March 2014

Witty Walk - Part 1

3/16/14

Authors Note, May 22, 2015.  This story was originally written as a three part letter over the course of a few days,  with the original intention of it being sent via email only to my immediate family.  The other stories referenced herein, will appear in this blog at a later date.  

A great many things have happened since the Witty Walk in February. Not the least of which were two delightful Saturdays wandering around Barcelona with Marta. 

I'll need to revisit them a little later , but for now I'm going to share with you my, our latest walk.  I say ours, because Bonnie was able to rearrange her student schedule and join the group on Saturday. 

This walk centered around a nice hike up to a hermitage and a local traditional meal 

after the hike. Catalunya, is a province of Spain that once was and may again be, an independent country.  It has it's own culture and language.  These two remaining features of it's long and sorted history are now being ignored by the central government of Spain, in Madrid. It is the strife between Madrid, the capital of Spain and Barcelona, the capital of Catalunya that has brought about a referendum on whether Catalunya should secede from Spain and once again become an independent  country. See, Catalan Independence.  

Marta, Bonnie, Josephine, Jordi & Isaabel

The five of us from the previous walk all met up in town near the on-ramp for the road out of town. Like last time, Marta drove her red Renault station wagon.  The group was to  meet at the central plaza of Montblanc. A walled village dating back to the Medieval or Middle Ages period of Europe.  This village is now only about an hour and a half by car from Barcelona but it was once part of the frontier between the Christian and Islamic parts of Catalunya. 

The hermitage that we hiked up to was built away from

The view from the Hermitage

the village on top of a mountain overlooking the valley. It was used by the monks as a hideaway for them and their works. They could see if there was trouble in the valley and hide themselves and manuscripts not only in the hermitage, but in the surrounding cliffs and caves. 

We sat in a cafe located on the plaza and enjoyed a cafè con leche (coffee with milk) and a croissant, while the group gathered.  As before, the group was comprised of veteran walkers, newbies, and those of us who were somewhere in the middle. We were made up of English, Spanish, American, Chinese and a few from other countries. I would say we numbered between 25 and 35.  Micheal gave the call and we were off. 

It was a beautiful day.  Blue sky, sunshine and a mild enough temperature to make hiking a

A Beautiful Day

pleasure.  It took us a little over an hour to hike the trail up, carting only light packs. The hermitage was built by men and animals carrying materials on their backs, as the trail up the mountain was much too steep and forbidding for carts. 

Once we reached the hermitage  we were met by the old men working on it.  20 some years ago, the villagers put in a road up the backside of the mountain so they could get up to the hermitage and rebuild it. Through the ages it had been abandon and had become derelict. Even though the workmen had to use modern materials to rebuild much of it, the sanctuary, which was carved out of the cliff, was preserved. They had built a new hermitage for people to enjoy, to meditate and to pray. 

Bonnie & me, loitering

We loitered at the top taking in the view, the nearby cave and having a snack. We didn't want to spoil our appetites even though our appetites were now  getting much of our attention, because down in the village was our two o'clock lunch which held out the promise of being a very entertaining feast. It was, but you will have to wait too. It's bedtime for me. 

I'm getting up early tomorrow for the. 45 minute walk down to the school Bonnie went to. They have a Spanish class starting at 9:30 and I'm going to go see if I can get in at the

last minute. It's time for that and for bed.

Witty Walk - Part 2
3/18/14

The class was full, so they put me on hold. Maybe tomorrow.  I walked the 45 minutes up to the other school near my apartment. I really like walking in this city and lately I have not been doing enough of it. The pictures show it. Perhaps my shirt has shrunk since I've been here, but without a dryer, that's unlikely. 

Dryers are rare in Europe and virtually nonexistent here.  Because everything is smaller

Clothes on the line

here, except my burgeoning waistline, the space for a dryer is at a premium. That coupled to the fact that some things change slowly here. Top that off with the high cost of energy and a dryer becomes an unnecessary appliance. Since there isn't a winter in the strict sense, a clothes line works just fine. 

I'm sorry!   Are you still waiting for me to get on with the story? Game on.

The hike down was just a casual stumble down the side of the mountain. It's a good thing the feast wasn't at the top, given the amount of wine that passed the lips of those thirsty Witty Walkers at the feast, or it may have been more like a relaxed tumble. 

It's very typical to have a menu offered at the restaurant or cafe. The menu is not what is offered on the "card", or what we think of as the menu. Here the menu is the special of the day, with a delightful twist. It's laid out in courses. Each course usually has no less than three choices. To drink the choice is red. Of course you can order something else to drink, but why would you when Catalunya has such

Drinking from the Parron

delicious wines. A Catalan red will make you glad you aren't dead, or so the saying I just made up goes.  

We were given the choice of the standard menu for the day or a traditional Catalan menu. That choice took all of a second of my life to make.  When we sat down at the long table the wine choice had been predetermined.  The Porrons were all full with the house red, but just for laughs the restaurant put water on the table too. Apparently they thought we were going to bathe before dinner.

