Bilbao bound, Gehry Guggenheim and Welcome to La Rioja

We left Barcelona after a lengthy baggage check-in at the airport which required the emptying of one suitcase and redistribution of toiletries into the other suitcase so as to respect the strict 23.5kg baggage limit imposed by the Franko-era-esque airline regulations. My stash of pilfered mini hotel shampoos and conditioners safely aboard the aircraft, we flew to Bilbao where our chatty chauffeur did not allow his complete lack of spoken English to interfere at all with his prolific discourse. His accent was deeply Basque and struggle as I might to understand his musings, I could not make sense of it. I resorted to smiling politely and the occasional nod, which seemed to satisfy him. We arrived at the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao and had a tour of this most impressive Frank Gehry masterpiece and its contents. Our guide Javiera is an art student at the University and a punk rock devotee. Her electric blue highlights and EMO make up contrasted with her traditional Basque-inspired museum uniform, resulting in a twisted yet charming effect. Joining us on our tour was a senior couple from the midwest who were straight out of central casting. Javiera did an admirable job tolerating the rotund husband's frequent inquiries into whether the permanent collection was on loan from an American museum.

After the tour we were picked up by our prolific chauffeur who delivered us to the awe inspiring Marques de Riscal Hotel in the La Rioja wine region. The hotel is another work of Frank Gehry and it is spectacularly set against the rollicking vineyards of the lush Spanish countryside. We checked into our suite and I was thrilled to find a plentiful variety of mini Caudalie bath products. You see, my travels will be taking me to France to my cousin's villa in St. Tropez, and chic mini toiletries are something I always bring as a bit of a running joke. I emptied the entire selection into the hotel laundry bag, and after locking it away in the room safe and asking the maids to replenish our toiletries, headed out for a walk of the expansive grounds.

Dinner that evening was outdoors in the tiny medievel hamlet of Laguardia at the restaurant Los Parajes in the central square, where we enjoyed the best burrata cheese on earth and the most divine meal of the trip. We kept ordering pinxos as each was better than the last, and I suppose I was slightly embarrassed when the waiter suggested we might have eaten enough and perhaps should consider dessert.

Back in our hotel suite at 1am, the toiletries had been restocked and after tucking the beautiful bottles and razor kits into the safe, fell into a glorious slumber.

Shoes Before Breakfast, Marc the Revolutionary Guide, Tapas in El Borne

I awoke at 8:45am and as the electric blinds parted, I was faced with the beautiful sea glistening in the morning sunshine. A 45-minute yoga video opened my heart and hips to the day, and prepared me for breakfast. En route to the dining room, I couldn’t help but notice an adorable shoe boutique called Prima Ballerinas directly opposite the restaurant. I felt compelled to enter and within found the most charming selection of handmade leather sandals, ballet shoes and wedges.

A disdainful looking French couple was busy ordering the salesgirl around with the effortless contempt of deposed royalty. The wife was the color of old leather, a look only achieved through decades of extreme sun exposure and the chain smoking of unfiltered cigarettes. She barked orders out at the young sales clerk while simultaneously talking on her mobile phone and criticizing the service she was receiving to her husband, also on his mobile. Ignoring the French couple, I assessed the merchandise, and felt irresistibly drawn to a pair of silver sandals adorned with Swarovski crystals. The display shoe was in fact my size, a European 38, a clear sign from above. I slipped the supple leather onto my foot and it fit perfectly, tres Cinderella.

With childlike exuberance I approached the sales girl, who was partially hidden from view behind a tall and teetering stack of shoeboxes she was holding at Madam’s behest. I ask her ever so politely and in French, if she might ring this pair of sandals up for me and then continue catering to the needs of Madam. From behind the boxes the sales clerk smiled at me pleadingly with her eyes and then looked longingly at Madam for consent. Madam, never breaking from her mobile phone discussion, and quite obviously disgusted by the interference of “l’Americaine” nodded reluctantly, as if to say, “Go ahead you useless idiot and be quick about it.”

I paid and was delighted to have made my first purchase before breakfast, not something one does every day. After a satisfying breakfast of natural yogurt and walnuts we met our guide Marc, and driver Fernanado, who would be taking us out for an overview of Barcelona. At the Museum of Catalan Culture Marc explained to us how Catalonia is not part of Spain at all. I found this curious as I was reasonably sure I was indeed in Spain, having gone through passport control upon my arrival.

Marc went on to explain that in fact Catalonia is far superior to Spain and that the inhabitants of Barcelona and other Catalonian cities would be better off if they could officially separate from Spain. Unfortunately the Spanish Constitution does not allow for a state to separate no matter how superior they may be. Marc explained as an important point of reference how the Catalonian government recently outlawed bullfighting due to reasons of animal cruelty, and that the rest of Spain was outraged. This outrage outraged Marc.

