happelsauce

I caught the 8am bus out of Granada to Malaga. I had determined my route to the farm the night before. It was a going to be a journey of less than 200 miles but a three-bus day, at the very least, if all went as planned. I had just enough time in Malaga to buy a my next bus ticket to Torre del Mar and a café con leche para llevar, then board at 10:30am. I arrived in Torre and asked the guy behind the ticket counter if the bus to Cutar was coming at 1pm. “Cutar? No hay bus de Cutar aqui. Vas a buscar un otro compania. Estamos ALSA.” Hmmm. When Jeannette had sent directions to their farm she had mentioned to not get discouraged because, “They might tell you the bus doesn’t exist, but it really does! It’s a company called Valle Niza.” Still, maybe there’s another bus station for the Valle Niza bus, I thought. The agent was incredibly adamant that only ALSA buses arrived at his station. He would know. Off I go with my overstuffed – feels like I’m carrying a large load of bricks – bag in search of another bus station. I walked too far, stopped in the church square and asked a man at the little snack kiosk if he knew of the Valle Niza bus station. He didn’t. Then a man approached the kiosk, bought a pack of cigarettes, and told me that he works in the tourism industry in town and has heard of the station. He’d take me there. I thanked him and off we went. Turns out, after walking another eight blocks, that the place he was thinking of was completely closed. It was Saturday, he noted, even the tourist office was closed. He suggested that I take a cab to the next town over where Jeannette had told me the exact location of the bus stop. I could, I thought, but I also knew it stopped in Torre del Mar. I would find it. At this point I had about 45 minutes to kill until I missed the bus that absolutely no one had heard of, but I knew existed. I start to head back to the station where I arrived and asked a cab driver if he knew of the Valle Niza bus. “Si, llege a la una.” Yes! That’s the one! He assured me that it came to the one and only bus station in town. So, I return to the bus station to wait. Sure enough, a little after 1pm the Valle Niza bus pulled up and I hopped on. I could have done without the walking tour of Torre del Mar with my massive mochilla in tow, but it had all worked out. Next and last stop, the farm.

Antonio picked me up in Cutar, the bus’s last stop and just one town up from Benamargosa. He drove a quick two minutes down to the farm – Finca La Loma. On the way, I learned that Poli (Antonio’s nickname) was born in Benamargosa and has lived in the area his entire life. He speaks about as much English as I do Spanish, maybe a bit less. I told him he was lucky to live in such a beautiful place (in my best espanol), because it truly is stunning. When we arrived at the house, Jeannette told me to help myself to a big pot of rice and curried lentils because they (Jeannette, Poli and Max, a WWOOFer from Boston) had just finished lunch. I ate and then followed Max down to our guesthouse. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Needless to say, the guesthouse is lovely. I have my own room, the kitchen is completely functional except for the lack of an oven, and the views of the landscape are gorgeous. Little towns, each house painted white, dot the countryside and are interspersed between terraced rows of mango, almond, grape, lemon, orange and avocado trees.

At 3:30pm, Poli, Max and I piled in Poli’s van and headed to their lemon grove – through tiny Cutar where the streets are so narrow the van’s side mirrors almost graze the houses, and across the dry riverbed. Max and I weeded, plucking the “mala hierbas” from the dirt, while Poli cut down a diseased tree with his chainsaw. Max has been working with Poli for the past two weeks. He filled me in on a typical day at the finca:

8:30am – Meet Poli at the house and head out to work. (Weeding, painting, picking lemons and avocados and hauling firewood are all tasks Max has helped with.)

10:30am – Break. (Or as Poli says, “Una pausa”, while he lights one of his Chesterfield cigarettes. Followed mintues later with another.)

11:00am – Back to work.

1:30pm – Lunch at the house with Jeannette and Poli while Alicia, their 15 month old baby, takes a nap. After lunch, free time to read, write, nap, explore…

3:30pm – Back to work.

5:30pm – Return to the guesthouse, relax, cook dinner and get ready to do it all over again manana.

After pulling weeds for a while, Max and I picked just enough oranges, lemons and avocados to last all of us at least a few days. We piled back in the van, dropped off a few fold-up lounge chairs at their other guesthouse in Cutar, and headed home. The next day was Sunday, the only day we don’t work, so we told Poli and Jeannette that we’d see them early Monday. Jeannette said to pop in if we needed anything.

Jeannette leaves food at the guesthouse for the WWOOFers breakfasts and dinners. The contents in the cupboard and fridge are very basic, but I think it’s only fair to divide the food into two categories – the staples and the special staples. The staples: milk, pasta, sugar, tea, coffee, beans, (super sweet) tomato sauce, eggs and oil. The special staples: oranges, lemons, avocados, bread, jams and chutneys. What makes the special staples special? They’re either fresh off the tree or homemade by Jeannette. Fresh baked bread, homemade plum jam and apple chutney!

