Back in the day, everyone in Barcelona shopped in local markets. And, although US-style supermarkets now exist in every neighborhood, there is still a thriving network of local markets that house purveyors of chicken, pork, produce, fish, cheese, eggs, and most everything else you can possibly need to cook. (See http://www.mercatsbcn.com). We’ve visited those that are relatively close to our house, as well as the famous Boqueria on Las Ramblas, but many of the stalls were closed until this week.
Shopping at one of these typical markets—especially if you love food the way we do—connects you both to the culture and to the people who grow, make and raise the food. It’s an incredibly rich sensory experience as well. If you are thinking about buying grapes, say, the produce vendor gives you a taste. When considering whether to buy a particular kind of fish with which you may not be familiar, the butcher will spend 15 minutes telling you how to prepare it, even if there is a long line of people waiting (the patience Barcelonans exhibit in such situations puts New Yorkers to shame).
The thing is, if you want to get the best stuff, you have to become a regular not only at the market, but at the particular vendors. This is a particular challenge if you look like us, because people assume we are tourists. The fact that we speak Spanish and have a rolling shopping cart (something you don’t often see a tourist using) helps.
So, first, we had to choose a market to adopt. The Sant Gervasi market is closest to our house (about a 10 minute walk) but a bit limited in terms of its selection. The Galvany market is a bit farther, but very high quality; its hours are quite limited however. The La Libertat market in Gracia is two train stops away but is large, has a great vibe, and is open early and late. So Gracia is our choice.
We invited another new family—from LA, with 3 kids, one of whom is in Milo’s class—for an early dinner tonight, and decided to make a chicken dish (marinated in honey, lemon, saffron, cumin and ginger, then baked) from a cookbook I picked up this week called The New Spanish Table. What better reason to begin our market adventure. Alec and C.C. set off, chose to start at a fish place that looked good, and then selected subsequent vendors by asking each vendor where to go next for the next item on the list: “Who should I buy pork from?”, etc. Mari, the chicken lady, actually took Alec by the elbow and walked him over to the meat guy and introduced him as her client. I’ll have to go with him next time so folks know we are together.
C.C.’s participation in the excursion netted us a chicken head (she wants to study it), quail eggs (for her breakfast tomorrow) and some snails (not sure what they will be used for). She also took the photo of the day, which features ostrich eggs.
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Saturday, September 4, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Pizza Quest
Phew! Even though the first week of school was only three days long, it still feels like an accomplishment to have made it through. We decided to celebrate by taking the kids for pizza to one of our local Italian joints. Except that, like many restaurants here, La Tavola does not start serving dinner until 9 pm. No problem, I thought—we’ll go to Inmortales--the one on the other end of the block; but no, they start serving at 8:30. This is more like the time we need to end dinner with our kids, not start it. And besides, we have a guy coming over to install a DVR machine at nine.
By the time we figure out that our neighborhood restaurants will not work, it is impossible for me to think of eating anything but pizza. The kids are pretty fixated on the idea also. So we spend more than a half hour googling various search terms and calling restaurants within a reasonable radius (we come dangerously close to giving up and ordering Domino's) until we finally find one two FGC stops away, in Gracia. We like Gracia—it’s got a terrific market and a sort of boho neighborhood vibe. And the local equivalent of hopstop tells us it will only take us 13 minutes to get there. So off we go.
Of course at 7 pm, we are the only people in the place. If you show up at 9 pm, when the restaurants open, you are treated like the senior citizen coming for the early bird special. It remains a mystery to me how people eat so late, get home and function in the morning. This is a very laid back culture, and many people do not get to work before 10 am, but still. Somehow it also seems like the kind of place where people would value getting their 40 winks. The kids need to be at school by 8:30, and someone needs to get them there.
And what about the kids anyway? A big topic at the PTA orientation today was whether kids really stay up until 10 or 10:30 at night. Apparently, a lot of them do. Maybe that’s why they are so quiet and well-behaved compared to my kids—they’re too tired to run around shouting in public places!
