Skipping Town

Yesterday, April 23, was St. George’s Day, the Diada de Sant Jordi, the Catalan equivalent of Valentine’s Day. The day marked an anniversary: I arrived in Barcelona on St. George’s Day last year, ready to begin my Barcelona adventure. It’s been exactly one year, more or less, since Barcelona has been home. The Catalan tradition for Sant Jordi is for men to buy women a rose bundled with a palm or stalk of wheat, and for women to buy men a book. This year, Andrew bought me a beautiful bouquet of red roses, orchids, palms, and small purple flowers; I bought Andrew Orhan Pamuk’s Snow . The whole city filled with books and flowers. On La Rambla, roses and wheat stalks wrapped in cellophane and tied with ribbon in the colors of the Catalan flag filled plastic buckets, and stacks of books—mostly in Catalan—spilled over on tables. Andrew learned during his internship last summer that 30% of Catalonia’s book sales occur on the Diada de Sant Jordi. We strolled through the city yesterday and were...

The other day, as Andrew was leaving our building, the doorlady stopped him and told him we need to sweep the terrace because detritus was blocking the drain. He said fine. A day or two later, we swept the terrace, which really did need sweeping, littered, as it was, with leaves and dust. It occurred to us only later that one of our neighbors—all of whom can peer down onto our terrace from their own, smaller, balconies—must have reported us to the doorlady for being lax in our housekeeping. Who’s to say we didn’t want leaves on our terrace? Maybe it was intentional. Maybe it was art. In any case, we apparently have a nosy neighbor. I hope he/she is enjoying the view of our terrace’s now-stunning leaflessness.

A few days ago, I was home alone, writing, when the door buzzer rang. As usual, I ignored it, figuring that it wasn’t meant for us and that, even if it was, I wouldn’t be able to help whatever Spanish-speaking person was buzzing anyway. However, moments later, our actual doorbell rang. I answered the door. It was the police. The two policemen were looking for a man I’d never heard of. I assured them a couple of times that I didn’t know who he was. I thought they’d just accept the fact that they had the wrong address and leave; I was wrong. Apparently, a man they were looking for told them that this was his address. The policeman asked me for my passport. He then asked me again if I knew the man, then began asking a lot of questions about how long we’d lived here, and who’d lived here before us. I explained that we’d lived here since October, were Americans, and that the couple living here before us were also Americans and that we all were connected to Andrew’s school. He asked for the ...

Bucharest, for me, was a city full of jaw-dropping juxtapositions, a city where the past weighs heavy on every corner but which is sometimes pushed violently aside by a very modern, very urban, present. Vlad’s family owns several apartments in Bucharest, and on Thursday, after stopping at the airport to pick up three new additions to our group, we headed into the city to the apartments where we’d be staying, past many drab Soviet-era apartment blocks as well as many beautiful buildings with elaborate stone molding, and several lovely churches—Eastern Orthodox, some with a large painted eye above the entrance. In the center of the city is Piaţa Revoluţiei (Revolution Square), flanked by the former Communist party headquarters; it was from the balcony of this building that party leader Nicolae Ceauşescu faced an angry crowd demanding his resignation in 1989—it was the moment he realized his regime had come to an end. He was executed four days later, but violent fighting continued for sev...

Tuesday morning, we left Cornu and headed to Transylvania, driving deep into the countryside. It was an incredible drive—and incredible driving. The roads are generally two lanes, but people pass aggressively, often swerving out of the way of an oncoming car with just seconds to spare. There were often horse-drawn carts slowing up the traffic, so passing was unavoidable; I sat in the backseat and tried not to pay attention. There was plenty to focus on instead—the snow-capped Carpathians in the distance, flocks of sheep, deep pine forests. And the houses—fairytale constructions of turrets and spires, gables and paned windows, set against the mountains and picturesque in exactly the way you’d expect. Along the road were women and men selling jars of honey, round cheeses, strawberries. The women often wore kerchiefs on their heads and long, heavy, patterned skirts. Our des tination was Bran Castle, which Vlad the Impaler once attacked—he was the historical inspiration for Bram Stoker’s D...

We arrived in Romania on Monday, surprised to find sun and warmth—a relief after the cold rainy days in southern Spain. Vlad, Andrew’s Romanian friend from business school, met us at the airport; some time later, three Spanish friends arrived as well. Vlad’s parents welcomed us to the family’s country home in Cornu (about an hour outside of Bucharest) with tuica —a traditional, fiery liquor, homemade from the plums and apples grown in the backyard, served from a label-less plastic Coke bottle. We were given homemade wine—to me, as rough as the liquor—and hard-boiled eggs that had been dyed for Easter. We cracked the shells by hitting two eggs together, saying (in Romanian) “Christ is risen.” Then on to the meal—a local cheese and fresh, sweet tomatoes; spinach and lamb spread; lamb soup; lamb steaks; spinach with lamb. Vlad’s parents couldn’t have been more hospitable; this is the third group from Andrew’s school to make this visit to Romania, and they seemed so pleased to have us in t...

Tomorrow, Andrew and I are heading east, further east than either of us have been before: to Romania. I am incredibly excited. This trip is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing: we were invited by a Romanian friend of Andrew’s, Vlad, who will take us first to his family’s home in the country; then to Transylvania; then to Bucharest. We found some interesting travel advice about Romania from the Fodor’s website. Some is obvious—like advising against drinking unrefrigerated milk sold at local markets. But some of the other advice paints an interesting picture of what awaits us: On Romanians: “Their efforts on your behalf may charm you, but they could also be cheating you.” On road conditions: “Progress may be further impeded by slow-moving trucks and horse-drawn carts.” On road rules: “Although the law calls for the issuance of tickets for traffic violations, locals often settle with a negotiated payment on the spot. However, you should avoid this practice and instead accept a ticket.” (I ...

