Barcelona, Malaga, Jorox
the journey begins
I’m pretty sure that sound is god laughing. I had plans. Haha, said god, be my guest.
Esana and I set out for Spain on May 14 - Toronto to Barcelona - to spend three days there before heading to Malaga. Here’s how it went…
Pearson Airport - we’re on standby!
Day 1: Barcelona.
The Airbnb is steps away from Familia Sagrada, a thirty-minute walk to the old town. It is not a Bed & Breakfast, as advertised. It is a bedroom with its own bathroom. It’s fine since we don’t intend to spend any time there but it also means we can’t make our own breakfast. We find Sue from Long Island who has come for the retreat, for a tapas tour. Only there’s no one at the tour’s meeting spot. After some scrambling through various emails ( I have dozens from Airbnb’s, tours, trains, and flights, I find one sent by the tour company that says they changed the meeting place. Great. It’s now nearly half an hour after the start of the tour. I spend another twenty minutes on a chat with the company where they finally agree to give us the tapas and tavern tour at 10:45 AM! I explain that we aren’t interested in tapas for breakfast and it doesn’t even make sense, so she says sorry, sorry, sorry, and can I wait? What else would I do? So she tells me that she can accommodate two of us at 6:30 the following day. No, I say. That won’t work. I wait, and she comes back to tell me they just had a cancellation. We confirm the meeting location, and the three of us find a quiet courtyard to avail ourselves of our choice of tapas. Olives, Manchego, and a spectacular salmon tartar are the ones I can still taste.
I forgot to mention that just before – I mean the day before – we’re leaving, my knee goes berserk. I’m woken in the middle of the night with stabbing pains. I take homeopathic remedies, elevate my legs, go buy K Tape and text my beloved osteopath, Juliana Balogh. She sees me for an emergency session hours before we leave for the airport. It helps tremendously but to say I’m a bit nervous about the several walking tours we’ve booked is an understatement. When I tell Esana about my knee, she laughs. “I’ve got frozen shoulder,” she says. “I can’t lift my carry-on.” We’re just a couple of old dollies limping our way through Pearson airport, yet, thankfully, all goes off without a hitch. Oh, except for when we check in at the kiosk we’re not assigned seats. We’re “standby.” Since our tickets weren’t exactly cheap, I’d passed on the seat selection. All chosen seats incur a cost, for heaven’s sake. Even the crappy ones are $64.00 each. Long story short – we got seats together and arrived in one sleepy piece in Barcelona the morning of May 15.
Day 2
Sue was a bit smarter in terms of choosing accommodation. She’d booked the
Hotel Catalonia on the Portal de l'Àngel – posh with a pool and much more central. So after our morning tour with Matt, a most entertaining and delightful guide through the old town and our rebooked tapas tour, Esana accepted Sue’s invitation to share her airconditioned room.
The tapas tour exceeded our expectations by a long mile. Ten people, mostly from the US, followed young Vera while she explained how various foods and dishes migrated and developed over time. Three different venues, complete with Cava, Vermouth, wines, and Fanta, Iberian ham, cheeses, anchovies, patatas brava, croquettes, and salads had us conversing and sharing and laughing. Absolute delight. In fact, one of the restaurants was so good, we went back the next evening to try some of their other dishes.
When Vera bid us goodbye and Esana and Sue were close to Sue’s hotel, I opted to walk back to the non-breakfast Airbnb. By now, my knee had loosened up and although it hurt, walking was still an option. It appeared that a football game had just been won because thousands of red and blue-shirted cheering Catalonians waving flags poured out into the streets. I was a fish going upstream. Block after block I weaved my way through the revelers. But then, the atmosphere began to shift. Throngs of football fans slowly dissolved into a chanting, fervent mass of people in regular clothes. No cars on the sidewalks or streets, just thousands of people no longer cheering but shouting slogans, fists in the air. When I turned the corner, a man with a megaphone stood at the base of a statue, all around him chanting, swarming. Luckily, I was just a lone old woman making my way through the crowd and no one took notice of me. As we’d heard about the water pistol incident, we’d asked Matt if there was a lot of anti-tourist sentiment. He reassured us that was an isolated incident that had gone viral, and tourists were indeed welcome in Spain. As I squeezed though the heated bodies, I wasn’t so sure. Ahead, the road was blocked, red and blue flashing lights, police in full combat gear didn’t exactly dispel my fears. Finally, I managed to circumvent the blockade and get back to the Airbnb safely.