Eating Calcots

There is an onion indigenous to the region known as a calçots.  It seems to be either a cross between a leek and green onion. The fertilizer for their green onions comes only from the bulls. These onions have some serious size to them. They are bathed in olive oil and then placed on a large grill outside, not unlike the monster BBQ grills those southern boys use to do up a pig.   They are grilled until the outer layer is almost charcoal. Then they are served piping hot. Now the fun begins ….

If you don't want to look like a truck driver who has is trying to eat a hot dog with everything while weaving through traffic, you put on the giant bib they have given you. That's because you grab the onion by the top and peel the outer layer off by sliding it off. This leaves your fingers as black as night and produces an irresistible itch on your nose. The pour souls with that itch on their eye end up becoming the massacre demons. 

Once you have slid the outer husk off you now generously dip the onion in the special sauce. Fortunately these people have never worked at McDonalds, so the sauce is not only safe to eat, but it tastes nice. You now lift this onion dripping with tasty sauce over your head and try to hit your mouth. This really would be a great roadside sobriety test. 

After about 30 of these delicious little fellers and that other jug of wine, you now have one black eye and a red sauce eye. Now the beauty of a bib that goes to your knees makes all the sense in the world, even if you can't, after the second jug of wine.   Of course I exaggerated all this. After all,  we were all responsible adults who think that eating, drinking, and laughing way too much is irresponsible, unbecoming and well beneath us…. Or am I exaggerating again? 

The second course was comprised of typical meats.  A pork sausage, a blood sausage that no amount of wine can make eatable and lamb chops. Just for fun they also put beans in this course. As if a kilo of onions isn't going to create a disturbance in you that can only make the car ride home a pucker or die situation. You have to hand it to the restaurant people for their sense of humor.   

The desert course was a dish that is called Catalan Cream. It closely resembles Crème brûlée. The cream is similar to that of a brûlée, but not quite as dense and slightly less flavorful, but very nice in its own right. The topping of caramelized sugar is the same as the brûlée.    It's important to keep in mind Catalunya boarders France and over the centuries has lost some of its territory to France and in particular, French Catalonia.  There is a French connection to this area of northern Catalunya that goes back a very long way in history. 

The feast closed with the announcement that the next walk was going to be in May. There wouldn't be one in April due to the Easter holiday. The walk in May would end with Clive, one of Michael's English pals, or mates as they say, putting on a BBQ.  It sounds like the food is starting to get as much attention on these hikes as the hike itself. I can't see a problem with that though.  Count me in.  

The Witty Walk was over, but we 5 were about to start the second leg of our adventure. More on that in Part 3.   I have to go get some plumbing parts now. 

First the updates

I'll get the plumbing parts tomorrow. We have another Spanish Water problem to solve. Remind me later to expound on just what Spanish Water is.  I can tell you this though; it seems to be a problem without end. 

I'm starting Spanish classes on Monday at a school here in the city. I'll be going from 9 - 1, five days a week for 4 weeks. I'm hoping there won't be much homework because I still want to get some work done each day on the apartment. 

Now I'll be a morning Metro commuter and I'll work long days, like everyone else. I'm glad it's only a month. I'm not sure if I could take much more of that. Although, I am planning on going to France for a few days after Easter, so maybe I should take one week of French too,  just to see if my head will explode! 

Now on with the story.

We 5 are; Marta the personal assistant, Jordi, the construction manager, Josephine , the Canadian- Dutch-New Zealander ( she has 3 passports ) ex -pat, church receptionist &freelance English teacher,  Isabel, the school teacher and myself. There seems to be some confusion over the title for my pigeon hole. Not that a great many names haven't been hurled. 

Today's title is 

factotum (plural factotums)

1. (dated) A person having many diverse activities or responsibilities

This title hunt came about because one evening while Marta and I were wandering around town we sat down for a bit to eat and she began to muse over what to call me. I call myself a carpenter, but here that title means you are only a carpenter. I mentioned that I have the same situation in the States. I told her I can go by Handy Man too, but she said that sounds like you are just handy around the house. It's not really a profession. I said I could be a Professional Handy Man. That got a laugh. She said in Spain that would be like a joke. 

We finished the conversation with my pigeon hole being untitled. Now that she has come to know me better though, she understands that trying to pigeon hole me is a lost cause. I had to agree,  but I consulted the dictionary one last time, just the same. To say you are a Factotum sounds like you should see a doctor.  I guess you can't title a pigeon hole if there isn't one . 

Bonnie got a ride in another car since ours was full,  so she was not able to carry on with us after the feast. She went with her hosts back to the car via the chocolate shop that had delightful treats. A few of which made it home. 

