Next Stop: Barcelona đȘđž
On traveling again, kosher whisky, and a GoPro video from Gran Canaria.
Iâm a bit lost on what appetite there is for travel right now. Writing from Berlin, where thousands of refugees are arriving daily, itâs 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.
Iâm not here to judge. Itâs 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 whatâs 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 Iâd like for us to all care equally about all of the travesties in the world, regardless of proximity, I know thatâs not realistic. I also donât think itâs realistic (or aspirational) for everyone to simultaneously stop sharing their happy stories, agreeing beforehand on when itâd be appropriate to start doing so again.
This is all to say that after focusing exclusively on Ukraine for the past couple of weeks, Iâm going to go back to writing about my âNext Stop.â If that seems uninteresting, tasteless, or what-have-you, please feel free to block me out until youâre in the headspace to travel again. Whether itâs 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 Iâd never been before and Iâm always eager to dust off my increasingly rusty Spanish. (Itâs Germanâs fault.)
I did very little prep beyond making a mental note to head to La BoquerĂa as soon as possible. La BoquerĂa is the largest market in Barcelona. Itâs absoultey packed when we arrive on a Saturday afternoon. It reminds me of the central market in San JosĂ©, 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, thereâs jamĂłn. Ham. The redish-pink hue of the jamĂłn glows like a dark room for developing photographs or a flickering âvacancyâ sign outside of an old motel. If aliens were to arrive here, theyâd assume jamĂłn 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. Itâs 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 thereâs 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 weâve already jumped an hour back from Germany. We need the caffeine if weâre going to make it through dinner without making each other yawn.
I get an americano that actually doesnât taste like the burnt coffee Iâd 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. Itâs 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, âuna cervezaâ and Melanie orders a glass of white wine. We follow it up with some tapas, starting with patatas bravas ââ 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 donât mind splurging, but itâs also not my preference. Is our mere presence in Barcelona an occasion worth celebrating? Please, Iâm 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 âvegetarian restaurantsâ in the Google Maps search bar.
Only a handful show up. Much easier to pick. Plus Iâm curious to see what this country of jamĂłn 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 didnât make it any less delicious. Spicy jalapeños on a veggie patty left me pleasantly plump. Of course, not too plump that I couldnât squeeze in a heavy porter from BlackLab Brewhouse to end the night.
Words
I was just about to say âno words this weekâ when I rememberd I actually do have something new ââ this piece on kosher whisky for Whisky Magazine. Youâll have to buy a copy if youâre interested in that one.
Iâve 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, hereâs a little GoPro video of the race spliced with some shots of me complaining about the race that I wasnât forced to sign up for.