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.