Paris: Single in the City of Love

 

I arrived on a bright but brutally cold Friday afternoon, 2 years ago nearly to the day. Spoiled by Spain’s Mediterranean climate, I had poorly packed for a Parisian winter. But I was happy to see the city outside the cliched norms of fragrant blooming flowers and outdoor cafés.

With only two and a half days in the City of Lights, city of love, my friends and I decided not to stress over checking off every tourist attraction. (I had been twice before, so I was especially inclined to have a more relaxed agenda).

Our first night, we settled into our hotel and wandered around the Latin Quarter, strolling through winding streets until we decided upon a quaint bistro for dinner. A glass of wine, onion soup, and boeuf bourguignon later, I was too full, too tired, and too content to do anything but immediately collapse into bed.

Morning began with a brief walking tour around the hotel’s neighborhood to locate a spot for a petit dejeuner. We entered an elegant café with mirrored walls and dramatic velvet curtains draped along the windows and doors. We ate slow, enjoying rich coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice, and soft, butter-soaked, impressively flakey-yet-gooey, delectable croissants …

. . .

Where was I? Forgive me, I completely lost my train of thought daydreaming about those croissants.

Oh yes, Paris!

After breakfast, we languidly strolled through the Luxembourg Gardens, the typically manicured park frozen and bare. We watched a duck slip its way across a frozen pond, walked around to see Le Sorbonne, and continued our relaxed approach to seeing the city.

Being the reckless 20-somethings we were, we stopped into a small grocery store where a bottle of champagne and a bottle of orange juice were purchased. No use getting cups. On the street, the boys craftily combined the liquids, and a grand mimosa bottle was passed and shared between us as we walked to the Metro towards Montmartre.

Sacre-Cour. A crepe au chocolat. A glance at the art fair, and we returned down the majestic hill towards the Seine. Notre Dame was next, and we took pictures outside, walked through the periphery inside, and debated where to go for dinner.

One of my fellow travelers had never been to the Louvre, so I agreed to take her, separating from the others. We pretty efficiently paced from gallery to gallery, appreciating the ornate architecture, priceless art, and immaculate displays within the last hour of the museum’s admission.

Day two brought us back to the same cafe for breakfast. (Those croissants!) We allotted a generous chunk of time for the Eiffel Tower. The lines were long and the stair climbing tedious, but the views were breathtaking (and not just because I was winded from the ascent!)

Despite the harrowing cold outside the observatory, we didn’t rush our time above the city. There was a large crowd in the small space, but I didn’t notice. My eyes were fixed on the city sprawling beneath me. Baron Haussmann’s carefully planned, wide boulevards  criss-crossed in pristine geometric beauty. The tree-lined streets, green gardens, and neatly spaced city blocks mingled to create possibly the most aesthetically pleasing aerial cityscape I’ve ever seen.

After the Eiffel Tower was the Champs-Elysee and the Arc de Triomphe. We snapped some pictures, circled around the Arc, and found a fancy restaurant for our last Parisian dinner. Sharing a bottle of wine and trying escargot together, it dawned on us that we really had managed, despite our relaxed tempo, to see quite a great number of landmarks.

On our last morning, I requested we wake up early to buy macarons from Ladurée before our flight. We walked passed the American embassy (being the patriots that we are! Actually it was an unintentional but exciting find.)

The emptiness of Paris early in the morning, the chill of the February air, the slight dewy fog of the rising sun: it was so relaxing. So quiet.

On the bus ride to the airport, it dawned on me Valentine’s Day was days away. There was no fuss around Paris in preparation for the holiday. Everything was business-as-usual. But I suppose one doesn’t limit romance to one day in the City of Love? There was no pressure to pair off or make superficial gestures of affection. The love of life, the love of love, were simply principles Parisians lived by daily.

I was happy to have seen the city with 5 near-strangers as opposed to a romantic interest. 3 guys from my Spanish class, a roommate who tagged along, and a girl from my university back home made an unexpected entourage. But the chemistry and rapport was memorable. We saw what we came to saw, enjoyed rich cuisine and good wine, and spent most of the time shivering in the February cold.

 

A Weekend of Whimsy: Costa Brava

Spring had definitely arrived in Barcelona by mid March. (By contrast, spring tends to still debate her arrival in Chicago around that time). By then I was well familiar with every winding alley of the Barri Gòtic,  decided I preferred Santa Maria del Mar over the Barcelona Cathedral, and established a cafe con leche routine at a modern cafe. Of course, such a taxing lifestyle sometimes requires one to escape for a bit. Hence I signed up for a weekend tour of the Costa Brava.

Girona

The tour first brought us to Girona, a city just over 60 miles outside of Barcelona. It was quiet, clean, and colorful. The entire time I was there, I couldn’t quite figure out the city’s character; it was complex. On the one hand, there were neat, colorful row-houses lining the Onyar river. Well kept and pristine, strangely bright yet almost sterile.  (I suppose I was a used to a bit more crumble in my buildings, surrounded by 19th century facades in Barcelona.)

