Good morning Barcelona
Feb 8, 2009: We had been slightly worried about our flight getting off the ground at all, given the weather and the 7am departure. But it was fine. A quick check on Aertel before we left showed that the only cancelled departures were to still-snowbound English airports.
On the plane were a large number of understandably (given the loss in Dublin the previous evening) morose-looking Frenchmen with rugby hats and scarves. 
I briefly wondered whether we were on the wrong flight (I had somehow been allowed to board despite accidentally showing Rongi’s boarding pass), before realising that it made perfect sense.
With the heartland of French rugby – Biarritz, Toulouse, Perpignan — just across the Pyrenees, Barcelona’s El Prat airport was probably a very convenient place to get a flight to Dublin.
Having been up since 4.15, we both slept for most of the 2½-hour flight. Waking up, I glanced out to find we were passing over the Pyrenees — one of those moments when the trip you’ve been dreaming about starts to feel like a reality. Snowcapped peaks and small mountain paths gave that always pleasing sense of otherness that gets the adrenalin going, and brings the knowledge that you’re going to have boundless energy for the next few days.
Just outside the main exit from Arrivals, on your left, is the stop for the bus into the city. It’s clearly signposted and there’s a bus every six minutes. There are ticket vending machines, but don’t worry if you haven’t any change — you can pay the driver.
Having decided to head to Plaça de Catalunya, we almost got off at the impressive Plaça d’Espanya instead, before realising we should wait until the last stop.
After a quick game of text-tennis with our host, we decided, having only a small bag each, to head straight for the Picasso museum. This meant heading down the Rambla. The pedestrianised centre of this thoroughfare is filled with souvenir stands, pet sellers, and a huge range of performers and human statues. Some are grotesque, others look like they’ve escaped from fairytales, and one or two are clearly Dalí-inspired. The gentleman to the left perches, motionless, on a very tall stationary bicycle. Whenever a coin is dropped in his basket, he and his bra-clad bony buddy pedal furiously, to the accompaniment of rattles and whistles, for about 10 seconds — obviously has a good union.
Turning left off the Rambla, we followed Carrer de Ferran, through Plaça de St Jaume, onto Carrer de Jaume I and Carrer de la Princesa. The narrow side-streets, leading through a succession of pretty squares, reminded me of Rome, and I know I could spend days on end losing myself in those alleys.
Along the way, we stumbled across an elderly harmonica player busking with an extremely tame rabbit by his side. The wee beast was completely unperturbed by the many passersby, even spending a good five minutes eyeball to eyeball with a schnauzer before the latter panicked and barked, sending bunny (who I reckon won the staredown) scurrying for cover.
Museu Picasso
Entry to the Picasso museum is €9, but free on the first Sunday of each month. 
Don’t expect to be blown away by its scale or magnificence — most of the artist’s best known works are elsewhere. However, the collection has a great variety of material from Picasso’s teenage years up until his death, much of which introduced me to a side of him I knew little or nothing about. There’s also a fairly minimalist but utterly intriguing multimedia presentation on his prolonged study of Velasquez’s Las Maninas, while the building itself is almost worth the price of admission.
Leaving the museum, we immediately bumped into Isabel, who had come to meet us. Her first choice of places for lunch obviously was as good as she said, as it was packed to the doors and we had to retreat to the street. We settled instead on Sagardi, part of a chain and one of countless Basque tapas bars in the city.
We chose to eat standing at one of the shelves encircling the floor-to-ceiling columns, sharing our space with a very pleasant retired couple from Minnesota on a Mediterranean cruise. Mr Peterson (who eagerly explained he was half-Irish Finlay), enthused at length about his couple of days in Barcelona and assured us we were going to love it.
We stuffed ourselves with tapas (made largely from pork or seafood), a couple of beers and some of the cider dispensed from an immense cask set in the wall behind the counter, before deciding it was time to make tracks for the Camp Nou, home of Barcelona’s world-famous football team. But that’s another story . . .
Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.
February 8, 2009 11:01 pm 
