Notes from Spain: Yes, sir, that British audioguide will work just fine
Language can get in the way when you travel to another country, and that apparently can involve some Americans who would prefer to speak English their own way, thank you very much.
We were at Casa Battló in Barcelona, a remarkable bit of architecture I wrote about in this post. The operators offer an audioguide, and while in the queue to get a pair, we were standing near an American man who suddenly got rather panicky.
“I need English,” he was exclaiming, while looking at the language options.
The clerk assured him that English was provided, and pointed to the icon for the Union Jack, near the flags of other nations to indicate guests can also listen in German, Japanese, Italian and numerous other languages.
He was not assured.
“No, no,” he said. “I’m American! That’s Britain!”
It emerged that he did not understand that the English used in the United Kingdom — which includes, um, England itself — would suit him.
I bit my tongue as this unfolded, and as the patient clerk demonstrated how the British form of English would work just fine.
I wonder if they could just put a tiny sticker of the Stars and Stripes over the Union Jack when this kind of thing happens.
Earlier this month, we spent 10 days in Spain (and about a day in total getting there and back), and I honestly would dart back there now for another 10 if I could. Martha’s mother emigrated from Spain in 1960 with her Ukrainian husband, and there are still plenty of cousins there. We stayed with Hari in Barcelona and Beatriz and Miguel in Madrid.
Martha has of course been there many times since childhood, while this was only my second time visiting Spain. I noticed a few things along the way.
I’m tall. That can be a problem in Spain
At 6’6″, I’m used to lowering my head in a lot of places at home. I had a few challenges, to say the least, in Spain (including a nasty bang in a parking garage at El Escorial, when I was trying to duck under a parking garage door and failed to clear it.
I took the photo above in Madrid. While Martha was trying on some clothes at a shop, I found myself in need of a washroom, and broke down to visit a nearby Starbucks. Directed to the upstairs facilities, I found a door so low that the hinge was below my earlobe.
I ducked my upper body through, and found that I could barely straighten my spine. It was an older building — a familiar scenario in rural Newfoundland, and the experience reminded me of banging my head on exposed beams every darn morning when we stayed at a renovated cottage in Trinity Bay.
The subway in Madrid is superb. You can get around the city quickly and inexpensively on the Metro, and it’s easy to map out a journey. Not so easy: the roofs in older stations are low. I mean, how-low-can-you-go low.
There’s rain in Spain. It’s refreshing
“The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain,” taught the musical My Fair Lady — which may have been all right for elocution but not so much for geography. The rain in Spain actually stays around the mountains.
That said, while the hot summer months in Spain can be notoriously dry, it’s not that unusual to encounter rain in the spring, and we had a few encounters with rainfall.
On one afternoon in Barcelona, it rained for a few hours, and it was refreshing. Earlier, Martha’s cousin Hari and I decided to walk up some hills to catch the funicular railway to get to the top of Tibidabo, the mountain that overlooks all of Barcelona. (There’s a Biblical root to the name. The phrase “haec omnia tibi dabo” is Latin for “all this I will give to you,” reflecting the mountaintop temptation the Devil put before Jesus.)
Maybe it’s because I’m a Newfoundlander, but my suspicion of large black clouds kicked into high gear as we were climbing higher and higher.
Wisely, I think, Hari and I decided to take a pause in our uphill hike. We whiled a way a bit of time with a couple of beers in a taverna. Smart guy, that Hari.
The rain put a dash to a return visit to Tibidabo, which I did get to see in 2018, and which is truly odd: an old-school amusement park jammed next to a modern neo-Gothic Catholic church. I’d like to return some day.
Instead, we trotted back down the hill, hopped the subway and met up with Martha at the end of a business meeting that influenced the timing of our overdue trip to Spain. The three of us sauntered around the downtown parts of Barcelona, from the tourist traps to the back alleys, dashing through the rain and eventually stopping for a really wicked meal of Indian food.
And it rained and rained. Again, the Newfoundlander in me was impressed that my umbrella did not once buckle or turn inside out from the wind … there just wasn’t any.
Dinner time is close to bed time
I’m an early riser by nature and during my last trip became accustomed to the late starts for evening meals in Spain. A lot of our dinners were with family at home, but even when going out, expect to eat late.
Sure, a lot of the tourist-oriented places will serve meals to designed for hungry tourists and their normal schedules, but if you’re going to go to Spain, go Spanish. As much tourist advice will tell you, a place that loudly says “TAPAS BAR” on the sign is appealing to visitors, not locals, and probably does not have great food.
The same goes for the time for dinner. Forget 6 o’clock. Have a snack. Dinner time is often 9 p.m. Go with it. You’re on vacation.
One evening, we met up in Barcelona with Irene, the daughter of one of Martha’s cousins. She picked Berbena, a small restaurant that has attracted Michelin Guide attention, and deservedly so. It specializes in a nose-to-tail approach to using overlooked parts of animals, as well as seasonal vegetables and intense flavours. I snapped this photo when we wrapped up, just before midnight.
Some of the best food I had were in tight corners. A guideline that proved to be frequently true: the more of a hole in the wall it looked, the more awesome the food. We didn’t get there this visit, but one of best meals I’ve ever had in Spain was in the micro-sized Bar Tomas in the Serrià neighbourhood. (It closed for all of August when we were there, and our meal that Sept. 1 was legendary.)
Family dinners, though, were the best. On the night before our flight home, Beatriz and Miguel hosted a terrific meal, with three other relatives joining us. Food was prepped in the kitchen and we sat down for a homemade feast. I’ll never forget it.