But contrasting these square houses with minimalist facades and modern lines were the city’s old fort, the breathtaking Sant Pere de Galligants Benedictine church, and the Jewish Quarter. I’ve never seen a more perfect embodiment of the term “centuries collide.” That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy Girona. But I left still uncertain of the impression it left on me.

Teatre-Museu Dalí

Next on the trip, and really the selling point for most participants, was the city of Figueres. Birthplace of Salvador Dalí, we had heard tales of wonder, amusement, and confusion from visitors of his famous Theatre-Museum. Though the surroundings are sleepy and slow, the museum is unquestionably Dalí. Bright red and crowned with eggs, the entrance both foreshadows (yet reveals nothing) of the spectacles that await inside.

Some of Dalí’s most famous works are displayed inside, including Port Alguer (1924) and the portrait of his wife, Galarina (1944–45).

I’m having a fiery internal debate about whether to include more pictures from the museum. On the one hand, I want to share what an incredible, eccentric experience it was. On the other, I don’t want to ruin the surprise for future visitors! Part of the fun and wonder was really not having any expectations for what you’d see next. And how could you? This is Dalí we’re talking about! 

Ever the entertainer, even his museum’s architecture can’t be left untouched by his art. Thought provoking images and details are everywhere. Even if one doesn’t “get” Surrealism (I suppose it isn’t a movement that aimed to be understood, but rather is defined by non sequitur… but I digress!), visitors are really in for a treat!

After a stimulating, laughter-filled afternoon at the museum, the group recharged on some cortados and sandwiches before loading back onto the bus to Cadaques.

I really thought the best was over; what I had aimed to see on this trip I saw, and the rest would just be a relaxing blur. But to this day I remember the remainder of the itinerary more vividly than anything else!

Cadaques was the perfect combination of warm and windy when we stepped off the bus. White, Mediterranean houses lined uneven cobblestone roads. The smell of the sea mixed with the aromas of freshly blooming spring flowers. We took deep breaths at Port Lligat, too tired by the journey to listen to all the biographical details of Dalí’s life there, nevertheless still in awe of the view.

Heaven on Earth: Port Lligat, Cadaques

After a few moments of sitting in the sand to regain our energy, the tour group (I should mention there were only about 15 or so of us) wandered into the the center of Cadaques and — after much indecision — picked a restaurant for dinner. We sat in a tree-lined sun room at a long table, sharing countless carafes of red wine and tasting local seafood. The meal was long and filled with vibrant conversation (probably with the help of the wine.)

The sun set on Cadaques that day, and I felt contentment like I never had before in my life. The soothing lapping of the sea, the stillness of the streets, and the company of fellow travelers. I wished the moment could last forever.

We finished up the trip in Coillure, France. On our way, we stopped by a small, independent museum in La Jonquera dedicated to the Spanish Civil War, particularly the Republican exile. The Museu Memorial de l’Exili (MUME), though small, clearly had a strong donor base and many public grants from the Generalitat de Catalunya. Filled with high-tech exhibitions, digitized archives and highly interactive films and digital artifacts, the museum commemorated the harsh, often fatal conditions of refugees forced into exile in France. A somber but important stop, the museum shed light on many details about the Spanish Civil War I was confused about (but too worried to ask a local about such a sensitive subject). The Spanish Civil War certainly still exists in the cultural memory of Spain; the same way WWII was such a fundamental experience for my own grandparents in Poland, their siblings in France, and older generations of my family. There’s a huge difference between learning about war through a textbook and witnessing through storytelling the lives it affected, the faces of its victims. The MUME certainly gave me a new perspective on that era of Spanish history.

Our last stop of the trip was just past the French border in Coillure, France. Another sleepy port town, it was the definition of quaint.

Coillure, France

Small fisherman’s boats would gently rock in the water, and the sun shone so brightly over that little town. Besides the aesthetic beauty, Coillure also had the most wonderful savory crepes, unforgettable violet gelato, and small, old-fashioned violet and lavender hard candies I remembered from my childhood. It was absolute bliss!

It’s impossible for me to decide which part of the trip was my favorite. In its entirety, my Costa Brava weekend was both busy yet relaxing; a packed itinerary of the most tranquil destinations.

If you are ever in Barcelona and want a change of scenery from the hustle and bustle, take a day trip around Costa Brava! You will experience such peace and calm, you’ll never forget it.

(Or be able to recreate it, sadly.)

Tackling La Boqueria

One balmy afternoon I strolled down La Rambla, eying the various floral stands, trinkets, and people who sprinkled the famous avenue. Barely a week into living in Barcelona, I only had a mental image of a map and an inkling of a sense of the neighborhoods guiding me. No sooner did I start getting used to the shops and cafes lining the street that I noticed what appeared to be a massive gap between buildings, and a large market tucked within it. Large but unimposing, famous but humble. Bustling with people, but not spilling into and disrupting the life of La Rambla.

