The skies are cloudy and the temperatures have dropped to the cool sixties. Eight o’clock, nine, nine thirty. Ed, we cannot pass on a dinner in Barcelona.
A night meal in the city. Hundreds of places to choose from. Last year, Ed took on the task of picking with a zest. Tonight he’s still groggy from travel. I have some ideas, but nothing fixed. He searches, we confer reviews, confer some more. Got it. Just a two kilometer walk toward the center. Taller de Tapas.
Barcelona in the late June evening, just a little wet, just a little cool. Men wear scarves, women – eh, women, they wear all sorts of things. Me too. I clash colors here, because it’s crazy fun to not harmonize, not be perfectly in order.
Balconies. The city of balconies.
Then of course, tapas. Catalan food is at the top of the best, in my book. Tapas let two people run through a lot of food. There are the wild mushrooms. The greens with bits of cheese. And anchoivies on eggplant and peppers. And langoustines in saffron. And mussels. And a pitcher of sangria. Ed, who drinks maybe a beer every two weeks at home, pours sangria as if it were water. Delicious, zesty fruity...
And when you think I'd had enough, I point to the scrambled eggs with prawns and seasonal vegetables, and what the heck, it’s small plates, so that too.
Barcelona. Something about this place makes you let go. Eat with spirit. Then walk home in the warm light rain, in the shadows of the night, while others keep on eating, drinking. Seductive city. Almost dark now. Almost.