Max and I talked while I unpacked and settled in. We decided to walk to Comares, the highest town as far as the eye can see, the next morning (Sunday). It’s about 6 km from Cutar and boasts even more amazing views. Por que no?

In the morning, Max and I set off without asking for directions. How hard could it be? We could see Comares from our guesthouse. I figured it was safe to assume that the main road would lead us there. I mean, where else would the main road go? We walked and talked. About Max: He grew up in Chapel Hill, North Carolina but moved to Boston in high school. He graduated from Oberlin last year. He’s been traveling for over two months. He had a wonderful time Turkey, (now I really, really want to go), and he loves music and art. When I packed a little backpack for our walk, I tucked in Max’s recorder along with my fleece and water bottle, in the hopes of a little pausa con musica. We walked and talked more. We veered off the main road because it appeared to head down the other side of the hill and instead we took the dirt road up and up and up. About three hours into our walk, we were positive that we’d taken the long road, to say the least. Over four hours later we walked into a restaurant in Comares, finally! I hadn’t thought to bring any money and Max only had 70 centados, but the kind owner took pity on us and gave us a beer for half price. Before heading back, we sat in the sun and Max played a few tunes on his recorder. He played quite a mix – kicking off with the Titanic theme song, Old MacDonald somewhere in the middle, and the National Anthem towards the end. The walk back wasn’t nearly as long, but it was nevertheless an adventure. We hitchhiked a short way with the help of a Scottish man, walked down to the river bed, and then directly and very steeply up without a path to our guesthouse, through grape and mango fields. I was certifiably dizzy by the time we got back. I had never felt that way before. Was it lack of food and water or was I just reeling from the fresh air and sunshine? Maybe a bit of both.

Today was my first full day of work. This morning we cut cana (a relative of bamboo). Poli is going to make a fence for Alicia so she doesn’t wander off the porch. Poli did most of the cutting with long clippers, then Max and I stacked the cana into big piles. About an hour into working, Poli asked us if there was a crescent moon last night. Yes, Max thought so. But “por que?”, we wanted to know. Apparently, according to Poli and local legend, if you cut cana during the crescent moon then you’re at risk of getting a bad case of swollen testicles. Something about the combo of the cana dust and the crescent moon made our morning task a bit ominous. Although Poli didn’t seem too worried to begin with, considering he spearheaded our cana cutting project. I told him that I was lucky and had nothing to worry about because I don’t have testicles. He replied (in Spanish, always) with, “True, but women don’t usually cut cana, so no one knows what happens to them” (or something along those lines). Okay then!

There’s no wireless on the farm. Rightly so, but it means that I have to save my writing on a disk, walk a half hour into Cutar and then download it onto my blog. I’m going to try to make a habit of writing everyday, but posting is another story. After working all day today, I am tired. Tomorrow I might be even more tired. Plus, Max leaves bright and early tomorrow and it will just be me until I leave next week. I’ve got my work cut out for me. With all that said, it’s getting late and I need to rinse off the cana dust. I’ll post this manana, I promise.

Granada! I arrived yesterday afternoon. It’s a quick hour and a half flight from Barcelona. I put my bag down in the hostel and set off to explore. I got lost, climbing up and up, then found myself exactly where I wanted to be all along – at the Plaza San Nicolas with an incredible view of the Alhambra and the snow-covered Sierra Nevada in the background. I guess skiing on the mountain is an option until mid-April, which is amazing because it must have been 80 degrees in the city yesterday. Granada is so beautiful. I’m not usually one to take lots of scenic photos, but yesterday I couldn’t help myself. The blue sky, the flowers, the white walls, the cobblestone streets – it’s the picture of picturesque. There’s a strong North African influence – lots of tea, kebab, shawarma, and hookah. Granada is only a little more than 100 miles from Morocco.

This morning, I ate my free breakfast at the hostel (toast and jam) and set off with my laptop in search of a café with Wi-Fi in which to plug in and write. The woman behind the desk at the hostel suggested a café “just two blocks up on the right”. This is after she questioned my motives for leaving the hostel at all. “We have Wi-Fi here!” And it’s true, the hostel does have Wi-Fi, it’s also true that they’re remodeling and the entire place is a mess. (Last night I was sitting on a couch in the common room downstairs, talking with other guests, and pieces of ceiling were falling into my wine cup.) Of course, I wasn’t really aware of the scale of their remodel upon checking in. So, in an effort to spend as little time possible at the hostel, this morning I set off in search of the suggested café.

