Welcome to Malaga: A Rude Arrival

My long flight began with wine and dinner.  Although, I couldn’t sleep on the 10-hour flight to London, I ,am aged to bump into only two walls in the corridors as I prepared for my 4-1/2 hour layover while I waited for my plane to Malaga.  I was told boarding would begin at 13:00, but the gate wouldn’t be announced until 12:50.  Hmmm...ten minutes to get to the gate.  I did it.  Once on the plane, I slept all the way until I landed at 19:00 (I’m working on the new time format).  Those who know me can see me counting on my fingers after the 12:00.  And then the trouble began.

I waited along with about ten others when my bag didn’t arrive on the conveyor belt.  I knew Vicky, my Spanish friend waited and I was getting nervous.  Finally, another passenger pointed to a glassed in area and told me something in Spanish and noodled to me frantically.  Thank goodness for sign language.  My pinkish bag was stuffed between golf clubs and strollers in another room and I was happy to be reunited.  Now, to find the shuttle to Malaga Car 🚘 and find Vicky.

The taxi driver told me to follow the building “about 200 steps” he promised.  I walked into forever before I thought about the fact the Spaniard was about 6’ tall.  His 200 steps translated into my short-person steps about 400?  Lots of car rental shuttles!  It was dark by then and I asked several people along the way.   I heard a lot of people respond, “No sé, lady,”. I don’t know.  When I saw a man with a Malaga Car t-shirt at the end of the mile-long sidewalk, I had to restrain myself from throwing my arms around him.  No telling what his reaction would be, so instead I grabbed his shirt as he turned toward the shuttle and I launched myself onto the seat.  So far, so good.  

I’d used the airport WiFi to tell Vicky I’d arrived and on my way to rental car.  Not until I’d arrived at Malaga Car did I see her response, “what rental car place?”  And I no longer had wife to answer!  Ten minutes later, I had a cute little red car 🚗, it was dark, I had no WiFi (rental place did not have it.). What to do?! By then, I was righted tears.  I found a parking spot nearby and sent panic texts to my friend Steven who was stuck in Barcelona because he missed his Malaga flight and to Miguel who knows Vicky.  And Vicky was not getting my texts.

Breathe in with the good and out with the bad.  Slow and easy.  I tried it all.  And then I thought I should find a hotel.  Wait it out. They’d have WiFi.  Poor Vicky was around somewhere.  What a welcome to Spain.  I’d never felt so out of control in Spain before. So, I went back into Malaga Car and used their phone to call Vicky.  No answer.  I whined that I’d had WiFi at the airport and needed to find my friend.

The woman looked at me like I was frazzled (I was) and a little dense (which I felt like).  She said, “get on our shuttle back to the airport to find WiFi and find her and then ride it back again.”  Now, why didn’t I think of that? #@*#’&’*/_=%;-;= That is what I did.  Once I got off the shuttle, my phone started binging like mad.  Now Steven and Miguel are both panicked because I was in trouble.  And Vicky said she is waiting at Malaga Car!  So, back on shuttle, she is waving like mad and hugs and kisses on each cheek, and I’m calm again.  It was then 11:15 pm.

She led me to freeway so I could follow her to Torre Del Mar and my apartment.  It wasn’t until we left the lights of Malaga that I realized the car lights were not on.  Dear Lord, would this nightmare end?  I pressed all the buttons I could see.  Nothing.  No place to pull over and dark...and then I went through a lighted tunnel, saw the button and violá.  Back in business.  

The apartment is sweet in a lovely plaza area with a cafe beneath me.  In bed by 1:00 am, not sure how to figure out how many hours I had been up by then.  So, I didn’t care.  Sleep was sweet after a wonderful shower.  When I woke up at 10:00 this morning, I had a text from Steven that he’d arrived and was waiting at the curb at the airport.

I woke up fast, threw on my clothes and raced to the airport where I found him easily where I told him to wait for me.  A cafe, where he bought me cafe con leche. 

