it appears infinite, giant, uncontainable. I remember the days I'd spend on the beach in Pozzuoli with my best friend Andriana, the first trip I took into the center of Naples at night, the bay lit up and the subtle outline of Vesuvius against the Italian sky. I could see that vast blue water every day. I'm really enjoying my time here in Barcelona, the only place I really have in my recent trips. And I'm so looking forward to tomorrow when I'll be strolling along the sand, smelling the salt, hearing the crashing waves, and coming back home.

Le Tres a la Culina

I have no idea why I think everywhere I go will automatically be warm. I'm underdressed again. But after shivering despite an order of roibbos tea, I manage to come to the pristine hole in the wall that was mentioned on a blog. I'm able to order a plate of potatoes and chicken and am told to have a seat at a long table - the only seating in the tiny restaurant that's meant more for take-out than sit-down. I order from a counter displaying the dishes: in addition to what I've got coming to me is a giant pot of lentil soup, a dish of rice with cilantro, and a pan of what I want to call a veggie bake. Empty space is filled with citrus, eggplants, and artichokes.

A steaming cup of cream of spinach soup is set before me; a drizzle of olive oil floats on the surface, as do some crunchy bread cubes. The soup is so great - I've finally got some vegetables! It's so warm and tasty and I can feel myself getting healthier. It just tastes incredibly verdant.

The seating at the long table is family style and I'm eavesdropping on the two couples speaking in rapid-fire Spanish seated close to me. I pour myself a glass of water from a communal carafe into the most adorable bodega glass. My soup is gone and replaced by the potatoes and chicken and all I smell is lemon. I take a bite of fried potato that's swimming in oil and grease and its so delightfully tart and starchy. Spain has a knack for make odd yet delicious pairings and lemons and potatoes are something I'm going to try when I get back home. The chicken is lemony as well with the smooth sweetness of caramelized onions. I realize halfway through the plate I'm still so hungry. I'm about to pop another slice of potato into my mouth when I realize it's a slice of lemon. "Jolene" by Ray La Montagne plays before the music slides to a cover of Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game." It's almost like I can't escape my American roots.

I next have a large helping of chocolate and orange cake, although in the States, we'd definitely qualify it as a sort of bread. However you name it, it's delicious. Nice-sized chunks of orange peel give it a fresh citrusy burst - it's not super sweet but a nice balance to the lemons of my main dish. The chocolate is a thick layer of ganache and shows that one of the greatest loves stories in the world will always be chocolate and orange.

Vivo

I'm at a super fancy tapas restaurant I discovered walking around earlier looking for the English bookstore. This place has a wonderfully Gatsby-like feeling: blue and coral colored velvet chairs, gold lavaliere lamps, black and white marble floors, clean lines, mirrored bar service. I've had a line from one of the film versions of the novel stuck in my head: "You were always the one in the cool grey shirts," but I think I'm butchering Daisy Buchanan's words. Still, I feel remarkably posh sitting in a place like this.

I discovered the drink vermouth yesterday during my tapas crawl and it's become my new favorite drink, so I order it again. It's deliciously sweet, tasting of cherries and chocolate, perfect for sipping by a fire...or a fire-red brick wall, like I'm currently doing. Croquettes jamon appear and God bless the potato. It's so creamy inside and crunchy outside with little meat surprises throughout. I've only got two of them - I'm so sad.

I also heard about pan con tomate yesterday and I'm excited to try such a simple but beloved dish: bread rubbed with garlic and smeared with tomato. The first slice is crunchy but also tastes kind of stale. However, I can taste the garlic, a super pungent kick to the bright tomato. The second slice is a bit soggy and I'm a little disappointed. The dishes arrive in quick order - I'm sort of unused to it after eating in France for six weeks. The atmosphere - filled with the murmered conversations and a low hum that matches the dimmed lights - is marred when an entitled tourist keeps calling, "Excuse me! I want pasta!" to his waiter and then proceeds to carry on a loud, tonal conversation on his cell phone. I wish I weren't facing him.

I dig into the cheese plate - each type unidentified to me so it's a guessing game of tastes. Crispy toasted bread accompanies the fromage, along with perfect little squares of quince paste, which I could eat entirely on its own, and a red sauce I discover is a very sweet and concentrated tomato jam. The first cheese I try is medium, tastes very much of vinegar, and is probably a sheep's milk. It's got just enough funk and is like a brie-blue cheese hybrid. The next cheese is much harder, breaking into shards like a Gran Pedano and that's what it tastes like - that wonderful smoky sharp nuttiness. There are seeds in the rind, but further tasting reveals they're actually grains of wheat. The third cheese tases like a really creamy white cheddar. I love eating this one with the crostini - I'm suddenly having a grilled cheese sandwich.

A waiter places a plate in front of that annoying tourist with a very deliberate, "And a pasta!" The tourist leans in real close to get a good look at it.

"This is pasta?" he demands, despite just being told so.

"Yes, it is cannelloni," the waiter responds before walking away. I'm so grateful I no longer work in food or customer service - I'd roll my eyes so hard and say something incredibly sarcastic with a smile on my face, knowing they couldn't understand me.