La Boqueria.

I barely walked in and immediately wanted to retrace my steps. My eyes were shocked by vibrant colors. Succulent, ripe Valencia oranges and Mediterranean citrus fruits, fresh crisp peppers and fruits with colors, names, and shapes I had never seen before. But my eyes weren’t alone in the shock; the loud hum of locals bartering, the crowd brushing past me impatiently. How could they not be awestruck like I was?

Sensing that I was causing a bit of a traffic jam, I haphazardly ducked towards a fruit stand to the left. Immediately the grocer greeted me in Catalan, and I must have just shot him a bewildered, terrified look. He continued unloading beautiful fuchsia starfruit, and I soaked in the selection in front of me. I saw a fruit I had never encountered in my life, resembling a cross between a pear in color and smoothness, yet a gourd in firmness and weight. I followed my stupid instinct to give it a squeeze, as if I had any sort of notion what a ripe whateverthiswas should feel like. My fingertips barely lifted off the thing when the stallholder swooped next to me.

His rapid Catalan startled me and he snatched the fruit out of my hand.

“Que es esto?” I blurted dryly, immediately regretting my inarticulate question. Again his rapid speech swirled around my head and escaped me, but from his gestures and pointing, I gather he probably was showing me what I should look for in a whateveritwas and when it was ripe. “Membrillo” I heard over and over again, and concluded this large pear-gourd was called a membrillo. He asked me something and I nodded my head. Before I knew it, with movements more rapid than his speech, the stallholder weighed and determined the price for the membrillo. “5 euros.” He said.

Shit. That’s a $7 fruit. But I felt like I had offended the man enough by touching the produce in his stand, asking stupid questions, and now wasting his time as he impatiently wiped sweat off his brow. I forked over the money and wished I hadn’t. I walked out with a stupid heavy fruit I had no idea how to eat and 7 bucks poorer.

I felt cheated. I felt stupid. I felt like I failed at La Boqueria.

Besides deciding I needed to improve my Spanish more than immediately, I also decided on my walk home that I really didn’t want to relive the shame and embarrassment I had that day, and would probably never return to the market. The grocers all seemed like hawks or vultures, and I was the meek dumb tourist who stupidly pays for a (probably massively) upcharged fruit. Stubborn and resentful, my mind was made up.

So it was much to my chagrin to hear my friends, barely a week later, brainstorm what to do after class and hear someone suggest “Let’s go to that market on La Rambla!”

No.

I supposed walking through was no harm, so long as I didn’t respond to anyone who hassled me. I’d take my pictures and follow my friends, and not have to make shameful attempts at Spanish, further revealing my non-native status.

I couldn’t be more grateful (to this day!) that I returned to the market with my friend Markus. A chef-in-training, a foodie, a culinary expert beyond his years, his tour of La Boqueria narrowed my focus onto beautiful details I had missed the first time I was too shocked to process. The freshest, highest-quality exotic spices sold by the pound, sweet lychee fruits and straight-out-of-the-water seafood. Though some sights (ahem, the skinned lambs) made my stomach turn, our walk weaving past every last stand in the market was the most sensory experience of my life.

Noticing Markus had a high command of exotic produce, as we made our way out, I pointed to a membrillo and asked him what it was: “Markus, I bought one of those. I have no idea how to eat it… or what the hell it is. I need you to do something with it.”

Markus politely tried to stifle a laugh, but I didn’t mind him teasing me for my culinary ignorance. He briefly spoke with the stallholder (as I wandered over to the next stall, “la dee da… hope you don’t remember me!”)

Markus spoke so fluently and confidently. The grocer seemed to explain to him the same thing he explained to me days earlier (but with much less irritation in his voice), and I later prodded for a translation.

 “Don’t worry, I have a really great recipe for a quince sauce we can make on crostini.”(QUINCE! That‘s what a membrillo is?! I’VE HEARD OF QUINCE! … but in the form of a little  jam to spread on some cheese, not in its natural state of a massive freaking gourd fruit monstrosity!) His tone was so reassuring. I felt such relief!

That night Markus came by my apartment (with a mission to salvage my culinary creativity and make use of the membrillo I had been staring at for days). He baked the quince with a dusting of brown sugar (if memory serves me correctly) and made delicious toasted baguette slices topped with the baked quince and manchego. And of course we paired this with a great wine. Truly one of the most spectacular things I’ve eaten. And lot of that had to do with the good company.

…as well as the relief that I wouldn’t have to throw away my much-regretted produce purchase.

Related articles

• Las Ramblas (cbarcelona.net)
• La Boqueria in Barcelona, Spain (insearchofthenextmeal.com)