And while I’m on the pizza theme, I’ve done some thinking about a ritual we began a couple of years ago back in Brooklyn. Taking off on an idea from Barbara Kingsolver’s book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, we started having a weekly pizza and movie night. I got a pizza stone, and we made homemade pizza and watched a movie with the kids. I was completely ready to suspend this ritual for a year during our stay here—who needs to eat pizza every week when there is so much good, local food around? However, this whole orientation thing shifted my perspective. Even though Alec and I would be just fine dining out on tapas or making dinner from interesting new ingredients we find in the market, the kids actually need a thread of routine that bridges our New York life and our Barcelona life. Which explains how I spent all of yesterday afternoon searching for a pizza stone. No luck. In addition, it’s not that easy to find fresh mozzarella here, and when you do find it, it’s pretty expensive. So I ordered a mozzarella making kit and had it sent to Myron and Raquel to bring to us when they next visit.
On our way back to the train from our mediocre-but-entirely-satisfying pizza dinner, we happened upon a kitchen store, and found a serviceable metal pizza pan. Now I just have to find yeast, so I can make the dough…
By the time we figure out that our neighborhood restaurants will not work, it is impossible for me to think of eating anything but pizza. The kids are pretty fixated on the idea also. So we spend more than a half hour googling various search terms and calling restaurants within a reasonable radius (we come dangerously close to giving up and ordering Domino's) until we finally find one two FGC stops away, in Gracia. We like Gracia—it’s got a terrific market and a sort of boho neighborhood vibe. And the local equivalent of hopstop tells us it will only take us 13 minutes to get there. So off we go.
Of course at 7 pm, we are the only people in the place. If you show up at 9 pm, when the restaurants open, you are treated like the senior citizen coming for the early bird special. It remains a mystery to me how people eat so late, get home and function in the morning. This is a very laid back culture, and many people do not get to work before 10 am, but still. Somehow it also seems like the kind of place where people would value getting their 40 winks. The kids need to be at school by 8:30, and someone needs to get them there.
And what about the kids anyway? A big topic at the PTA orientation today was whether kids really stay up until 10 or 10:30 at night. Apparently, a lot of them do. Maybe that’s why they are so quiet and well-behaved compared to my kids—they’re too tired to run around shouting in public places!
And while I’m on the pizza theme, I’ve done some thinking about a ritual we began a couple of years ago back in Brooklyn. Taking off on an idea from Barbara Kingsolver’s book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, we started having a weekly pizza and movie night. I got a pizza stone, and we made homemade pizza and watched a movie with the kids. I was completely ready to suspend this ritual for a year during our stay here—who needs to eat pizza every week when there is so much good, local food around? However, this whole orientation thing shifted my perspective. Even though Alec and I would be just fine dining out on tapas or making dinner from interesting new ingredients we find in the market, the kids actually need a thread of routine that bridges our New York life and our Barcelona life. Which explains how I spent all of yesterday afternoon searching for a pizza stone. No luck. In addition, it’s not that easy to find fresh mozzarella here, and when you do find it, it’s pretty expensive. So I ordered a mozzarella making kit and had it sent to Myron and Raquel to bring to us when they next visit.
On our way back to the train from our mediocre-but-entirely-satisfying pizza dinner, we happened upon a kitchen store, and found a serviceable metal pizza pan. Now I just have to find yeast, so I can make the dough…
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Firsts
Yesterday was a day of firsts for our family. First day of September. First day of school for the kids. First day at the office for Alec. And for me, the first day that I am officially not a dean anymore. Although I took the month of August as vacation, my contract ran through August 31 and, even though it’s been weeks since I signed an official letter or made a policy decision for the school, it actually feels different to have it be real. When we first got here I had a couple of strange dreams about being back at school in New York, but those have subsided. Even if I did not embrace all aspects of my job, it’s still a big identity shift. I am sure it will feel more real when I get my first—smaller—paycheck.
The kids picked out their own first-day-of school outfits. As you can see in the photo below, Milo selected his human highlighter FC Barca jersey and socks, while C.C. went for pure comfort. For C.C., a terrific suit of clothes means picking the things she likes best regardless of whether they match at all. So she chose her dark green shirt with dinosaurs, and her comfy cropped cotton pants—purple and blue stripes (you probably can’t see the stripes in the photo, but trust me—they are there!), along with her bug socks and sneakers. I tried to nudge her gently toward another shirt or pants, but she would hear nothing of it. There are enough battles to wage without bickering over clothing, no? And who can argue about prioritizing comfort? She felt great, and that’s what really counts.