The old part of Granada is called the Albaicin. It is mesmerizing. I’m staying in the Albaicin, but I’m also quite close to the newer part of the city. The contrast is immense. The streets in the Albaicin are steep, cobblestone and so narrow, it feels like time stopped hundreds of years ago (minus the creature comforts of today like electricity, running water and a few cars). I walked around for almost an hour and never found the café. I’ll be the first to admit that my direction instincts are sometimes ridiculously off, but how hard can “just two blocks up on the right” be? In the Albaicin, it’s hard, I promise. To start with, there are no “blocks”. Also, when I set off on my search a little after 10am, almost no shops or cafes were even open. It seems most of them open at 11am, then close again for lunch from around 2pm – 5pm, reopen at 5pm and close at 8pm for the night. Restaurants are different, because they stay open for lunch, but they don’t open until around noon or 1pm. On my search for the Wi-Fi café, I passed another restaurant close to the hostel about ten times. The owner was mopping the floors and setting up outdoor tables when I sat down, defeated. He helped me plug in my computer. No Wi-Fi, but they have coffee and power. Bueno. So, here I am – writing, looking out on Plaza San Gregorio, inhaling coffee and floor cleaner.

Now, to backtrack a bit…the farewell dinner in Barcelona was delicious! (Can I say that? I was the cocinera after all, so I don’t want toot my own horn, but it was fun and yummy.) It was such a treat to have my new friends and roommates around one table. I’d spent a total of two weeks in Barcelona and it was starting to feel like home.

I went to La Concepcion Mercado in the morning and bought most everything I needed from the fresh fruit, veggie, fish and cheese stalls. I was sans cookbook, so I kept things simple. Here’s the menu I decided on:
• Tapas: Goat cheese from France, local sheep cheese, spicy green olives, bread, sliced tomato and avocado
• Salad: Spinach with strawberries and macrona almonds – Dressing: olive oil, balsamic vinegar, coarse ground mustard, honey, lemon juice, salt
• Pasta: Bow tie pasta with cherry tomatoes, garlic, onion, white wine, parmesan and fresh parsley
• Dessert: Plum and strawberry crisp with vanilla ice cream

I had to go to El Corte Ingles, a big department store with a huge supermercado in the basement, to find brown sugar and oats. Spanish people apparently don’t eat brown sugar or oats. Que lastima! None of my roommates had ever had fruit crisp before. It was sitting on the counter, uncooked, while I was preparing dinner. They thought we were going to eat it that way, raw. Por favor! To their credit, I guess fruit crisp is an truly American dessert. Eulalia asked for the recipe, so maybe she will spur a fruit crisp revelation across Spain.

I’m off to the Alhambra this afternoon, then maybe the Arab baths tonight. Perhaps I’ll have a good soak before commencing my rustic farming life tomorrow.

On Saturday I devoured calcots. Many, many calcots. They are a type of scallion that’s grown in Catalonia. They’re much bigger than your average scallion, closer to a leek in size. Apparently, back in the late 1800s, very smart peasant farmer started covering his scallions with earth so the edible white flesh grew and the inedible green leafiness at the top dwindled in proportion. The result is the onion of onions – the calcot. It puts scallions to shame.

A group of us met at Lauren and Lee’s hostel at noon on Saturday, piled into two cars and headed about an hour and a half south of Barcelona. Mas Boronat, is a beautiful hacienda that throws epic calcotadas every weekend during peak calcot season, from November to April. Upon arrival, we arranged ourselves at the only long picnic table that wasn’t already occupied and waited for the steaming platters of calcots to arrive. There were small dishes of olives, hazelnuts and romesco sauce on the table. The romesco sauce is the dipping sauce for the calcots – made with tomato, almonds, roasted red pepper, garlic, olive oil, and salt, all blended smooth. (It was so good, that I was still dipping my fingers into my bowl once the calcots were gone.) Out came the calcots, stacked high on big platters. They appeared to be burnt to a crisp, but peeling back the first layer of skin revealed the white onion flesh, ready for dipping. It’s a seriously messy affair. Everyone wears a bib. Wine flows from what look like little glass teapots with long spouts called porrons. The idea is to tilt the porron just right, so a thin stream of wine shoots straight into your mouth. Ummm, not quite. Wine stained our chins, our fingers turned black from peeling off the first, charred layer of calcot skin and romesco sauce was everywhere. It felt simultaneously gluttonous and liberating.

Once we’d had our fill of calcots, we headed inside to an enormous lunch. Salad, sausage with garlic aoli, grilled lamb, roasted potatoes, pan con tomate and crema catalana (the Catalan version of creme brulee, with a touch of lemon) for dessert. Oh, and an endless supply of wine and Cava. Lauren, David, Jim and I digested by taking a walk in the vineyard just as the sun was setting (so civilized) and taking photos of ourselves jumping on our beds (not quite as civilized).

