Extra points if you get the reference.

Two years ago I was lucky enough to come to Barcelona for ten days and I struggled to describe the city. The best I had come up with was that it was like Los Angeles but an LA where everything is accessible by walking, biking, or metro. An LA where the people are nicer. And an LA where life really does move at a slower pace.

So really nothing like Los Angeles at all. So much for that analogy.

I wanted a second chance to explain it. As I was planning my trip this year I had a few things change on me last minute. Suffice it to say that I was supposed to go elsewhere from Barcelona but when that fell through I decided the universe was giving me a sign and I needed to take it. So Barcelona for 48 hours it was.

It wasn’t a hard decision but it was prompted by one thing over almost anything else: there was a meal there, something I had had two years ago I simply had to have again. Food drives most of my decisions on vacation, as you’ll find.

I booked an AirBnB room in the Borne neighborhood, right next to the Gotic (if you’ve never been to Barcelona, pretty much the center of town). I could not have asked for a better flat or nicer hosts. Paula and her boyfriend went out of their way to make sure I was taken care of, even handing me a fresh, right out of the oven slice of pizza when I walked in the door. Gee, if you insist.

Add to that the fact that the apartment was gorgeous and you understand why it’s the only place I ever want to stay in Barcelona again. Marble bathroom, floor to ceiling sliding windows in the living room and a view of the Santa Katerina market.

Why do people stay in hotels?

I kept to my regular jet lag schedule of taking a quick two hour nap (it was 3pm so it still counted as a siesta) and then headed out.

Barcelona truly is a gorgeous city and the weather was beautiful. High 50’s, sunny skies, music wafting through the Gotic quarters narrow alleys. I wandered over to La Rambla to find the street crowded as always by tourists and street vendors. I walked down the street towards the harbor and was able to catch the end of the sunset. Being in Europe again felt good.

I headed back to the apartment to shower and change. I was starving but I knew better than to try and get food – everything shuts down in Spain from about 4pm – 7pm and dinner isn’t typically until 9pm.

There was a restaurant I had been to once before that had an amazing paella in Barcolenta, another neighborhood of the city. I looked up what I thought was the name of it and headed out. Unfortunately, the place I had looked up was a different place entirely. Fortunately for me, I had ended up at one of the city’s best tapas bars.

A real tapas bar is like nothing I’ve ever experienced in the US. You stand at the bar and every so often let the (server? bartender? chef? whoever they are) know what you’d like. They yell your order down the bar and two mins later it’s in front of you. Almost everyone is drinking beer, and while Spanish beer is not exactly my favorite thing in the world, when in Rome.

I have to say my Spanish was on point this trip because this time I studied. Why did I study you ask? Because last time I was in Barcelona it was just embarrassing. On my first night of that trip I walked into a ceveceria and asked the bar tender for “uno, uh….beer-o”.

That was not going to happen again,

So before coming over this time I forced myself to study all the important nouns and phrases I’d need to get around. And it worked! The entire 48 hours I was in Barcelona I never once asked if anyone spoke English, and was able to point and force my way through any interactions. Im sure I sounded like the worlds stupidest three year old Spaniard but hey I’ll take it.

Now, back to the tapas bar: my whatever-we-call-him guy knew my Spanish was awful but smiled and knew I was trying. He suggested a few things to me and I agreed to something with anchovies in it. I love fresh anchovies.

It arrived.

I can’t eat raw tomatoes – it’s a very stupid food problem I have and it gives me the worlds worst hangover for two days. I absolutely hate it.

This was an open faced tomato sandwich with fresh anchovies and pickles on it.

Travel tip #1: As Anthony Bourdain says “I don’t care if they serve you boiled puppy heads, when someone is offering you a food in their culture you eat it”.

I ate the whole thing. The hangover was a problem for future Brian.

Beyond that I had some amazing croquettes, fresh spanish olives and something way outside my comfort zone which was actually amazing, petrified tuna. It was firm but then melted in your mouth and the flavor was of a very intense, salty tuna. It was honestly great.

There was one other thing that I needed to have, however. I was in Spain and I needed some real Serrano Ham.

If you’ve never had the real stuff, in Spain, I’m not going to try and describe it’s incredible texture, it’s silky smooth flavors or it’s incredible fat content that melts in your mouth. This is one of those foods you just have to experience.

I polished off another beer then headed back to the apartment. I hadn’t slept other than my nap in 24+ hours and was running on fumes. Besides, I had big plans for the next day. I had The Meal to eat.

Which of course meant I popped into an irish pub for a night cap. I became fast friends with the british couple seated beside me at the bar and the conversation quickly moved from cities around the world we’d visited to American politics, British politics, and nationalized healthcare before finally settling on the 2nd Amendment. The conversation was jovial throughout and they even bought me a few rounds wishing me luck on my new pursuits.

