Arrival in Barcelona: We would like to check in, please.

Ian and high-ceilinged architecture met for a photo-shoot at the Madrid Barajas Airport. For his interest in the thrilling world of airport terminal design I blame the influence of Sorina, who no doubt acquainted him with the name Richard Rogers, (I’m not embarrassed that I know this) winner of the prestigious Stirling Prize from the Royal Institute of British Architects for his work on this commuter building.

MAD to BCN 9A-1010A Business Class Iberia

Thomas the German taxi driver picked us up at the Barcelona airport and dropped us off at hotel Le Meridien, positioned on Barcelona’s happenin’ La Rambla street. He left us three pieces of advice: 1) Waste not our time buying popular merchandise in the likes of Mexican sombreros on La Rambla (“very Spanish” he teased) nor partaking of more than one outing there; Barcelona offers more than street mimes and backpackers. 2) The good food is at Mercat de Sant Josep but keep an eye on our wallets. 3) Beware motorcyclists when crossing the street; beware them when standing on the sidewalk.

Checkout time: 2pm. Our arrival time: pre-11am. With no availability at that time, Le Meridien informed us that we ought to inquire later about getting into our room. Locating the restrooms, we brushed teeth and changed clothing. Sleepless since Thursday morning, Ian and I ambled south along La Rambla, passing several sketch artists, a live-chicken and -turkey vendor, too many florists to conceivably earn livings in such a confined area of business competition, and shamefully unskilled street performers. Notably wretched among this last group were the statue mimes with monochromatic makeup and mismatching props… and one guy in a baby carriage with dummy’s legs jutting upside-down from behind him (I didn’t really understand that one). On the cabby’s advice, we walked La Boqueria (that is, Saint Joseph Market), taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of mounds of fresh fruit, dangling meats, octopi with suckers showing, layers of chocolate-covered everything, and standing-only sushi bars.

Tired and foot-draggin’, we ventured to the southern end of La Rambla, along the Barcelona Port. There in the Plaça Porta de la Pau, a monument to Christopher Columbus rose more than 200 feet above us. This Mirador de Colón sported eight lions of iron—some stretching forwards and some standing proudly—stationed around a circular base of stairs which surround brass bas-reliefs of eight tableaux of Columbus’ achievements. Above that stood a column with more images sculpted into each of its eight sides. Topping that was a 50m column with portrayals of the four continents (as were known in those days): Europe, Asia, Africa, and American. At the capstone, a crown and hemisphere laid the foundation for a 7.5m bronze statue flaunting Columbus with two eyes on and one hand pointed toward el mundo nuevo, perhaps predicting a Babe Ruth-ian homerun. An inscription at the base described the structure’s 1887 construction for the following year’s World’s Fair.

Moving compass south from the direction in which the statue-ed Columbus directed his attention, Ian and I encountered the Harborfront snuggled against a packed-house boat dock and a pedestrian drawbridge separating anchored ships from the peaceful beaches of Barcelonetta. The bridge led us to a foreigner-focused dining and entertainment complex overlooking the port waters, the Maremagnum (http://www.maremagnum.es/), complete with seemingly trademark-violating red Target® symbols and restaurants, shopping mall, cine, Imax, and creatively designed walkways interspersed with four-foot tall lumps of sidewalk and ship-related structures protruding into the air in double- or triple-file lines.

Much too tired to tarry on, we turned back to 111 Ramblas for a second hotel check-in attempt. It ended with an apology and a suggestion to call again please in maybe an hour.

Heading west on Pintor Fortuny (at whose intersection with La Rambla the hotel was located) in search of vegetarian cuisine, we ended up ordering tapas at a cigarette-smokers haven of a restaurant. We sat in the open doorway, and all was made right.

When 3pm rolled around, we rolled ourselves back into the hotel’s lobby. The reception supervisor offered us a key to a room not necessarily ours along with the choice between that one now and the one reserved for us at such time as it turned unoccupied and cleaned. Though the alternative room was cutely decorated with a red print comforter and matching framed wall image, it had preclusive problem: the room had only one of those attractive comforters. More to the point, there was only one bed. Perhaps I should have us listed as Mr. and Miss Ippolito to avoid such mishaps as may have been caused by Ms. We returned to the lobby, declined the substitute room, and sojourned on the couches. Five minutes later, Ian shook me on the shoulder to say that our room was ready and he’d already been up to it and back down.

Ode to Room 433
A shower like a rainforest’s industry
Bathrobes of heavy, warming, white-cottony cloth
Towels longer than I and thick enough to absorb Mediterranean Sea
Philips(R) flat screen, wide screen in my bedroom, in my bathroom; why in here?
Sink into mattress, snuggle under clean down comforter, bury head in parcels of fluff
Cutie fuzzy slippers and yum chocolate pillow treats

Ian solved a RAC issue (some loser user whose transactions transgressed) at a hotel internet connection fee of 18€-the day. Sleep won out over me around 6pm and Ian around 8pm.