The rest of the night proceeded exactly how one would expect a calcotada would proceed – more food, more Cava and dancing. Only one unexpected event occurred. Circa midnight, Jim was spinning me on the dance floor, picked me up and then dropped me on my head. So, that wasn’t fun. He had a hold on both of my arms so I was helpless. Of course he didn’t mean to do any harm, but his dance move was in fact a danger move. I iced my cheek (the direct impact zone) for a while and cried a bit. It hurt. It could have been worse. And yet, we ended the night in good spirits, playing Apples to Apples until 3am.

The next morning, we stopped in a little town along the Mediterranean for paella before heading back to Barcelona. I dipped my toes in the sea. It was a perfectly sunny day. Later that afternoon when I returned to my little attic room, I felt like the time had come to move on from Barcelona and head south. I bought my flight to Granada and I’m scheduled to leave early Thursday morning. I’m planning on arriving at Finca La Loma, a farm near Benamargosa, on Saturday. I’ve been in contact with the owners – Jeanette, a German woman who is married to Antonio, a Spaniard. They have over 1,500 mango trees and a 13 month old baby. That’s about all I know. Jeanette sent me an email this morning with thoroughly confusing directions to their finca from Granada. The buses don’t run on Sunday, so if I get lost on Saturday, I could end up stranded somewhere between Granada and Benamargosa for a night. Fingers crossed I make it.

Tomorrow I’m hosting a thank you dinner party for my roommates, Anias and Edwin, and Lee and Lauren at the apartment. I think there will be at least nine of us. I’m still not sure what I’m going to make. Nothing too complex. I was thinking homemade pizza. Or maybe roasted chicken. But all the chickens at the market come with their heads still attached and their insides still inside. I’m not so sure how to handle that. Do I ask for “pollo sin cabeza, por favor?” Hmm. Regardless, it will be fun. It’s the least I can do. And please, if you’ve got a good dinner suggestion, throw it out there!

I just reread an email that I sent to my mom a couple of days ago. It looks like I’m an ESL student. I garbled tenses and left out the “ing” a few times. Basically, I think my brain is confused. With my attempt to speak Spanish, I’ve had to rewire my thoughts to compose very basic sentences. I think my Spanish is improving but my English is going down the tubes. This is all just a big excuse so when my blog entries start to look like they were written by a sixteen year old ESL student, you’ll know why. Gracias por su comprension.

Anyway, it’s been a few days and there’s a lot to catch up on. I think I’ll write a bit this morning and then follow up with a recap of my very first Calcotada celebration later on this evening. I’ve got to leave my laptop behind in my little attic home and explore more of Barcelona. So how about list of “bueno” bullet points?

BUENO

• I dined at Tapas 24 twice last week. It’s one of Lee and Lauren’s favorite restaurants, just down the street from their hostel. My first visit, we ate paper thin slivers of fried artichokes, blood sausage with rice inside the sausage encasing, “Bikini” – a deluxe grilled cheese with ham that’s called a “Mixto” in other parts of Spain (why they call it “Bikini” in Catalunya, I don’t know, but I like it), and three round scoops of chocolate mousse drizzled with olive oil and sea salt. It should go without mention that this meal was accompanied with lots of Cava. So much so, on this particular night, that Lee and I went back the very next night to order the best Cava hangover cure ever.

• French fries with scrambled eggs and ham (Papas fritas con huevos revueltos y jamon) at Tapas 24. You can eat this for breakfast, lunch or dinner. It is simple and it is good. Goes well with Cava.

• I visited Anais and Edwin again at ESMUC. This time I sat in on one of their rehearsals for an Italian opera that they’re performing in Milan next week. There were five of us in a tiny room – Anais, Edwin and his theorba (which I failed to mention in my previous post, has 15 strings), the harpist and her harp, the professor and me. Anais has a beautiful voice. She sang in Italian. The opera was translated on paper from Italian to English but the professor critiqued in Catalan, switching to French for the harpist when necessary. I sat there not understanding much of anything that was said, but in complete awe of the experience. Five languages (when you add in the occasional Spanish) in one lesson. Incredible.

• On Friday, Eulalia and I cooked a huge lunch. I love the markets in Barcelona. They’re scattered throughout the city, so each neighborhood has access to fresh seafood, fruits, and veggies. We made a salad with feta and strawberries, baked dorada with potatoes and onion and Marc brought little pastries home from the bakery for dessert. Lunch was a wonderful four hour affair.

• Friday night, I brought home a bottle of wine and olives. Marc, Raul and I ate dinner together. We threw together a few tapas from the fridge – cheese, ham, chorizo. Marc showed me how to make pan con tomate – a Catalan staple. It’s so simple and so good. Toast a few slices of your favorite bread. Slice a ripe tomato in half. Rub the tomato juice and seeds onto the bread. Sprinkle with salt. Drizzle with olive oil. Eat!

