Coffee, some fruit and a delicious potato from a deli along the way – roasted to perfection in olive oil till crisp on the base and sprinkled with pepper . . . so simple . . . so tasty.  Sagrada Familia was just as awesome on the interior – perhaps even more so.  The stained glass windows were massive and vibrant . .  .  blues, greens and yellows on one side of the building. . .   reds, orange and yellow the other . . .  alive with the sunlight streaming through and bathing the stark whites and pale greys of the pillars in a wash of rainbow colours.  Organ music periodically filled the space with body-vibrating sound as people wandered in hushed silence – attempting to take in the splendour.   

Our ticket included a visit up one of the completed towers –  elevator up . . .  walk down.  The attendant, with deadpan face, asked (once the lift doors were firmly shut and escape was impossible)  whether any of us suffered from vertigo or claustrophobia, now was the time to back out.  There was just the tiniest of viewing sections at the top (we almost missed it) . . . but incredible views across the city and an up-close look at some of the bizarre coloured ‘baubles’ atop some of the spires.  One section currently being constructed showed – what to us – looked like vastly under-engineered metal bolts with which to connect the next bit of spire.  Not much more than toothpicks!!  The narrow stone staircase spiraled down and down – giving glimpses of the ground far below.  I started counting the steps, but there was young English couple ahead – she was chattering (more to herself I think) in order NOT to think about the cramped, almost mesmerizing spiraling down – he offering up humourous  insights to distract her and wondering, with dry English wit, how difficult would it be to carpet these stairs.  It’s hard to keep counting while laughing. Definitely more than 200.

New phone card installed – thanks to the Kiosk owner..  Apparently here you are required to enter info from your passport when obtaining sim cards . . .  but no matter how hard he and I tried to locate ‘country of issue’ in his Vodaphone computer system there was nothing for UK, United Kingdom. Great Britain, GB, England, Inglaterra, British Isles . . .  he finally gave up and put in Singapore – it was accepted!

We hopped on and off buses with our passes . .  . first visiting The Arc de Triomphe . . .  yes, really.  Meandering through tall, narrow lanes festooned with wrought iron balconies, plants and shutters. 

Crossing one plaza the strains of Recuerdos drifted past our ears, and there was a single guitarist. 

Then out of nowhere was a community garden where everything looked as though it had been saved/salvaged/ donated/grown.  It was a delightfully shady oasis . . .  winding paths under a massive wisteria . . .  a wall of planters made from old wooden pallets . . .  an ‘insect hotel’ with bamboo stems, pine cones and drilled rounds of wood . . .  several huge cactus and succulent gardens . . . and a children’s playground. (see below)

Beginning to flag somewhat, the smell of coffee and fresh bread instantly drew our attention, and we happily rested tired feet and tucked into flaky pastries and hot coffee (it would be a long wait until the dinner hour in Spain).  Came across an unusual Gaudi building — The Tile House — quite striking.  And then, walking back to the apartment, I noticed a red brick wall with a series of spaced gates . . . some reading Sol . . . others Sombre.  This was an old  bullring! Now turned into a museum about bullfighting . . . . AND it just so happened to be right across the street from where we were staying. The street was so tree-lined I hadn’t noticed the curved inner walls.

Dinner at Gigi’s was a five minute stroll.  Highly recommended for its tapas, it was accordingly busy, but the camarero soon had us seated at one of the outdoor tables and we sipped dewy glasses of beer while perusing the menu of assorted tapas.  We opted for Croquettas (ham and cheese balls, breaded and deep fried with an alioli sauce (one HAS to have croquettas!),  Mussels in a creamed curry and white wine sauce, and lamb tabbouleh.  The croquettes were excellent – hot and crispy . . .  the mussels delicious with just a hint of lemon peel in the delicate curry sauce (wish they had brought bread to mop up the remains) . . .  but the lamb was sublime.  A thick chunk of fork-tender lamb cooked to perfection and nestled on a bed of tabbouleh salad and topped with wine-simmered onion marmalade.  OOoohhhh . . . it was one of those dishes you wish would never end.  So we ordered a second . .  . and it was just as good as the first.  The days of cheap tapas have long gone, as they’ve become more popular and upscale . . . but these were worth every penny.  What a way to end our stay in Barcelona.

Flavia buzzed us in. The ancient caged elevator with wooden doors steadfastly refused to budge,  no matter how many times the button was pushed or the doors adjusted, so we hitched up the bags and trudged upwards . . . forgetting that in Spain the first floor is NOT counted as “one” . . . the second floor is, and because there was also an entrance level, we actually had SIX floors to get to the floor (piso) Phew . . .a work out indeed.  Comfortable bed, clean bathroom, great view plus, a friendly cat and and dog thrown in.

The weather forecast on board the flight had shown nothing but rain and thunderstorms for the next few days, so we wanted to make the most of the current sunshine. So off we set for a quick peek at Sagrada Familia cathedral . . .  the inside would be for tomorrow.

