It?s 6:30 am in Barcelona. I?m at an outdoor caf? eating from a plate of olives, drinking a beer. Just mere hours ago, at 2:00 am, I was at the same table in the same caf?, sipping an espresso.
If New York is the city that never sleeps, Barcelona is the city that sleeps at weird-ass hours. Here in the early morning haze, a couple sits drinking whiskey. A few skateboarders whizz past us and two young women get off a bus, looking a bit disheveled and a lot drunk. A man with a briefcase gets on the bus while a crowd of people cross the street at the light then scatter at the corner. Whether they are all coming or going I don?t know. I just know that I?ve never been in a city so alive with hints of nightlife at this hour of the morning.
If you want to enjoy a city, you have to learn the way of its people. Tourist attractions and beautiful scenery are great, but mingling with the locals is what gives you the real feel of being away from home. And after two weeks of no power and no sleep at home (thanks, Sandy), I want to fully immerse myself in being somewhere else. I want to become one with Barcelona.
So I learn to do what they do. When you are suffering from jet lag and that?s coupled your regularly scheduled insomnia, there?s no real stretch in trying to play along with people who keep strange hours. Being awake at odd hours is nothing new to me. 6:00 am? 3:00 am? It?s all the same to an insomniac.
It?s the eating, not the sleeping, that takes getting used to. Barcelona is not an easy place to find a good, old-fashioned American breakfast of bacon, eggs and home fries. There?s not a French toast to be found on any menu. And I guess the International part of International House of Pancakes does not apply to this part of Spain, because there?s not a single breakfast specialty place around.
Sure, there are some places that advertise an ?English style? breakfast ? with a little picture of an American flag next to it, making we want to give a short, unsolicited lesson in American history ? but I?d only recommend that if you like your eggs runny. We?re talking liquid eggs here. Served cold toast. This is not your American breakfast. Don?t think it?s even English.
So we eat for breakfast what everyone else eats for breakfast. Tapas. Small plates of food, mostly cured meats and various types of olives or deep fried vegetables and seafood. When in Rome, right?
Listen, I?m a big fan of cured meats. I?m Italian. Italians are like this with cured meats. But not so much for breakfast. And not so much for every single meal.
But when in Rome, act like the Romans, right? So we pick up on Barcelonian eating habits and go for the breakfast gusto with olives and bread and meats. We scan each menu of each tapas place looking for something new and exciting but we keep seeing the same offerings of prawn, squid, anchovies, tomatoes and cheeses in addition to the meats.
Theoretically, this sounds like an amazing rotation of foods to base your meals around. Realistically, you get tired of it quick enough ? make that five meals over the course of two days ? that you find yourself in a Burger King in a foreign country genuflecting before a Whopper.
Ugly Americans, I know. My boyfriend even wore a Burger King paper crown while devouring his burger. ?Not tapas!? he says with a thumbs-up as I snap a picture.
Feeling nourished after a good old-fashioned fast food meal, we feel like we can take on anything. This includes the hours they seem to keep here. It?s noon when we walk out of Burger King and the streets are deserted except for tourists. No skateboarders, no business people, no locals riding their scooters, nobody sitting at the local caf? drinking whiskey.
We take this as a sign to go back to the hotel and nap. We have no problem with this. When we wake and head out again at 3:00, the streets are once more alive and every outdoor caf? jammed with people eating, you guessed it, cured meats and breads and prawns and cheese.
I?ve developed a love/hate relationship with tapas at this point. On the one hand, they seem so otherworldly, something out of the books I used to read as a child where the heroes always ate meals with baguettes and cured meats. Perhaps their stomachs were as cast iron as their armor. I try to eat with those knights and princes in mind and it?s not hard to conjure up imagery of those books when there are castles lurking in the scenery. But even a trip down fantasy book lane cannot make me want to eat like this all the time.
But, when in Rome, I think. Become one with Barcelona. Be the city.
More olives for us, then. Bread with tomatoes and cheese. Something called Moorish meat which I don?t question, just eat. More beer. Don?t ask me what kind of beer because the only answer you?ll get when you say ?What do you have on tap?? is ?Small, medium or large?? Medium, thanks.
At 6:00 pm when we would normally be eating dinner everyone disappears again. Most of the tapas caf?s are closed, their awnings drawn, metal shutters pulled down. They?ll open again later, maybe closer to 8:00, when the city perks up again.
This is another cue to nap, right? Right. When in Barcelona, do as the Barcelonians do. We just assume everyone is napping. For all we know they could be still at work or huddled in the sex clubs that dot the blocks around Las Ramblas. We prefer to imagine it?s nap time again.
We power nap, shower and head out at 7:30, 13 hours after eating tapas and drinking beer for breakfast. Most places that serve actual meals ? paella, for instance ? don?t open until eight or nine. We?re pretty ravenous and decide to do what everyone else is doing.
We once again head across the street to our favorite caf?, and this time order from the side of the menu written in Spanish, picking at random from the numbered dishes. As we do this, we keep an eye on the Kentucky Fried Chicken across the street. Just in case. We order two medium beers to go with our food. At this point I?ve given up on finding an IPA around here. I?ve made friends with what appears to be the Miller Lite of Spain.
We stay up with the locals because we?ve adjusted to their schedule. What one does at, say, midnight (if you?re not into clubbing or strip clubs) is not a matter for us to consider. We?ll just sit at a different outdoor caf? sipping espresso and people watching. At about 2:00 am we?ll slip inside the hotel and sleep for a few hours,
knowing that morning will bring a breakfast of olives and cured meats and beer.
We?re just trying to fit in. We?re getting good at the When in Rome thing.
?
Source: http://thefullmoxie.com/2012/11/13/when-in-rome/
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