The Times They Are A-Changing
I stood behind my family, waiting for my son to scan our airline reservation from his phone for our boarding passes. Earlier, he painstakingly downloaded the VRBO, Delta, and Get Your Guide apps into my phone, explaining his code and how to find our itinerary. All of these talents escape me. I realize that my days of travel agents covering all the bases for a small fee are not required in his presence. He was confident. I was not.
In the months before we left for Barcelona, I reviewed my travel savvy with the kids regarding money exchange charts, making address cards covered in clear contact paper, and gave gentle, but firm warnings about pickpockets. The most expensive cameras stayed home. Everyone would carry their address cards when outside of the apartment. And, occasionally, check how much you are spending against the conversion table.
When I escorted high school and college students out-of-country, a full orientation of culture, destinations and manners were required. Last Christmas, I handed out “Guided Adventures” from Interact Travel days as a gift to which my son groaned, “Oh Mom, you’re such a teacher!”
“Look,” I quipped defensively, “before you judge, these activities ask you to name and taste test new ice cream flavors. Listen to local music. Read another country’s point of view on world affairs.”
Soon, we were packing comfortable shoes, appropriate clothing and phones for everyone, a new travel expense. Everything fit in a carry-on and we were off. At El-Prat airport, we found a taxi for five, no easy feat, and were dropped off at our new home on Carrer de Sicilia, a mere five-minute walk to La Sagrada Familia. There, we squeezed through the narrow, non-descript doorway, lugged our baggage up two skinny flights of stairs and entered our piso/apartment – relatively small space compared to their home, but entirely adequate. To stay awake, we headed to our first adventure – grocery shopping.
As we got closer to the Mercadona, Spain’s largest grocery chain, people were pulling two-wheeled carts behind them, entered the store, locked them to a wall block and took up the shopping baskets, both push and pull available. The “parental units” took their lists and I took the kids. There was the squeezing-oranges-into-fresh-juice machine, the bread slicer, the googly-eyed fish, and the Magdalena muffins for breakfast. At check-out, we bought the large grocery bag, bypassing the for-purchase plastics.
With food and shelter covered, we took a short jet-lag nap and then immersed ourselves into the neighborhood. Greg, and a myriad of other non-natives with all-inclusive phones, spent their days leading their people across busy streets, through Gaudi’s Parque Guëll, along Las Ramblas, down into the Metro, up into the buses, over to the Barceloneta beach and into previously unfamiliar eateries, as if they’d lived there all of their lives. But the best way to visit any place is with a local friend. Ours was Alberto Lopez, a former, 1999, Amity Aide at Brainerd High School.
We arrived on St. John the Baptist day, a festival celebrated with beach parties, fireworks and special pastry of the day. Alberto entered our piso with a long, wrapped package. My eyes lit up as I uncovered the Coca de Sant Joan – the Catalan name for the special pastry of the day – and profusely gushed all over Alberto, exclaiming to the family what a special gesture this was, particularly in view of his distaste for religion.
The grocery-shopping brought a mixture of new foods to the usual fare at home. We found croquetas, Magdalena muffins, gazpacho and Sangria in cartons, along with yogurt, cheeses, deli-meats and breads. James required hamburgers, which he ranked from 1 – 10, averaging about a “3” with ketchup. Alberto kindly guided me to my favorite Lemonade granizados and “real” Spanish cuisine.
Scheduling meals between two cultural tummy dinner bells can be tricky. We aimed at getting on local eat and sleep schedules as soon as possible. We invited Alberto to lead us to several of his favored dining haunts, where we’d look over the Menu del Dia – a first course, main entree, wine, bread and dessert. Alberto assured me that the servings at La Rita were average, not too big like in the States. He assured me I’d be able to eat it all. I was not convinced, so ordered calamares. I don’t get squid at home. After his plate of Canelons pasta arrived, even his eyes went wide. Don’t know how he had room for the tiramisu. Good thing we were walking an average of five miles a day!
I’m not including descriptions of the tourist visits on purpose. Banksy Museum was a hit, but not to be compared with Picasso, Miró or Gaudi. Not apples to apples. The topless beaches left a lasting impression. Of all the cuisine, myriad flavors of gelato served on a variety of cones became a destination. Ella doesn’t know what she said that got her two scoops on a real waffle, but declared it “by far the best” treat all trip. As the temperatures rose, James and Cindy bought colorful Spanish fans and became experts in flipping them open, fluttering them into a refreshing air flow.
We learned to ride Metros, use bus apps, decipher menus and get back to our piso before we got too hot or grumpy. We took siestas. We communicated with a varied level of language and gesturing. We took photos of tiles, gargoyles, graffiti and pichones (pigeons) in the park.
I learned to follow, not lead. I learned to show excitement, not expect excitement. I learned to let them use their Spanish and use mine, only if needed. I learned to flow, not row. Yes, the times they are a-changing.
Notice in this blog’s feature (large) image the typical icons of the Spanish culture: Catalan flag, flower pot, regional persiana window covering for heat, wrought iron balcony, and pooch!
Are you experiencing inter-generational changes in your family?