 His bag 💼 hadn’t arrived yet, but everything was good.  I’d found me way in el Carro II and found the parking garage by accident...well my guardian angel slept through last night but she was alive and well today.  💃🏻🎶🚗
NOW, I AM READY TO ROLL. 

DOCUMENTAL: PASAJE A HAWAI, 1907-1913 | TRÁILER

Trailer for https://www.facebook.com/CedecomAudiovisual/videos/2044843259179786/

I posted this trailer for the upcoming Spanish documentary because it is exciting to be part of this wonderful venture.  Why was I filmed in this documentary?  Because of my relationship to my great-aunt Dolores RUIZ Garcia who married Antone RUIS Martos.  Her brother was my great grandfather, Francisco RUIZ Garcia and I am a shirttail descendant.  They sailed from the port in Malaga, Spain to Hawaii on the Heliopolis in 1907.  It was the first immigrant ship sailing to the Hawaiian Islands and the sugar plantations.  

My friend Miguel ALBA Trujillo wrote a book titled the HELIOPOLIS and he introduced me to his friend, the producer of the documentary, Eterio ORTEGA Santillana.  They had heard about the book I wrote about my grandmother, Manuela (first in English as The Girl Immigrant and then translated into Spanish as Historia de una niña emigrante.)  And there you are.  

I'm just one of the descendants from this ship's sailing whose ancestors re-immigrated to California after leaving the Hawaiian sugar plantations in the early 1900s who was filmed in this documentary.  Last year I was filmed in a few segments in Spain and then in November, the film crew went to California and I was lucky enough to be filmed with my Aunt Millie Ruiz Cortopassi about our ancestors and I read a few excerpts from the book about our family.

TODAY, I fly to Spain and by the time you read this post, I should be in Malaga where I will reunite with Ruiz cousins and the many wonderful people I have met and now count as my friends.  And I won't be alone this year as Steven Alonzo, another descendant who was filmed also, will be there with the crew.  More later and I promise photos, especially after the documentary premiere that will be held Monday, September 24.  Stay tuned please. 

Play Money and Packing Smart

Anticipation mixed in with the little pieces of worry make the end result bloom.  

I tell myself that these euro notes are real, not play money from a Monopoly game and I know our dollar is worth more than the euro.  As long as I can buy café con leche (coffee with milk), tinto verano (red wine mixed with lemon-flavored bubbly), pan con tomate (bread with thinly spread tomato drizzled with olive oil) I will be happy.

Several of my friends want me to have a perfect trip;  I plan to take Roberto's inflatable neck pillow since my trip will take twenty-three hours both ways, a rose-pink mini fan that attaches to my iPhone from Darla and a portable foot rest for the plane from Lana.  I'll be cool and "sleep" comfortably.  I've packed my bag several times.  By Tuesday, I will probably change everything again.

Last year, I took two huge bags to Spain.... Not this year, oh no.  I learned from Karen McCann, a friend in Seville, that you can travel with very little.  Her travel blog is filled with useful and interesting tidbits.  Dive bars, fascinating food and out of the way places.  You can read about her many adventures here:  https://www.enjoylivingabroad.com 

Once, Karen's husband suggested taking only a toothbrush on a trip.  She laughed.  (Me too).  But, she managed a very nice trip with a many-pocketed vest that held everything she needed.  One 21" roller bag and a fufu bag for me,  me prometí a mí mismo. (I promised myself)  This time, I will listen although if I was as resourceful and gutsy as Karen, I´d leave that behind too, but...

SPAIN: Here I come again...

ANOTHER SPANISH ADVENTURE

FIVE MORE DAYS!

AND I INVITE YOU ALONG FOR THE RIDE...