• I have been so out of touch with the news since arriving in Spain. I finally managed to read a bit of the NY Times a few days ago. In a previous post about my delectable dinner at Gramercy Tavern, I wrote about their roasted cauliflower. Elaine Louie at the NY Times was obviously channeling Happeltizer when she wrote about the very same dish! Check it out here.

• Go Michelle Obama! An organic veggie garden at The White House? I better hone my gardening skills and hone them well. I’d love to work side by side with the Obama ladies, picking cilantro and fresh tomatillos for a presidential fiesta.

• Most people in Spain say, “Que tal?” instead of “Como estas?” I like it. It’s the equivalent to “What’s up?” back in the U.S. It took me a few days to realize that it’s not a question you necessarily answer. It’s more of an acknowledgment of presence. But, when you’re meeting someone for the first time and you respond with “Encantado/a”. I love that. It translates directly to “Enchanted”. “Hey! What’s up? Oh, what’s up? (Double kiss, one on each cheek.) Enchanted to meet you.” Makes me happy.

This evening I moved out of Somnio Hostel and into Eulalia’s flat. Si, yo tengo un cuarto en un apartemento en Barcelona! I met Eulalia the day that Anais and I attended the opera. They’re good friends and classmates at the Escuela Superior de Musica de Catalunya (ESMUC). Eulalia offered me the spare room in her apartment that day, but I insisted that I didn’t need it because I was moving to a new hostel and I would be heading south in a few days. After spending five nights at Somnio, Eulalia’s invitation still stood, so I took her up on it. Lee and Lauren were absolutely wonderful hostel hosts, but I couldn’t stay there forever. Plus, the idea of spending a few nights in a big apartment for free with Spanish roommates was too good to pass up. So generous of Eulalia!

Right now I’m sitting on the couch, Eulalia to my left and Marc on my right. We’re all on our laptops. Tienen WiFi! (One of the many things I love about the language here…they don’t say WiFi like “why figh”, instead it’s “wee fee”. So great.) There are three other roommates whom I have yet to meet – Pachi from Chile, Jorge from Argentina, and Raul from Spain. I’m staying in their attic. I have a window and a bed and I couldn’t be happier. Marc made Eulalia eggs for dinner and he asked me if I wanted a “tortilla de Francesa” as well. “Como?”, I replied. “French eggs!”, said Eulalia. French eggs? Ohhh, an omelette! I love it. Neither Eulalia or Marc speak much English and my Spanish is malo, but we’re making it work. I so badly want to learn. As long as my new roommates stick to speaking Spanish in front of me (and not Catalan ), then I’m bound to improve.

Before moving today, I met Anais at ESMUC. We watched Edwin perform his final exam for his professor. He plays the theorbo. It looks like a long, many stringed, ancient guitar. There were five pieces performed in all, for three of them Edwin and his theorbo were accompanied by a violin and an organ.When I closed my eyes and just listened, it sounded like Edwin was playing at least three guitars simultaneously – the sound was so varied and beautiful. When the mini-concert was over, the three of us headed back to their apartment to cook lunch. Anais and I stopped by the Santa Catarina market and bought veggies, tuna and olives for our salad, a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread. Edwin cooked the pasta with zucchini and onion and we ate outside in the sunshine on their little rooftop deck. Yo estuve contento.

It’s almost 11pm and I would like to head to bed before too long. A couple of photos and then mi cama. Buenas noches!

Whew! So much to do and tan poco tiempo. Since I last left off, I attended the first two hours of Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg, a Richard Wagner opera, with Anais and her friends at the Gran Teatre del Liceu. It was rather stark and rigid and sung entirely in German. There were subtitles on the screen above the stage in Catalan and a tiny screen in front of each seat with a language option. I set my screen to English and did my best to view the stage and screen simultaneously. Not easy. Anais later told me that she made it through all six hours of the performance. Impressive, to say the least!

I moved hostels after abandoning Anais and Richard Wagner. I had wanted to stay at Somnio Hostel upon my arrival in Barcelona, but they were booked for the first two nights. So, I lugged my heavy bag (which, I’m proud to report, could fit very snugly into the overhead compartment on a plane) onto the subway, back up to the streets in the center of the city and to Somnio. Lee and Lauren moved from the US to Barcelona over two years ago to start the hostel of their dreams. They are friends of my friends in New York. I put my bags down and immediately felt at home. Lee and her friend Andrew were heading off to a birthday party for their friend Todd, who is the Consul General of the U.S. in Barcelona, and so kindly invited me to tag along. Porque no? So, off we went. The party was a “Surpresa!”, thrown by one of Todd’s many local friend’s at her apartment. One table was filled with homemade picoteos (tiny bites) and another with wine and cosmos. Alejandro was in charge of the cosmos. He told us to call him “Bar Man”. “Cosmos a la Sex and the City”, he told us. Yes, indeed! Bar Man knew what he was doing, because the cosmos were delicious. As was the Cava. And the picoteos. I was the loca Americana, taking photos of the food – homemade tortilla de patatas, jamon, queso, olivas, pan con caviar y limon (surprisingly good – the lime cuts the fishiness of the caviar completely). I never would have thought I’d find myself in that little apartment in the middle of Barcelona that Saturday night. A “surpresa” on more than one account, and a very welcome one at that.

