A Walk in the Park

Walking toward lunch and the Parc de la Ciutadella, I search for the bubble man.  He is here, but his world has narrowed. Fencing lines both sides of the long walkway to the park, protecting newly seeded grass.  There is no place for the children to run and chase the bubbles.  We sit awhile and then continue on our way.

Lunch

My plans are lunch, a walk in the park, then home—an easy day. Choosing the restaurant based on location and reviews, I lead the way.  Continually I tell Michael he needs to choose our place for lunch each day, and he keeps telling me if the food is not good, he wants to blame me, not me him.  The burden of leadership. A hard thing to endure.

I walk past my original choice; it just isn’t what I envisioned. Continuing to the end of the block, still within sight of Parc de la Ciutadella, I find an outdoor table for two at El Foro. I am happy with my choice and the choices available on the menu. Michael continues on the Spain Sangria trail. He is becoming an expert.

I order figs to start. Michael opts for just tomato bread—good tomato bread—but just tomato bread. My figs—Higos Rellenos De Queso Fresco Al Cebollino, Envueltos En Beicon Con Fondo De Espinacas—are interpreted as Figs stuffed with fresh cheese and chives, wrapped in bacon with spinach background.  They are lovely. I order what I think is a veal chop and get a piece of grilled veal (a la plancha) as big as a small calf—and it is not tender (tender counts), but it has a wonderful charred flavor.

Parc de la Ciutadella

I hear the mellow lure of live music as we begin our stroll through the park, and I am reminded of a Sunday too many years ago in Golden Gate Park where I napped on the ground in the warming sun listening to the golden notes of a hidden horn. Parc de la Ciutadella also has a lake with rowboats—just as San Francisco did—but this year, Michael isn’t buying the tune I am singing.  We walk on.

At last—The Fountain. The real reason for our afternoon stroll in the park.  It is beautiful. I am pretty much into fountains—so is everyone else, it seems. We take the stairs, climbing to the top, passing a vendor setting up his blanket to sell his wares.

Walking down the opposite side that we climbed up, we see a police car coming to a stop in front of the fountain. Michael tells me he is there to chase away the vendor—they do that.

“How could he possibly know he is there?  Do they have hidden cameras?”

The police officer climbs the stairs that we just descended.

I would love to sit in the shade of the surrounding trees at the outdoor cafe and have a glass of cava, but I am still full from lunch.

To the Sea

We walk on, passing the zoo.  I think we should go right to the metro, but we go left around the zoo—gray cement walls—nothing there. I’m not sure why we chose this path. We keep walking, crossing the busy street, taking the stairs to a footbridge that crosses over myriad railroad tracks, landing in hotel heaven close to the beach. Still, we walk. Is there a choice? Descending stairs to the beach, we find ourselves in the middle of an underground world of restaurants and cement that line the walk that lines the sand that edges the sea.

We stop and linger. I have cava.  Michael has a beer. The shadows grow long. The air grows cool, pushing us from our chairs, “We can come back for lunch,” I tell him.

I love my phone.  It tells me where I am and shows me where I want to go. And how to get there.  Making our way to the metro along the Passeig Joan de Borbó — restaurant row —  in Barceloneta, we glance down beckoning side streets.  I tell Michael we have barely scratched the surface of this city.

“I guess we will have to extend,” he says.