Having been raised in Montreal and lived through the separatist movement first hand, I felt it best to simply switch the subject to various lunch spots in the Gothic section of town called El Borne. This prompted Marc to share with me how in Catalonia one calls the traditionally served tasty shared dishes found in small restaurants throughout the cities and villages, “tapas”, but that in the Basque country they are called “pinxos”, which Marc pointed out is clearly ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, I must say I find them delicious. Marc took us to an ancient synagogue in El Borne as well as to the site of a recently discovered Roman villa, and to both the Modern Art and the Picasso Museums. That evening we enjoyed dinner at “Moments” restaurant in the new Mandarin Oriental hotel and were in bed by 2am.

Baggage failure, Spanish lessons, Bright Whites, and The Case of the Grandiose Chocolate Box

I arrived in Barcelona, now joined by my adorable husband, feeling refreshed and relaxed. I cleared immigration and headed to baggage claim for a one-hour wait at conveyor belt #4, which would end in defeat. Sadly, my suitcase would not be joining me in Barcelona that day. But fear not dear reader, for being the savvy traveler that you know me to be, inside my enormous roller bag carry-on was a two day supply of fresh clothes (including evening attire), toiletries, Atkins Carb-control power bars, and cinnamon chewing gum because fresh breath is always a priority. I filed my missing bag claim with the unsympathetic electric blue eye-shadowed woman at the kiosk, and exited the baggage hall. Frankly after my exquisite journey to this point, I was dumbfounded as to why there is not a special First Class Lost Baggage Claim area cordoned off with royal blue velvet rope, and plan to write to BA forthwith.

I found my smiling driver holding a sign with my misspelled name. He spoke no English, and so with my clever on-the-spot transformation of Italian into Spanish, (simply end every other word in either “os” or “ra”, employ liberal use of “si, si, si”, start sentences with “jo vengo al…”, or “vamos al hotel porfavor”) managed to make pleasant small talk with the driver who informed me it would take approximately 30 minutes to get to the Hotel Arts.

The marvelous hotel is situated on the beach and my check-in was conducted by a lovely young Spaniard who apologized for the General Manager’s inability to welcome me personally to the hotel as she had been called away to Abu Dhabi for the opening of a new hotel there. I assured him that this inconvenience was completely understandable given the circumstances. We were then entrusted to an adorable Dutch hostess with big blue eyes and a constant giggle. She asked if we were here for a special occasion and I told her that it was our 18th anniversary. From that moment on, the young woman would be wishing us a “Heppy Hooneymoon” at every chance. Her uniform consisted of a multilayered midnight blue floor length skirt and matching jacket. The skirt was so ample that I feared she would trip over it at any moment and found myself trying to edge in front of her so as to break her fall when the inevitable spill happened. In response the woman would tactfully quicken her pace in order to retake the lead and show me the way to the elevator. And so it was as we walked along the hallway, politely racing one another and exchanging the leadership position off an on. I finally gave up hope of saving her and allowed her a commanding lead as we approached the elevator.

She escorted us to our suite and showed us how to operate the somewhat confusing espresso machine and much more confusing remote controlled electric blinds. After conquering the in-suite electronics, we showered and headed out to meet our Spanish friend Bernardo who had arranged a private tour of Gaudi’s famed Segrada Famiglia Basilica.

Following the tour, we walked along the Passieg de Gracias where all the high-end shops are located, and passed two other famous and very whimsical Gaudi buildings along the avenue. After much walking, we enjoyed some light bites at Tapac 24, yummmmm, a much loved local Tapas Bar. One word of caution, if ever served a delicious tender off the bone meat dish with truffle undertones, please do not ask what it is until having completed your consumption. Trust me.

We stopped at Massimo Dutti to purchase white trousers for Bernardo and David as we will be attending the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona next week and all-white attire is de rigeur. After then veering onto the bustling Las Ramblas Avenue and stopping to collect some mother-of-pearl selier spoons at a fabulous design shop, we headed to our 10pm dinner at Dos Cielos atop the Me Hotel. This Michelin starred restaurant does not allow gentlemen to dine in shorts and so fortunately David ducked quickly into the Banos and changed into his new bright white pants, and we were seated immediately on the terrace, aided in no small measure by the illumination gained off of David’s gleaming white trousers.

Our 8 course dinner was delicious and somewhat of an athletic undertaking for we were not yet accustomed to the 3 hour-long dinner format. After the pre-dessert, the dessert and the post-dessert courses, the waiter arrived with 3 beautiful jewelry boxes emblazoned with the Dos Cielos logo. The waitress stood by my side as I opened my box, eagerly anticipating a keepsake. Instead I found the cushioned white satin interior to contain nothing but a single chocolate truffle. My disappointment was difficult to contain. The waitress then explained that the truffle was filled with passion fruit and that “deh bosc muss eh’stay at deh restaurant.” Seriously? As if I would have made off with the box. Besides which, who fills a perfectly good jewelry box with chocolate and who fills a perfectly good chocolate with fruit?? Needless to say, I left my chocolate in its casing untouched.

Back at out hotel at 1:30am and feeling very cool, I donned my eye mask and went to sleep. Buenos noches.

Barcelona Bound, First Class Imposter Alert, Edgar the Obsequious

Dear Reader,

It has been ever such a long time since my last trip, which if you missed it was to the magical land of India in late March of this year. I am happy to report that I am on the global travel road once again.