Sunday involved Bicing along the Mediterranean in Barceloneta. I almost fell off my bike when I hit the curb at the wrong angle, but I caught myself at the last second. It could have been ugly. Bicing cards take a week to acquire, so tourists don’t use them. Anais was so kind to lend me hers, but as a result, it was assumed that I was a local. More than a couple people approached me asking for directions en espanol. I really wanted to know what I was talking about. Of course, I didn’t. I usually responded with, “Ahhh si, hmmm. Donde? Hmm. No se. Lo siento!” Smile and pedal off.

That night, I met Anais and her friends (one from the U.S. by way of Belgium , another from Switzerland, another from Argentina) at a bar to listen to live music. The guitar player/singer was really good. He’s from Sweden, but sang in English and Spanish. I sat there, sipping red wine, so content to be a part of this international pocket of people for a few hours.

I stayed up late emailing WWOOFing contacts. I’d received an email from the first farm I was planning on working on earlier that day. They canceled. They needed irrigation experience and had found an American guy to help them out. Irrigation experience? That’s getting technical. My romanticized vision of picking ripe oranges off the trees in the southern Spanish sunshine has withered. I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I checked my email tonight and many farms had replied to my plea for work, so there is hope. Although it turns out that the jobless rate in Andalucia has hit 22%. An article from today’s International Herald Tribune reports that the locals “are competing with the migrants who replaced them, fueling resentment that immigrant representatives and farmers worry could become explosive.” (Read the full article here.) Granted, I’m not sure the work that WWOOFers do is in direct competition with local farmers, because WWOOFers aren’t paid, but still. Potentially explosive farming scenarios don’t quite coincide with my sun kissed, orange picking dreams.

After searching the neighborhood for affordable dental floss this morning and not having any luck – it all costs over $5. Really? Lauren and I had lunch at Pinotxo in the Mercat de la Boqueria. It’s the tapas bar that inspired Andy Nusser, the part-owner (Mario Batali is the other guy involved) and chef, of Casa Mono and Bar Jamon in New York City. We ate croquetas, snails, grilled venison, garbanzo beans with blood sausage and grilled artichoke. And drank Cava, por supuesto. After lunch we walked to the Movistar cell phone shop, only to find them closed for lunch. Oh well. Mas Cava? Si! We found a bar with tables in the sun and drank another glass of Cava – I popped a raspberry into each of our glasses that I’d bought from the mercat. It was lovely. Then back to Movistar. Lauren helped me navigate the treacherous waters of purchasing a cell phone abroad. I ended up getting a phone for 29 Euros, complete with a shady plan that charges me ridiculous sums of money every time I place a call. I’ve since saved the numbers of my three new friends in Barcelona on my new phone. I’m feeling more like a local every day. Now I just need to work on my Spanish, start on my Catalan, get my own Bicing card and I’ll be all set.

It’s another perfect, spring day in Barcelona. I slept through the night for the first time. My head is no longer fuzzy from the travel and time change. And it has finally hit me. I’m here!

I arrived a little after noon on Thursday. I checked into my hostel, met a nice girl named Katy from Seattle (it’s a small, small world we’re living in). We ventured off to Park Guell, one of Antoni Gaudi’s many creations that pepper the city and never fail to inspire. I was running on no more than two hours of sleep and seeing Barcelona through the thin, gauzy veil of sleep deprivation. I think it made the view from the park all the more beautiful – the city spread out below, with Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia in the foreground and the Mediterranean beyond.

After exploring the city for the entire afternoon, we ended up at a tapas bar down the street from our hostel. “Quisiera una copa de vino tinto y un plato pequeno de olivas.” Some wine and olives to kick off my first dinner en Espana, por favor! We started with pimientos con queso – little sweet, red peppers stuffed with a soft cheese. Then came thin slices of sausage, a plate of local sheep’s cheese, big salads with warm goat cheese and pumpkin seeds, and toasted bread with ham and honey. Simple, clean flavors and so good.