Alec and I parked our borrowed, dented up Peugeot with 300,000 kilometers on it amidst the Range Rovers and BMWs, and walked the kids into their classrooms. They are in the same, sunny, small building—Milo on the first floor and C.C. on the second. This is the first time they’ve been at the same school, and they seem to get a kick out of seeing each other every day.
Fortunately, they both had terrific first (and second) days. Even grumpster C.C. says she likes it better than PS 10. When we picked her up today she informed us, “If PS 10 wants to get any business, they should teach math like they do at Ben Franklin. In fact, I think there should be a Ben Franklin school in Brooklyn!” After they had gone to bed last night and Alec and I chatted about the day we agreed that at least we seem to have made the right choice about school.
Meanwhile, yesterday and today I attended a PTA sponsored orientation called “Making Barcelona Work” for new parents like us—one of the Moms hosted us at her home. The first topic covered was “driving in Barcelona” in which we learned about parking and getting towed—apparently the school is a big tow zone. So 15 minutes into the 3 hour session I realized that I had parked on the wrong side of the street; I sweated for the rest of the time, certain that the car would be gone when I got there, and that I’d have to call Borg to ask him to send written permission for me to get the car out. Fortunately, it was there when I got back, so I only had to sweat about getting it down the massive hill; it’s been six years since I drove a stick shift, and the hills here are no joke. I kept trying to channel my experience driving my first car—a used, standard VW GTI—in San Francisco. As it turns out, it is kind of like riding a bike; it just comes back to you.
Most of the expat folks who have moved here have done so for the husband’s job (the vast majority of women in this particular group do not work), or have come on a lark, to get away from it all. Which means they have enough do-re-mi to float themselves for a year or more.
Today’s session was about cultural adjustment. Apparently, the two categories of people who have the most difficult are “trailing spouses” and teens. As the woman leading the workshop talked about how teens often feel about moving--anger, frustration, loss—I had to wonder if she had gotten teens confused with 7 year old girls from Brooklyn.
Research shows that many people who move to new countries go through stages very much like Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. When I described C.C.’s behavior, the workshop woman said, “Well, there is other research that shows that people can get frozen in one of the stages. Sounds like your daughter is frozen.” “Terrific,” I think, “how can we get her to thaw out?” Night after night she tells us over and over: “I really want to be with Blanca,” and that she’s angry at us for bringing her here. She has no friends, no toys. We listen, we hold her, we tell her we understand. But frankly, we are all starting to sound like broken records. So I plan to spend a bit of time cooking up “Operation Un-Freeze.” Suggestions from all of you very welcome.
I’m sure it sounds worse than it is. She seems to love school, and today identified a girl she thinks could be her friend. She even went so far as to admit, “Part of me likes being here, and part of me doesn’t.” So perhaps we are making progress after all.
As for Milo, he seems much more laid back about the whole thing. However, when we were about to leave Brooklyn at the end of July, he announced: “I’ll go to Barcelona, but only for five weeks.” Every now and then he asks one of us how long we’ve been here. When he asked yesterday and I told him “Four weeks,” he said: “So I guess we’ll be packing up pretty soon, right?” Not just yet, Milo. Not just yet.
The kids picked out their own first-day-of school outfits. As you can see in the photo below, Milo selected his human highlighter FC Barca jersey and socks, while C.C. went for pure comfort. For C.C., a terrific suit of clothes means picking the things she likes best regardless of whether they match at all. So she chose her dark green shirt with dinosaurs, and her comfy cropped cotton pants—purple and blue stripes (you probably can’t see the stripes in the photo, but trust me—they are there!), along with her bug socks and sneakers. I tried to nudge her gently toward another shirt or pants, but she would hear nothing of it. There are enough battles to wage without bickering over clothing, no? And who can argue about prioritizing comfort? She felt great, and that’s what really counts.
