“Please make sure your tray table is in its upright locked position” is the familiar request signaling it’s time to transition from runway to sky and let the plane’s purring engines begin swallowing the miles separating us from Barcelona, Spain.
Taxiing into town we pass what appears to be apartments snuggled into the slopes of Montjuic Hill, but a closer inspection reveals the only ones calling this home have long since departed. It happens to be the 57 acre Montjuïc Cemetery said to contain the cremations and burials of over one million people!
Fortunately bustling Barcelona radiates a much livelier atmosphere. Spunky Spaniards are busy socializing on the corners of pretty Jacaranda-lined ramblas fantasizing over the future or chewing on the past while chuckling with chums and sipping coffee from tiny cups better sized to a hamster.
Putting our feet on the street and allowing the old Spanish city to introduce itself, wrinkles of concern form on our nose. As an aroma of ‘eau-de-sewer’ wafts up from an ancient sewer system we find it odd that a city with such amazing architecture has yet to master the science of sewage.
Zany and unique creations of the long gone architect Gaudi abound, and with his flamboyant flair for the wacky, wavy, and whimsical, it’s understandable how the oddball superstar of his day was responsible for spawning the English term ‘gaudy’. His crowning jewel, Sagrada Familia, is a colossal conglomeration of complexly carved concrete, under construction since 1882; and the never-ending build has already taking ten times longer than it took to build the great pyramids of Egypt.
But Barcelona is no stranger to construction folly. In 1888, Gustave Eiffel’s offer to build the Eiffel Tower in the city was rejected for fear of it becoming a skyline eyesore and offending city residents. The city’s loss turned into a windfall for Paris, and it seems truly ironic it became so iconic as one of the most loved structures on the planet!
The city’s labyrinthine network of streets and alleys fools our sense of direction at nearly every turn, and most of our time is spent getting lost, getting unlost, then getting lost again. Passing hoofed haunches of ham dangling in shop windows we walk a timeworn alleyway into the Raval neighbourhood. Ay caramba; before us stands a bronzed pussy of preposterous proportions! At 12’ long, 5’ tall, and a whopping 1.2 tons; this monster mouser is non-other than the famous ‘Botero Cat’.
From lively Placa Catalunya Square we stroll beneath towering trees lining a giant pedestrian boulevard called La Rambla. Human statues and other eccentrics do their best here to loosen tourist Euros, and with pickpockets keen to accomplish the same damn thing, we keep our possessions tight!
‘Erotic Museum’ has a Marilyn Munroe look-alike model posing as a seductive prop to lure in customers. Feebly attempting to stop a white skirt from being blown up by a fan, she is a near-perfect takeoff on the iconic subway grate scene from the movie ‘The Seven Year Itch’.
Manteros, mostly of African descent, clutter La Rambla’s sidewalks selling illegal and bogus merchandise from Asia. The charlatans are nicknamed ‘Blanket Men’ because the goods are spread out on blankets with a web of rope tied to each corner so the goods can instantly gathered up to flee any approaching police.
‘El Bosc de les Fades’ (Fairy Forest) bar is so well hidden that a pack of bloodhounds would have trouble finding it wrapped in bacon! But wandering a tangle of lumpy backstreets we eventually stumble upon the bizarre Bar-celona oddity and enter into a dimly lit and fraudulent forest. Taking a seat at a tree-trunk table we sip a glass of wine; surrounded by whimsical fairies, mannequins, a floating corpse, and demons lurking in the mirrors!
Montjuic Magic Fountain delights millions each year and many leave their hearts. However I take it a step further and leave my sole. Climbing the colossal stairway I trip over a rubber bottom just separated from my sandals. Like the sole, I too become unglued, and forced to hobble back to the hotel listening to a silly flippity-floppity melody courtesy of a newly acquired limb discrepancy.
After ten overpriced days in congested Barcelona, Christine’s work project is finished and we nourish our spirits by hopping across the border into Portugal. A bus drops us off in the center of Lisbon at famous Rossio Square. In honor of the sea, alternating waves of white and black rocks in the plaza play tricks with the eyes and provide a nauseous feeling if looked at for too long.
If your main daily exercise is brushing your teeth then getting to our lodging may put you in trouble. It requires panting up 200 stone stairs from the street, and then up another three flights of interior stairs steep enough to cause a mountain goat angst! Having just stared in our own version of ‘Stair Wars’ we are shown a dispiriting room that even a gerbil would find claustrophobic.
Unfortunately the building was crippled by the largest earthquake in history back in 1755, and never properly repaired, now looks just a sneeze away from total collapse! Crafty owners required our payment in advance, which means the calamitous has to suffice as home, unsweet home, for the next three days.
Taking a train to the village of Sintra, Christine and I check out the Palace of Quinta da Regaleira, then climb the Santa Maria Trail to the Palace of Pena and Moorish Castle. We head back to Lisbon and replace the consumed calories with a cherry liqueur called Ginjinha, a glass of green wine, and an octopus salad pummeled to perfection.
