Barcelona Travel Diary Day 3: Gracias Papa

Barcelona's Specialty: Tapas and Gaudi

Monday morning arrived and for the third day in a row, I broke the promise to myself to wake up earlier than everyone and write for two hours. I must admit, for someone who prides themselves on being an early riser, I could definitely adapt to Spanish Hours: waking up at 9:00ish and brunching at 10:00 or 11:00. The night before I sent Pierre a few breakfast spots in our neighborhood, and he chose La Papa. I spied this particular brunch spot the two days before with looooong lines of young, hungry hipsters hanging out into the street.

So the four of us entered La Papa, still yawning, our tummies rumbling from the koobideh the night before, and sat down to a small table facing an impressive espresso machine. After a quick glance at the menu, I realized we were in a vegan restaurant, again. These vegans…they’re relentless in this town, which I respect. This vegetarian rebellion would have to be strong to fight the delicious tide of Iberico on every corner. So Barrett and Pierre ordered Acai bowls, gorgeous in their presentation, topped with sliced strawberries, bananas, and blackberries and sprinkled with chia seeds and coconut shavings. I ordered the overnight oats, drizzled with caramel, pepitas, and a delicate fanning of thinly sliced apples. Bastien, always the risk taker, gambled on gluten free vegan pancakes. While their presentation was impressive, I must confess, their texture was crumbly and somehow, also pasty at the same time. The coffee, on the other hand, was delicious, and with a pat on our backs for our healthy start to the day, we emerged on the brisk streets of Barcelona feeling quite proud of ourselves. In one sitting we had single handedly paid penance for the sins of the night before and the future sins yet in store for us today. Gracias Papa.

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La Sagrada de Familia

Since we committed to this trip six months prior, Pierre has been dreaming of visiting La Sagrada Familia. At this point in our adventures, I was still learning about the great architect, Antoni Gaudi and his substantial contributions to the city of Barcelona. As we approached this epic cathedral, Pierre explained how Guadi refused any investment from the Catholic church and funded this project that he dedicated 43 years to by private donations.

I have visited many cathedrals, basilicas, and temples all over the world; however, La Sagrada Familia has an interesting intention:to thoroughly depict the life of Jesus, the apostles, and the evangelists. There are eighteen towers dedicated to important Biblical figures, 12 for the apostles, four for the evangelists, one for The Virgin Mary, and of course, one for Christ. It’s an interesting monument to Christianity, particularly Evangelical Christianity which I did not expect to see in such a Catholic dominant country. Walking inside the sanctuary feels like you have toppled inside a kaleidoscope, the walls are crafted from a stark white stone but the stained glass windows are vibrant colors: turquoise, sherbet oranges, coral pinks, cerulean blues, hues outside the norm of many cathedrals. At the far end of the sanctuary, there are four pedestals each bearing the symbol of one of the four Evangelists.

Barrett is from a Mormon upbringing, and while he does not practice Mormonism, it’s at unexpected moments such as these where I still find myself learning a new piece of his family’s religion and at times, his default outlook on religious practices. He asked a question about the Apostle Paul, and when I told him the backstory of Saul and the New Testament books and letters penned by the transformed Paul, he mentioned Mormons don’t believe in speaking in tongues. Coming from an Evangelical Christian upbringing myself, I found this fascinating. Religions have a way of cherry picking what they choose to believe in from the Bible and what they may even brand sacrilege or demonic. On the other hand, I have had my share of serious doubts on the validity of these flaming tongues and witnessed first hand the hierarchy established in Evangelical churches over who can and cannot speak in tongues, not to mention observed many cringe worthy charismatic performances.

We continued moving with the crowds through the vast sanctuary, the sound of chisels and picks in the background reminding us all this is a work of art and history in progress, and even now, as we walk beneath these handcrafted arches, we are a part of that intricate history. The lower levels of the Sagrada serve as a museum of religious artifacts and ceremonial pieces. As I was standing in front of a placard about Antoni Guadi’s life, Pierre stood behind me and commented,“Guadi died in an accident. He was hit by a carriage, I believe.”

“A hit and run?” I said, my legs feeling shaky beneath me. “Just like dad. Happens to the best of us, I suppose.” Pierre’s eyes met mine, all love and shared sorrow as he squeezed my hand. “Yes, the best of us, my dear.” Many people don’t know how to show such an affirming act of kindness. In the work of a moment to say: I see you and I grieve alongside you, my darling. We wound through the underground museum reading the history of this building project for the last one hundred and fifty years. While it was interesting, what left a lasting impression on me was this quote from Mother Teresa of Calcutta: “Confession strengthens the soul.”

I was reminded of The Catedral de Barcelona, Christianity has its merits, but one area where it lacks is confession. You can spend forty three years building a monument to a religion you love on your terms, even living your last twenty five years on the premises, but where do you confess your sins, your regrets, your deepest desires? For Gaudi, perhaps it was his art that was his confession, his work ethic, his true religion.

As we walked away from this towering work of art, Pierre checked his phone.“So, Henry is asking if we want to meet for lunch…”

We all nodded in approval.

“I’ll tell him to meet us in the Gothic. I found a Tapas Bar rated a 4.7 on Google.”

Before we started our walk to lunch I popped into a shop to buy a bottle of water. As with most of the convenience stores I visited in Spain, the shop was run by a Punjabi man. Since I felt a sense of camaraderie, I decided to speak English for my transaction.

As I paid for my Evian, the man asked, “where are you from?”

“California.”

He smiled. “No, where is your family from?”

“We’re Punjabi,” I answered accurately but evasively.

Uncle arched an eyebrow, “Punjabi Indian or Pakistani?”

I stood there contemplating my answer. “A bit of both.”

