Gaudi, Carrera del Adria, and my very own Magnum P.I

As the train snaked down the French interior, the lush green landscape and gilded filigree work gave way to lanes of parched earth, foothills and terracotta rooftops. Signage started in Spanish and Catalan, palm trees and bamboo groves braiding their way to the Mediterranean coast in the distance. Hopping from one air conditioned car to another, we leapfrogged down into Barcelona Sants and then on to a regional train that would take us to the small Catalonian town about an hour northeast of Barcelona called Mataro. Mataro is a town seemingly made up of construction zones and car dealership that figures into the necklace of similar small towns along the coastline, all stops on the same train line, all part of the same fragmented passage of DIY Home Repair depots and big box shopping centres, all just a town in relation to Barcelona. An adorable town once you get into it, it sits stacked up the hillside on cobblestones like Jenga tiles.

We arrive on a molten afternoon, the sky cloudless and that 'blink because you don't believe it' shade of blue smarties. 

Weaving up the cobblestone streets and alleyways, we are welcomed by our host Sam, who gave us the requisite kiss on both cheeks despite the sweat running down our faces.
"Everything is closed right now because it's siesta. But it will reopen in an hour when it's not too hot."
We soon realized that 'hot' was relative. I used to look at European women and think they had this desirable dewiness about their skin. I have now realized that for me 'dewey' is an overall gleam of sweat from head to toe.

The beach of Mataro was medicine for our souls. White sand with the grit of baby powder and cool water clear from floor to surface with suspended shards of sand that glint like gold flake. Angular white peaks of sailboats dot the horizon. A cool breeze swept gently off the water, a breeze that didn't make it into town. Quickly you are swept up in the way of life. Lazily languishing on a beach towel in the sun with a cool dip mercifully only metres away. Then you look around. You count: one, two, three. Then you lose count. Seems that sans bathing suit top is de rigeur -No, not popular, NORMAL. Mothers with their children, older women with weathered bodies. And this is an average beach, not a nude beach. Topless women stroll past men who don't even second a glance. So I thought...when in Rome.

Even though we were thoroughly enamoured with the beach, our sun-smacked Canadian skin asked for a reprieve. After taking our siesta -because it had quickly become something we were ALL about- we walked the beach to a small town called Vilassar de Mar, about half an hour from Mataro. 

Anthony Bourdain believes Spain, next to Asia, is the most important contributor to food. Spain right now is where everything exciting is happening. The new restaurants, the new concepts, new chefs. Everyone wants to stage there. El Bulli, what was the best restaurant in the world before it closed, was located not even an hour north of where we were staying. What was interesting about Bourdain's Spain excursion, is that he took in not only the new and exciting, the newer exploits of the Adria brothers and the mind blowing creativity of Enric Rovira's chocolate, he also took in a Spanish company that has simply been doing canned fish for many years, and doing it really well. Espaniler Bodega is a small, tapa style restaurant right on the water. You can come in and order by the can or pick and choose from the bar. Razor clams, mussels in catalan oil, langostillo, squid. And this isn't your canned tuna. This is like ageing wine in an oak barrel. The mussels quite literally melted away in your mouth. Shelves of vermouth and cava line the back wall, book ended by 36-piece cans of their most popular choices. A steady but manageable procession of people wander in, make their choices and sip beers at the makeshift beer barrel patio tables as the sun lowers to the horizon.

Cockles

Razor clams: round one

White asparagus

Mussels. Holy God. 

You will notice that Moozh's beard didn't quite make the cut in our trip to Spain. The heat combined with the fact that Moozh's beard comes in thick like Berber carpeting meant it just had to go. He suggested that maybe he would just shave his beard but keep the moustache. To which I said....nothing. I couldn't breath I was laughing so hard. 

Barcelona felt like a blur in between dips in the ocean. I wanted to see Sagrada Familia and Michael at Beer Mania back in Brussels had recommended a fish market where the razor clams were supposed to be amazing. One couldn't be within a hand grenades throw of Barcelona and not go. We wanted to see La Rambla, a shopping lane where hawkers and pickpockets slip through, where you can get a litre of beer in a takeaway stein for 12 euros, where dealers sell cocaine concealed beneath the guise of a six-pack of coca-cola cans. We wanted to suck Razor Clams from their elongated shells, with lemon juice and salt. We wanted to walk by -and whimper- at Tickets, the newest venture from Albert Adria, brother of El Bulli chef Ferran Adria.

Le Sagrada Familia rises above pretty much everything around it. But the first things you see are the cranes that surround it. Le Sagrada Familia is the greatest example of architectural delayed gratification that I have ever heard of. Antoni Gaudi, who is a famous Modernist artist and architect and beloved of the Spanish, dedicated the last fifteen years of his life to designing and building the cathedral. He designed eighteen towers, one for each of the apostles, one for the Virgin Mary, John the Baptist, etc. The project began, however, back in 1882. If funds continue and there are no other roadblocks, those in charge suggest it'll be finished around 2026. 144 years as a rough suggestion. 

The fish market of lore was not to be. Again, we asked around. We showed them the crude map Michael had drawn of a fish market just off La Rambla. No one could point us towards anything other than the money-maker tourist traps that line La Rambla trying to sell overpriced paella and grape juice with an orange slice marketed as Sangria. Somewhat used to the relaxed pace and reduced capacity of Mataro, we were gettting claustrophobic and disappointed in overpriced Barcelona. So we hopped back on the train to try and make our luck back in Mataro. 

Sam had told us about the restaurant district right down on the beach, of little cabanas built on sand that sold good paella and razor clams. Our attentions were caught, however, by a small shack with blue-backlight canopies, tiki torches, and white linen sofas aptly named the Blue Beach Bar. My husband almost kissed that chef on the mouth. Long weary of directions not working out, us getting lost and recommendations not delivering, my husband just wanted some mother f'ing razor clams. What he got was a monstrous plate of grilled razor clams, lacquered and bathed in garlic butter and parsley, the occasional little bit on the shell fried to a sweet crisp. The bucket of paella we got after just finished it off perfectly, a hefty serving of spiced risotto with baby octopus, shrimp, squid, mussels and clams. I got a pitcher -and I mean PITCHER- of sangria, made with the Spanish sparkling wine cava, all to myself. The fizz and sweetness were perfect for watching the sky dim behind the mountains and the water's surface become a royal purple. I don't really remember walking home.

There is something about Mataro that has maintained something of Spanish life that we maybe wouldn't have seen had we stayed in Barcelona in August where anyone will tell you, 'there are no Spanish there'. Everything still shuts down between one-thirty and five in the evening because, as our host Sam put it, "It's simply too hot to do anything". Old Spanish women hang around the train station to help you buy tickets from the machines if you don't understand. No one's selling light-up Antoni Gaudi figuerines. You have sand in your hair and the remnant salt of the water on your skin. You say 'grathias' instead of 'gracias'. You receive the kindness and patience of people who can tell you're not from there.

Find a hot day. Drink sangria out of an ice cream pail. It really takes the heat off.

Things I learned in Catalonia: 
Don't miss the opportunity to make a memory. Even if it's a topless beach. 
Food tastes better with the sand between your toes. 
Spanish. People. Are. Beautiful. 

Quote from Catalonia: 
Moozh: I am wandering around Barcelona showing people a doodle just to find some f-ing razor clams Baby. The things I do for food.