Story: Finding Catalan

Ben and I had just crisscrossed France and Italy, utilizing our overstuffed packs, the rail and a penny flight (scheduled on the wrong day by yours truly) to squeeze in as many sights as humanly possible during the dense two-week vacation. Running a little ragged and short of stamina, we planned to spend the last few days of our European tour relaxing and rejuvenating in Barcelona.

Had it not been for some determination with France’s impenetrable “Customer Service”, a compact five-speed (neither Ben or I drive a stick) and Providence, we may never have made the overnight trek from Monaco to the Spanish border before having to head back to the States. Fortuitously Eva, our college friend and resident of the Catalan capitol, was waiting at the train station, having freed her schedule to offer us undistracted companionship and conversation in our native-tongue.

Barcelona was magnificent. Visiting at the end of November the city’s history, architecture and style came alive underneath the twinkle of holiday lights, exuding a Christmas-like flare. After taking in Gaudi’s remarkable Casa Mila, Casa Batllò and famously spired cathedral, Sagrada Família, we sipped dark-roasted java at a local café and before settling into Eva’s flat, located in El Born, a quaint fashionable village inside the Barrio Gòtic, Barcelona’s “old city”.

Over the course of several months Eva had made friends with several Catalanes, giving her an outlet to practice her fluency and in specific helping her adjust to Barcelona’s special brand of language, another personal trait that makes the city utterly unique. With Thanksgiving only a day away, the autumn holiday gave our hostess a perfect forum to introduce us to her friends and to introduce her friends to an original American tradition.

Though we saved the pilgrim bonnets and Native American headdress for a more discreet celebration, we did prepare a feast: ordering a turkey from a bordering country (apparently Spaniards had no application for a whole bird in their diet’s menu), cooking green bean casserole, corn pudding, marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes and of course, preparing three or four desserts.

With Eva smoothing over the language barrier and translating the difference our chatter turned into genuine conversation as I attempted to ingratiate into the lives and culture of these fascinating guests (or was I the guest?). Incredibly the Spanish natives had an enormously positive opinion on Americans, most having visited the United States at least once before.

Not so surprisingly, the food was only a minor hit. In typical American extremism, the food was a bit rich for our new friends, accustomed to less flavor and less fat, preferring the native paella dish (rice) and tapas appetizers.

Over the next twenty-four hours Eva continued our tour and conversation as we sauntered across the Barceloneta sands, marveled at Frank Gehry’s handiwork (Guggenheim Museum architect) on the beaches of Villa Olimpica, gazed at a lazy sunset over Port Vell and visited Taller de Tapas for a famously scrumptious seafood tapas dinner. Finally, full and tired Ben and I succumbed to the final “All Aboard!”, railing overnight to Paris where an early morning plane was waiting to take us home.

It is difficult to recall the exact details of the historical sites we pummeled through or the restaurants we patronized while visiting Barcelona. But my memories are vivid: of the beautiful people we met, their sincere conversation and fascinating everyday stories, and the merging of cultures that accented our common tones and diminished our very insignificant differences.