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Leading with a line like "A Tale of Two Cities" would be too cliche.
So let’s make it three. Or five, actually.
Madrid and Barcelona: one the Spanish capital, the other a second-city of grandeur and flamboyance.
Glasgow and Edinburgh: one the industrial and commercial capital of Scotland, the other its centre of history and culture.
And throw in London, on layover, for good measure.
What I have to write about these cities and these countries, however, will speak to contrasts and highlights one rarely gets in a span of little more than a week. In the age of discount airlines, the attention-deficit traveller like myself can do well even in short spurts.
Touching down at London’s Gatwick Airport after a less-sleepless-than-usual Transatlantic crossing, I took the train into central London for a 3-hr walk around Buckingham Palace, the Green, Hyde Park, Mayfair, Piccadilly, Soho, Leicester Square, Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square, Whitehall, Parliament, Westminster, and back to Victoria for the train to Gatwick. The fresh air and mild temperatures were an effective tonic after Canadian winter and a long flight, while a neighbourhood chip shop and an easy-going Saturday pace hit the spot before moving onward to Spain.
Painless flight to Madrid on European discount carrier easyJet, and despite that I couldn’t get even a cup of hot or cold water without charge (it’s the ‘retail’ mentality, which is why Gatwick is one big shopping mall once you clear security, and they don’t announce gate numbers until the last minute in order to keep passengers shopping... though I did appreciate the samples of whisky I enjoyed over again, with a ‘wee dram’ settling the jet-lagged stomach nicely), no complaints about the fare ($50) or the flight (on time and chasing a beautiful sunset). Soon enough I was in Madrid, and with a brief stop at Casa Silvia, we were off for a nighttime driving tour of the city – so many changes in the two decades since I’d first been here. Madrid is now a major force in the European economy, and its infrastructure reflects this, from the grand Plaza Europa, gateway to the city centre; along the Gran Via with offices, hotels, and apartments lining the main thoroughfares; and into the old part of the city. Finally giving up on finding a street parking spot, we place the vehicle in a garage, and walk in the brisk temps to the Plaza Mayor, the historical and cultural hub of Madrid. Here we find one of the cuevas, the cavernous restaurants built under the Plaza, and enjoy tapas of calamari, tortilla (Spanish omelette), cheese, and delicious, thinly sliced Jamón Iberico. The Sangria is refreshing. The music (this is the Meson de Guitarra) is alive. The churros y chocolate at San Gines are the perfect ending, or the beginning, as it were, to this first day in Spain.
During a visit to El Rastro, perhaps the largest flea market in Europe, the next morning, my walking fervour was somewhat dampened by a lingering foot sprain, and the only full day I’d have in Madrid would require some scheduling priorities. No visit this time to the Reina Sofia (home to some of Picasso’s best works), and the our Prado time would be pared to Velasquez and a few other key works. Silvia suggested we go for paella, since Sunday is the big day to do so. Twist my arm. Good paella – no, make that great paella – is one of the reasons I came to Spain. "We have to make a reservation," Silvia said, as I hobbled to the car, itself wedged into a spot the size of a bobsleigh, and I still have no idea how people park here. "At three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon?" Most restaurants in North America wouldn’t even be open at this hour, and the ones that were would have been emptier than the mall on Super Bowl Sunday (which in fact this was, not that such events register more than a blip on the European calendar).
She wasn’t joking, and in fact the list was full, though by the time we arrived the wait wasn’t bad at all, and we were able to enjoy our big meal of the week at a comfortable pace, shutting the place down at six as they turned out the lights on us. So how was the paella, this thing you supposedly came to Spain for? Actually we didn’t have paella. What? Okay, technically we had a variation of paella called arroz abanda, in which the seafood is cooked first, the rice then cooked in the seafood’s broth, and each is served separately and eaten with an aioli. Mouth-watering when it was first described, this dish did not disappoint. And when eaten leisurely, with sprightly sangria and good company, this was, indeed, what I’d come to Madrid for.
The next morning, following a below-zero start and gridlock traffic, I was on the Spanair link to Barcelona, and half an hour later descended past the mountains, out over the Mediterranean, landing with an ideal first view of this city I’d heard so much about. In fact, given such high expectations, I’ve come to view some experiences with diminished expectations. All too often, prior to seeing or feeling something for ourselves, we’re inundated with excessive hype from well-intentioned third parties. And when we actually get to experience this firsthand – be it a movie, attraction, etc. – the real thing seldom lives up to the ballyhoo.