The next cheese is similar to the second in texture and taste, but much sharper and maybe a bit more brown-ale tasting. Oh, wait. It tastes like walnut - that becomes obvious when I pop the golden nugget in my mouth and I can't distinguish between the two individual flavors.

The last cheese is very hard but crumbles in my mouth. It tastes like a very subtle parmigiana and I'm wishing for more variety. Three hard cheeses all in the same family?

I can't decide if I'm still hungry but I've got time to kill before the flamenco performance I'm going to this evening, so I ask for potatoes bravas because.... potatoes. These are everything - crispy and soft, delicate and hearty. A sweet but spicy tomato sauce smothers them, as does a cheesy queso. I've eaten a lot of good food while I've been here - this is by far my favorite. This is something else I'll attempt when I get home.

I have no idea where to find queso in Paris.

Palacio de Flamenco

There are just some pictures from your childhood that you remember. I've got three: one of me in a knit sweater and cap, laying on a blanket when I was about six months old. My grandmother took that one. Then there's one when I was about seven and my brother five. I was dressed in a bunny costume and my brother had wriggled himself into one of my bathing suits, silver with big polka dots and a peplum, and his big curly hair sticking every which way. The last was taken on the steps of our home in Scotland. My brother was in the photo, but he was just wearing everyday clothes. I, on the other hand, the four -year-old, was dressed in a full flamenco costume: white with red polka dots and red fringe. I had red fringe earrings dangling and mixing into my already long hair. I've always loved this picture of me. I thought my mom had bought the dress for me when we were stationed in Spain and saved it until I was big enough to wear it, but she later told me that Lolo and Lola (her grandparents) brought it back to San Francisco for her after a trip the two of them to Seville in the 60's. To remind her of her de los Santos roots, they told her. She saved it for me, even before there was me.

I've always loved flamenco dancing - it's loud and I can feel it in my body. I think its the same reason I love haka - it's powerful and has roots that go generations deep. It's a cultural experience, not just dance. The slamming of shoes, the beating of chests, the opening of the hands up into the world. This is in the blood of the Spanish people. I learn that the singing is always improvised; the show I went to was Gypsy Flamenco - it had something to do with the Romani people but was a style mandated by Franco's dictatorship, that specific higher pitched, throat clearing singing.

I'm such a mixed bag of ethnicities; I've never been immersed in any of them (except now that I'm living in Paris, I guess the French, but I still don't feel connected to it here - I blame my inability to speak the language of Rousseau and Voltaire and de Beauvoir and Proust). The closest I would get was when the Navy wives would make pancit and lumpia to fund raise. But watching this...I'm reminded of where I originated from and I've never felt more invested or excited about a part of my heritage that I never really embraced or acknowledged. I start to cry when the final dance starts and they show up in the traditional flamenco dresses that look like that one I was wearing in the picture. The four-year-old in me wants to get out there and mimic the movements. So does the thirty-two-year-old.

February 13

Barcelona Beach

I think I've figured out why this city, this place, calls to me. At least, one reason why it does.

Every time I'm at my mom's house, I make time to watch my baby videos (No, Corey, NO! AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!) and to flip through worn photo albums, covered in pink fabric with rose patterns. They're full of photos from when my mom was stationed in Rota. A lot of the them are from before I was born; aged yellow, my mom in bottle cap thick-lensed glasses, my dad in hair just long enough to pass muster, the shorts on the men of the squadron playing volleyball, the furniture in her apartment - all so distinctly 1980's. But it's the colors - not just the mustard ephemera quality - but the oranges, the blushes, the sky blues - that echo and mirror my time here in Barcelona. It's the Mediterranean, the sun, the terra cotta. I've been fortunate to return to my birthplace a couple of times, the last in 2006 (I think) with my mom. It's not easy for a military brat who constantly moves to return to any one place. It had been nearly twenty years since she was there and that trip is full of the stories she told me, the places she'd frequent. An ice-cream shop she'd stop at after a 12-hour watch on her way home when she was pregnant with me. The beach where I became a daughter of the sea. It's a nostalgia that I'm hearing here; stories of my own I don't remember experiencing, memories of wonder looking at old photographs. Yes, Rota is in a vastly different region of Spain, but I'm on the same coast I was thirty-two years ago.

It's as if I'm home - a very strange feeling for the daughter of a sailor. And my home is made up of the same senses I've had most everywhere I've lived: the sound of crashing waves - here, camping on the beach on Lanai'i, sunning myself at the resort island of Ischia, walking Cane in Winthrop; the warming sun - here, getting burnt my first day visiting Roomie on Oahu, a chilly but bright fall day at a playground with my grandmother in Strawberry Bank, the lack of it on midnight drives to Salisbury with Jason; the tottering sand - here, the searing heat of grains at Crane Beach, the sandcastle I built with my swimsuit falling down in North Carolina. The beach has been the soundtrack, the set, the dialogue of my life and I'm just realizing the next time I'll be on a beach will be in two weeks: Omaha Beach. A place with a history I only share in because of my citizenship. A history dark and deadly and costly.

Will that water give me the same life I take from the water in front of me now?