Hot Takes 2: Barcelona!

When my dear friend “Svetlana” (hereafter referred to as Svet) invited me to accompany her to Barcelona to celebrate her birthday, I thought, why not? I don’t generally like to travel, but it was January, and the trip was in May. It was so far into the future and thus unreal. Svet had asked a few other girlfriends, but eventually it came down to the two of us as well as two friends joining us from France.

We opted for the budget airline Norwegian Air, which essentially is the same as a regular carrier but with more restrictions. We also discovered it means you are entitled to nothing on the flight with the exception of water and use of the lavatory. Meals and snacks are available for purchase, but every food item was sold out except stale Wasa crackers. Upon boarding, I gave our seatmate, a femme-spreading older woman, a friendly “hello” paired with a nod. I think her lower lip moved a millimeter in response, but her flabby arm remained firmly planted on our shared armrest.

“Here,” Svet sighed, digging deeply into her voluminous purse to remove a package of Trader Joe’s dried seaweed from its cavernous maw. “And I have..” I rummaged blindly in my smaller but stuffed pickpocket-proof bag. “Skittles and a protein bar.” What a feast! The imposing matron seated next to me in our three-seat row, however, was presented with a full, prepaid meal every 3 hours. She polished off the dinner of Spanish seasoned rice and roast chicken, followed by the midnight snack of smoked fish and dill served with a large pat of butter; and as the dawn peeked through the half-closed windows, she relished the breakfast burrito spilling over with scrambled eggs and cubed potatoes. No matter, I thought meekly, as I nibbled on my smelly seaweed.

Real popular with the kids, who don't know any better

A word about Svet. She was born in Moscow and immigrated to the U.S. after spending several years in Israel. In short, she is a badass, and I love her for it. She stands up for herself and her family like a fierce Siberian mama tiger, but her softer side never fails to reveal itself. Her wisdom, intelligence, and persistence inspire me to be a more engaged mother and culturally active person, and we always manage to end up laughing together. In short, she’s an ideal traveling companion.

Upon arriving at our hip but spartan hotel located in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Barcelona, we rolled our carry-ons onto the tiny elevator to transport us to...a government-subsidized East German apartment from The Lives of Others. Though basic, we were really digging the postmodern vibe. Near the sink, I was puzzled to find a packaged sponge for shining my shoes but no hand soap. The concierge just shrugged when I pointed this out. “Use the shower gel,” he advised. Had this man ever lived with a woman? Was he not aware that we have a different cleanser, cream, and unguent for every body part? How would I manage to keep the tiny slippery tube of shower gel meant for use in the shower next to the sink? The logistics boggled the mind! Nevertheless, this minor setback failed to vex me, because it was hilarious. Evidently, Spain is in the throes of a national soap shortage.

Tourist couple is KILLING IT--in fashion.

I peered out the window to size up the view, which afforded us a glimpse into the lives of average Spaniards via their apartment balconies: drying laundry, assorted houseplants, and precariously perched satellite dishes, plus the occasional occupied birdcage. In the distance, a couple of dogs communicated with each other via a series of plaintive barks. “Ugh,” a reclining Svet wearily declared from her bed. “We are closing that window at night, I can’t sleep with all that noise.” I promptly slid the window shut in deference to Svet, but to the dogs I whispered, “Make all the noise you want, you adorable creatures.”

My photo oeuvre consists mainly of dogs.

At the hotel’s cafe the following morning, we hoped to have a cheap breakfast. A young hostess with a flat affect trudged over to our table. Svet brightly asked her what was available to eat. The hostess mumbled inaudibly in response. Svet pressed on, helpfully listing simple breakfast fare one might want to eat: croissant, coffee, tea, fruit--do you have any of these items? Silencio! There is nothing wrong with not speaking perfect English. However, if you are working for a hotel that regularly caters to non-Spanish speakers, it may behoove you to learn a few stock phrases.

We had encountered the implacable wall of Que. In Spanish, que means “what,” but you can encounter the Wall anywhere. Essentially, it represents a response to a reasonable request that, if fulfilled, will require the recipient to do something. It’s a built-in excuse for non-action. “I understand only one-half of what you are saying, so it’s easiest if I do nothing.”

After about 45 seconds of one-sided conversation, Svet’s ire had reached its boiling point, and the three of us hastily rose to our feet to usher her out of the hotel. Guess where we found friendly purveyors of chocolate croissants and ham and cheese sandwiches, who communicated with us perfectly on a ten-word English vocabulary? Everywhere. You can buy a sandwich jamon con queso on any corner, so it is worth the shopkeeper’s time to be pleasant. The young woman at the hotel was lucky enough that her cousin who works for the Ministry of Tourism was able to get her a steady gig. She wasn’t hired for her sparkling personality, and she certainly has no incentive to be helpful, yet she will be paid regardless.

Gueil Park

After a leisurely stroll to the lovely Picasso Museum located in the city’s center, we were informed on our arrival that the Museum was CLOSED due to their regularly scheduled Thursday strike. This is apparently a thing in Europe.

I felt the aesthetic deprivation acutely, but the lead striker reassured us our pre-paid tickets would be honored the following day and that we would be issued a refund to boot. Svet paused to chat with one of the strikers, a young mustachioed millennial. He didn’t provide any details regarding the “unfair working conditions.” Svet sweetly wished him well after he finished his spiel. “I hope you get what you want,” she reassured him. As we were walking away, she explained (perhaps half jokingly) that her communist heritage makes her instinctively sympathetic to the plight of the worker.

She is NOT killing it. 

“These guards are very oppressed,” I opined the next day, as we toured the galleries. “Perhaps the WiFi signal in the museum is weak, and Instagram takes longer to load? Maybe their afternoon siesta has been reduced by half, and they are not allowed to smoke near the artwork?” They seemed more interested in their smartphones than anything that visitors might be up to. I asked Svet to hold my purse while I tucked a particularly stunning 11 x 14 work from Picasso’s Blue Period under my arm. “It’s already framed,” I pointed out happily.

After 4 days abroad, I lined up dutifully with the other passengers, clutching my passport and boarding pass. A few feet in front of us, a bleary eyed American bro and his female traveling companion loudly expressed their outrage at having their unopened liquor confiscated. “This is bullshit!” The man slurred, to no one in particular. “That was a $75 bottle of Johnnie Walker, and they took it,” his girlfriend bleated.

There was little sympathy to be garnered from embarrassed onlookers. We were too busy silently praying that we would be seated as far away as possible from them on the plane. Ostensibly, they’d been flagged for being unable to produce a receipt for their duty-free purchase, but in reality, their high and/or drunk state had probably provoked suspicion during their exit interview. The man lurched from the line with his luggage and girlfriend in tow, heading toward the shops from whence he came. They would not be joining us on this flight.

Svet and I were randomly selected by the pert, pretty interrogator, who made seemingly innocuous conversation as she checked off items on a small clipboard. Were you here for business or pleasure? Pleasure, for fun. What did you do in Barcelona? We went to museums, we bought souvenirs. I bought a soccer jersey for my son. What was your favorite thing to do in Barcelona? The Picasso Museum. Oh, yes, Picasso (she noted approvingly). What did you like there, the best? I liked the pigeons. I thought of the pigeons that the aging Picasso had painted from his balcony in Cannes, France, in the late 1950s, in memory of his late friend, Henri Matisse. I wanted to tell the agent how much I appreciated the light and warmth of the south of France, but she wasn’t interested in having a real conversation. I left Barcelona with the feeling of a missed human connection I didn’t even know I longed for, a friendly exchange that was anything but.