Barcelona

Sleep.  That’s the one thing I haven’t gotten a lot of recently.  It seems I’ve “graduated” beyond my twenties, when I could sleep on anything anywhere (although the floors of train stations were never comfortable enough to stay asleep for longer than a few minutes at a time).  I’ve slept in lovely places this trip, and my hosts have been more than generous, so I tried to take advantage of the comfort when I could.  In Glorianes I slept in the lovely four-year-old’s cozy bedroom, decorated with alphabet art and a handsome armoire.  In Barcelona, in an old-world-charm hotel where my friend Isabel and I had a grown-up slumber party (wine on the terrace until the wee hours), the sheets were perfumed and crisp, but we were prevented from sleeping in late by the bells of the church next door starting bright and early, and reminding us of our overindulgence every 15 minutes.  In Poitiers I was in a room filled with shelves of books, in an ancient stone house with thick walls, an atmosphere I adore. I was awakened this time by a forgotten plumber’s appointment, then the next day by a true deluge; the rain then followed me all the way back to La Sarthe.  Here I was determined to turn in early when I was intercepted by a knock on the door (a call from my husband), then later by a not-so-tiny 10-year-old who crawled into bed with me.  We finally settled in and I managed to get a full night’s sleep, despite the little furnace chugging next to me who talks in his sleep.

Part 3:  Barcelona

I crossed the border into Spain midday on Friday.  The car’s pitiful air-conditioning system was no match for the bright sun bouncing off the light soil all around.  The green, rolling, verdant Pyrenees of France gave way to the Costa Brava of Spain, and I squinted despite my sunglasses.  I realized that Gertrude—as I’ve named my GPS lady—doesn’t speak Spanish very well.  Her French is weird too, but her Spanish is alarming, and I decided to tuck her away in my bag and rely on the directions of the hotel owner, Angeles.  That was a mistake.  I had a loose map of how to go to the hotel once in Barcelona, but no idea how to get from the highway in.  I continued on the highway until I stopped seeing signs for Barcelona and started seeing indications for other cities in Spain, and knew I had to get off the highway.  I followed signs that I didn’t understand, but guessed I was on the south side, trying to get to the northeast.  Finally, as I crossed town and sat at a seemingly endless number of stoplights, I bit the bullet and took out my phone.  Now I know that iPhone maps have been much maligned in the past, but I swear to you that the app has saved me from many traveling debacles, including on this trip.  I am almost tempted to splurge on a better model when I get back so that my phone can talk to me, and I don’t have to rest it on my knee while I maneuver unfamiliar signs and traffic patterns.  Fortunately, I only got honked at once, so I think I did pretty well.  Finally, obviously, I arrived at the hotel, ready for a shower and a cold drink.

Fortunately, there was a really nice shower

Floor tiles in our hotel room

After Isabel arrived that evening, we wandered in the neighborhood until we found a charming looking little tapas place.  There was a long wait for the tables outside, but we decided to sit inside at the bar.  Isa and I were catching up, admiring the décor, enjoying the wine, when the background classical music was turned up much louder.  Suddenly, like a sort of mini flash mob, a man and a woman who had been sitting at separate tables stood up and sang “O Sole Mio”.  It was magical.  Several bits of opera were sung like this at different moments of the evening.  The tapas were tasty (an artichoke dish was particularly delicious), and the wine flowed.

Conversation flowed with the wine, even after not seeing each other for 18 years

Despite little sleep, we ventured out after breakfast the next morning to visit the Sagrada Familia, the famous church envisioned by the amazing architect Antoni Gaudi.  Gaudi’s opus was begun in 1882, and was only 25% completed upon his death in 1926.  It is still not complete.  Cranes tower overhead as crowds wait in line for hours in the hot sun to see the fantastical structure.  Isa and I decided to forgo the line and instead see one of his houses the next day.  I planned then and there to return to Barcelona off-season.  

Gaudí's buildings look like they've been made for a movie set

We sauntered down Las Ramblas for a while, people-watching.  We walked over to the cathedral, a much more traditional gothic church, and climbed to the roof to see the views over Barcelona and her port.  We had a late lunch and headed back to the room for a nap.  We resurfaced in the evening and headed to El Born, a neighborhood with a lively (but not too lively, if you know what I mean) nightlife. 

Note the roof form modeled after a dragon

On Sunday we went to La Casa Batlló, a house that Gaudí completely remodeled.  Amazing.  His re-use of old pieces of broken glass and tile to make breathtaking patterns was inspiring.  Google Gaudí if you're not already familiar with him, and you'll want to see his work in person.  After the tour, hot and a little tired, I somehow managed to unearth the car from its miniscule parking space in the car park (can you say “70-point turn?”) and started my nine-hour journey from Barcelona back into France, to rainy Poitiers.