Day 10: Tuesday, June 2, 2015. Barcelona. It's our second visit to Barcelona, the famous Andalucian city of the Olympics some years ago, smaller than Madrid but larger than Valencia. The first time, the city was the starting point for our first European cruise, in 2004. I remember the city as having been much busier, in better condition, and more interesting than I expected. All of that was true again, and even more so. The ship docked close enough to the center of town that we boarded one of those jump-on, jump-off buses. It took us to a spot from which we would begin searching for what seemed to me an impossible target. Mary Leigh's cousin Hillary had spent an extended time in Europe during her college years, and found what she said was the best chocolate shop in the world. We followed the route she gave us, starting with an enormous thoroughfare, turning onto a boulevard, into a street that led to a passageway from which branched another, smaller passageway. Some, we found the place. A tiny shop, with a special liquid beverage made with hot water and the Special Chocolate powder. It was very good. While we consumed it and some espresso, Louis Armstrong came on the shop's sound system singing "La Vie En Rose." I pointed out the coincidence to the waitress, who registered a blank face. The Marys laughed as if I had just said the most embarrassing thing in the world. On the way to the chocolate shop, we encountered Barcelona's main cathedral, a spectacular edifice ofenormous size, with a couple dozen side chapels, each honoring a diferent saint. I added it to the St. Bavo Club, my personal encomium for the most impressive churches I've ever seen. (St. Bavo's is in Ghent, Belgium, and set the standard for admission.) The votive candles in Barcelona's cathedral were interesting. They were not aflamine, but held little lite bulbs with the color of an orange flame. I slipped a few coins into the slot, and immediately a dozen or so lights began glowing. They didn't strike me as too modern. Maybe they would have had this been Rome. Our wanderings from there brought us to Las Ramblas, a famously well-populated row of shops selling everything from food to clothing. The hop-on, hop-off bus stopped here, but so many people were in line for it that we just kept walking. Mary Leigh liked the stock of a clothing store and we spent the next forty-five minutes there. We make our way to the most famous site in Barcelona: the cathedral of the Holy Family, the masterpiece of Barcelona's fantastically original architect Gaudi. The church he designed over a century ago is still under construction. One look at it makes your eyeballs bulge. We toured it eleven years ago, walking around on high ramps made of boards. The construction has come astonishingly far since then. It now looks like a church, but not like any you've ever seen. It is not only an essential stop on a visit to not just Barcelona but Spain, and perhaps even Europe. Getting tickets at the last minute was not the easiest thing in the world. Let's just say it involved Wi-Fi, which was available on the jimp-on bus but not at the church site. In the meantime, we boarded the long lobe of the jump-on bus, which was like riding the St. Charles Streetcar, the Tulane Bus, the Canal Streetcar, and back around the belt again three times. It killed enough time for me starting to worry about that again, while the Marys chided me for my overcautiousness. Well, we toured the cathedral all right. Even having seen it before, it was astonishing. We found out that it has eleven more years before it's completed, God willing. That done, we head for a new building we saw on the Jump-on the first time around. It lines a section of the Mediterranean beach, and the guide said there were many restaurants there. I don't think we have time, but the girls say we do. We order and the Marys head down to the beach for a look. When they return, the order is here: a row of ham croquettes, a big pot of steamed mussels with no detectable sauce, a sort of guacamole made with smoked salmon and avocado, and a couple of other things. It's all terrible. Once again, the time situation comes up. MA orders me to take a cab back to the ship by myself and get out of their faces. They will follow behind when it's really time to go. My cab driver takes the long way around and briefly is lost. Theirs delivers them--after checking out all the sailboats in the blue-and-white beach--right on time. It's formal night again. My tuxedo will get more use on this two-week trip than from the last two years. The menu is exceptional tonight. Beef Wellington. Consomme madrilene soup, which I have not encountered on a menu in thirty years, at least. Headless cold-water lobster tails. (You can have all of mine.) Chicken curry. Four vegetarian appetizers and four vegetarian entrees. Carroll and Marylyn Charvet buy two bottles of St.Supery Cabernet Sauvignon for our dinner table. It's one of his favorites. I haven't had it in many years, and it's a lot better than I remember--and it wasn't bad then. I hang with a few of the Eat Clubbers in the Commodore's Café, with its magnificent view. The Giancolas are there, and I hold out as long as I can. But my energy is flagging. The Marys simply have more energy than I do. They are rabbits, and I am a snail, steady but slow. Or it could be that I am drinking much more than usual. Two glasses of wine is all I drink at a sitting anymore, and not often. To add two cocktails to that is past my tolerance. Maybe I really am a sluggard, as the girls tell me.
