It was our last morning in Barcelona. My wife and I planned to catch the airport bus that left half hourly from Plaza Catalonia, five minutes walk from where we were staying. Even with our punishingly overweight luggage we could just manage it. Wisely, we had returned the rental car early. The car had been convenient getting us from Andalucia in the South of Spain, but in Barcelona parking is almost impossible and expensive.
The conclusion of a month in Spain was a wonderful week in a friend’s centrally located apartment a few doors down the narrow cobbled street from the Palau de la Musica. Built between 1905-1908, this superb concert hall with its gorgeous tiled pillars, mosaics, and jewel-like stained glass ceilings is one of the high points of modernist architecture along with Gaudi’s masterpieces. Five minutes away is the Picasso Museum with its superb collection of virtuoso drawings from his teenage years as well as masterful late works from the eighty year old artist. Nearby is a clutch of the best restaurants and tapas bars in Barcelona.
Plaza Catalonia is an action-packed popular meeting place. Full of café’s and department stores like "El Corte Ingles" that sell absolutely everything. At night the square is constant buzz of buskers, peddlers, family groups and young lovers, but when we arrived on Sunday morning at 9.00 a.m. it was still asleep. Even the protesting Africans camping in the square, were still snuggled up under their makeshift shelters and canvas.
Like a scene from a sub-titled film, autumn leaves floated onto the cobbled streets. Someone was sweeping leaves into small piles, while one or two waiters set up chairs and tables for the busy day ahead. It was sad to be leaving. Spain had been a great adventure and Barcelona a splendid city. It has a human scale that is both elegant and manageable. Generous avenues of plane trees make walking easy and pleasurable and everywhere you look are superb buildings. The shops are chic yet friendly; the people beautifully turned out. Seldom have I seen so much cashmere and camel hair used to such stylish effect. The colours of the clothing echo the colour of the landscape - strong ochre’s, earthy blood-reds, sage and olive greens.
The night before we were due to leave we wandered down the bustling La Rambla boulevard amid the flower stalls, past the organ grinder with the dancing monkey, and came across a little street market. Here we found country folk selling regional produce. Liqueurs distilled from walnuts, figs, and apricots. Fine muscatels, and aged sherries. A sweet called Turron, Arabic in origin, that appears only at Christmas is made from ground almond or sesame ( a kind of marzipan ) and considered a great delicacy. Excellent gifts. We learned the stalls would open Sunday morning at 9.00am but when we arrived the next day at the appointed hour no-one was around. Barcelona goes to bed very late. Dinner can begin at 11.00pm and finish at 1.00 or 2.00 am. The night kicks off from there. You can walk home through the still busy streets at 3 or 4 in the morning. It’s a great place for night owls, not so hot for an early riser.
It was no surprise the canvas sided stalls were laced up, with no sign of their proprietors. Peering in you could see counters still laden with produce. Obviously no fear of theft, which seemed strange when we’d been warned frequently to beware of pick-pockets and thieves. Leaving my wife in charge of the luggage I went in search of caffeine. Like so much in contemporary Spain they have got it right. The coffee is strong and dark, but not bitter. It’s as good as the new Spanish freeways – fast and smooth.
It was a crisp, sunny autumn morning. I was wearing a light cotton parka, a ubiquitous international travelers’ uniform, with pockets and zips everywhere. Along with this plethora of pockets comes a misguided notion the jacket itself will keep everything well organised and under control. It ain’t necessarily so. Frequently you find yourself red-faced and rifling through pockets wondering what you put where - hunting for a metro card, a map, or loose change. Perhaps the multipocketed jacket is the travelling man’s equivalent of a woman’s handbag.
I was walking along enjoying the scene when a man beckoned me. Swarthy and thick-set and gesticulating wildly, he indicated there was something on the back of my jacket. I felt it with the back of my hand- it was wet and sticky. It looked like vomit. I sniffed my hand gingerly. It smelt of chocolate. How it got there was a mystery, but with a 12 hour flight ahead of me I knew I had to clean up somehow. As I walked back to my wife minding the luggage – the thick-set man raced up along side me offering tissues and indicating a fountain down the street. Suspicious, I refused his offer and made my own way there. I set to with my handkerchief and sponged off the mess as best I could. The entire back of my jacket and trousers was covered in the sticky brown liquid. My unwelcome friend had edged in and was helping. He and I both sponging away furiously at the jacket. It all happened too quickly to protest. Yet it didn’t feel right. Suddenly I saw his stubby fingers on the zip of my jacket. I yelled at him, nabbing him in the act.
