Go Travel Magazine

The streets are narrow, forcing cars to squeeze between one another. My breath stops and my eyes scrunch as each car navigates past another. The concentration needed is like that used to thread a needle, a few millimeters are all that separates them. The buildings, whose facades show the ravages of time and the dampness of the climate, are bathed in the last remnants of golden sunlight. The delicate sea breeze carries a hint of salt that can be smelt and tasted. The surroundings begin to cool, and with the tingle of erect hair on my neck, yet the temperature is heating up in the Tres Villas Restaurant. Arms are waving, voices rising and the atmosphere is intense as Barcelona FC draws closer to victory. The great rivalry between Real Madrid and Barcelona hangs in the balance as Santiago Ezquerro Marín effortlessly weaves in and out of the Real Madrid opponents, like witches hats. Will goalie Iker Casillas be quick enough? Despite the tension and anticipation that everyone can feel in the room, it is not the loyal supporters who are stirring – needless to say, their eyes are glued to the TV. No, it is not Spanish or Catalan that the crowded restaurant could hear. It is me, in my attempt to make my English more understandable to the non-English speaking waiter.

Barcelona, the largest capital city on the Mediterranean was my third stop, with previous adventures in Canada and New York, with Paris as my next and final destination. Barcelona meant no more friendly Canadians who would talk as if they hadn’t had a conversation is years. It meant no more pushy New Yorkers who were always rushing, yet if they told you to get out of the way you would have no problem understanding them. I was heading way out of my comfort zone. With the Rocky Mountains of Banff National Park and Time Square behind me, and the city of love ahead of me, you can imagine how surprised I was to find all I wanted from a new destination in a small, unkempt tavern that was saturated by the presence of men who weren’t so small, yet upheld the unkempt nature of the place. It was my hidden delight; I just didn’t know it yet.

“Uno….er a Coca Cola,” I pleaded with my hand rattling the glass in desperation.
“And umm….uno Pe…Pa..Pealla,” I stammered.
“Paella?” the waiter questioned as he attempted to hold back a grin.
“Si, Si, gracias,” I muttered in a wacky version of a Spanish ascent.
“De nada, senorita,” he replied. (You’re welcome.)
This poetic phrase could have been the waiter telling me that I had a huge nose or that he planned to serve me rat tails instead of prawns for all I knew, but all I could muster was a smile and a nod.

It had been a long day of exploring the work of the great artistic figures that Barcelona has given birth to, with a final visit to Antoni Gaudi’s famous Temple de la Sagrada Familia. Its skeletal appearance in the form of a Latin cross with five naves, three facades, an apse and a transept was eye opening. This temple which is famous for its slender towers, which soar nearly one hundred metres over the building and are crowned by ceramic pinnacles, was not enough to distract me from the continual noise erupting from my belly. Traveling on a budget was not agreeing with my stomach; neither was attempting to place an order without ending up with callos a la madrileña – or, in English, tripe.

Despite the initial struggle with ordering – I know the waiter understood what I meant by Coca Cola, but my pronunciation of Paella and patatas fritas seemed to be a source of amusement to my neighbouring table. Nevertheless what was ahead was something that my tastebuds would never forget.

While waiting for my meal with my fingers crossed, I took the chance to absorb my surroundings. Seated towards the back of the tavern, I was the only person waiting for a formal meal. All the men had their eyes transfixed on the TV screen. The room was clouded with Spanish chatter and occasional cheers. Luckily for me, the Barcelonian team was winning, so everyone was in good spirits as they threw back their wine and tore at their bread. The bare brick walls were adorned with the ugliest tapestries and the crockery was as plain as a blank canvas, yet it was on these plates that something truly artistic appeared. Paella. A frypan was placed in front of me and I tossed its contents onto the blank canvas. I had a mouthful and felt my insides tickle with joy. It was a combination of colours and smells, with a new flavour in every bite. It was the elaborate tastes of chicken, prawns, mussels and fish with a hint of red pepper and saffron in rice, with a side order of hand crafted chips, that finally saw my stomach forgive me for what it had previously endured.

That night I could have tried to experience Barcelona by visiting the Palau de la Musica Catalana. Or I could have strolled along the Port or the Rambla, another popular tourist destination. Instead, I lived like a Barcelonian, doing what they would do, eating what they would eat. Even though I couldn’t understand them, I listened to what they listened to. All it took for me to find what I was looking for were middle aged men, a football match, a laughable attempt to speak Spanish and a satisfied stomach.