We set out on a walking tour of this Medieval village of narrow winding streets,

curious little shops and a battle of the drum corps. It just so happened that as we were wandering around we came to the street were the various drum corps who had come for the competition were parading their way to the town square. 

We stood in an adjacent alleyway as no less than 2 dozen drum corps comprised of young and old, bangers  bongers and boomers, went marching or dancing by in their uniforms and costumes. The beats were contagious and before long everyone on the street was shukin' and jivin' to the beats. As the last group passed by, we merrily danced our way on down the road.

Montblanc, Catalunya

We twisted and turned through the streets as we circled our way up to the Santa Maraia church. We have all seen the pictures of the Medieval village built on a knoll with the church at the apex, the enormous wall surrounding the village with its towers, iron gates and moat.  We were now at the apex. 

Jordi and I were of course comparing architectural features and technics and

Santa Maraia

discovering nuances in the construction that we just had to share with the less interested group. We tried to get in,  but the doors were locked.  Apparently even the priest enjoys a good drum beat.  

Montblanc, Catalunya

A few more twists and turns led us to the gate where the car was parked. It was time to head home, but not without a bathroom break first. That meant a restaurant and that meant we should pull up a seat and rest a little too. It also gave us the opportunity to enjoyably pay what I call the toilet tax. Tax is a bit of a misnomer.   I suppose toilet rent would be a better term although it doesn't have the same flow, and after all, isn't that why you're  there?    

When I was truck driving and I would stop at anyplace other than a truck stop to use the bathroom, I always felt compelled to buy something in return for using their facilities.  Hence the self imposed toilet tax.  Of course this was usually a candy bar I simply didn't need, but enjoyed immensely.   I may have had this habit before driving but confused it with just not being able to walk out of the store without a candy bar. 

In the States we have become accustom to free toilets in almost every establishment. Although there are places out East where that is not the case. Given the general attitude of Easterners, I guess I can understand that. Of course pissing yourself because someone won't let you use the toilet will lead to an attitude like that.  Which brings us to the Germans and French. 

The French seem to regard the toilet as an English invention and treat it with the same disdain they have for the English. And just so you know how much they don't like you either, they usually charge you to use the filthy thing. The Germans keep their toilets clean which apparently is why you get to pay for the privilege of seeing just how clean it is. There is not a public toilet in Germany that doesn't have a coin slot and if I know the Germans, and I should by now, I have no doubt there is a video camera trained on it.  What joy they must have in watching the uninitiated   piss themselves while they fumble around for exact change. 

Before leaving for Europe this time my friend Gregory, who had just come back from Europe warned me repeatedly,  to make sure I had plenty of coins in my pockets, because if there isn't a coin slot, there is sure to be someone out in front of the door with their hand out collecting their imposed toilet tax. 

In the month we were in Ireland we never once were expected to pay for the use of a toilet. In all the time we have been in Barcelona I have not seen a pay toilet, or been asked to pay for one. Apparently the fun loving people of Ireland and Catalunya do not share the same feelings as the dour of the world toward the toilet tax.

We had our coffees and cokes, and were off to the city.  Since we had all eaten our fare share of calçots there could be no guilty party on the way home. We got back to the pickup point where Jordi, Josephine and I were to catch our various buses and Metros. Marta and Isabel left us thinking we would catch the appropriate transportation home and call it a day. Jordi had an alternative plan.

A night cap at a Hawaiian Tiki bar he knew of just down the street. We walked just down the street or a mile if that were close enough. This bar was something out of the days when Hawaiian stuff was cool and Tiki was in. I think that was between Frank Sinatra and the Rolling Stones . About the time of Don Ho  and the Beach Boys.  Since that time period was before mine, this was my first authentic Spanish  Hawaiian Tiki experience. 

There was an entire catalog of drinks to choose from. They all had pictures of them in a variety of themed containers. Containers, because I'm not sure if you really can call a porcelain hut a glass. Jordi had the porcelain hut, Josephine had the porcelain coconut with  festive umbrella while I had the porcelain totem pole, or whatever the Hawaiians call them.   You sat at a low table with a 3 foot straw. I'm still trying to sort that idea out. 

Our drinks came and after the first pull of our straws, it was evident that the focus of the drink was on the ambiance and not on the contents. Jordi and Josephine sent theirs back for the rum that was suppose to be in it. I was fine with the ambiance. We enjoyed some more conversation and laughs before venturing out to find a bus that would get us where we wanted to be. 

The mainline bus for Josephine and me had stopped running while we were in

Bus map of Barcelona

the bar, so now we were down to taking the round about route.   Barcelona like most European cities is  crisscrossed with  busses , subways, trams and trains. There is always some way to get you close to where you want to be. Close will do,  because Europeans walk.

We took this bus that would take us to that Metro station which will take her to her stop, him to his and me to mine with only one change. All roads lead to Rome and eventually you can get a Metro or bus to get you home in Barcelona.

This story is over, but I have more to share. Remember Spanish Water?

Darryl