kubey town

Thursday

We stayed in all day and then popped up and got dressed quickly to get to the cofffee roasters in time.  Past all the upscale cafes and designer furniture stores of the Eixample, we hustled up the street.  Cafe el Magnifico was not as intimidating as I’d imagined it.  It was modern but warm with wood and the smell of coffee.  Mims asked the woman to give us something “marvioso” (marvellous.) We left with five hundred grams of Brazilian expresso (e-ch-press-o) just as they turned the sign on the door from obert to tancat. 

Intoxicated by the smell emanating from our tiny shopping bag, we’d stop, sniff, and walk a little faster.  We decided to explore the neighborhood a bit and see if we could find a famous bar we’d read about called, Gin Martini.  Sweaty from rushing to the coffee roasters and a wearing tee-shirts and jeans, we assumed we weren’t in any position to actually go inside the bar if we found it.  We imagined a secret door that opened to a sophisticated lounge full of smartly dressed men in ties and shirtsleeves and tipsy women with pearls and cigarette holders.  What we found instead was what looked like a classy hotel bar full of wealthy tourists and old men.  We kept moving.

We stood outside of a seafood restaurant aptly named, “Mariscos,” and tried our hand at translating the Catalan menu on the chalkboard.  They had an array of fresh seafood on ice so you can just point to your dinner.  Octopus, hake, baby eels, shrimp, mussels, whatever your heart desires prepared in whatever way you like.  We made a mental note to return with empty bellies.   

Every time we see a Japones (Japanese) restaurant we rush over to scan their menu for ramen.  Sushi restaurants abound, and there are take away wok shops everywhere, but ramen is a tall order.  Our first meal out in our new neighborhood in Barcelona was ramen.  It was at a hole in the wall Japones restaurant called, “Wasabi.”  The ramen was made with chicken broth (always a bad sign,) packaged noodles, and chewy pork slices.  A sad affair but we asked for it.  

So on this night the search for ramen continued.  We spotted an authentic looking Japones grocery/take away restaurant and skipped across the street to check it out.  It was a tiny place with a cooler full of mochi ice cream balls and fridge stacked with sushi and fermented soy beans (muy authentico!)  Mims didn’t miss a beat and started chatting up the old woman at the counter in Japanese about where the best ramen in town is.  Her answer, “There isn’t any,” wasn’t very hopeful.  But in a mixture of Japanese and Spanish she started to give us directions to a restaurant around the corner.  Her husband came out of the back room to help and they drew us a map that looked like a game of tic tac toe.  

Mims was able to decipher the map enough to get us to Koyuki in about five minutes.  The sight of it was encouraging.  There was a discreet sign and the entrance was down a few steps off the street.  The place was small and warm but when we asked the old man at the front for a menu, he seemed really offended.  We had to ask sheepishly in Spanish a couple of times until he threw one at us.  His attitude seemed like a good indication of authenticity to me.  We again vowed to come back when we were good and hungry (as well as to give this guy time to forget us.)

The days are long here in Spain and you don’t even begin to think about dinner until at least eight o’clock.  We were hovering around seven so we kept answering our impulses and headed to the local brewery for a drink and a snack.  Having been here once before we felt like old pros and knew exactly what to order and how.  We sat at the bar and ordered una negra y una miel cervezas (one dark and one honey beer.) We sat there for a long time talking about languages and trying to guess where the waiter was from.  His face was too soft to be Spanish.  When we were good and tipsy we walked home to have a simple dinner of hummus on toast with courgettes (zucchini) and salad.  

In Barcelona you can stay inside all day in your pajamas and still have all night to have an adventure out in the city and be home in time for dinner…at ten o’clock.  

Full of Bolonga.

Bologna, Italy is known as la grassa, la dotta and la rossa.  The fat, the learned, and the red.  It’s the center of culinary delights in Italy, the home of the oldest university in the world, and has a history of communist flair, as well as a lot of buildings awash in brick red.

The people of Bologna love their food, but I do not envy “la grassa.” 

It’s tempting to imagine not caring about your physical body anymore.  Reaching the point where nothing matters.  Cholesterol, calories, fat… all meaningless words.  Your stomach stretched to the size of two or three, like some otherworldly creature or farm animal.  The shame of it all having long left you, you relish in every bite of food as sweat drips off your forehead and seasons your meal.  You are a glamorously grotesque king sitting on your throne being fed the sweetest grapes and the richest cheeses.  Wine dribbles down your chin like a gorging vampire.   Your royal table is so laden with culinary treasures it sags and strains under the weight.  Life is good.  Robustness is equal to wealth, power and prosperity.  

That all sounds lavish and delectable, but all scrumptious feasts end the same way- a big shit.  

The arduous process of digestion is what usually deters me from over indulgence.  It’s like going into labor without the happy results. Laying around propped up, your guts in tangles, waiting for a tiny hole to be ready to disburden you of this huge mass.  Your body is focusing all of it’s resources to chemically and mechanically break down this disgusting conglomeration you’ve stuffed down inside it.  Leaving you awake and uncomfortable, wishing you were ballsy enough to just make yourself vomit and end this torture. 

