Back to the Island

My new Moroccan paramour had not wavered in his insistence that I accompany him to Barcelona; but first I had a little trip of my own to make.

I would have been more than happy to revisit Mallorca alone, but Abel, although making a vague attempt at nonchalance, could not entirely hide his reluctance to let me out of his sight -presumably in case I was seduced back by the delights of the Islas Baleares, never to surface again.

Little did he know that he need not have concerned himself: my natural curiosity made such a backward step quite unthinkable now that I had been offered the chance to get to know yet another part of the country.

Eventually a compromise was reached, and we made plans to set off together, first to spend a few days revisiting my old haunts in Puerto Alcúdia, and then to make our way over the waves to the as yet undiscovered excitements of Cataluña.

Being a little unsure of how I would feel at revisiting my first Spanish home, I decided that it would probably all be rather emotional. But just to make sure I was primed and ready for the likelihood of such an outpouring of feeling, I spent the flight mentally revisiting each and every moment of excitement, disappointment, happiness and heartache that had characterised my Mallorcan adventure.

And as I finally caught sight of land below us, a satisfying trickle of saltiness bore witness to the profundity of my connection with it. I stared, transfixed, attempting to imprint its sea-locked contours into my memory – why had I ever left such a place?

‘Y en este momento, señores y señoras, estamos sobrevolando la hermosa isla de Formentera…’ Ah. Not Mallorca at all then. The captain’s words brought me down to earth (thankfully not literally) with a bump, and my self-inflicted nostalgia disappeared, leaving only the vaguest pink-cheeked mortification in its wake.

On our arrival we took the bus from Palma to Puerto Alcúdia, and found a room in one of the many hostels. Despite being on the Paseo Maritimo, the view was rather diminished by the large and very noisy air conditioning unit perched cumbersomely on our window sill, but with Abel being a student, and me an ex-student now technically reduced to the status of an unemployed person, we were certainly not in a position to be choosy.

The only Mallorcan friend I had kept in touch with since leaving for Granada was Suzanne – the zany English one – now married and the mother of baby Sophie (or Thofi if her Andalucian relatives were to be believed).

Although my TESOL course had been responsible for me missing the wedding, Suzanne’s new husband, Antonio, hailed from a small village in Málaga that was only a couple of hours away from Granada on the train; those first few months in Andalucia I had been a frequent visitor as they overwintered close to his family whilst preparing for the arrival of their first-born.

Alameda is a village of only about 5,000 inhabitants in the north of the province of Málaga, and whose nearest town is Antequera. Antonio’s rather large family – mother, father, one elder brother, three younger brothers and two younger sisters – had all settled along the length of one street, but with only one storey each.

Mum and Dad were at the end, with a brother and his partner above them. Just up the street on the right was a sister and her husband, a couple of doors even further up were Antonio and Suzanne, with another brother and his wife below them and so it went on. All very cosy when you want some babysitting done, but incredibly claustrophobic and invasive most of the rest of the time, as Suzanne had discovered to her cost.

I had heard some truly unbelievable tales of this dominant Spanish matriarch, from whom her adult children had to obtain permission before leaving the village on any social excursion; if recriminations were to be avoided, and even I had been privy to her wrath when I made an utter fool of myself by getting extremely drunk at one particular village fiesta.

In my defence, I really didn’t see how it was possible to attend an evening that involved going round all the home-made bars people had rigged up in their garages, basements and sheds to nibble tapas and drink the lakes of red wine that were pressed insistently on one, without the end result being incapacitating inebriation, however it was apparently not the done thing and rather too redolent of my misspent youth even for me to see the funny side the next day.

So I confess to being a trifle apprehensive when setting out to visit Suzanne, dread of meeting up with her disapproving in-laws mingling with the dread of bumping unprepared into Manolo.

Luckily I wasn’t troubled on either account, and Abel and I had a very pleasant few days (noisy, visually intrusive air conditioning unit and a mosquito bite that turned me into the elephant girl notwithstanding) and eventually set off back to Palma to find our way to the ferry port…

A Fleeting Glimpse of Barcelona

Looking back through the darkness from the stern of the ferry as it pulled out of Palma harbour, I knew we had made the right decision in taking the night crossing to Barcelona.