What I can assure you, although this will ironically add to your own hype, is that Barcelona lived up to its billing in every regard, surpassing in many. In fact, in a space often flowing with vivid description but usually reserving in judgment using superlatives, I will go so far as to say that I cannot think of any city I’ve liked more than Barcelona.
From the moment the airport bus eased through the wide thoroughfares and intersections of the city, I knew I was going to enjoy Barcelona. After checking into the perfectly-situated Hotel Regencia Colon, I walked through the sun-basked plazas and alleyways of Barri Gotic, the old town which was once the entire city of Barcelona. As is often my wont when first settling into a city, I headed for the local market. La Boqueria is what one envisions of a European market, sprawling with various stands hawking colourful fruits and vegetables, sparkling fresh fish and seafoods, multitudes of hard and soft cheeses, and meats from sausage and steaks to the obsessive jamon. In the back of the market is a restaurant that the guidebooks say serves a prix-fixe lunch menu from the freshest La Boqueria has to offer. I opt instead for a counter seat at one of the market’s tapas bars, and, in broken Spanish, apologise for not having better Spanish (how Canadian of me) and ask for una caña and what’s good from the mariscos? "No problem," says the man behind the counter who turns out to be Filipino. Minutes later I’ve got a dark draft beer nearly finished as my plate of assorted fresh seafood arrives – cuttlefish, salmon, shrimp, squid, mussels, and – the best – baby octopus. Everything is sauteed simply in garlic and olive oil, and complemented well with a glass (okay, two, actually) of txakoli, a local white wine. I walked away from the place completely satisfied, and with every intention of coming back. I didn’t, oddly enough, not to the seafood bar at least though I did get to the market, but that’s explained better as we go on.
Back to the tale of – oops, forgot I said I wouldn’t go the cliche route. But suffice it to say that as Madrid is Spanish, Barcelona is European (and both of those are great). The centre of Barcelona, in spirit, commerce, and transport, is the Plaça Catalunya, a modern European square bordered by the fashionable Passeig de Gracia and Eixample to the northwest, the Barri Gotic to the southeast, and the shopping street of Las Ramblas leading to the port. Spain’s everything-under-the-sun department store, El Corte Inglés, dots one corner of the Plaça, while Café Zurich, THE place to see and been seen, is on the opposite. Within walking distance of this spot can be seen much of Barcelona’s main attractions; anything else is an easy trip on the convenient and affordable TMB, Barcelona’s system of trains and buses.
Las Ramblas skirts the old town, and its uniqueness is created by the pedestrian mall in the median, running the entire length from the Plaça to the statue of Columbus (seems everyone wants to take for credit for this guy, even though he just ran into some islands) at the port. The mall is full of florists, bird stores, souvenir stands and standup eateries, while either side of the street has your typical array of restaurants, tapas bars, souvenir shops, a de rigueur sex museum, and some gothic and baroque architecture highlighted by a cathedral and the Liceu opera house. It’s an easy place to wander on and off of, in and out of alleyways in the old town. A good walk and a Cuban cigar later, it was time for a siesta, where I caught bits and pieces of Super Bowl on TV while drifting in and out.
Eight in the evening, and after a shower I’m ready to hit the town, but I make it no further, for the time being, than across the square from the hotel, next to the cathedral, to a place I'd seen recommended on TripAdvisor.com, Taverna del Bisbe, a modern tapas and wine bar. This place had the kind of ambience I was seeking, with jazz music and the kind of counter one could (and did) sit at for hours. I had two steins of a nice local dark beer, along with tapas of blood pudding, chorizo, bacallao (cod fritters).. and then I ordered the mushrooms. Oh my. Glad I didn't order these first, as I would have had four plates of nothing but funghi, so simple just sauteed in garlic and oil with bits of jamón... wow. Ending the evening back at Café Zurich, sitting on the square with a cigar and an espresso, watching the people, I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.