Alec and I parked our borrowed, dented up Peugeot with 300,000 kilometers on it amidst the Range Rovers and BMWs, and walked the kids into their classrooms. They are in the same, sunny, small building—Milo on the first floor and C.C. on the second. This is the first time they’ve been at the same school, and they seem to get a kick out of seeing each other every day.
Fortunately, they both had terrific first (and second) days. Even grumpster C.C. says she likes it better than PS 10. When we picked her up today she informed us, “If PS 10 wants to get any business, they should teach math like they do at Ben Franklin. In fact, I think there should be a Ben Franklin school in Brooklyn!” After they had gone to bed last night and Alec and I chatted about the day we agreed that at least we seem to have made the right choice about school.
Meanwhile, yesterday and today I attended a PTA sponsored orientation called “Making Barcelona Work” for new parents like us—one of the Moms hosted us at her home. The first topic covered was “driving in Barcelona” in which we learned about parking and getting towed—apparently the school is a big tow zone. So 15 minutes into the 3 hour session I realized that I had parked on the wrong side of the street; I sweated for the rest of the time, certain that the car would be gone when I got there, and that I’d have to call Borg to ask him to send written permission for me to get the car out. Fortunately, it was there when I got back, so I only had to sweat about getting it down the massive hill; it’s been six years since I drove a stick shift, and the hills here are no joke. I kept trying to channel my experience driving my first car—a used, standard VW GTI—in San Francisco. As it turns out, it is kind of like riding a bike; it just comes back to you.
Most of the expat folks who have moved here have done so for the husband’s job (the vast majority of women in this particular group do not work), or have come on a lark, to get away from it all. Which means they have enough do-re-mi to float themselves for a year or more.
Today’s session was about cultural adjustment. Apparently, the two categories of people who have the most difficult are “trailing spouses” and teens. As the woman leading the workshop talked about how teens often feel about moving--anger, frustration, loss—I had to wonder if she had gotten teens confused with 7 year old girls from Brooklyn.
Research shows that many people who move to new countries go through stages very much like Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. When I described C.C.’s behavior, the workshop woman said, “Well, there is other research that shows that people can get frozen in one of the stages. Sounds like your daughter is frozen.” “Terrific,” I think, “how can we get her to thaw out?” Night after night she tells us over and over: “I really want to be with Blanca,” and that she’s angry at us for bringing her here. She has no friends, no toys. We listen, we hold her, we tell her we understand. But frankly, we are all starting to sound like broken records. So I plan to spend a bit of time cooking up “Operation Un-Freeze.” Suggestions from all of you very welcome.
I’m sure it sounds worse than it is. She seems to love school, and today identified a girl she thinks could be her friend. She even went so far as to admit, “Part of me likes being here, and part of me doesn’t.” So perhaps we are making progress after all.
As for Milo, he seems much more laid back about the whole thing. However, when we were about to leave Brooklyn at the end of July, he announced: “I’ll go to Barcelona, but only for five weeks.” Every now and then he asks one of us how long we’ve been here. When he asked yesterday and I told him “Four weeks,” he said: “So I guess we’ll be packing up pretty soon, right?” Not just yet, Milo. Not just yet.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tancat per Agost
Tancat per Agost
The end of August is bittersweet—school starts tomorrow for the kids, and the office building in which Alec and I will work opens. So it feels like the end of summer, even though the weather is still hot, and the sun sets late, making it difficult to go to bed early.
On the one hand, it has been fabulous to have an entire month of relatively unstructured family time—we have moved at our own pace, enjoying lazy mornings at home in our pajamas, and spending a lot of time wandering the city. We have recharged our batteries. On the other hand, at this point I think we could all benefit from some structure and routine. And let’s face it—there’s a limit to how much time four people can spend in their own little bubble, even when they love each other a lot. I think we are all craving contact with other people. It was obvious today at the kids’ school orientation for new families—we eagerly scattered and scoped out potential new friends.
One thing I will not miss is the whole “tancat per agost” business. This means “closed for August” in Catalan, and the streets are full of stores posting versions of the sign in the photo below. And even if a business is not open, it’s clear that not much gets done. For example, when Alec put down the deposit on our car, he asked when it would be ready and was told two weeks. So on Friday, when it had been two weeks, he called and asked when he could pick up the car. The answer? In two weeks. When he told the person on the line that it had already been two weeks since he had been told two weeks (are you with me?), he said: “Impossible—no one would have told you that. Nothing happens in August.”