An electric anticipation fills the air around me.  Within days, I will arrive in the country of my paternal ancestors once again.  My Spanish is sketchy, rugged actually.  I wish I'd practiced speaking the language since I was there in the spring of 2017, but do we ever do what our minds scream at us??  Not me.  However, I am brushing up and wish I could carry Janet Russell my Spanish tutor in my back pocket.  Alas, I have the Spanish translation APP and will use it. 

THIS TIME, I won't go alone.  Steven A., my friend and compadre in genealogy, will be with me.  And he speaks Spanish! Several Spanish descendants were filmed with us, and I wish we could all attend the premiere together on September 24, but it is not to be.  Click to see Documentary Trailer

Passport - check.  International Driver's Permit - check.  Euros hidden inside Roberto's travelpack - check.  An apartment waiting thanks to Vicky - check.  Car rented - check.  Maps, translation cards, tickets for the Mosque of Cordoba tour, Ruiz family tree information and a flexible itinerary is scattered inside my head.  Family and friends await and the butterflies in my belly are dancing a jig.

Upsidedown: From Spain to America Again

It is 4:12 a.m. Sunday morning in America and I am up for the day.  Why?  Jet lag, I'm told.

Yesterday at 4:53 p.m., my friend said,  "it takes a few days to get back into the swing of things and the time change from Spain to America."

I brazenly responded,  "I don't feel any jet lag."   I'm sure he laughed, knowing how wrong I would be.

Three hours later, I was back in bed feeling like it was still the middle of the night, which it was... in Spain.

On Friday morning, I enjoyed handing over both of my heavy bags to British Airlines at the Barcelona airport. What?  No charge for either of them?  Amazing, since it cost $100 to take my second back from Phoenix three months earlier on American Airlines to Spain.  Removing the burden of pulling both of those bags along behind me and walking away with only my electronics backpack (although I felt like a pack animal) and my small carryon bag, I felt light headed with relief.  Neither of which had wheels (never again).  I was very early but I didn't mind because I could people -watch again and jot down notes in my trusty journal.

I began filling the pages with disjointed memories and recollections of my stunning adventure in Spain as I waited inside the airport while others milled around me:

* The COLORS of the Spanish flag were everywhere; yellowish ochre and red on the buildings, cafe fronts, clothing, village walls, the home screen of my mobile phone and splashed across my brain.  The colors are also part of my home decor, a piece of Spain here and there.

* And then there were the ancient buildings, narrow alleyways, cobblestone streets, expansive squares, the ringing of the bells in the churches on so many corners in all the villages and cities.

* The café con leche the color of almonds with the froth on top, edged around toward the corners of the cup.

* The sound of the Metro train barreling toward me as I waited to board and then riding the rails to see another wonder.  Everyone ascends from the train and follows the changeover signs in a swarm like ants chasing after a sugar cube and I'll not forget feeling part of the rush.

* Walking through history; La Alhambra in Granada, La Mezquita in Córdoba,  the Sacromonte in Granada where the gypsies tapped their flamenco in ancient cave rooms, caves carved beneath Gibraltar during World War Two and seeing the pier where my ancestors boarded a ship to sail to Hawaii and the sugar plantations, Ronda where whispers of the Spanish Civil War still studs the great stone walls as they rise up from the river far below the city.  The Seville Cathedral lit up at night and the Torre del Oro (Tower of gold) where my ancestors boarded a small ship to sail down the river toward the Mediterranean before walking twelve days toward the Rock of Gibraltar to board the Orteric in 1911.   Madrid.  Barcelona, churches and Gaudí.  Listening to age-old flamenco guitar music on street corners, in Estepona at a private concert, in Algodonales, the village beyond Ronda. Benagalbón where my Ruiz family lived in a place where the battles of World War Two is still marked nearby in the tunnels.  My mind is awhirl with the historical significance of the country and my notes go on and on.

Photo above: Santa Maria del Mar, taken by Javier Albertos in Madrid.

