At Home, part 9

Mike planned to work on Friday and take a plane to Barcelona that night, so the other five of us fit into the Mercedes. We set out early, because this was to be an eight-hour drive. And again the scenery was stunning. As we crossed from central to eastern Spain we passed through many different kinds of terrain—green, misty hills, dry red mountains, flat brown deserts. Howie and I shared the driving, and we learned what I hadn’t known about a long driving trip in Spain—there is always a handy gas station and a nice restaurant when you need to stop. Roads are reasonably maintained, and the signs are fine once you understand how to read them.

As we entered Catalunya (Catalonia), the region of which Barcelona was the capital, we saw the language on the signs change to Catalán, which looked like a hybrid of French and Spanish. Under Franco, national subgroups had been fiercely repressed, forbidden to speak their own dialects. But the Catalans had nurtured their culture in secret, and after Franco’s death they began a movement to revive and support their heritage. Now Catalán was taught to all schoolchildren in Catalunya, and there was a thriving literature in the language.

Dusk descended as we entered Barcelona, and as easy as the drive from Madrid had been, we were in a nightmare trying to find our hotel. We circled and backtracked in the confusing streets, taking turns trying to interpret the map. Again we landed on the kind of elegant solution only Howie and Gail seemed able to find: We hired a taxi driver to lead us to our hotel.

On the suggestion of my folks we stayed at the Hotel Colón, which they had liked so much. But we did it with Bancotel coupons, like the ones we had used in Badajoz, so we saved a ton of money over the high rates they had paid. And we never heard the cathedral bells that had kept them awake.

We met Mike at the hotel, cleaned up a bit, and went to see the cathedral, just across the square. It was beautifully lit at night—a different experience for us. We walked on Las Ramblas, a wide median that ran down the main avenue of the old part of the city, filled with lively pedestrian traffic and many vendors of flowers, birds, and books. Then we entered the small side streets, walking to the Praça del Pi, where we found a good restaurant for dinner and had fideua, a Catalan dish that is similar to paella but has thin noodles in place of rice.

Saturday we used the car to take a long drive past the famous apartment buildings designed by Antoni Gaudí, with their voluptuous stone facades, to see his Sagrada Familia church, still under construction. It was a spectacular sight, with sinuous carvings and nature-based ornamentation. We waited in line for the elevator trip to the highest point in the church, which gave us a great view of the city as well as of the still-bare bones of the cathedral itself.

Then, because we had kids whose patience was limited, we were delighted to see a KFC across the street and treat them to lunch there.

We visited Parc Güell, a city park boasting many structures designed by the flamboyant Gaudí, who favored rounded shapes and colorful ornamentation. There was a well-known terrace decorated with a tile mosaic that undulated along a plateau, and a famous multicolored lizard sculpture that delighted the kids. “Take my picture with the lizard!” Lisa demanded.

On the other side of town was another park, Montjuic, where we reluctantly skipped some fine museums in order to take the kids on a funicular ride up the cliff to see the remains of a fort. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said to Howie.

“Nah, I like the ride as much as I would have liked the museum, I’m sure,” he said. “And I know the girls like it better!” On the way back to the hotel we drove through the site of the 1992 Olympics.

After a rest we were ready for dinner, but as we left the hotel we were stunned by the sight in front of us. About a hundred people were out on the plaza between the hotel and the cathedral, doing a joyful yet decorous circle dance. I could hardly breathe. I saw the kids’ eyes open wide. And then I remembered that we had two great dance aficionados with us.

“What is it?” Howie whispered after a few minutes.

“I don’t know,” Mike said, eyes fixed on the dance. Many of the women wore full-skirted red-and-white-checked dresses. The dancers were all ages, from elderly men to teenage girls. Cheerful music with a folk sound played from a speaker somewhere as the smiling dancers turned and skipped in their circles all over the plaza.

We watched, rapt, for a good half hour before moving on to find the restaurant we’d chosen, and the magical feeling stayed with us. The dance, I learned, was the sardana, a Catalan folk dance that was done regularly all over the region. It was a part of the Catalan culture that Franco had tried to stamp out, but he had clearly failed.

We floated along to Los Caracoles, a restaurant my parents had recommended to us. There were a dozen spits full of roasting chickens outside the place, which excited the girls—chicken was their favorite restaurant meal, but it was hard to come by in Spanish restaurants, as it was considered to be home food, not fancy enough for eating out. The place was packed with locals and tourists alike, and the menus were translated into half a dozen languages. The kids especially liked the caracoles that gave the place its name—rolls in the shape of snail shells.

The next day our five intrepid car travelers made it back to Madrid, and Mike flew, since we knew the long drive would be miserable if we tried to squeeze all six of us into the little Mercedes. Howie and Gail left the next day by train for Sevilla, where they hoped to see some serious flamenco, and we returned to our routine.