This week our neighborhood began to transform, waking slowly from its August slumber. Every day when I go out, it seems that another business has opened, although a significant chunk of them take “August” seriously, opening only on the first of September, even though that seems sort of random since the first is a Wednesday. Still, it’s starting to seem more lively around here. We can now walk to a small grocer for fresh bread, staples and fruit, a pharmacy, and a salon for dogs!
At the orientation this morning I plunked down 20 euros for something called “the Barcelona Notebook.” The PTA ladies swore that it’s an invaluable resource for moving to Barcelona—it’s got listings and recommendations for everything from tapas bars to nail salons to doctor’s offices to fabric shops. I skimmed it hungrily on the way home, searching for places to buy Asian cooking supplies and kids’ shoes. After lunch and haircuts for Alec and the kids, C.C. and I took off to find a used English language bookstore we had found in the “notebook” and came home with a sack of books. It’s unclear when our boxes will arrive and, even though the iPad has come in super handy, the kids are antsy for some real books.
The end of August is bittersweet—school starts tomorrow for the kids, and the office building in which Alec and I will work opens. So it feels like the end of summer, even though the weather is still hot, and the sun sets late, making it difficult to go to bed early.
On the one hand, it has been fabulous to have an entire month of relatively unstructured family time—we have moved at our own pace, enjoying lazy mornings at home in our pajamas, and spending a lot of time wandering the city. We have recharged our batteries. On the other hand, at this point I think we could all benefit from some structure and routine. And let’s face it—there’s a limit to how much time four people can spend in their own little bubble, even when they love each other a lot. I think we are all craving contact with other people. It was obvious today at the kids’ school orientation for new families—we eagerly scattered and scoped out potential new friends.
One thing I will not miss is the whole “tancat per agost” business. This means “closed for August” in Catalan, and the streets are full of stores posting versions of the sign in the photo below. And even if a business is not open, it’s clear that not much gets done. For example, when Alec put down the deposit on our car, he asked when it would be ready and was told two weeks. So on Friday, when it had been two weeks, he called and asked when he could pick up the car. The answer? In two weeks. When he told the person on the line that it had already been two weeks since he had been told two weeks (are you with me?), he said: “Impossible—no one would have told you that. Nothing happens in August.”
This week our neighborhood began to transform, waking slowly from its August slumber. Every day when I go out, it seems that another business has opened, although a significant chunk of them take “August” seriously, opening only on the first of September, even though that seems sort of random since the first is a Wednesday. Still, it’s starting to seem more lively around here. We can now walk to a small grocer for fresh bread, staples and fruit, a pharmacy, and a salon for dogs!
At the orientation this morning I plunked down 20 euros for something called “the Barcelona Notebook.” The PTA ladies swore that it’s an invaluable resource for moving to Barcelona—it’s got listings and recommendations for everything from tapas bars to nail salons to doctor’s offices to fabric shops. I skimmed it hungrily on the way home, searching for places to buy Asian cooking supplies and kids’ shoes. After lunch and haircuts for Alec and the kids, C.C. and I took off to find a used English language bookstore we had found in the “notebook” and came home with a sack of books. It’s unclear when our boxes will arrive and, even though the iPad has come in super handy, the kids are antsy for some real books.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Green Cards! and new video feature...
We are all official! We got our NIE numbers, which required us all to get fingerprinted (see C.C. getting printed in the photo of the day, below). The NIE is basically a green card, so I feel like a real—legal—immigrant. This means we can get health insurance, use the city biking system, and lots of other things. It turns out everyone seems to ask for your NIE number, like when you join the aquarium or get a bank account. So we are making progress.
At Borg and Olga’s the other day, C.C. discovered the “video” button on her camera, and amused herself for a very long time making videos of her dinosaurs; it's become a daily activity. She even figured out that she should put the camera on top of a still object so that her hands would be free to work the dinosaurs. She asked if we could attach her favorite so that you all could see it. You Tube here we come!