* The FÉRIA in Sevilla with the frills and Sevillana music and dancing around me where I didn't want to blink and miss anything.  And where I wore a borrowed dress that made me feel like a princess, wishing the custom-made flamenco shoes had arrived from Loli's Shop in Estepona...

* The different FOODS: The grilled fish on a stick newly pulled out of a smoking, ash-filled boat on the sand at a chiringuito (restaurants on sandy Mediterranean beaches).  Thick, creamy chocolate. Hot, deep-fried churros I dipped into the cup of chocolate..holding it in the depths just long enough to soften and swing it to my mouth without dropping a piece into the brew.  Bacalao eaten fried, baked or cold inside a Malagueñan Salad with a touch of orange.  Ensalada Mixta (mixed salad greens with an assortment of vegetables and corn too) eaten inside a cave-like restaurant in Mijas, a village where burros frequent their streets and flamenco dancers entertain in the square on Wednesdays at noon. Pig cheeks!  Cerrigallido?  I can't remember the Spanish name and my translator won't pull it up for me. Salmorejo, the cold tomato based soup that is thick and creamy not quite like gazpacho which is filled with chunks of vegetables.  Tinto verano wine with lemon served chilled and goes down like soda pop.

Ribera del Duero, my new favorite wine from the northern part of Spain with its rich, deep red color and textures.  Large prawns (langostinos) with the crawly tendrils and black, beady eyes. The smaller prawns (gambas) brought to the table still bubbling in garlic oil, almost too hot to eat.  Paella.   Iberico ham spread, similar to paté (I brought a can home) and tomato spread (my cousin, Mercedes, showed me how to make this lovely spread at home.)

* Flamenco Shoes.  I ordered them March 14 with an arrival date of April 14.  Clearly disappointed with no response from the shop, I drove to Estepona mid-to-late April but Loli told me they had not arrived.  Over the weeks that followed, I sent notes to her without a response.  I gave up.  While in Madrid, my cousin Mercedes Trascasas was determined I would have my flamenco shoes and I found some black shoes, delighted and hugging the bag to my chest afterward.  While waiting for my plane to America as I sat in Heathrow Airport in London, I received a text and photo.  My shoes had arrived.  Oh, yoy yoy, as Mercedes would say.  Too late.

* New friends, cousins, stories and speaking Spanish.

I could fill the page but I won't.  Suffice it to say, the Mediterranean diet is astounding.  I was pleasantly surprised that I had not gained ten pounds as I'd imagined.  I hadn't gained any extra pounds at all.  But then again, I'd walked 553,975 steps; 228 miles.  My Vionic shoes are still in great shape and they are the best walking shoes I have ever had before.

And when my friend, R,  picked me up from the Phoenix airport, I found a bag at my feet: A bottle of Sangria and garlic-stuffed olives!  And when I arrived home, Rina had filled my fridge with surprises; more olives, a bottle of red wine, the liquid Dannon yogurt I'd mentioned in my blog while in Madrid, Manchego cheese, milk, cream and small loaves of bread on the counter with plantain chips like we'd eaten in Spain.  I felt blessed with the thoughtful welcome gifts to help transition me back into American culture.

I fell into bed the minute I arrived home, slept for fourteen hours, unpacked, caught up laundry and then pulled out my special welcome-home foods.  Being home again is priceless, but missing all those I left behind is more memorable than I can say.

I had plenty of time to think about my life, plenty of room and silence.  Lying in the lounge chair on my private terrace in Calahonda with Spain's coastal sun whispering over my naked skin, I felt absolutely depraved and alive.   My new mantra that fills my mind after this glorious time in a country that moves slower, enjoys long meals (without the rush of life taking over) and the importance of family life is profound.  At my age, I don't have the luxury of time ahead of me, so I will maintain the Spanish culture in living my life as if it is disappearing tomorrow.  I will lazily drink my own café con leche, flush away the rush in my life and enjoy the rest of it.  A sabbatical is meant to open up our heads and for me, it did exactly that.

