Next Stop: Barcelona 🇪🇸

On traveling again, kosher whisky, and a GoPro video from Gran Canaria.

I’m a bit lost on what appetite there is for travel right now. Writing from Berlin, where thousands of refugees are arriving daily, it’s honestly felt tasteless to smile for the selfie and post it on Instagram. Others have carried on per usual, showing off their ski trips and beach vacations.

I’m not here to judge. It’s just objectively weird to go from smiling faces glistening against the sun to pleas for humanitarian aid and then onward to a cooking tutorial knowing we all live in the same world and know what’s going on.

Then again, this can be said about any world conflict. Perhaps the juxtaposition (my favorite five-syllable word to bust out to sound smart in high school papers) is more striking from Berlin because Ukraine is our relative neighbor. I was just there six months ago. The border I walked across to visit a pair of heritage shtetls is now a gateway for refugees to experience a modicum of peace in Romania.

As much as I’d like for us to all care equally about all of the travesties in the world, regardless of proximity, I know that’s not realistic. I also don’t think it’s realistic (or aspirational) for everyone to simultaneously stop sharing their happy stories, agreeing beforehand on when it’d be appropriate to start doing so again.

This is all to say that after focusing exclusively on Ukraine for the past couple of weeks, I’m going to go back to writing about my “Next Stop.” If that seems uninteresting, tasteless, or what-have-you, please feel free to block me out until you’re in the headspace to travel again. Whether it’s leaving this unread in your mailbox or just checking back later on, these words will be here.

Barcelona. The trip had long been planned as a stop-over on our way to the Canary Island for a trail race. Plus I’d never been before and I’m always eager to dust off my increasingly rusty Spanish. (It’s German’s fault.)

I did very little prep beyond making a mental note to head to La Boquería as soon as possible. La Boquería is the largest market in Barcelona. It’s absoultey packed when we arrive on a Saturday afternoon. It reminds me of the central market in San José, Costa Rica with its mix of vendors selling fruits, veggies, meat, and fish next to square-shaped food stands where hungry folks elbow in for a seat at the bar like a center going for a rebound.

There are twirling towers of ptoato chips at several vendors. Must be a thing. More than anything, there’s jamón. Ham. The redish-pink hue of the jamón glows like a dark room for developing photographs or a flickering “vacancy” sign outside of an old motel. If aliens were to arrive here, they’d assume jamón is the God of these peoples. (Or better yet, their devil based on how they treat the thing.)

Though lesser-celebrated, every other stand seems to have some kind of empanada or other stuffed dough balls that remind me of knishes. We get one stuffed with goat cheese and carmelized onions that they heat up in a microwave before handing it back in a white paper bag. It’s the warm, savory snacked I need after an earlier lunch left my stomach feeling shortchanged.

We keep winding our way around the crowded aisles, turning and navigating solely based on where there’s an opening for our feet on the ground. A couple of dueling juice stands pop up. Melanie grabs a strawberry flavored beverage and we head out of the market for a breath of air and a jolt of java to stay sharp. An 8 p.m. dinner here is an early affair and we’ve already jumped an hour back from Germany. We need the caffeine if we’re going to make it through dinner without making each other yawn.

I get an americano that actually doesn’t taste like the burnt coffee I’d grown so accustomed to in other corners of Europe. We continue snacking, ordering a frosted blondie topped with cranberries before heading back to the hotel for a little downtime.

One nap later, I shower up and we head out for a pre-dinner drink at Bar del Pla. It’s full but they usher us to a barrel in the back with a couple of seats. I get the beer you get when you say, “una cerveza” and Melanie orders a glass of white wine. We follow it up with some tapas, starting with patatas bravas –– chunks of crispy potatoes with a sprinkling of salt, all covered in a hefty dollop of cold tomato sauce and mayo.

Neither of us had done any homework on where to eat dinner in Barcelona. I saved some recommendations from a writer I like, but they all come with several dollar symbols under the name on Google Maps. I don’t mind splurging, but it’s also not my preference. Is our mere presence in Barcelona an occasion worth celebrating? Please, I’m not that narcissistic.

Looking up restaurants in a city like Barcelona is a wildly overwhelming experience. So, I decided to set some parameters to narrow our choices. I enter “vegetarian restaurants” in the Google Maps search bar.

Only a handful show up. Much easier to pick. Plus I’m curious to see what this country of jamón can do on the other end of the protein spectrum.

We end up at a vegan burger joint. Hardly the most original in vegetarian dining but that didn’t make it any less delicious. Spicy jalapeños on a veggie patty left me pleasantly plump. Of course, not too plump that I couldn’t squeeze in a heavy porter from BlackLab Brewhouse to end the night.

Words

I was just about to say “no words this week” when I rememberd I actually do have something new –– this piece on kosher whisky for Whisky Magazine. You’ll have to buy a copy if you’re interested in that one.

I’ve got a few more things that should come out tomorrow, so stay tuned for the next newsletter.

Video

Remember how I said that visit to Barcelona was en route to the Canary Islands for a trail race? (If you do, then holy Hell, you really read this thing!) Well, here’s a little GoPro video of the race spliced with some shots of me complaining about the race that I wasn’t forced to sign up for.