Experience has taught me not to keep valuables in my wallet or outside pockets when I travel. Under my shirt I wear a fetish looking flesh-coloured holster, a bit like my grandma’s bra, in which I keep my passport, credit cards and cash. This garment is like something you might find advertised in medical catalogues along with rupture belts and hemorrhoid cushions, and its only redeeming feature is that its pick-pocket –proof. To access it you have to almost strip to the waist. It’s not a great look in a swanky shop but it is safe. Wisely I had emptied my wallet of everything save a few coins.
My genial pick-pocket having been caught red-handed suddenly did some flashy finger work worthy of a Michael Houston arpeggio, palmed the wallet from under my trouser leg and with a disarmingly broad smile, handed it back to me. In three seconds flat this highly skilled thief had probably ascertained my wallet was empty and no use to him. I was impressed.
Perhaps because I had foiled my would-be robber’s attempt, perhaps through utter relief that I was not to be left, like every traveler’s worst nightmare, destitute, cashless and passportless, my attitude to the deft-fingered pick-pocket softened. I became curiously complicit in the exchange. It was bizarre, but I felt an odd rush of warmth and friendliness toward the man. All I could do was marvel at the lightning speed and dexterity of the thief and his good-natured gall in including me in this street drama. He left smiling, with me praising his work! Calling the cops is never easy in a foreign language; pointless if there’s no crime .
There were probably two of them: one to throw the chocolate and another to lead me to the fountain. A new ruse to me.
But make no mistake, pick-pockets are professionals who work throughout the major cities all over the world, often in pairs, or even groups. Their skill should not be underestimated. Only the day before we met a couple who had been totally cleaned out by a bag slasher – passports, credit cards, the lot. Pick-pockets tend to target prime tourist areas like museums, art galleries, street markets, cathedrals and the like. A common ploy is for one person to distract the "victim’ by blocking the way, asking for directions, medical attention, help of some kind. At the same time an accomplice does over the bags or the wallet. Sometimes the team may include women and children, the well-trained kids worthy of the artful dodger himself. An old trick is for someone to block your path with a load of cardboard boxes. The "staged fight" is another ruse with the thieves doing the crowd. Subways, escalators, revolving doors are all popular sites. More sinister is the rise of ‘drug and mug’ crimes. Food or beverages are laced and the victim awakes to find themselves cleaned out of passport, credit cards and cash. The internet even has horror stories of folks losing internal organs!
I was lucky I guess. Lucky too that the experience didn’t sour our visit to Barcelona. A little forethought before you set out for the day can help, and when you’re visiting high density tourist spots, always keep valuables under clothing that can’t easily be reached. A few precautions and you can relax.
In addition to the Picasso and Miro museums, and Gaudi’s unfinished, La Sagrada Familia, a visit to the colourful fish and produce market on La Rambla is a must. Here the produce displays have been elevated to an art form. It’s impossible to resist the frantically busy cafés inside the market where you sit on high stools and select the freshest seafood, king prawns, baby octopus, fresh tuna. Autumn is the season when a vast range of mushrooms appear on the stalls. One delicacy which is highly sought after and expensive is a creamy capped fungi with a beautiful champagne accordion pleated underbelly. It is cooked quickly by tossing in Olive oil with a smidgen of garlic and pan–fried. It has a subtle, unique flavour. You can wash all this down with a glass of Spanish bubbly. If there is any room after these treats you can finish off with a crème brulee – baked in handmade earthenware dishes and the sugar caramelized by a red-hot iron disc pressed sizzling onto its surface.
It’s no hardship to walk off this fine food on a city tour that takes in some of Gaudi’s fantastic buildings. Works of genius as modern as tomorrow. Just look out for pick-pockets.