After exploring a rabbit warren of alleyways in the Alfama and Mouraria districts we stroll into Lisbon’s Red Light district. The once a notorious street, where sailors swarmed the brothels and bars for a night of delight, underwent a revitalization process which seems to have got ‘lust in translation’.
Some Albert Swinestein decided to paint the main street a garish pink and rename it ‘Pink Street’. What a bunch of hogwash; pigs look good in pink, streets do not! Adding to the street’s tacky transition, a life-size plastic porker is tethered upside down to one of the former brothel’s exterior walls!
We check out the Monument to the Discoveries and Belem Tower on the banks of Tagus River, and then travel to Cascais for some cycling. Riding out of town we pause beside a beach statue of a giant red right hand, which imbeds in our heads the ‘Peaky Blinders’ theme as we ride past Boca de Inferno to the sand dunes of Guincho Beach.
Signing the divorce papers with Lisbon, a short flight plunks us down in the uphill-downhill city of Porto for the next six nights. The tortuously hilled city is chockablock with the charm of elderly buildings of granite still standing proud. These include the majestic São Bento train station; beautifully adorned with over 20,000 decorative ceramic tiles depicting Portugal’s past with everything from weddings to wars.
Across the bridge in Gaia a stroll along the shore of the Douro River takes us past old square-sailed boats called ‘Rabelos’, once used for transporting barrels of Porto wine. Among the plethora of tiled-roofed port cellars we stop for dinner and order Francesinha or ‘Little Frenchie’.
Not for those with a calorie phobia, the monster conglomeration is thick bread heaped sky-high with cured ham, sausage, and beef; then covered in gooey cheese and a beer based gravy. Oh yes, and it comes with an Everest of fries on the side!
The culinary pride and joy of the city may be love at first bite, but with the artery-clogging carbo-bomb containing a scandalous 1000 calories per portion; it’s likely to have weight watchers coming apart at the seams from their dietary infidelity. Sharing one of the devilish dishes between us, Christine and I still manage to waddle out of the restaurant fuller than a centipede’s sock drawer!
Walking back through Porto we are surprised to be escorted inside a cordoned off area hosting some sort of a Military exhibition. The Portuguese obviously have a lot of national pride, but this meager display consists of only a couple of aged planes, a marine inflatable, and a geriatric tank. Still, I suppose it’s good to know they’re well equipped to defend themselves should Luxembourg ever decide to go rogue!
Continuing our walk we come to a cute little pooch trained to beg by expectantly holding a plastic cup in his mouth for spare change while his busking owner tortures a scuffed accordion. Nearby, a fellow plays mournful Fado music on his guitar and seems to be serenading an infatuated seagull sharing the same wooden park bench.
At a restaurant called Casa Teresa our salmon and calamari dinners are served with zero greens – only nine potatoes and bread. Like most places in plumping Porto the scurvy-prone meals are a caloric catastrophe, and we’ve got to get ourselves out of here before we end up with an overabundance of flesh trying to make an escape for freedom from the confines of our clothes!
Breathing in the salty Portuguese air we cycle the coastal road to the village of Miramar and it’s Chapel of the Lord of Stone. Completely surrounded by beach with high tide licking its base, the 17th century chapel looks like the sea could easily swallow it whole; yet still it somehow stands.
From Porto’s Sao Bento train station we ride the rails 120 km along the edge of the Douro River past endless rows of vines and small villages clinging to steep hillsides to the most beautiful railway station of the Douro; Pinhao Station. The walls are decorated with 3,047 glazed ceramic tiles that form 24 beautiful panels depicting the Douro Valley’s production of Port wine; from the grape harvest to the wine’s transport down the river to the cellars in Gaia.
Locals tell us that grapes used in the production of any wines worth worshipping are all stomped by foot. Apparently the ‘toe-tally’ intensive process requires a team of arms-across-shoulders stompers, whose efforts crush the grapes, but not the seeds or stems; thus reducing any bitter flavor from unwanted debris. Fortunately for us it’s always wine o’clock here in world class corkscrew country, and we sit down at a cozy little bar to indulge in a little Grape Therapy, because like duct tape, wine fixes everything!
Compared to the usual hullabaloo and energy we’re accustomed to in Asia, this year’s holiday could likely bore the bark off a tree; but at least it has served as a brief tide over until we can arrange for a more exotic destination to arouse our traveling spirits.
At the conclusion of our Lufthansa flight back to Canada, a little glitch in communication from our ‘English as a second language’ Captain results in his somewhat peculiar flight announcement; “Thanks for staying with us for the entire flight”.
W.T.F. – did ‘El Capitan’ think that perhaps we were contemplating jumping out somewhere over Iceland!
Mark Colegrave November 2017