One cannot visit Barcelona without seeing the works of Gaudí, Miró, and Picasso, among others, and in the next two days I did just that. Much is written and spoken of these chaps, of course, but what struck me the most was the architecture of Antoni Gaudí and how it has influenced much of this great city. Casa Mila or ‘La Pedrera’, the Gaudí apartment building in the city’s upscale Eixample neighbourhood, jumps out at you from the get go, with its rounded corner facade of undulating stone lacking any straight lines. Its roof is the main feature one sees on a visit here, and the many pictures I took will demonstrate the whim of the architect in his chimneys and air vents. Also in the same vicinity are other residences and edifices by Gaudí and his contemporaries, with three contrasting examples located on what is known as the Block of Discord. Up the hill is Parc Güell, what was to have been a planned housing community, and although this vision did not come to fruition, what remains today is a colourful and complex space of viaducts, curvy ramps, animalesque sculptures, and park benches with some of the best views of Barcelona.
Gaudí’s seminal work, of course, is the Sagrada Familia cathedral, a massive work-in-progress which the architect oversaw (and lived at) until his death, and which will not likely be finished even in our lifetimes. The foundation for this structure was laid in 1882, believe it or not, and, after years of stagnation, Gaudí took over the project in 1894. Over a century later no end is in sight, and that’s part of the attraction. The two main sides of the Sagrada Familia feature the Nativity Facade and the Passion Facade, each massive and intricate in its detailed stone work, and yet each dwarfed by the four bell towers that reach to the sky. I took the elevator as far as it would go, and, bad foot aside, walked narrow spiral staircases to the top of one of the towers, walking the entire way back down as well. It was all worth it, even if I had to limp for the rest of the day, as the views not only of the structure but also of the city were phenomenal.
The last 24 hours I spent in Barcelona were a bonus, as I was able to catch up with my old friend, David, whom I hadn’t seen in four years, and whose presence was a great coincidence. Only after asking for some recommendations on what to see and do here did I learn that David, who now lives in Haifa, would in fact be in Barcelona at the same time on business. More wine, more cigars, good food and great company. And, as you can imagine, I was a bit sad to see my time in Barcelona come to a close.
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Checking in at the flyGlobespan (fourth of the discount airlines used this trip) counter, the monitors said “Edimburgo,” though there was some mumbling amongst passengers as to what might have happened to the Glasgow flight and perhaps they’d combined these two flights. At least that’s what I think they were saying. After dealing quite well in Spanish all week, I was now wildly thrown off by the mixture of brogues on this Scottish flight. Anyhow the monitors at the boarding gate displayed the same flight number but said, “Glasgow,” and only an announcement from the pilot confirmed that this flight would indeed be going to Edinburgh and then continuing on to Glasgow, as the original flight to the latter city had been cancelled. The flight itself, cramped seating aside, was uneventful, save for the marvellous view of the Pyrenees shrouded in fog. As we were beginning our descent into Edinburgh, however, said pilot announced that due to “technical difficulties” we’d be diverting to Glasgow, which had a longer runway. Nothing was serious, he assured us, but “in all likelihood” once we landed, the aircraft “would not be able to continue to Edinburgh.” That’s reassuring. Expecting to see emergency vehicles awaiting our arrival, we instead touched down in Glasgow (whose runway is all of four percent longer than that of Edinburgh) without incident, parked at the usual ramp, and went through UK Customs before a group of us were bused to Edinburgh Airport.
Yup, you know it’s a discount airline when they take you the last 75km by bus. With a Barcelona-Edinburgh air fare that was equivalent to the London-Edinburgh bus fare, however, who could complain?
By the next morning I had grown accustomed to the accent – though the brogue in Glasgow is far more pronounced than that in Edinburgh – and a hearty Scottish breakfast was fuel for an early start to a full day. Dawn in these parts was nearly 8am in early February, and the overnight temperature had dropped to a brisk -4c. I nearly galloped up Calton Hill, however, seeing the sun rising and knowing that I’d have a perfectly clear day to see and photograph this gem of a city. The view from the top of the hill was what I’d been waiting for, and I spent about half an hour getting various angles and setups from this perch.
