When the phone rang, I thought it must be Dimitrios; but it was Torben, another co-author of ours who we had not seen in person in several years. He was at a conference in Geneva, and had arranged to spend a few days in Barcelona at the same time as us, in order to talk research and to see the kids again. He was due to arrive the next evening, by train. Emboldened by this success, I tried calling Dimitrios again, but got the same mysterious sound.
I went out by myself, down the Calle Portaferrissa away from the Ramblas and into the Placa in front of cathedral, then down a narrow street to the left, under the "bridge of sighs" added early in the twentieth century, into the placa flanked by the city and provincial government buildings (where I had watched locals dance the sardana the fall previous) and down a small calle to right to find a bakery listed in one of our guidebooks. I bought croissants, bread, and some small pastries, which formed the beginning of breakfast back at the hotel. The croissants were decent but not exceptional: not too buttery or sweet, but perhaps not worth the long walk.
The Champion supermarket just across the street opened at 9:15, and we all went in. We bought bottled water, OJ, milk, yogurt, cleaning supplies, wine, sherry, snacks for kids, cereal -- more than we would have in one trip normally, but we just had to carry it across the Ramblas. Dumping the stuff in the hotel, we returned to La Boqueria. It was in full swing this time, with beautiful displays of fruit, seafood, meats, stalls with olives, salt cod, cooked legumes, preserved meats, cheeses... we bought cherries, strawberries, a dark green oval melon, tomatoes, carrots for A, bread, and a selection of charcuterie at La Masia de la Boqueria at the very back.
After putting all our purchases away, we continued walking north to the head of the Ramblas and around Placa Catalunya. The weather was perfect; sunny with occasional cloud, and only about 22 degrees. We had prepared for debilitatingly hot weather, but this was nothing like what we had expected. We walked up to Passeig de Gracia - Z, excited, pointed out the hexagonal paving stones with marine themes, which she had seen in museum exhibits. I told the kids to watch the architecture, and soon we were at the Mansana de la Discordia -- a single block on which there were buildings by Catalan modernist architects Domenich i Muntanyer, Puig i Cadafalch, and best of all, Antoni Gaudi, represented here by Casa Batllo with its masklike balconies whose pillars resembled dinosaur bones. We had lunch at Centro Asturiano (the local cultural centre for people from the province of Asturias, to the west of the Basque country), a second floor walkup opposite Casa Batllo and and a little farther north. There were no tourists (the other diners appeared to be local business people, a mix of men and women) and there was no English in evidence anywhere. The daily menu was 1300 ptas and was quite a bargain -- starters were large plates of paella mixta for N and the kids, an ensalada con boquerones (fresh anchovy fillets marinated in vinegar atop a green salad) for me; mains of grilled sardines for the kids and I, and a large slice of properly grilled salmon for N. Dessert was lemon tart for Z (actually more of a cheesecake) and flan for the rest of us.
Two blocks north was La Pedrera, the apartment building with the undulating facade that was Gaudi's last secular commission before he devoted the rest of his life to the Sagrada Familia. Like so much in Barcelona, this had changed since we took a guided tour of it ten years before. A bank (Caixa Catalunya) had bought it, and reconstructed one of the apartments with period furnishings, as well as creating an excellent museum space (Espai Gaudi) under the parabolic arches of the attic, and allowing self-guided walk-throughs. Even the gift shop created at ground level was tasteful and restrained. We were most impressed, and spent some time going through the museum and taking in the vistas from the roof with its fantastic ventilators. Instead of a single admission, we each bought an Articket, which for 2000 ptas allowed us entry to seven different venues.
Back to the hotel to let the kids unwind. Dinner was sliced tomatoes dressed with extra-virgin Spanish olive oil and sherry vinegar; slices of jamon iberico (prosciutto-like raw cured ham), llom (pork loin given a similar treatment), and chorizo; cabrales, the aged but still creamy and complex blue cheese, and a small local aged goat cheese; slices of rather indifferent bread (despite going to places that advertised their artisanal products, we never found bread that was worth a return visit), and a bottle of Gran Feudo Navarra 1995 reserva red wine. I attempted to call Dimitrios, but got the same mysterious sound. Advice from the front desk to dial the initial city code 93 (which I had thought was only necessary if calling from out of town) got me someone who only spoke Spanish, even though the number I had matched the one in the phone book.