Waking up early after our nearly devastatingly large meal at Cal Pep, we boarded a plane to nearby Spanish province of Euskadi, known in Spanish as the Pais Vasco and in English as the Basque Country. Well known due to the doings of an extremist Basque-independence terrorist group, ETA, the Basque Country has a bad rap throughout Spain as wackos who gun down hapless Madrid subway riders. On top of this, only a day before our trip, ETA had renounced a ceasefire that had lasted over a year, and pledged a continuation of violence.
We landed in Bilbao, the major city of the province at around 2pm, and looked for where to catch the bus to San Sebastian, the coastal town about 100km away. Upon leafing through Bilbao tourism materials, we noticed that practically every museum (Guggenheim included) was closed on Mondays. So rather than skipping town immediately to return for a full day Monday, as we had planned, we delayed our departure and set out on the town.
The Guggenheim didn't disappoint, and with its fish scale exterior and drug-inspired geometry it impressed us greatly. Many say the art inside doesn't match the building, but the current exhibition of the artist Anselm Kiefer was quite interesting to see. Unmatched was the walk-through exhibit of ellipses, comprised of spherical and toroidal walls. Maybe you have to see it to know what I mean.
San Sebastian, where we spent both of our two nights, was basically a Spanish vacation town and has been for its history. Nestled perfectly on the mouth of a bay with dramatic mountains draping all sides, the picture-perfect location was a natural summer destination. We walked up one of the mountains and took the funicular train up the other, both yielding great views of the city. We also walked much of the cities 3km of coast and through the old town to get a feel for the town.
The old town of San Sebastian is said to have the highest concentration of bar space anywhere in Europe, and it does seem like each storefront is another. We spent our first night wandering in and out of bars, sampling the myriad pinxtos, the bread-mounted tapas of endless variety of seafood and pork. Tapas supposedly originated in the Basque Country, and you couldn't go into a bar without seeing plates of their offerings proudly displayed for you just to grab. The USDA would probably have a field day.
Our second night, Sunday, we decided to try a different tradition: a cidreria. Basically a large tavern with 10ft x 10ft barrels of cider, the cidreria was a way to get out of the city and hopefully see a bit more of Basque culture. We had missed the memo, however, and as it turned out, only about eight other customers were there in the dining room that must have sat 200. Undeterred, we poured ourselves cider from the barrels in the traditional long distance stream from a tiny spout. True to the image of the liquid leaving the barrel, the cider was terrible, and we immediately replaced it with a bottle of Txakolin, a slightly bubbly white wine that everyone else seemed to be drinking. This is also poured from a height (to enliven bubbles), but we basically just spilled it all on the floor.
After spending almost three full days in the Basque Country, it was only during an announcement back at the Bilbao airport that I heard for Basque spoken for the first time. It is written on signs everywhere (alongside, and often following, Spanish), but it seemed that every conversation I overheard--shopkeepers, garbage men, hostel managers, cops, people at bars--was in Spanish. Makes you wonder how much the majority of the people in the province really care about independence from Spain.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Best Meal Ever.
On Friday night, after a month of trying to find a time to go, Dave and I set out to Cal Pep, Barcelona's best tapas bar and the highlight of every visitor's guide. We walked into the small, unassuming restaurant filled with people behind those seated at the bar, and took stock. Apparently, people wait upwards of an hour in line before they are seated to eat, and those eating are in no rush to leave. So we teetered about whether or not to stay, and at the end, inertia won out.
An hour and fifteen minutes and three glasses of wine later, the bartender/waiter motioned us over to two of the seats. We had previously taken not that most people didn't order with a menu, so we observed anxiously at which plates we wanted. When the waiter came over, before we could open our mouths, he proceeded to tell us our order. We said sure, added one or two of our own observations, and then sat.
At Cap Pep one sees the beauty of tapas. Within a minute we had pan con tomate and our first plate, a bowl of clams. Just as we finished the clams came a plate of raw tuna, which was excellent, followed immediately by a spanish tortilla. Tortilla, an omlette thick with potato slices, is normally a peasant food; yet this was spiced with bacon and was absolutely incredible. After the tortilla came mixed fried seafood, which included some less than identifiable items, and some tiny fish in their entirety. Next was the squid, bathed in a broth (of their own ink?) and boiled the perfect amount of time as to have impeccable texture.
At this point there was a pause in the continuous flow of plates, and we thought that we had exhausted our order. We had seen others eat a plate of fillet mignon, and decided to conclude with that. As we were about to order, the waiter brought us a plate of sausage with kidney beans drizzled in a port wine reduction, and a bit of confusion ensued in which we almost refused the sausage to order the steak. Glad we didn't, the sausage with beans and sauce was both sweet at incredibly tender, arguably my favorite plate so far and I didn't even start eating sausage until Berlin.
As if that wasn't enough, the waiter replaced our sausage plate with the steak we thought we didn't order. Oh well, we thought, and dived in even though our stomachs were rapidly approaching rupture. It was cooked perfectly, and melted in our mouths as would a top steak from Capital Grille.