Yesterday I explored more of Barcelona. Walking up La Rambla to Mercat de la Boqueria, a large covered market brimming with stalls selling fresh fruit, vegetables, meats, cheeses, fish, chicken, olives, nuts and candy. I wandered around and bought a little sack of mixed olives, a pancito integral (wheat roll), fresh mango and salted almonds, then sat in the sunny square in the center of town and ate. I popped into a bookstore and bought Easy Learning Spanish Conversation with the verb tenses listed in the back that I so desperately need to know. Bueno! Then headed to La Pedrera, another Gaudi creation that was an apartment building for some of Barcelona’s most elite families in the early 20th century and is now a museum with great city views from the roof. From there, I wandered down to the sea and walked along the pier just as the sun was setting. The sky was pink and blue and perfect. I looked back through the tops of the bobbing sailboat masts, camera at the ready, and my battery died. I took that as my cue to get back to the hostel. I checked email and found a message from Anais, the former exchange student of our family friends, the Sinclaires. She would meet me at the cathedral at 8pm, wearing a red scarf. It was exactly 8pm when I read her email! I ran down the street to a phone center and called her cell phone. I apologized for getting her email too late and we arranged to meet in an hour, same place.

I took the subway a couple of stops, walked through the narrow alleyways of el Gotic in the center of the city, and found Anais and her red scarf near the main door of the cathedral. She couldn’t have been sweeter. She took me to one of her favorite restaurants. It’s run by an Argentinean violinist who has some of his violins on display in big glass cases. We sat outside under a big heat lamp in an ancient alleyway and ate salads and pizza and talked and talked. Anais is studying to be a singer. She lives in a studio not far from the cathedral with her boyfriend. She just saw “Vicky Christina Barcelona” the night before and was offended at the way Woody Allen portrayed her city – “pan con tomate” was the only phrase uttered in the film that had anything to do with Catalan culture (which is thoroughly interesting and rich…more on that later). After a delightful dinner, Anais’s boyfriend and friend met us. Edwin, the boyfriend, told me that there’s a building in Barcelona that is similar to the Space Needle in Seattle with a rotating restaurant at the top. “Ahhh”, I said, “Is it cheesy too?” No one had any idea what “cheesy” meant. It took me a good ten minutes to explain. “It’s corny. Do you know corny? No? Hmm. It can also be used to explain a guy. He flirts with you and says things that he thinks you want to hear, but you know exactly what he’s doing. That’s cheesy.” And then Anais said, “Si!”, she understands. “The Argentinean guys in Barcelona are all very cheesy! La Rambla, the main, touristy street in the city is cheesy!” Bueno! We’re all on the same page. And with that we walked to a smoky, dive bar not far from my hostel for a La Estrella beer. It was past 1am when I said goodbye to Anais and Edwin. Anais invited me to attend the first half (Edwin comes for the second half) of a six hour opera this afternoon. How kind of her! She also lent me her Bicing card. It’s the local bike rental system where you scan your card, ride for no more than a half an hour and leave it at another Bicing station. I have yet to try it, but I’m envisioning getting completely lost. “Donde esta la estacion de Bicing, por favor?! Donde? Habla mas despacio, por favor…” So, more adventures to come. Off I go to the opera…

i’ve gathered a small collection of books for my travels. nothing like filling my bag with heavy books and carting them around for months on end! but, i love books. plus, they are trusty companions when dining alone, which i’m not counting on being a regular theme on my journey, but it’s bound to happen a few times.

here’s a list of the books i’m bringing. i’m open to any and all suggestions. if there’s something you recently read that’s remotely relevant to my upcoming travels and you don’t think i should miss it, please let me know!

• animal, vegetable, miracle by barbara kingsolver
• homage to catalonia by george orwell
• the omnivore’s dilemma by michael pollan
• alice waters and chez panisse by thomas mcnamee
• sixty million frenchman can’t be wrong by jean-benoit nadeau and julie barlow
• the road from the past by ina caro

i bought garlic and sapphires by ruth reichl earlier this week because a few friends recommended it. i had just finished reading shantaram – a very long, adventure, almost autobiographical novel with a philosophical vein running through it from start to finish. i needed something quick and lighthearted to follow. i also liked the idea of reading a book about new york city restaurants right before my departure. in the book, ruth reichl writes about her life as the restaurant critic at the new york times. it is peppered with recipes that sound simple and delicious and highlights a handful of her published reviews. her love of food is apparent, but she struggles with her role as a critic because it feels elitist (writing about fancy, expensive meals while “half the world is hungry”), plus she barely has time to cook for her family and friends and she misses it. the book got me thinking about my reasons for loving food.

on the most basic level, i love food because it brings people together. it is something that everyone needs, everyday. we all have that in common. what a wonderful thing to share! and food can be so expressive. one ingredient can sprout different flavors and food combinations from varied corners of the world. an avocado: mash it with lime, salt, onion and tomato and it’s mexican. roll it into sushi and it’s japanese. spread it on toast and it’s a mediterranean snack. yes, food is a uniter, not a divider.