Once there, I searched for an explanation online and found that my suspicions were on point. I had made it through a massive anti-tourist demonstration.
Day 3
Lucky us: Matt was once again our guide through Barcelona’s many architectural gems. And yes, of course, Gaudi. But there were many other remarkable architects who weren’t quite as wild and likely autistic as Gaudi. Lluís Domènech i Montaner, or Dom, as he is affectionately referred to created the Palau de la Música Catalana, strangely situated on a narrow street which does not do justice to this magnificent building.
For lunch, Matt directed us to one of his favourite restaurants right by the Sagrada, MADRE. Oh boy! What an absolute delight. It was packed but the lovely server found us a spot at the bar where we watched an expert mixologist conjure some fancy drinks, including a Bloody Mary made with house-made tomato juice. For each cocktail, he’d drop a little on his wrist to taste test before sending it out. We ate plump oysters so tasty they converted both Sue and Esana from “Okay, I’ll try one,” to “Sign me up!”
Just an aside here, that twelve days into our trip, every single meal in a restaurant, no matter how much we eat or drink, comes to twenty euros per person. It’s so strange and makes us laugh every time.
I’d forgotten that I’d booked us a tour of the Familia Sagrada and after so much walking – 27,000 steps the day before and almost 20,000 that day, I was tired and hot and thought I’d forgo the tour. But Esana doesn’t have a cell phone and our tickets were on mine. I was so grateful that I had to experience the wonder of that place. The light. The lightness. The brilliance. Stunning.
We rested by the pool at Sue’s hotel before setting out to indulge in more thrilling tapas tastes.
Day 4:
Early morning Bullet Train to Malaga in air-conditioned comfort. Btw: taxis in Barcelona are very inexpensive. It’s a big city and our Airbnb was outside of the main town, so although I could walk into the centre in 25 minutes, the taxi to the railway station or into the main town never cost more than 7 Euros.
I check in to the lovely Airbnb I never stayed in two years ago, a two-bedroom apartment a block from the port. Two years ago I’d texted the host to ask about a clinic where I could have my swollen foot looked at and I was admitted for four days of tests and observation. This time I am able to enjoy the lovely spot. I meet up with Susanne who has come from Guadalajara on a cruise ship and since once again, Sue has generously invited Esana to stay at her hotel, Susanne and I each have our own room. We stroll the Alameda, looking for likely breakfast spots. I adore Malaga. What a gorgeous city. Friendly, safe, and stunningly beautiful. For dinner, we meet up with Pnina who has come from Israel and head along the port for dinner. Ah, tapas! Anchovies, grilled zucchini wrapped around soft cheese, salmon tartare, and of course, paella. (Still, 20 euros per person, drinks, food, everything included!)
Day 5
We store our luggage and roam the city until it’s time to meet the others at the train station. Which goes off without a hitch – we meet Rachel from the UK and Brandy who has come from Abu Dhabi via Granada. Karen, we find out through our WhatsApp group that Karen has been stalled in Frankfurt due to a long wait at Immigration and has to find an alternate flight.
We meet Miguel and board the bus to Molino del Rey, deep in the heart of Andalusia – an hour from Malaga.
It’s like coming home.
We choose our rooms and tour the grounds. Karen arrives in time to join us for a sumptuous vegetarian dinner, after which we gather for an evening salon for introductions, both to each other and to the AWA method. We have our first writing session together. Eight distinct voices, each with their unique writing history, style, and intentions. This is going to be fascinating!
Just a few shots of the retreat… Next post I’ll let you know what I learned from these remarkable women… But I’ll share with you something my father used to say that held true on this trip: Without expectation you will never be disappointed.