A Gaudí Day winding down in Barcelona

I tried to see it all.  It is, after all, the city where Gaudí left his mark everywhere.  And today, I have ridden the Metro several times.  Thank goodness I bought a ticket for three days because I've practically lived on the train.  I've mastered the Metro, learned that L4 yellow line returns me back to my hotel.  I also learned that not all trains connect to others.  Once I kept looking for the green line and kept landing up on the street... 

The only little, tiny moment(s) of panic happened yesterday.  When you leave a train, there are usually two exits, each marked with the name of the street at the top of the steps.  When I got off the train at my Bogatell Metro stop, I couldn't remember the street name, so I turned the wrong way.  When I stepped onto the sidewalk at the top of the steps, there was a bridge that didn't belong there, a street that had a tapas cafe I'd never seen before and I froze a little.  Since I'd been told not to look at a map while walking down the street because it screams tourist, I've tried to be casual about it.  This time, I was in full-blown panic mode because nothing looked familiar.  I found a doorway, yanked it out, furtively looked around to make sure nobody was lurking ready to grab my purse and looked at the streets.  It didn't help one bit.  So, I started walking.  It couldn't be far, I knew that and told my stomach to settle down.  It didn't listen.  After three wrong streets, I found one I recognized so I was sure I'd found my hotel.  Only it wasn't on the corner where it belonged.  I'd turned the wrong way.  When I twisted around and headed the other way, I saw it and nearly ran the length of the block.  How silly, right?  I know the name of the street now and never will make that mistake again.

PEOPLE WATCHING:  I saw two scenes to relate; one yesterday and one today.

Yesterday, I saw a man walk toward the mouth of Las Ramblas as I sat with a cup of coffee while waiting for my friend Janet for our day at Monterserrat.  He had a fist full of burning incense gripped in his hand.  The smoke whirled around his head, which was a matted gob of twisted strands in dreadlocks shooting in all directions.  He was chanting as he walked by me and swinging his other arm around his head as if to ward off evil spirits before walking beneath the canopy of trees.  I shook my head and caught other patron's eyes in shared astonishment.

Today, as I sat inside a pizzeria before visiting La Familia Sagrada, I watched a little girl about four being pulled along by her mother as she struggled to guide the bent straw in her fruit juice into her mouth.  Bounce, bounce, bam!  She almost had her little lips around the end of it when it flipped downward and she lost it again as her mother pulled her forward, totally unaware of the party in her child's head.  It was hard to eat pizza and laugh at the same time, but I was starving and managed to eat most of it.

LA SAGRADA FAMILIA, CASA MILÁ and PARK GÜELL.  My tickets sat on my mobile phone (they don't say cell phone here in Spain and I'm converted I think) and I was ready for my day.  The only problem (I thought) was the times.  10:00 at Casa Milá meant I was in the Metro by 8:30 in case I got lost.  But, that was okay because I found a nice cafe and ordered myself a café con leche right in front so I could sit and gaze at the beautiful facade of this marvelous building.  (It is near Casa Botlló where I visited a few days ago).   

I mention this because inside Casa Milá, there is a replica of the before-building and the after-building in white of the Casa Botlló after Gaudí finished it.  Wow.  This is the colored version too.

While I was drinking my coffee, my eyes followed several people (I have too much curiosity for my own good sometimes).   By the way, I just noticed the little book I write in has the words, "There's no place like home" on the front.  I looked down at it and felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.  She was right...there's no place like home.  But I digress...

My neck hurt as I craned it upward to see the facade and curious artwork of the twisting, wrought iron balconies.  My first glimpse of the lobby area inside the building beautiful and very art nouveau, decor that I have always liked.  The colors, design, shapes and feeling of warmth grabbed at me.  This is a building that was built between 1907 and 1910, and Gaudí's last design for a private residence.  The roof terrace was astounding, but when I walked through the apartment built for the owners in that day and age, I was taken back in time...and again --- to art nouveau.  The floor, ceiling and walls were incredible.  I could move right in.  Each room was beautiful as well as utile.  To think that this residence and building was built about the same time as my ancestors were leaving Spain because they were too poor to feed their families just didn't seem to mesh with the history here.  