We paid the check (which was significantly, and quite deservingly, more than we had anticipated coming in), and as if we were still lacking in food or drink, the waiter brought us a chupito to wash down our food. It is typical in Catalunya to give a free shot of liqueur after a meal in a restaurant, and seeing as the restaurant was about to close, they weren't in a rush to turn our seats. While in the bathroom, the waiter replaced the first round with a second, at which point I nearly burst out of my belt. The ensuing physical devastation and hefty bill were more than overcome by how excellent each course had been, and we left convinced that we would never have a better meal. The variety, preparation, atmosphere, and Catalan tradition at Cal Pep is not to be beat.
An hour and fifteen minutes and three glasses of wine later, the bartender/waiter motioned us over to two of the seats. We had previously taken not that most people didn't order with a menu, so we observed anxiously at which plates we wanted. When the waiter came over, before we could open our mouths, he proceeded to tell us our order. We said sure, added one or two of our own observations, and then sat.
At Cap Pep one sees the beauty of tapas. Within a minute we had pan con tomate and our first plate, a bowl of clams. Just as we finished the clams came a plate of raw tuna, which was excellent, followed immediately by a spanish tortilla. Tortilla, an omlette thick with potato slices, is normally a peasant food; yet this was spiced with bacon and was absolutely incredible. After the tortilla came mixed fried seafood, which included some less than identifiable items, and some tiny fish in their entirety. Next was the squid, bathed in a broth (of their own ink?) and boiled the perfect amount of time as to have impeccable texture.
At this point there was a pause in the continuous flow of plates, and we thought that we had exhausted our order. We had seen others eat a plate of fillet mignon, and decided to conclude with that. As we were about to order, the waiter brought us a plate of sausage with kidney beans drizzled in a port wine reduction, and a bit of confusion ensued in which we almost refused the sausage to order the steak. Glad we didn't, the sausage with beans and sauce was both sweet at incredibly tender, arguably my favorite plate so far and I didn't even start eating sausage until Berlin.
As if that wasn't enough, the waiter replaced our sausage plate with the steak we thought we didn't order. Oh well, we thought, and dived in even though our stomachs were rapidly approaching rupture. It was cooked perfectly, and melted in our mouths as would a top steak from Capital Grille.
We paid the check (which was significantly, and quite deservingly, more than we had anticipated coming in), and as if we were still lacking in food or drink, the waiter brought us a chupito to wash down our food. It is typical in Catalunya to give a free shot of liqueur after a meal in a restaurant, and seeing as the restaurant was about to close, they weren't in a rush to turn our seats. While in the bathroom, the waiter replaced the first round with a second, at which point I nearly burst out of my belt. The ensuing physical devastation and hefty bill were more than overcome by how excellent each course had been, and we left convinced that we would never have a better meal. The variety, preparation, atmosphere, and Catalan tradition at Cal Pep is not to be beat.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Placa Ruis i Taulet
Living for the last month in Gracia, I've come to appreciate the charm of this neighborhood and character of its central feature, Placa Ruis i Taulet. Originally a town in its own right until accession by the City of Barcelona in 1897, Gracia is a town of narrow, shop-lined streets, apartments with wet laundry hanging out the windows, and bustling squares.
Just a half a block above our apartment is Gracia's most important square, Placa Ruis i Taulet, home to both the Gracia Ajuntament (Town Hall) and a 30-meter clock tower dead in the center. More importantly, it seems as though the entire town of Gracia, a microcosm in and of itself with people from all walks of life, converges on this town for summer evenings and weekends.
Cafes line two of the sides of the square, and rarely can I find a seat at one of their outdoor tables. Benches form the border of the rectangle where the cafe tables do not, and they are also generally full. Often I'll spend an hour or two on one of these benches (which I am doubtless sharing), half reading and half people-watching.
The best people-watching is of the kids. Soccer is the pastime of choice, and the most popular game involves a shootout with one side of the clock-tower as a goal. The 13-year old boys like to act tough and often show off their skills, and the 13-year old girls pretend not to notice. Just next to them will be a 5-year old with his own soccer ball, somewhat aloof to the older kids and often bumbling through their game by accident. Then I'll see a young father traversing the square with his daughter on her new two-wheeler, juxtaposed with a posse of 20-something dredlocked hippies on a bench smoking hand-rolled cigarettes likely laced with hashish. The next bench will have an elderly couple, no longer really saying anything to one another but still enjoying one another's company.
The square has also been home to various notable events. I've seen a far-left wing rally for the release from prison of a (violent) protester, a political rally for one of the Catalan independence parties before last Su
nday's elections, a spontaneous circular dance in which all the town's old people came out and instinctively knew what to do, and a festival of Castellers, where teams of this crazy activity were present from three neighboring towns. Castellers are human pyramids, with about 20 burly guys on the bottom and one very brave 7-year old girl climbing her way up six or seven layers of standing humans. It was fantastic to watch, and I would post the video except I held my digital camera sideways and apparently it's impossible to rotate an .mpg video. Oh well.
