Barcelona Vs. Paris

          We were sitting at a café table in a leafy square just off the Ramblas, with the morning sun falling in patches between the buildings and the day’s business slowly gaining momentum around us. As we sipped coffee, we watched a short, stout woman at the café across the way singlehandedly set up her big parasols, drag the chairs and tables outside and arrange them neatly. We’d had only two days in Barcelona and were feeling reluctant to leave, even though Paris was our next destination.

       Having ‘done’ the main tourist attractions on previous visits, we were inclined only to explore the streets and enjoy the vibe, though we did swing by La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s eccentric cathedral, just to see how the work is progressing. They’ve done a lot since last I saw it, though the result, to my eyes, has spoilt the weirdly imposing structure that I remember. From every aspect, the new facades present a complicated mix of richly detailed but incoherent ornamentation. Are the builders working to a plan, or making it up as they go along? It looks to me like the latter.

          The excessive number of us tourists presents the city with certain difficulties, as is well known, but it’s problematic for us as well. When we look for the ‘authentic’ Barcelona – in so far as such a thing exists – we find ourselves searching through the wreckage wrought by our very presence. But all is not yet lost, at least when it comes to eating and drinking, both of which pastimes are abundantly and publicly indulged on almost every street (although, strangely, obesity is not evident). And, if you are brave enough to explore the neighbourhoods behind the main drags, your antennae soon become attuned to the places that are not devoted to the tourist dollar but owe their living to the locals who live in the apartments above them. It was in such establishments that we ate the best food, reasonably priced and served with friendly yet business-like service, such as would encourage regular patronage.

          We looked for the same sort of experiences in Paris and, I’m happy to report, with some success. The cold, wet weather did not put us off venturing out on foot, though it may have caused us to spend more time in cafés than we might usually. Then again, any excuse would have done. A memorable plat de jour lunch was had in a bistro that, apart from contemporary-style cuisine, had the style and feel of a bygone era, including tiny tables for two that were so close together it was necessary to move them to get seated. This also presented difficulty in removing one’s coat without sweeping the adjacent tables clean. Then, when settled, there was the question of to what extent you should acknowledge the other diners, strangers just a few centimetres from your face. Fortunately, we had each other to talk to, but those on either side were dining alone and determinedly minding their own business. On the one hand was a woman who was consulting a guidebook in Japanese, Chinese or Korean script and, on the other, the French-speaking spit of Barrack Obama.

          Politely, each table respected the others’ privacy, up to the moment when Barrack inadvertently knocked his water carafe over. He caught it deftly and elegantly – as you would expect him to – but water splashed onto my coat, causing consternation on his part and the swift appearance of the waitress to smooth things over. He apologised profusely (in English, with no hint of an American accent) and I joked that it was of no consequence, as it was a raincoat anyway.  He finished his meal before us and, as he left, said sorry once more and flashed me his big Obama smile. Paris, of course,  was no disappointment at all.