When I walked out of the beautiful building, I took part of it with me in my head.  And then I had 3 and a half hours before I could get into the Sagrada Familia, a catholic basilica that has always been magical to me when I've seen photos.  What to do in the interim?  I started walking toward the cathedral where Javier and Conchita had taken me in the Barrio Gótico on Tuesday night.  I found the square and all the old, old buildings.  And a market filled the square with tables overflowing with used items, books, jewelry and other stuff.  But what I wanted to do was find a bench to sit down and gaze up at the cathedral across the square.  So that's exactly what I did until I had to find another Metro and get to the basilica for my 2:30 pm tour.

The outside walls include statues and a door made out of metal that is covered in leaves.  Photos can't tell the story.  Once I walked in the large doors, I was transformed with the stained glass windows that were so different from any I'd seen before.  The sun was shining into each colored glass to take one's breath away.  The center of the top of the cross-shaped structure included a gigantic chandelier that wasn't a chandelier but the nave and... I wondered if others in the huge open church were as dumbfounded as I was.  Were their eyes glazing over?  Their hearts thumping in their chests like mine was?  I found a bench along the wall to watch others as I tried to see their feelings on their faces.  And I saw it on many of them... that look that says, unbelievable, awesome, beautiful, reverent and much more.  I don't think I'll ever be quite the same person as I was when I walked in that door.  Guess you have to see it to believe it.

The third ticket was reserved at 5:30 pm and it was 3:15 when I left the basilica.  Another two Metro rides and I rounded the corner as I followed directions which would lead me to the Park Güell.  I wanted to go there because there are so many sculptures that Gaudí left his imprint on.  The photos have lured me for years.  When I rounded the corner, I saw the ground rise above me like a mountain and I groaned aloud.  I'd walked so far already, but up I went.  After about six blocks upward, I was glad to see a series of escalators (seven of them) and then stair steps (a million of them).  At the top, my heart was beating hard and I was out of breath.  I saw down and joined a few others in my same predicament.  A boy was selling iced water in bottles for one euro.  I snapped it up immediately.

And then we all started following the cement walkways.  Up, around, up again until I realized I was going somewhere that wasn't the park at all.  I found signs that led me in another directions and I followed it for a long way and overlooked the tops of two obviously-Gaudí designed buildings.  When I saw the entrance gate, I sagged with relief and found a bench to sit on in the shade.  I was two hours early and they wouldn't let me in until my allotted time.  I waited one hour there in the shade and watched people go by, listened to the different languages and just breathed.  I couldn't remember when I was this tired and suddenly I felt myself falling.  I'd fallen asleep and nearly slipped off the bench.  What was I doing?  With a big sigh and a final decision, I got up and decided to walk out again, only there must be a better way.  I hated missing the park, but my body was screaming.  I wanted to walk down, not up to the pinnacle above where I'd entered, so I found another street and walked and walked and walked some more.  When I saw the Metro sign, I walked some more.  

The best part of my day, I must admit, was getting back to my hotel and putting my feet up to rest them on my bed.  I looked at the activity history on my phone.  I'd walked 8.6 miles.  No wonder I was swamped.   

My day is over, my bags are packed, my taxi is ordered for morning and I will be on my way back home early Friday morning.  And I am ready... except that I will miss all the wonderful people I'm leaving behind...

In the clouds at Montserrat above Barcelona

Today I stood on a mountain where lofty clouds hung their mist around me.  Montserrat is a monastery about an hour from Barcelona, a train ride away and then up in the gondola/cable car to the top.  

