Torben came by for breakfast again; we could not get fresh croissants or bread, but he wasn't eating the way we were, anyway; he had a bag of sandwich bread, some apples, and some sliced vacuum-packed salami that he had been carrying around without refrigeration and which we eventually persuaded him to discard.
We set out towards the south, through the maze of medieval streets, and found ourselves on Carrer Ample, just south of the Roman walls (and presumably under water in Roman times). Crossing Via Laietana, we tried to go through Santa Maria del Mar, but deferred to the Mass in progress, and instead went around the south side, along the quiet boulevard of the Passeig del Born, and up to the large neglected emptiness of the Antic Mercat del Born. Around the south side again, and we were into the Parc de la Ciutadella. The signage was a bit confusing, but Z had to pee, so we had no time to waste, and marched at military pace past the Catalonian Parliament and to the small Museu d'Art Moderne on its side.
The kids were anticipating bright metal sculptures, and I had to explain to them that "Modern" in this case meant about a hundred years old: the Modernista period, called Art Nouveau, Jugendstil, and Art Deco in other countries. As we walked through the modest museum (nearly empty of visitors), N observed that in an alternate universe these artists could easily have been superstars. It wasn't that their work was particularly striking; some of it was, others were merely pleasant, and there were a number of items that appeared derivative ("this one's trying to be Toulouse-Lautrec... this one's trying to be Monet" said N). But somehow it seemed as if they simply had the misfortune to be stuck in a provincial backwater, visiting Paris for inspiration instead of taking it by storm.
Leaving the museum, we walked out the rear of the park, by the Gaudi fountain, and found ourselves in relatively unfamiliar territory. Fortunately, a small urban playground presented itself, and the kids went off to clamber while the rest of us got our bearings. We were near the Vila Olimpica, close to if not in the zone renovated for the 1992 Olympics. Torben had an ancient map with him which showed a maze of train tracks blocking our way south, but this seemed to have been buried, and the walk was quite pleasant. We arrived at the Port Olimpic, suddenly back in a lively and crowded scene, and along the Passeig Maritim, checking out possible lunch places. The one I had selected, Agua, was not open yet, and seemed to rely on its location (overlooking the beach) and decor (stylishly casual) -- at least, the menu did not excite us. So we continued on into Barceloneta and then up Carrer Almirall Aixada to Paco Alcalde.
N and I had eaten here in 1990, taking a recommendation from the excellent cookbook "Catalan Cuisine", by Colman Andrews. The place did not seem to have changed much, and Torben, whose food sense is not stellar even in languages he is fluent in, let us order for the table. He did ask for a fish soup (which arrived quite late in the meal), but otherwise let us order a standard set of dishes: fideua, a double order of arroz negre, pulpitos (which were not the very small octopi - those we never managed to find), pescaditos, esqueixada, escalivada, and chipironitos. We remembered the arroz negre from a decade previous as being as black and glistening as tar, which the new one was not; but it was tasty nonetheless. I asked for a half-bottle of rose; they brought a whole bottle, indicated I would pay for what I drank, and as we all knew from the start, I drank all of it.
After dessert, we made our way to the Barceloneta metro stop, changed at Passeig de Gracia, and took the L3 all the way up to Vallcarca, the stop closest to Parc Guell. I was stopped on the street by some Germans, who spoke to me in English and asked me to translate what was written on their bullfight tickets. I know almost no Spanish or Catala, but the times when the doors opened and when the spectacle started were pretty obvious. Turning the corner, we renewed our acquaintance with the glorious outdoor escalators going up the middle of the steep streets (whose sidewalks were stairs) towards the park.
The children, who had seen pictures but had not visited previously, had a great time in the park. It was busy, but not insanely crowded, and hot, but not debilitatingly so. Still, after climbing to the cross for the views over the city, wandering among the fantastic pillars and walkways, and coming down through the sculptures tiled with old pieces of broken plates and glasses, it seemed prudent to regain the subway and head back to the hotel for siesta. Torben and N worked while I metabolized the last of the wine from lunch.
In the evening, we walked up the Passeig de Gracia, looking for an early and light meal. We had read somewhere that the Centro Asturiano served tapas on Sunday evenings, but when we arrived, there were only a few expatriates playing cards. I suggested that going into Gracia proper would offer us more choices (at least less commercial ones) than on the Passeig. When we arrived at Placa Rius i Taulet, there was one table left outside at Nou Candachu, the place at which I had whiled away time with Dimitrios and Maria the previous November. We grabbed it, and everyone sat down but Torben, who looked unsure. To be certain, the table and chairs were cheap stained plastic, there was a smoker at one side and a man with a large dog at the other. Torben kept standing and debating, hoping perhaps that we would change our minds. But since he didn't have any alternative, we stayed put.
Eventually, he wandered off, and we ordered a few small dishes, all of which were quite good (except the calamari, which arrived late and stone cold). We thought initially that the aged waiter was discouragingly rude, but he turned out to simply be gruff by nature, and served us as best he could considering that he appeared to be the only person working all the outside tables and some inside as well. Torben would come back from time to time to stand over us, until finally the kids were finished and could run around the square with him.
It was quite late, but we convinced Z to walk back with the possibility that Casa Batllo might be illuminated. I warned N that it hadn't been on my weekend visit, but Z's wishes were granted, and she squeaked with happiness all the way back to the hotel.