It’s taken me ten days and my face is rossa, but I think I’ve finally become one of the la dotta.  Tomorrow’s menu: insalata, insalata, insalata. 

Beggars and Choosers

There is a woman in Sitges, Spain who comes to your table at the cafe with a small porcelain turtle with fins that move. She sets it on your table with a small card that says she is deaf and needs money and would you like to help and buy a turtle. She goes to every table and sets them down with the card that has her plea in several languages. She then dutifully re-collects them and nods at you understandingly if you don’t want to buy.

There are men in Bologna, Italy that come to your table at the cafe and loudly spew English phrases and try to fist bump you. They are all smiles and shady business. “Hey dude! Hey man! How are you?” They put an arm around your shoulder and dig into a dirty grocery bag for today’s special offer. A hello kitty flashlight or a package of tissues, thrust under your nose like it were a diamond necklace. When rebuffed, the act is dropped abruptly to be replaced with a straightforward beg for money. Another rebuff will get you a dirty look that makes you clutch your purse, but then they are off to the next table, hands raised for a high five.

Why do we give to the people we choose to give to? Everyone has a personal policy. My husband writes a check on the spot to the lesbian outside the grocery store in support of gay marriage. He also pretends not to speak English when a beggar comes to our table at the cafe. I had a boyfriend once who wanted to be a better Jew so he gave to anyone that asked him. He once infuriated me because he gave our home address to a sketchy man with a clipboard along with five dollars.

The same boyfriend gave his gloves to a man on the L train during a particularly frosty Chicago winter. We talked with the man for several stops and learned how you can lose your life practically overnight. Not everyone on the street is a drug addict or a mentally disabled person (which is a whole other sad story.) This man told us how he got laid off and little by little he lost everything. It all trickled away through his fingers- his job, his family, his friends. It was the first time I could really see it all laid out. I could see it happening to anyone. All the decisions he made, I would’ve made. All he could do was keep adapting and moving forward. This wasn’t someone who needed a hand-out, this was someone who needed a handshake. Just a reminder that he was a human being and not a piece of trash that no one wants to look at.

Giving those gloves and taking the time to talk to that man is probably more than I would’ve done for sure. My boyfriend had lived a fairly privileged life and I feel that can help someone give as much as enable them to be selfish. I am a woman and I had a modest upbringing. Neither of those qualities lends itself to giving or speaking to strangers. My personal policy is basically not to give anything to anyone. Generally that makes things easier, but everyone’s personal policy is foggy at best. We all have our days where we pretend not to speak the language and avert our eyes, and we all have our days where we give the gloves off our hands.

All In The Family of Sexual Violence

On my flight to NYC, I looked up from my book to see All In The Family on my tv.  I saw a not unattractive young man, on top of Edith.  He looked like he was going to rape her.  I quickly plugged my earphones in and watched the rest of the most disturbing sitcom episode I’ve ever seen.  Here is the episode description from tv.com:

Before Edith arrives home, Gloria and Mike teaches Archie the plan for Edith 50th birthday surprise party which will be taken at 6 o’clock at the Stivics house. Edith comes back home while Archie and the Stivics leave to decorate the house for the party. A sudden knock at the door reveals a cop. Edith welcomes the policeman inside the house who claims that there’s a rapist in town but he slips out that it’s him. Edith is held at
gunpoint and pushed on the couch. The rapist slowly strips Edith! Before it can go any longer, the phone rings. The rapist orders Edith to get rid of the caller as soon as possible. When she does, Archie knocks at the door, wondering why the hell the door is locked. The rapist hides himself in the closet and once again orders Edith to get rid of Archie. She does as quickly as possible. Still stranded in the house with the armed man, they suddenly smell something burning. It was the cake which Edith previously started to bake. They rush to the oven where the room is just smoke. When she it pulls, she tosses the hot cake in the rapist’s face and rushes outside the kitchen door, but he stops her. She knees him in the groin and exits as soon as possible out of the front door and interupts the party, running into Archie’s arms.

During the horrible and uncomfortable scenes when Edith is alone with her attacker, they keep cutting back to the hi-jinks that are happening next door as Archie and Meatheat and Gloria prepare for Edith’s surprise party.  They literally cut from a man threatening to tie her up and unzipping her dress to Meathead and Archie doing a cheesy tug of war over a punch bowl, complete with HUGE laughs from the laugh track.

After she escapes her attacker and runs next door for safety, the entire room bursts into shouts of, “SURPRISE!!” for her birthday party.  She merely runs past them, her dress unzipped down the back, tears streaming down her face, into Archie’s arms.  She is bawling, and an arm (Gloria?) reaches into frame and zips her dress.  Archie looks down at her and jokes about her crying because of her birthday surprise, and then- IT ENDS.  It ends right there.  It cuts to the executive producer credits and the BIGGEST closing laugh on the entire fucking laugh track.