Finally getting home, I accomplished the final goal I’d had since leaving San Francisco the day before. I fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Meanwhile, the next morning

Everything hurts.

The tomatoes had fully entered my system and were fighting back with a vengeance. The stomach pains mixed with the extreme dehydration only a transcontinental flight can offer had made the hours from 9am-11am (not even this was enough to keep my body from passing out and sleeping after a full day without sleep) unbearable. I was finally able to pull myself out of bed and take a shower. Nothing was keeping me from this meal.

I headed back to La Rambla and went right into the Bocqueria market. I could spend hours writing about this place – the food is incredibly fresh, the stalls are packed with people and the atmosphere is amazing. I was on a mission, however, and hung a left as soon as I walked in, heading straight for the far wall.

It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for: on the back wall of the market sat a small tapas restaurant with blue walls and tables to match.

I had discovered this place by accident two years ago. Stuffed by eating at one of the other amazing tapas bars, I had wandered around the market and had discovered this place. The smell was enough to make me try one more thing: the fresh calamari, not fried but cut into ribbons.

It was phenomenal. I couldn’t eat anymore but I wanted it. I made a pledge to come back.

When I arrived one of the servers showed me to my seat. I asked for a water and a menu. She started telling me what was good but I interrupted her.

“I was here two years ago, there was a big platter…”

“Oh, no, that is impossible. We have a new chef, new owners. We cannot”

New owners? New chef?!?

I looked around. I was the only one there, the only one sitting at the restaurant during the lunch hour on a Saturday.

Fear gripped my heart.

I decided to take a chance and ordered just the calamari. It wasn’t at all how I remembered it.

It was even better.

Not two minutes after the place was swarmed – every seat and wall space was taken and people were waiting in groups of 20 to try and sit down. I didn’t hurry, I had waited two years for this. Fresh clams out of the water that morning followed the calamari. Then an order of razor clams.

After speaking with the servers and ordering my third water, the two older women knew something was up. Spanish women are the best – they mothered me from that moment on and kept bringing more and more free food out of the kitchen, placing each one down with a “I wonder what happened last night” or a “such a fine boy, such a dumb boy”. I loved them.

They brought me sautéed green onions in butter and garlic which settled my stomach and rose water which helped with my dehydration. There were actual rose petals in the water but I had no idea if you were supposed to eat them or not. See previous comment re: Bourdain. I ate them too.

I thanked both women immensely as I left and gave them kisses on the cheek. The meal was everything I had ever wanted it to be and so much more.

Being that I’m on vacation, however, my mind immediately went to my next meal. I knew I should try and get some paella, the other traditional food I had so far neglected in my short trip, but all I wanted was more seafood. That was when I remembered – I had access to a kitchen.

I ran through the market and grabbed anything and everything that looked good. I bought and haggled like a local: one stall vendor wouldn’t let me have less than a bundle of razor clams. After hearing the same “no it is impossible I cannot” for the third time, I pointedly stared at my watch (closing time was coming up), purposefully looked over my shoulder at the completely empty stall, pulled out a 10 euro note and said “eight please, yes?”. Wanna guess who won?

Leaving the market, I had created a mini feast for myself. Fresh bread, olive oil (pressed in front of me), garlic, asparagus, fresh caught salmon, a bottle of Rioja wine… and the razor clams. Eight of them to be exact.

Back at the apartment, I felt a siesta coming on but my hosts grabbed me before I could run into my room. Would I like to come to their bar (“you own a bar?” “of course!” “of course you do”) and listen to live flamenco music that evening? Why yes, yes I would.

They left and I started cooking my dinner. Paula had insisted that I make the apartment feel like it was my home and I was able to do just that. A band had started up in the square below and I opened the windows to let the music come through. With the music playing, my little feast spread before me and a bottle of good Spanish wine open, it was a fairly perfect moment.

Barcelona isn’t a place to go and “work”It’s a place to slow down, to relax and enjoy life as it comes at you. It’s a city to escape for a bit and lounge in the sun. It’s a city I’d never want to live in; but I’m not sure that’s the point of it. It’s a place to just take a moment, take a deep breath in, and relax.

I walked the two mins to the bar. It was packed full of locals and the flamenco music hit you as soon as you walked inside. I grabbed a beer and a stool and leaned back against the wall. The music coursed through your veins forcing your feet to tap the floor below them.

Full from fresh seafood, surrounded by a room full of laughter, friends speaking fast in Catalan with chords from the guitar breaking through, this was what this city was really about.

This was Barcelona.