The city was wreathed in twinkling lights; its cathedral, La Seu, the undisputed jewel in a sparkling evening crown. The emotion I had forced on my arrival, required no effort on my departure, and I kept my eyes glued to the ethereally illuminated magnificence of the most important of Palma’s monuments until it was swallowed up by the darkness.

The ferry ride was a first, at least for me – unless you count a return day trip on the car ferry over the churning waters of the Kylerhea from the Kyle of Lochalsh to Skye…

And at first we were captivated by the novelty of travelling on something that resembled a floating hotel (granted, one whose tatty carpets and stained seats may have cost it a star or three): rushing along the endless corridors to scout out and admire the various bars, restaurants and duty-free shops – there was even a small dance floor, complete with 80′s glitter ball.

Keyed up with childish excitement we lay out on the deck under the stars, coats pulled up to our chins, until the mild evening chill turned into bone juddering cold.

It was only as we crept back along the passenger decks that we were hit by the dawning realisation that the rows upon rows of garishly upholstered and unpleasantly reeking seating were to be our resting place for the night.

It was a wakeful six hours that followed – my paranoia that somebody would abscond with our hand luggage the minute I closed my eyes finishing off the insomnia that the cripplingly uncomfortable seats had started.

We reached Barcelona early the next day, but spent only one day there (telling ourselves we would be but a short train journey away; plenty of opportunity to come back for more… It would take more that thirteen years until I made good on that promise) before catching our train to our final destination – Vilanova í la Geltrú.

Despite my sadly fleeting glimpse of this magnificent city, Barcelona will always remain my favourite Spanish city.

Madrid was a little too brash and busy for my liking, but the Catalan capital has an entirely different feel. The wide, leafy promenades Las Ramblas (Les Rambles in catalan) – Ramblas de Canaletes, Rambla dels Estudis, Rambla de Sant Josep, Rambla dels Caputxins, Rambla de Santa Mónica and finally, Rambla del Mar  just invite you to stroll along them whilst admiring some of Barcelona’s unique architectural and cultural heritage: El Gran Teatre del Liceu, was opened in 1847 and is one of the world’s most impressive opera houses. Centre d’Art de Santa Mònica (CASM) hosts exhibitions of many contemporary Spanish an international artists – opened in 1988, the building was originally a Renaissance convent built in 1626. The well-known street market Mercat de la Boqueria (also referred to as the Mercat de Sant Josep or just La Boqueria) is also well worth a visit.

In the centre of the old city of Barcelona, you can find the Barri Gòtic, home to Barcelona’s most renowned possession: the Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família (more commonly known as just ‘La Sagrada Família’) is that most instantly recognizable of Roman Catholic churches.

Designed by Cataluña’s best known architect, Antoni Gaudí in 1882, it is due to be completed in 2026 (We’re nearly there! Must check on progress…); exactly one hundred years after the death of the man who first envisioned it as ‘the last great sanctuary of Christendom’ and one hundred and forty-four years after work first started.

Looking back, those are not unreasonable time-scales for the completions of structures built to the glory of a god, but in our throwaway society, when buildings are knocked down and rebuilt before the pigeon faeces are even dry on the walls, this really stands tall as a testament to the determination of generations past.

My lightening tour of the city over, we set off for the train station, dragging our ridiculously heavy suitcases behind us.

Even the train was impressive, and very different to those rattly contraptions I had been used to down south: it was a brand new ‘double-decker’ (there probably is a term, but I’m afraid I am not acquainted with it) and looked comfortably spacious.

Unfortunately it turned out not to be spacious enough, however, as we discovered when we attempted to board and had to resort to aggressive use of elbows and heels in order to force the mêlée back from the snapping doors and get enough purchase on the carriage floor to haul in our luggage.

And thus, perched precariously on top of our worldly belongings, noses forced, snout-like against the windows by the sheer volume of travellers, we journeyed south.

Castelldefels, Les Botigues, Garraf, Vallcarca, Montgavina, Sitges; I watched, intrigued as all these interesting-sounding places flashed past as we rattled along the coast, the sea always visible on our left hand side.

Eventually we pulled into the station at Vilanova í la Geltrú, the home of Abel’s uncle, Abdel Latif and the town that had been chosen as the backdrop to our summer adventures.