The morning – much as the city itself – was ideal for walking about, snapping pictures as if film were not an issue (got to love digital), from the magnificent Royal Mile, up to Edinburgh Castle (more outstanding views and a great loo), around the streets and alleys in the medieval old town, and back down the Mile as far as the Palace of Holyroodhouse and the new Scottish Parliament, with views of the crags, the bogs, and Arthur's Seat. The subject of much controversy due to its external architecture which contrasts wildly with much of the Royal Mile, Parliament’s interiors are striking indeed, with a chamber worthy of a fine nation’s debate, and abundant woodwork throughout. “I wonder how long the wood will last,” I heard one visitor ask another. His companion seemed more reassuring, noting, “oh it’s fine, so long as the weather isn’t damp.” Damp? In Scotland? Hard to imagine.
I forewent lunch in favour of seeing as much as possible, especially since I’d noted that ‘high noon’ still saw the sun at a fairly noticeable angle, and walked through the city’s Georgian ‘New Town’ before calling it a day and enjoying some of the fine watering holes that adorn the grid streets around here. By six thirty the next morning, however, I was in acceptable condition to walk the fifteen minute or so stretch to the Royal Mile, where I had a scone and an enormous chai latte upstairs at Starbucks, in doing so donating nearly five pounds sterling to the global coffee chain. By eight o’clock, though, I was warm and awake, and on a bus that would take us out of the city and into the Highlands for a day tour. Haggis Adventures (I’m not making up the name) caters to a younger set, and their ‘midi-buses’ of 28 passengers can get to more places in a rather ‘local’ approach. In addition to our guide/driver, Fraser, we had four guides-in-training on the tour, and the experience became all the more authentic with the local presence, except for the Americans sitting next to me at the back of the bus – “Fraser, are you Scottish or Irish?” one actually asked... “Irish?” he responded (in a tone that indicated, “why the hell would you Yanks think that I’m bloody Irish?”), except that they didn’t take the response as a question so much as an answer, and thus proceeded to spend the rest of the day complaining amongst themselves that a Scot, not a Mick, should have been leading a tour in Scotland.
As we approached the highlands, the clouds gathered intensely, and the rain that one would expect in these parts began its advance. Our first stop was Doune Castle, dating back to the 14th century but of less historical relevance, and yet important for any fan of Monty Python. Yes, this was the castle of Holy Grail fame, home to the Knights who say Ni, and where the French Guard declared, “I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!” Not finding any berries nearby, we proceed into the Highlands, amidst changing precipitation of rain, snow, and mist, and made subsequent stops at the grave of Rob Roy MacGregor, the Falls of Dochart, the windy and mighty Loch Tay, and the 5,000 year old tree at Fortingall Yew, before hitting my personal highlight for the day, the Glenturret Distillery. Too late for one tour and too early for the next, we had an hour to “kill” – not that difficult at a distillery – and I enjoyed a few pints and a few drams along with the guides-in-training. Any questions of drinking on duty were quickly doused by yours truly, who insisted that “you can’t let a customer drink alone, after all.” The tour did not disappoint, though I feel that a wee sample here and there along the way wouldn’t have hurt, but rest assured at the end of the tour a dram was offered, and the tasting room beyond that made for a relaxing bus ride back to Edinburgh, crossing the Firth of Forth as the sun broke through the clouds and set in the western sky.
After exploring some of the East End’s pubs, I returned to the hotel to hear on the BBC that Sir Freddie Laker, the father of the discount airline concept, had died at age 83. Ironic that I would have planned and executed this holiday in large part thanks to Sir Freddie, and here he passes as I’m ready to go home. The next morning I enjoyed a leisurely walk around the East End and New Town before catching the bus to Glasgow (where I'd been introduced to Scotland two years ago), time enough for a quick peek around Sauchiehall Street, and then off I was to the airport for the flight back to Canada. Not wanting to miss out on anything Scottish, I found “haggis bites” on the menu at Harry Ramsden’s – yes, it was fried haggis, though the McNugget-like ‘bites’ had been replaced with a fried haggis patty. Still, I did miss out on the whole fried Mars bar experience -- “Scotland,” as Fraser the guide had put it, “least healthiest population in Europe, and proud of it.”
Perhaps when I'm settled in at home, we'll deep fry a tortilla de haggis. With a dram of that aqua vitae known as Scotch whisky, what could be bad?
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Click to see the travel destination photos
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