Since the bakery we had located the previous day was nothing special, we had breakfast at the hostel, pulled down all the sheets from the bunk beds, shouldered our packs, dropped the plastic card key in the box provided at the entrance, and were off. We caught the tram at Leidseplein (stacking our luggage in the open area at the back) and rode all the way to Centraal Station. There, we put our packs in a large luggage locker, and went out for a walk down Nieuwendijk, which turned out to be to Amsterdam what the Lista di Spagna was to Venice, namely an overtouristed street catering to the stereotypes of people who avoid thinking as much as possible. This brought us to the large square of the Dam and the Royal Palace ("are there really kings and queens in there?" Z asked, for it didn't look at all impressive). We walked down the wide pavement of Rokin then up Klovenierburgwal (avoiding the red light district, not because the kids needed sheltering -- they know about sex and understand the lengths to which people will go to get it -- but because as everywhere, these districts are rather sad and pathetic). We happened across a used English bookstore and spent some time getting some more books for A, who looked about ready to run out. Then through the edge of Chinatown (Chinese characters on canal buildings looked incongruous, but why was it any worse than on Parisian edifices?) and the Nieuwmarkt pavement back up to the train station area again.
Finally, we meandered to Prinzengracht north of the Anne Frank Huis to a place called The Pancake Bakery for lunch. We should have been warned by the name and by the fact that it was in Frommer's. It was in a basement, with aproned servers offering very perfunctory service, all patrons tourists; N and I had "caprese", which was basically a crepe with cheese, tomato sauce, and basil on it, while the kids had plain pancakes that came with little toys. It all tasted all right, though it was somewhat of a cynical way to end our stay. Amsterdam seemed much the same to us everywhere, but that was because we had seen it as most tourists probably see it (and as we rarely see places): in a couple of days and without leaving the historic centre, looking too closely at the details, or attempting to get into the mindset of local residents. You get the experience you arrange for, and we had no right to complain.
We walked back up to the train station in a hurry, bought tickets to the airport, and retrieved our packs (much to the relief of those waiting around to check their luggage, since all the lockers were taken by this time). We caught the train to the airport (an InterCity from Berlin, and in the company of a couple of confused tourists who thought this was a train to Brussels), used the last of our Dutch change to buy amaretti in the duty-free shop, and boarded the 4:30 flight to Barcelona. We were split two and two; Z chattered at me throughout the flight, making it impossible to work on the travel notes as I had hoped.
We arrived in Barcelona about 6:30, walking out quickly upon retrieving our luggage, since this flight was within the Schengen customs zone. It took some time to locate a bank machine that would give me money (the first one refused and the second one wouldn't give me a "withdrawal" option on its menu). We walked across the bridge over the parking lot to the train station; we had just missed a train, and had a 25 minute wait for the next one. The kids were squabbling and complaining, rather spoiling the feeling of being back in Barcelona again. But, then, they didn't know yet how much they would enjoy the city; all they knew was that they were hungry and had been travelling for too long.
The train into town was pleasant enough, and we got off at Placa Catalunya, which turned out to be an underground maze crowded with commuters heading every which way. I found an El Corte Ingles sign and followed it; we emerged by the large department store on the east side of the Placa, and walked along the crowded pavement to the south to the top of Las Ramblas, the famous pedestrian stroll through the heart of town, and down the sidewalk to the left side. I had been to this hotel before and knew where I was going; we checked in without any problem and rode the elevator up to the fourth floor of the back building.
On opening the door, my first impressions were of space and function. To the right was a kitchen with two electric burners, a microwave, a tiny dishwasher, fridge, toaster, electric kettle, sink, and an elegantly curved table that could comfortably fit four; to right was a spacious bathroom with a shower and tub, and a separate toilet room within it; ahead was the living room with a sofa that ingeniously rotated its cushions underneath to expose the double bed (where we slept) and a balcony overlooking -- not the noisy Ramblas, but the quiet Placa Vila de Madrid, with Roman tombs excavated just below. To the right of the balcony and inside, a partition wall pulled back to reveal a bedroom with a standard double bed, access to the balcony, and a double closet. We had expected something minimal and somewhat cramped, like in Paris, and were pleasantly surprised at how nice it looked. The price (27000 ptas/night) was about right for a three-star hotel double.
We put our things down, washed up, and set out immediately to have dinner at nearby Gardunya, as the kids were going to break. We had eaten at this restaurant, located at the back of La Boqueria market, in 1990, and remembered it as a rather faded and dim space. The covered market was only a short walk down the Ramblas from the hotel (one of the reasons we had chosen it), though nearly all the stalls were closed and the front door was about to close as well. We walked through the empty market, and could see a sign at the back, but where was the entrance? Moving along the back wall, we found an exit through a loading dock, and asked a worker. He pointed out the back; we went out and around, and found an entrance to an airy two-level space with beach-style memory boxes installed below a stylish glass floor. It was very different from what we remembered. The waiter brought us menus still unfolded, and told us that it was only the second day they were in their new location (he pointed to the space next door that they used to occupy). We ordered simply: paella a la marinera, calamari fritos, and a mixed seafood grill. With a half-litre of house white, we felt as though we had arrived in heaven.
We left the restaurant relaxed and happy, and I was only slightly perturbed when I tried calling Dimitrios (our former postdoc who was the reason we were visiting Barcelona) and got only an alarming beeping sound.