I dropped the two younger kids off on Thursday morning at the airport for their plane to summer sleep away camp north of Toronto. My eldest I entrusted to my mother who will be taking her to Paris for culture, baguette and excellent practice of her French. As for me you wonder, well I hopped on a flight destined for Barcelona via JFK to meet up with my hubby for an 18th wedding anniversary trip through Spain. Before reaching Barcelona I had the pleasure of being welcomed by the British Airways First Class Check-in Agent. She seemed genuinely concerned with my well being which I always appreciate.

At JFK I cleared the private access First Class security screening line and found myself in the terminal surrounded by gates and shops. But where was the First Class Lounge? An officious looking BA Flight Attendant was walking my way and so I stopped to inquire as to the whereabouts of the elusive lounge.

Lorna: “Excuse me, could you kindly direct me to the First Class Lounge?”

BA Agent (blond pageboy haircut, chubby, blue eyed, pastel pink lipstick smiling): “Do you mean the Business Class Lounge?”

Lorna (trying not to appear offended): “No,” (smiling extra widely), “I mean the First Class Lounge. Do you know where it is by chance?” (sounding more British by the moment in the hopes of being better understood by agent whose clotted cream consumption has detrimentally affected her hearing)

BA Agent: “Is your seat in First Class?”

Lorna: (smiling so widely cheeks are cramping) “Yes, seat 2K in fact, that’s me.”

BA Agent (looking me up and down carefully): “Oh, well please follow me and I’ll show you.” Pausing meaningfully, “It’s actually called the Concorde Room,” she explained, instantly outing me as a JFK BA First Class First Timer. She moved surprisingly swiftly on her stubby legs, “and they will need to look at your boarding pass so you might like to get it ready.”

Lorna: “Thanks ever so much,” keeping up pace while fantasizing about an airport buggy manned by a turban sporting Sikh, careening wildly out of control into the acerbic agent and trampling her.

Sure enough the royal blue velvet ropes to the unmarked Concorde Room appeared before me. I walked through the opening in the ropes with swagger and the electric glass doors opened for me. Inside a sophisticated silver haired blue suited gentleman greeted me and asked if he “might have a look at your boarding pass Miss.” Overjoyed that A) he did not call me “Ma’am”; and B) I had the genuine First Class boarding pass in hand, I held the pass out for inspection with a slight flourish. The gentleman nodded appreciatively and motioned for me to follow him inside the inner sanctum.

Suddenly, a 40-something year old Hispanic gentleman in a blue suit appeared, and I kid you not, bowed ever so slightly to me. “This is Edgar,” the silver fox announced. “Ms. Borenstein, Edgar will attend to your every need. Please enjoy,” and away he walked back to ward the front leaving me with Edgar.

“Welcome, welcome Meez Borenstein. I am Ed-Gahr, and I well be jor bottler juring jor stay here. I am supposed to geev jo a twenteh meenoot espeech regarding deh lounch. Bot if jo prefer, I jost geev jo deh ab-reev-ee-ate-ed esplanacion.” Obvioulsy I opted for the shorter esplanacion.

“Theez lounch iz jor leeve-eng rhoom. Do as jo pleez. Dat iz et.” Edgar smiled obsequiously and yet endearingly. “Now, ‘how can I helpeh jo?”

The lounch was set up like a series of swank modern Upper East Side living rooms, replete with art deco lamps, oversized coffee tables surrounded by crisp leather chairs, and comfy extra deep couches in muted grays and silvers, nesting on plush carpet. Edgar found me a lovely corner spot and began plying me with warm cashews and marinated olives. He informed me that he was present should I desire conversation and was well versed in cinema, literature and the planning of weddings. Edgar told me all about his bridal blog and shared a bit too much on the characteristics of all “Bridezillas”. He was particularly fond of his analogy whereby he likened the planning of a wedding to the purchase of Manhattan real estate. “If jo want a biew oh da park, will cos’ esstra.”

After an enjoyable dinner in the lounge, I headed for the plane and was welcomed by purser Graeham who was positively exuberant at my decision to fly BA. Graeham was showing the other First Class passengers, one at a time, how to use their pod amenties including the newly installed fully reclining seat/beds. When it came to my turn, Graeham said, “I don’t imagine you need much of an explanation Miss Borenstein, you are familiar with the cabin aren’t you?”

God bless Graeham was what came immediately to mind. I didn’t have the heart to correct his touching error, and so simply gave out a mild giggle of knowing laughter which Graeham greatly appreciated. Luckily I had watched his prior demonstrations and had at this point full mastery of the pod.

After take off I enjoyed an appetizer of poached lobster and then informed Graeham that I was ready for sleep, and so he dispatched one of the flight attendants to make my bed with a comfy duvet and pillows whilst I changed into my BA First Class Sleeping Suit in the lavatory. It was a bit large as I had been handed a size Medium but as the woman in 1K pointed out, “Who wants to sleep in something tight.”

I love BA, I love BA, I love BA…………..