He crossed his arms and turned away from me without a goodbye. Yanking my credit card from his machine, I stepped out into the rainy streets of Spain curious of the ways we devise to build barriers between each other. Seventy five years after partition, there is still so much division in my community. Even as displaced as we all are, our capacity to hate one another knows no borders.

And so, I rejoined my company of three smiling white men on our way to meet a fourth, feeling the weight of my favorite quote from W. B. Dubois: It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.``

Tapas: A Feast for the Senses

The Gothic Quarter is comprised of avenues lined with shopping and restaurants. As you wind through these intricate streets, one can find a variety of offerings from punk vintage to luxury. Markets line the thorough fairs and tapas bar hosts beckon you with promises of space heaters and sangria. I wish I could remember the name of the little gem Pierre found for us. We approached and Henry was waiting for us looking particularly fresh for someone who just disembarked from a red eye flight from Los Angeles. While we live just minutes from Henry, we assembled around a table for the first time in over a year on the other side of the world.

“I’m starving and in a very good mood,” Henry exclaimed. “Order anything off the menu. Lunch is on me.” He waved to a waiter. “We’d like a pitcher or two of Sangria, and just keep it coming please.”

Pierre and Barrett ordered more Tapas than I have ever seen in my life, small little discs topped with delicacies ranging from octopus, to langoustines, Oxtail to mushroom risotto, oysters to steamers. As soon as the tiny platters touched the table, they vanished, empty and scraped clean. As soon as I cleared my plate, a new variety of dainty feasts twirled above our heads, like those visions of sugarplums only described in fairy tales.

And for the second time today, I found myself repeating the mantra of the day: Gracias Papa.

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Afterward, Barrett parted ways for a conference call. I considered joining him to write, but Bastien begged me not to leave him alone with Henry and Pierre. So, I agreed to join just for one glass of wine. The wine bar we stopped by was closed for Siesta, so we wandered into a place called Tandem bar. This was a “Man’s bar” with a capital M where we were greeted by a glossy mahogany bar top, hunter green bar stools swiveled on brass beams, and an old timey cash register of antique gold sputtered and clicked. The average patron was sixty plus and the aroma of cigars wafted into the street. A barkeep pointed us in the direction of the back of the bar complete with four deep leather arm chairs the color of whiskey. We asked for a menu and were told curtly, “we don’t have one.” The hyper masculine vibe demanding you either arrived knowing exactly what you wanted to drink or you could see yourself out. Pierre and Henry ordered Manhattans, Bastien a Pisco Sour, and I an Old Fashioned.

“I knew you were going to order that!” said Henry with a smile.

We spent our time waiting for our cocktails, marveling at the glass cabinet behind us filled with Whiskeys aged ten to thirty years, some bottles worth thousands of Euros. The art hanging on the walls felt akin to an english social club, all horses and bulldogs and putting greens. It was comforting in its stubborn nostalgia: The world may be changing but Tandem Bar remained committed to their patriarchal values.

Once our drinks arrived and we toasted to Spain and to new beginnings.

Henry cleared his throat, “Rachel, I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t say how sorry I am hearing of your late father.”

That phrasing still lingers on my tongue with the aftertaste of an old envelope, bitter and sticky, like old honey.

“Thank you, Henry.”

He took another sip, “Honestly, what a tragedy. How is your mom holding up?”

I sighed, a simple question with a very complicated answer.

We ordered another round of drinks and Henry and Pierre took turns asking me questions about these last couple of months, what it’s been like and how I’ve been processing it all. At one point, I awkwardly apologized. “I’m sorry for still talking about this. It’s just, he’s all I think about.”

Pierre touched my hand, “Don’t ever say that. We are asking.”

As we were finishing our second cocktail, Henry received a call from his wife, just arriving in the city. His whole demeanor changed as he spoke to her, whispering he had purchased her a present and couldn’t wait to see her.

I smiled to myself remembering the iconic line from Casablanca, “In all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…” This setting was the last place I imagined having such a vulnerable conversation.

A little tipsy, we parted ways with Henry and walked back to our hotel to nap before dinner. Again, I promised to write while the others slept, I really did, I just kept finding opportunities that ignited this old feeling from long ago, one sparking a flame deep inside of me reminding me yet again that I truly am alive.

Refreshed, famished and dressed for dinner, the four of us assembled in our hotel bar for an espresso. The young waitress was working tonight, and she served her espressos with a little wedge of brownie as an accompaniment. I liked her.

Feeling a surge of caffeinated bravado, we wound through our neighborhood to a tapas spot I kept noticing was lined with hungry looking hipsters, likely the same ones from outside of La Papa this morning. We couldn’t snag a reservation, but were happy to wait in line with other freezing guests watching La Flautas sail past us on platters delivered tables full of happy faces. “That will soon be us,” my heart thumped in tandem with the growling of my insatiable appetite.

Again, I was enchanted by an inexhaustible feast. Many of the plates were similar to what we ordered for lunch, but the quality was unparalleled at La Flauta. There was octopus grilled on a plancha and served lovingly over a silky sweet potato puree, a platter of glistening Iberico, Wild mushroom risotto-a savory kiss on the lips, flauta con chorizo, grilled asparagus, a rectangle of fish covered in thick layer of cheese. Yes, you read that correctly. At first glance, I refused to eat it. But the aroma was undeniably delicious, and once I saw Pierre take a bite and declare me a fool, I dug in, closed my eyes, and gave myself over to the senses. I don’t need to understand how fish covered in cheese is delicious. This is my food coma fever dream. Let me have it.

Again we sipped glasses of Priorat, until glasses became bottles, dining al fresco under the moonlight, under our aligned stars, and the instagram thirsty gaze of envious millennials, and I found myself whispering my mantra for a third time today: Gracias Papa.