I read Ernest Hemingway’s “Life Is A Movable Feast” in 1984 on my way from London to Paris. There needs to be a similar book written about living life in Barcelona, especially food and drink. Even so-so restaurants are good, it’s just that the great restaurants are so qualitatively better that they are a treat.
We used a free bonus trip from Inspirato for six nights at the Hotel Majestic’s apartment building – a nice two bedroom with plenty of living space, a washer/dryer, and a good-sized fridge. To extend the trip, we paid for two nights so we were there for eight nights.
The Majestic’s apartment building is across the street, which is nice because you have access to the hotel (including the wonderful rooftop bar), but you aren’t in a hotel, you are in an apartment.
The location is great – a metro stop two blocks south of us, and a metro stop with different lines next door. It’s also right on Avenue Passeig de Grassig, with Casa Battlo not even two blocks down, and La Pedrera not even two blocks up. It’s not a long walk to Plaza Catalunya, which is the beating heart of the city. From there you are at the top of La Rambla, or a short walk to the Cathedral area, and the coolest neighborhoods and restaurants.
The problem is that the staff is somewhat surly when we’ve had to deal with them. Even worse, they have no idea what they are doing. Examples:
● I checked out Saturday night, and now they are saying I didn’t and they threatened to charge us for another room night.
● I requested a wake-up call for 5am (as a back-up, as we’re not stupid and we set our own alarms for 4:45am). And the wake-up call never came.
● They didn’t clean the apartment one day.
● The most confusing was the hotel breakfast. We were told in an email and on paper that we got two complimentary breakfasts. Nope. Turns out we had to pay for breakfast, but I never got a straight story from the hotel.
Editor’s Note: Getting kind of whiney here Glen
Blogger: Point taken. Will keep my British Airways whining for myself. Back to our regularly scheduled riffs.
People don’t jaywalk in Barcelona. I don’t say that out of admiration. I think the jaywalking rate doubled because we were there. Now that we’ve left, jaywalking incidence has sharply decreased to normal low levels.
It is so nice to walk around the city and see so many cafes, pastry shops, and places to take a relaxing break and people-watch.
The smoking rate is still mid-20s. I bet if you asked most of the “why can’t we be more like Europe” Americans, they would not believe smoking rates are essentially double that of the United States.
Europe is entering the 20th Century – drinks are often served cold, and glasses for sparkling water come with ice! (Not many ice cubes, but not having to ask is quite the change). I do miss my standard reply when waiters would ask if I wanted ice – I would simply shrug and say, “I’m an American.” They would laugh and laugh and stop laughing to go get ice. It was a great system! Now I don’t even have to ask! I miss the old days.
Masking was essentially not a thing. There were the warnings before the trip that you need to mask on public transport and on flights into Spain. Neither were true. Less than 20% of the people on the metro wore masks, and, other than frequent PA announcements that no one heeded, there was no enforcement.
The only time we had to wear a mask was on the cable car from Barceloneta to Montjuic. And, as I noted in that post, was pretty much pointless, as the windows were open and outside air was flowing.
On the train to Figueres, the conductor yelled at us for not having masks, but never checked back. We bought masks in Figueres for the trip back but never wore them, as the conductor blew through our car, announcing about masks once but not even stopping to glare at us.
Carol got yelled at in a restaurant in Figueres. It was 12:40 pm, and the place was nearly empty. Carol went in to ask for a table for four, and the woman yelled at her that restaurants don’t open until 1pm for lunch because the Spanish, unlike Americans, eat late. Then she berated Carol as she showed off the full book of reservations. We beat a hasty retreat before she sicced the Catalun Lunch Opening Authorities on us. The last thing we wanted was to get arrested for trying to eat lunch before 1pm.
As we ran out of the restaurant with our tails between our legs, we pondered Plan B, which was to kill twenty minutes before eating. Instead, we found a restaurant that was open before one, and had a pleasant meal on La Rambla of Figueres at a restaurant called Sentits (means “senses”) in case you find yourself hungry in Figueres before 1pm after a morning of being dazzled by Dali.
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