I’m not sure how we ever traveled without the Internet and WiFi. Google finds me everything I need to know and more.  I am told by the Barcelona Tourist Guide, “The Magic Fountains of Montjuic is a spectacular display of colour, light, motion, music, and water acrobatics—if you mix these elements together in just the right combinations, you end up with pure magic! The magic fountain is a “must-see” when you come to Barcelona and highly recommended.”

Thanks to my timely Google search, I now know tomorrow night is the night—the only night—to see the Magic Fountains of Montjuic before we fly home in early November.

Sunday Morning

We try to sleep late, but at 5 a.m. there is still a party going on somewhere on someone’s terrace that is too close to our open bedroom window. I get up and putter and read and nap.  It is quieter in the living room.  Michael sleeps through the distant roar of conversations out back.

I promised a quiet day of recuperation—I promised brunch. My only purchase toward this end is one lone potato and a carton of orange juice.

Brunch at Home

At 10 o’clock, I open the refrigerator door and fill my arms.  I feel like Rachel Ray.  Chopping the leftover onion from Michael’s Saturday night meal, I also slice the small leftover artichoke hearts from another night’s tapas. Some dried Spanish Lomo Embuchado—I have no idea what that is; I think it is pork, it looks like pork, comes next.

I dice our last tomato.  The diced potato is already simmering away, ready to be drained.  I begin sautéing the onion, adding a bit of garlic and everything but the tomato. The potatoes tumble in.  I sauté bacon—the Emerald Cruise Line way.  Potatoes golden, I divide them between two shallow bowls and add cheese, microwaving them just long enough to make an ooey-gooey mess. Topping each with a sunny-side-up egg, I surround each egg with bacon and sprinkle them with chopped parsley. Toast and strawberry jam are already on the table.

Michael is pouring the mimosas as I walk in with the main dish, “We are having Eggs Barcelona,” I say, “named so because I made them from all of our Barcelona leftovers.”

They’re good.  Maybe, it is the mimosas.

“You should have taken a picture,” Michael says.  They were colorful.

The Magic Fountains of Montjuic

We laze the afternoon away, leaving the house at 5 p.m. for an evening adventure—The Magic Fountains of Montjuic—their website says tonight is the last performance of the season.

Pura Brasa has lured us back for a second round of smoked ribs and sangria—still delicious! The bill paid, we head for the fountains of Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya at the foot of Montjuic. Unfortunately, it is not very long until we discover that I can’t tell time by the world clock. The dancing waters are supposed to begin at 2100—I somehow thought that was 7 p.m. We are two hours early, and we aren’t leaving.

I’m not used to time on my hands—this never happens at home—and I am never early

Break Dancing Above The Magic Fountains of Montjuic

.The crowds are forming everywhere—the fountains are along the street, in front of the steps leading up up up up up up to the museum entrance, as well as in the middle of all of those stone stairs,  forming a series of waterfalls.  We are not sure exactly where to sit.  Finally, we opt for comfortable chairs at a small outdoor café.

“We have plenty of time,” Michael reminds me.

Coffee cup empty, he wants to climb to the top.  Of course.

We arrive at the large terrace leading into the art museum just in time to see the finale of a fantastic break dancing show—also just in time for putting coins in the hat that passes before us.

We sit on cold stone bleacher-type seats. Someone blows cigar smoke in our direction. We move.  We move again.  At 8:55 pm, the large fountains by the railing shoot skyward.  Everyone runs to the edge of the terrace.

We discover we have climbed too high.  We descend a little at a time, till finally, we are back where we started.

The fountains are programmed to music, with different compositions playing every thirty minutes.  This goes on till midnight. I don’t think we can’t last that long.

I tell Michael I like the fountains in their natural white foamy state.  The colored water is like putting glitter on a flower.  He isn’t sure. Music from the Lion King echoes around us—the fountain turns golden. Maybe color isn’t so bad.