Late at night, when I’m hungry for a snack, there’s one thing I can say with certainty that I’ve never considered eating: a baked potato. Baked potatos just seem like dinner food, a side dish, not a snack. Yet in Granada, a city that is home to more gypsies than, it seems, any other city in Spain, gypsies were everywhere with large silver-painted barrels they’d rigged to bake potatos. “ Patatas, patatas asadas ,” they called. Along with the barrels and sacks of potatos, there were displayed numerous condiments for the potatos—olives, pickle slices, mustard, ketchup, other unidentifiable sauces, grated cheese, salt and pepper. The first time I saw a group selling baked potatos, I was incredulous. Andrew and I were sitting in Plaza Nueva, having a coffee (incidentally, we’d managed to sit at a table in a sea of tables belonging to yet another Oh La La), when the gypsies set up their stand. “Are those…baked potatos?” I said, squinting. Smoke was coming out of the barrel. Sure enough, afte...

Holy Week was alive and well in Granada, but the pasos were shorter; the crowds less vast and silent; the band members less somber than in Seville. But our purpose of visiting Granada was not, specifically, Holy Week: it was to visit the Alhambra, that immense and magical complex of palaces and gardens whose construction began in the eleventh century. Like everything else about our trip through Andalucía, we had to book our visit well in advance; but even seeking tickets several months ahead of time proved unsuccessful since the number of Alhambra visitors is so limited. Fortunately, Andrew found tickets through a tour company. And the Alhambra did not disappoint. The gardens of the Generalife—the “summer home”—were extensive, and full of soothing fountains and pools, orange trees and roses. And the palaces were just ridiculous, room after room of intricate carvings, tiling, and arches. Here, too, were bubbling fountains, and several interior courtyards full of fruit trees; it was a p...

On Thursday, we took a train from Seville to Córdoba to see the Mezquita. It was another cold, rainy day when we arrived—winter has come late to Andalucía; and, not wanting to haul our luggage through the city, we took a step in a new, sketchy direction: we left our things in a locker at the train station. It was all very spy-movie-esque. Too bad the only things we left there were clothes, a few books, and makeup items. The Mezquita was amazing—the red-and-white arches, the forest of columns. It was enormous (the third largest mosque in the world), and very peaceful. Strangely, the Mezquita is Christian; in the sixteenth century the Christians built a church inside the Mezquita, an aesthetic travesty that even they wound up regretting. But there were chairs set up in the main space as well, perhaps for a Holy Week service. It seems like an ideal space for reflection or meditation of any kind. Thrilled with the Mezquita, we were disappointed with Córdoba—not least because it was cold an...

The pasos weren’t something we needed to seek out in Seville; we ran into them accidentally, trying to get from one place to another and suddenly facing those pointed hoods and massive crowds. Occasionally, forced to cross some street or another, we found ourselves momentarily part of the procession, in step with the hooded figures. While the pasos processed around the city each day, we saw some other Seville sights. We climbed to the top of the Giralda, the tower of the Cathedral; instead of steps, there are 34 ramps—riders on horseback used to ride to the top. We went to the Real Alcázar and saw the impressive Moorish carvings and elaborate gardens. I went to the Museo de Bellas Artes one afternoon while Andrew had a phone conference and saw some beautiful Spanish art; one of the most popular Zubarans was on loan—but it was on loan to the Guggenheim’s exhibition of Spanish art, and I saw it when I was in New York for those couple of days this January. I had a strange feeling, of pe...

I’m a convert. Not back to Catholicism—though spending a week immersed, as Andrew says, in “Big-C” Catholicism would definitely be the way to bring this about. No; I’m a convert to Andalucía. I feel like I’m betraying lovely, splendid Barcelona by saying it, but southern Spain is amazing. The kind of place that ignites love instantly. The kind of place that’s easy on all the senses, that fits the fairytale image of Spain. Life in Barcelona is good. Life in Andalucía would be, it seems, very, very good. We flew to Seville on Monday. One of the first things that stands out in Seville is the air—it smells of jasmine and orange flowers, everywhere. For Andrew, this trip was a kind of homecoming—he lived there for six months in college, and has only visited once since then. He loved Seville so much when he studied there that he very nearly didn’t come back. Perhaps I would have met him anyway, traveling on my own one day to Seville, striking up a conversation over a plate of albondigas in ...

It’s a time for celebration: Andrew has officially finished his MBA! He had his last class on Friday; and turned in his last assignment on Saturday. Graduation isn’t for another month; but he is, for all intents and purposes, an MBA. He deserves a big hand. This weekend, fittingly, Andrew and I crossed off two more items from our “things to do before leaving” list. On Friday, we had lunch at the Boqueria, at one of the small stalls preparing tapas and meals from meat, fish, and vegetables fresh from the market. We chose one and sat down, and the guy behind the counter told us to indicate what we wanted—platters of fresh fish, sausages, salads, clams, and other tapas stretched along the counter; everything would be prepared to order. We had flashbacks of Marrakech, ordering without a menu; nonetheless, we selected a few dishes—sausages, albondigas , patatas bravas , calamari . The calamari were a challenge. We were sitting in front of all the fish, and we could watch as the cooks pulled...