on the flip side, i know i take food for granted everyday. while working on farms, i hope to gain insight on how the food i buy in the grocery store gets from the soil or the cow or the tree and onto the shelf. i know almost nothing about what fruits and vegetables grow when. olive harvesting takes place in december and january, i learned today. will spring in spain mean mostly planting seeds for a late summer harvest? what about wine? and cheese?

i get a newsletter from a little cheese shop on the lower east side called saxelby cheesemongers. in one recent issue, it explained that sheep and goats give birth to their young in the early spring. with babies comes milk and with milk comes cheese. yummm. remember the mister rogers episode when he visits the cheese factory? i was probably six years old when i watched it. i loved it. decades later i still remember it clearly. but i don’t want to be one of the factory workers with a surgical mask, dragging a long metal rake through the foamy cheese curds. i’d rather churn butter in a tall wooden barrel, dolloping healthy spoonfuls on freshly baked bread. hopefully my dairy fantasy and the mister rogers factory reality can meet somewhere in the middle? i don’t think that’s too much to ask.

i leave tomorrow. lots of strategic packing (bustling cities AND rural farms) to do in the meantime…

ellie gave me a gift certificate to gramercy tavern for christmas. prior to last night, i’d never dined there. i’d had cheese and prosecco at the bar, but that doesn’t really count. so, before i head off on my adventure, i thought i should cash in ellie’s gift and enjoy a good meal with friends. the meal turned out to not just be good, it was a stellar feast. honestly.

i met katy and lex at the bar. we started off with a yet-to-be-named, french/new orleans inspired drink the bartender is adding to the menu next week. subtly fruity with an essence of elderflower. delicious, and a perfect complement to the saltyspicysweet bar nuts. michael anthony, the executive chef, came over to say hi to katy, who works in marketing for union square hospitality group. he couldn’t have been kinder. wished me well on my upcoming farming endeavors and mentioned la chassagnette, a restaurant in southern france that looks magical. it’s now on my list of places to visit.

we expected to order from the tavern menu, so katy filled us in on its highlights. i was thinking seafood, katy wanted chicken and lex was opting for steak. then our server came over to tell us that chef mike wanted to make us a special meal and he’d come over to discuss ideas before he started cooking. and at that moment, as i’m sitting at our cozy window table between my two dear friends, sipping a crisp white wine and catching up on life, i couldn’t help but feel the rush of sweet, glorious anticipation. anticipation for the food we were about to eat and for the journey that lies ahead.

so, chef mike asked us what we were in the mood for. fish, chicken and steak…of course! we like it all. how many courses? i suggested twelve. we settled on four. we ended up sharing everything, so when all was said and done, we tried a significant portion of their menu. we started with three different soups, all soul-warmingly satisfying. next came three appetizers – duck sausage, roasted cauliflower with almonds, capers and golden raisins, and a root vegetable medley. when i roast cauliflower (and i do quite often during the winter months), i always break the head up into lots of mini heads (florets is the technical word, i guess. i prefer mini head), then toss with olive oil and kosher salt and pepper. but with the gramercy tavern version, the whole head of cauliflower is cut lengthwise into inch thick slabs, resembling a mini, two dimensional tree, with the almonds, capers and raisins sprinkled on top. it had never occurred to me to cut cauliflower that way. presentation points skyrocket. i’ll take the cauliflower tree over mini heads any day. the pasta course came next. the lamb pappardelle was hands down my favorite. the sauce was perfectly salty and gamey. the ribbons of pasta mixed with the tender lamb melted in my mouth. had that been then end of our meal, i would have left completely satisfied. the main courses – a giant stuffed meatball with melted cheese, grilled chicken with brussels sprouts and carrots, and arctic char – were all good. of course, wine accompanied each course. my taste buds were a bit fizzled when we passed our last plate around the table, but i was feeling fat and so happy. a little something sweet to top it all of? but, of course! i swear my taste buds recharged immediately. german chocolate cake, homemade peanut butter semifreddo, and warm apple pie a la mode. each dessert was paired with a dessert wine. then, just when we thought it was over, out came a platter of homemade chocolates.

the perfect ending

i wish i’d remembered to take more photos during our epic feast. per usual, i forgot i had my camera in my purse until we’d almost finished the chocolates. i need to get better about taking pictures. what good is a blog without photographic evidence to reinforce the prose? good for almost nothing, if you ask me.

we lavished chef mike with well-deserved praise when he emerged from his kitchen at the end of the night, triumphant. aside from a couple at the bar, we were the last people in the restaurant. i splurged on a cab back to brooklyn because i couldn’t end such an exquisite night below union square, watching rats duck in and out of the subway tracks, willing the train to come around the bend. i emailed katy this morning to let her know that her secret is out. she’s an undeniable superstar at work. we were treated like royalty because of her. so cheers to katy! cheers to chef mike! and cheers to the good food that brings us all together!