At Borg and Olga’s the other day, C.C. discovered the “video” button on her camera, and amused herself for a very long time making videos of her dinosaurs; it's become a daily activity. She even figured out that she should put the camera on top of a still object so that her hands would be free to work the dinosaurs. She asked if we could attach her favorite so that you all could see it. You Tube here we come!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Just another Sunday in Barcelona...
Okay, it is 10:40 and the kids are finally asleep and the kitchen is finally cleaned post-dinner. I am officially tired of C.C. telling us what a lousy place Barcelona is, tired of Milo flopping around for an hour each night in bed, gouging me with his sharp little knees and elbows, and really sick of listening to Pete Seeger at bedtime!
Phew. Just needed to get that off my chest. The thing is, by the time the house is quiet and clean, I still need some time to unwind and relax before I go to bed myself. Which means I’ve been getting to bed very late. And come this week, all of that’s got to change—for all of us. This morning I actually slept until nearly 10:30—it’s been years since I slept that late, and it was kind of disorienting.
We had a pretty relaxed day—took the kids to the pool, I took a class at the gym (and understood almost all of it), then made a major push organizing the apartment. You know how it is when you first move in someplace—you unpack and you just need to put everything someplace. Well, today we made some progress in putting things in the right places, and throwing out boxes and stuff left from the previous tenants. It’s looking pretty good now.
We also did some major skyping—first a call with Blanca and Lois (Blanca is in Ocean Grove for the weekend). Although we kept losing the connection, it was good to see them—Blanca’s eyes welled up with tears as she talked to the kids. Then C.C. had a skype date with her friend Maddie, who is in her class back at PS 10. C.C. was literally beaming. We will make more dates, as she is clearly missing her friends. She’s never really talked on the phone before so it was fun to see her laughing and chatting. We closed the door of the living room so that she could have some privacy, but I snuck a peak every now and then. And then Leslie skyped us, and we had a good long chat.
At dinner, C.C. wanted to make a list of all of the things there are in New York that we can’t get here. The milk is different, she says—it’s better in New York. And even though Alec has made several batches of beans, the kids maintain that they don’t hold a candle to Blanca’s. A few days ago Blanca explained to him exactly how she does it (he had neglected to put in the onions) so he made a batch yesterday. “Daddy,” Milo said at dinner, “these beans are your worst ones yet.” We all agreed actually. Alec is not about to give up.
Tomorrow we are up and out early to try once again to get NIE numbers for C.C., Milo and me.
Phew. Just needed to get that off my chest. The thing is, by the time the house is quiet and clean, I still need some time to unwind and relax before I go to bed myself. Which means I’ve been getting to bed very late. And come this week, all of that’s got to change—for all of us. This morning I actually slept until nearly 10:30—it’s been years since I slept that late, and it was kind of disorienting.
We had a pretty relaxed day—took the kids to the pool, I took a class at the gym (and understood almost all of it), then made a major push organizing the apartment. You know how it is when you first move in someplace—you unpack and you just need to put everything someplace. Well, today we made some progress in putting things in the right places, and throwing out boxes and stuff left from the previous tenants. It’s looking pretty good now.
We also did some major skyping—first a call with Blanca and Lois (Blanca is in Ocean Grove for the weekend). Although we kept losing the connection, it was good to see them—Blanca’s eyes welled up with tears as she talked to the kids. Then C.C. had a skype date with her friend Maddie, who is in her class back at PS 10. C.C. was literally beaming. We will make more dates, as she is clearly missing her friends. She’s never really talked on the phone before so it was fun to see her laughing and chatting. We closed the door of the living room so that she could have some privacy, but I snuck a peak every now and then. And then Leslie skyped us, and we had a good long chat.
At dinner, C.C. wanted to make a list of all of the things there are in New York that we can’t get here. The milk is different, she says—it’s better in New York. And even though Alec has made several batches of beans, the kids maintain that they don’t hold a candle to Blanca’s. A few days ago Blanca explained to him exactly how she does it (he had neglected to put in the onions) so he made a batch yesterday. “Daddy,” Milo said at dinner, “these beans are your worst ones yet.” We all agreed actually. Alec is not about to give up.
Tomorrow we are up and out early to try once again to get NIE numbers for C.C., Milo and me.
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