What a sight!  Even partially constructed, it was an amazing creation.   Started in 1882, Gaudi took over the project when the original architect resigned, then devoted the remainder of his life to its construction.  He died in 1926 and is buried in the crypt below the Basilica.  Six of the spires have been completed but a further ten are still to be finished and one can see the cranes towering over the building like strange mechanical praying mantises.  Each side of the building offers totally different styles and designs . . . and with construction going on so long the building materials have changed in colour and form.  Gaunt, angular religious characters, like those in Cervantes, peer down at you. . .  while others are almost futuristic.  It

boggles the mind that just one man could have conceived of such wildly divergent styles and flights of fancy.  Quite delightful.

We indulged in a couple of crusty jamon rolls for later and headed back to the apartment. 

The central courtyard around the elevator shaft – from ground to roof, did a magnificent job of amplifying every sound tenfold, so the overall effect was a symphony of creaking elevator, heavy door slams, gossiping neighbours, children, and one rather talented trumpet player practicing an astonishingly eclectic repertoire which encompassed the themes to Jurrasic Park and Game of Thrones, When the Saints go Marching In, a smattering of Jazz and (oddly) My Favourite Things from the Sound of Music!  Despite being shattered from over 20 hours of travel and a couple of sleepless nights, it was impossible to sleep (even with ear plugs), so donned our shoes and wandered through balmy streets, redolent with the rich smells of flowers, food and the occasional drain before encountering a lively sidewalk bar a mere two streets away from ‘our place’.  There, a glass of Estrella settled the dust nicely and we returned to a quiet building and a much-welcomed sleep.

Two months parking at the airport was beyond exorbitant and as it appeared BC Transit had a bus running on Sunday we elected for that route.  WRONG.  Only Monday through Saturday.  Kevin to the rescue . . . he kindly deposited us at the airbnb we had booked in Victoria (there was no way we were  trusting early rush hour traffic over the Malahat).

It was a was comfortable place and well appointed, but you know how difficult it is to sleep the night before a big trip so it was hardly surprising I was awake around 5am and checking emails.  What’s this . . .  4 emails in 2 minutes from our host in Barcelona . .  . something must have happened.  With great trepidation I opened the first two, breathing a sigh of relief as she explained that she had been called into work and couldn’t meet us at the apartment, but had arranged for her friend Flavia to be there instead. Third email I had to read three times, just to be sure . . . I even read it in Spanish . . .  nope, that’s what it says.  I woke Glen, but was giggling so hard I couldn’t finish.  Apologies Fernanda . .  . but this was just too good to pass up:

I would like to say that I have a problem with the kidneys, and to avoid problems and acidents, I am leaving it in the living room with the door closed until it gets better. I hope it’s quick.

Thanks to Google Translate . . . and the omission of one small but vital word “cat”.

Warren, in the ordered Yellow Cab arrived promptly at five to eight and deposited us and our bags ten minutes later at the airport.  Grabbed a Tim Hortons’s croissant and juice before facing the long lines at security.  We sorted everything into trays exactly as directed . . .  not an item out of place, yet one of our bags, the electronics tray and ME were all tagged and pulled aside!  Mine was sorted with a simple swipe of baton over my hands . . .  the suitcase sat beside other suspicious luggage awaiting careful scrutiny.  No-one appeared to be in any hurry.  Eventually the cases ahead of ours were rummaged through and errant tubes of toothpaste and creams were pounced on and removed.  Nothing in ours except a suspect ‘dark’ object . . . the electronics given a cursory wipe and we were free to go.  The overhead luggage bin over our seat was strewn with a couple of cloth handbags disgorging various items and sweaters – all of which could have been accommodated under the seat instead . . .  so we re-organized it free of charge! 

Arrived in Edmonton with 30 of our precious 35 minutes to spare and sped the ten gates just as final boarding for Toronto was being announced . . . and slid to a halt at the check in desk. What did she say?  NO MORE CARRY-ON BAGS were being accepted, just things which could go under seats.  NOOoooo.  So much for all my careful culling and packing!  There was a frantic scramble by West Jet to get baggage tags printed (and there were a dozen more passengers waiting behind us) . . . the guy promised faithfully that our the bags would arrive in Barcelona <probably just to get rid of me>.  And seeing the plane was true, the overhead storage was crammed with not a milimeter to spare.  Uneventful flight into TO then a 3+ hour wait. 

We were on a new and spacious 787-9 and we settled in for the 7 and a half hour flight to Barcelona.  Snacks, refreshments and a ‘breakfast’ were provided (NB don’t order the pancakes!) but as always, food provided a distraction – along with the onboard entertainment – and the journey didn’t seem too tedious.  It was a bit of a nail-biting wait while the bags were disgorged onto the carousel – I think ours must have been almost the last . . . but arrive they did . . .  just missing one name tag.  Now to claim our transit pass for the trip into downtown.  

The man behind the glass shield said – out the door, gira derecha (turn right) and arriba pointing downwards . . . erm . . . isn’t arriba ‘upstairs’??  Oh well, no matter.  This is where I’m glad we didn’t have the big suitcases with us – there were  a ton of stairs down AND of course back up again, and no escalators.  Then it was onto the train into town and Metro out to where we’re staying . . . although we did so much walking between lines it felt as though we’d walked the whole way.