Just a half a block above our apartment is Gracia's most important square, Placa Ruis i Taulet, home to both the Gracia Ajuntament (Town Hall) and a 30-meter clock tower dead in the center. More importantly, it seems as though the entire town of Gracia, a microcosm in and of itself with people from all walks of life, converges on this town for summer evenings and weekends.
Cafes line two of the sides of the square, and rarely can I find a seat at one of their outdoor tables. Benches form the border of the rectangle where the cafe tables do not, and they are also generally full. Often I'll spend an hour or two on one of these benches (which I am doubtless sharing), half reading and half people-watching.
The best people-watching is of the kids. Soccer is the pastime of choice, and the most popular game involves a shootout with one side of the clock-tower as a goal. The 13-year old boys like to act tough and often show off their skills, and the 13-year old girls pretend not to notice. Just next to them will be a 5-year old with his own soccer ball, somewhat aloof to the older kids and often bumbling through their game by accident. Then I'll see a young father traversing the square with his daughter on her new two-wheeler, juxtaposed with a posse of 20-something dredlocked hippies on a bench smoking hand-rolled cigarettes likely laced with hashish. The next bench will have an elderly couple, no longer really saying anything to one another but still enjoying one another's company.
The square has also been home to various notable events. I've seen a far-left wing rally for the release from prison of a (violent) protester, a political rally for one of the Catalan independence parties before last Su
nday's elections, a spontaneous circular dance in which all the town's old people came out and instinctively knew what to do, and a festival of Castellers, where teams of this crazy activity were present from three neighboring towns. Castellers are human pyramids, with about 20 burly guys on the bottom and one very brave 7-year old girl climbing her way up six or seven layers of standing humans. It was fantastic to watch, and I would post the video except I held my digital camera sideways and apparently it's impossible to rotate an .mpg video. Oh well.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
I don't feel like dancing!
Last week brought with it hordes of Stanford students. Not just one or two, but twenty. Three of Sinsky's friends studying in Oxford came from Tuesday-Saturday, and the Paris program organized a trip for them to come to Barcelona as well. That means two of my former roomies, David (#2) and Lindsey, were in for the weekend. And after two weekends out of town, we were anxious to make a splash back into the notorious Barcelona nightlife.
Thursday night was slightly less than successful. Sinsky, his roommate from Stanford, Noah, Tara, Divya and I made dinner (which was incredible Mexican food), and attempted to go out to a dance club. We'd heard of a few, and tried one that had no cover. When they wouldn't let Dave in on account of his sandals, we walked to find another, and ended up at the Salsa Club. Not only were we the only non-locals here, but also the only non-professional internationally renowned salsa dancers. Every pair (and everyone had a pair) was dancing like it was a choreographed movie, and we just stood on the side as an awkward, odd-numbered group of dancing-challenged Caucasians.
Friday night was more successful however, and after a delicious dinner with the Oxford crowd and David (#3, the local), Lindsey and David (#2) met us in the born for some chupitos. Four rounds later, affectionately topped off with a fifth on the house, we piled into cabs with the famed Barcelona 2:30am destination: Razzmatazz. Razzmatazz is the largest club in Barcelona, with five dance floors each blasting different styles of music. We tore the house down, and danced the night away until the metro reopened at 5am. The evening was gloriously documented in photographs that will undoubtedly prevent all of us from ever achieving public office. Unbelievably, all nine of us somehow managed to reconvene and leave together.
They say (ok, we say) that clubs are only as fun as the group that you go with, so there will probably not be another venture out into the nocturnal scene of Barcelona nearly as fun. But hey, it was one heck of a night.
Thursday night was slightly less than successful. Sinsky, his roommate from Stanford, Noah, Tara, Divya and I made dinner (which was incredible Mexican food), and attempted to go out to a dance club. We'd heard of a few, and tried one that had no cover. When they wouldn't let Dave in on account of his sandals, we walked to find another, and ended up at the Salsa Club. Not only were we the only non-locals here, but also the only non-professional internationally renowned salsa dancers. Every pair (and everyone had a pair) was dancing like it was a choreographed movie, and we just stood on the side as an awkward, odd-numbered group of dancing-challenged Caucasians.
Friday night was more successful however, and after a delicious dinner with the Oxford crowd and David (#3, the local), Lindsey and David (#2) met us in the born for some chupitos. Four rounds later, affectionately topped off with a fifth on the house, we piled into cabs with the famed Barcelona 2:30am destination: Razzmatazz. Razzmatazz is the largest club in Barcelona, with five dance floors each blasting different styles of music. We tore the house down, and danced the night away until the metro reopened at 5am. The evening was gloriously documented in photographs that will undoubtedly prevent all of us from ever achieving public office. Unbelievably, all nine of us somehow managed to reconvene and leave together.
They say (ok, we say) that clubs are only as fun as the group that you go with, so there will probably not be another venture out into the nocturnal scene of Barcelona nearly as fun. But hey, it was one heck of a night.
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