The streets are narrow forcing cars to squeeze between one another, my breath stops and my eyes scrunch closed as each car navigates past another. The concentration needed is like that used to thread a needle, millimeters is all that separates them. The buildings, whose facades show the ravages of time and the dampness of the climate, are bathed in the last remnants of golden sunlight. The delicate sea breeze carries a hint of salt that can be smelt and tasted. The surroundings begin to cool, and the tingle of erect hair can be felt on your neck, yet in the Tres Villas Restaurant the temperature is heating up. Arms are waving, voices rising and the atmosphere was intense as Barcelona FC drew closer to victory. The great rivalry between Real Madrid and Barcelona hangs in the balance as Santiago Ezquerro Marín effortlessly weaves in and out of the Real Madrid opponents as if they were witches hats. Will goalie Iker Casillas be quick enough? Despite the tension and anticipation that everyone can feel in the room it is not the loyal supporters who were stirring (needless to say their eyes were glued to the TV), no, it was not Spanish or Catalan that the crowded restaurant could hear. It was me in my attempt to make my English more understandable to the non-English speaking waiter.
Barcelona, the largest capital city on the Mediterranean was my third stop, with previous adventures in Canada and New York, with Paris as my next and final destination. Barcelona meant no more friendly Canadians who would talk as if they hadn’t had a conversation is years. It meant no more pushy New Yorkers who were always rushing, yet if they told you to get out of the way you would have no problem understanding them. I was heading way out of my comfort zone. With the Rocky Mountains of Banff National Park and Time Square behind me and the city of love ahead of me, you can imagine how surprised I was to capture all that one desires from a new destination in a small, unkempt tavern that was saturated by the presence of men who weren’t so small, yet upheld the unkempt nature of the place.  It was my hidden delight; I just didn’t know it yet.

“Uno….er a Coca Cola,” I pleaded with my hand rattling the glass in desperation.
“And umm….uno Pe…Pa..Pealla,” I stammered.
“Paella?” the waiter questioned as he attempted to hold back a grin.
“Si, Si, gracias,” I muttered in a wacky version of a Spanish ascent.
“De nada, senorita,” he replied. (Your welcome)
This poetic phrase could have been the waiter telling me that I had a huge nose or that he planned to serve me rat tails instead of prawns for all I knew but all I could muster was a smile and a nod.

It had been a long day of exploring the work of the great artistic figures that Barcelona has given birth to, with a final visit to Antoni Gaudi’s famous Temple de la Sagrada Familia. Its skeletal appearance in the form of a Latin cross with five naves, three facades, an apse and a transept was eye opening. This temple which is famous for its slender towers, which soar nearly one hundred metres over the building and are crowned by ceramic pinnacles, was not enough to distract me from the continual noise erupting from my belly. Traveling on a budget was not agreeing with my stomach, neither was attempting to place an order without ending up with callos a la madrileña - or in English – Tripe.
Despite the initial struggle with ordering – I know the waiter understood what I meant by Coca Cola, but my pronunciation of Paella and patatas fritas seemed to be a source of amusement to my neighbouring table. Nevertheless what was ahead was something that my tastebuds would never forget.
While waiting for my meal with my fingers crossed, I took the chance to absorb my surroundings. I was seated towards the back and was the only person waiting for a formal meal as all the men had there eyes transfixed on the T.V. screen. The room was clouded with Spanish chatter and occasional cheers. Luckily for me the Barcelonan team was winning so everyone was in good spirits as they threw back their wine and tore at their bread. The bare brick walls were adorned by the ugliest tapestries and the crockery was as plain as a blank canvas, yet it was on these plates that something truly artistic appeared. Paella. I tossed the contents of the fry pan that was placed in front of me on to this blank canvas, had a mouthful and felt my insides tickle with joy. It was a combination of colours and smells, with a new flavour in every bite. It was the elaborate tastes of chicken, prawns, mussels and fish with a hint of red pepper and saffron in rice, with a side order of hand crafted chips that finally saw my stomach forgive me for what it had previously endured.
That night I could have tried to experience Barcelona by visiting the Palau de la Musica Catalana or I could have strolled along the Port or the Rambla, all popular tourist destinations. Instead I got to live like a Barcelonan, I did what they would do, I ate what they would eat and even though I couldn’t understand them, I listened to what they listen to. All it took for me to find what I was looking for was middle aged men, a football match, a laughable attempt to speak Spanish and a satisfied stomach.