My friend, Janet H. (a WLMer) guided me there and we proceeded to have a day filled with wonder and created memories that will last a long time.  The yellow gondola made me only a little apprehensive as it climbed up, up and up some more to the top of the solid rock mountain.  When it started rocking into "port" at the top it reminded me of when we used to pull the ski boat into its berth in Charles City, Virginia.  No water, just miles of air below me.  I wanted off.

The other gondola passed us by as it descended to pick up the next passengers.  Janet explained that each car's cable pulled the other in some type of balance-and-go process.  The engineering seemed amazing to me.  I can't remember how it is done, I just know it got us up there smoothly and safe.

Despite low wispy clouds blocking miles of the promised view, our exploring began.  It is a unique treasure in Catalonia, a sanctuary as well as an important site for religious pilgrimages.  The mountain houses a huge basilica, a museum, many shops and twelve stations of the cross on the Santa Cova walk.  It first caught my attention when I saw a photo on the internet of a man standing on what appeared to be stone blocks.  Evidently it was real because now the "blocks" are surrounded by a fence... 

Janet and I rode a funicular (train) up the mountain for the views and stood in those clouds.  She told me that the sun would come out at 2:00.  Oh really?  Yes, she promised...the weatherman said it was so.  We joked about it most of the morning and into the early afternoon.  The clouds hung low, the breeze turned into a wind and goosebumps rose on our skin.  Just before 2:00 I was still teasing her as we began our climb to look at the beautifully sculpted statues for the stations... The clouds began to part as we hit station number two.  When the sun peeked out and the clouds separated above us, we looked at our clock.  1:58.  At 2:00 the sun shone brightly above us.  We stared at each other for a hot minute before we laughed and hugged one another in surprised delight.  A mystical magic had descended over us.  Really?  Yes, 2:00. There it was.  

We walked upward, downward, around and through beautiful tree-lined walkways where rocks were etched in cement.  Blackberry bushes, ivy and too many natural bits of green to count littered the walkway as we trudged along, resting several times on our way.  It was mesmerizing to see the mountains tower above us with peaks and channels in the stone on the Sant Joan walk.  The nature museum's folklore explained the history of the monastery which I found very interesting.  The view from there was pretty awesome too.

We were hungry and walked around toward the basilica where the square was filled with laughing and yelling children.  The church bell started gonging above us loudly with a deep, rich sound that nearly knocked us down with its intensity.  

When we found the restaurant (Abat Cisneros) in the Plaza del Monasterio beside the hostal, we knew we were going to treat ourselves.  Inside was shaped like a cave with its concave roof made of stones and murals on the walls.  One entire wall was the rock side of the mountain.  We chose the menu of the day.  The 27 euros would be worth the ambience; with the luxury of linen tablecloths, silver utensils and a view unlike anything I'd seen in awhile.  

Now, the menu.  I'll skip the starter, the tapas and go straight to the main dish because I still cannot believe it.  Since I arrived in Spain, I have eaten food never before tasted.  One of my favorites has been pig's cheeks.  So, when I saw pig on the menu with snails, I ordered it.  When it arrived, I saw Janet's eyebrows shoot up as my stomach took a lurching move south.  What had I done?  I forced myself to taste the pig's foot...and I even swallowed it (what else could I do?)  My stomach lurched again... and I ate the snails as I picked them out with the accompanying toothpick.  I will never (obviously) order this again...  I was so glad when they took away the plate.  Oh, and I washed it down with my red wine and water and more water after that.  Pig's cheeks are lovely.  This, although a delicacy Janet told me, will never sit in front of me again.  My stomach rolls as I think of it.

At the end of the day, we both agreed it has been a fabulous jaunt together.  We walked down the long cement walkway to the train that would take us back to Barcelona with a crowd of others.  Delighted to see the train waiting for us, we hopped on.  Unfortunately, every seat was taken by mostly young people and not one of them offered us their seat.  So, we chatted standing up for the hour ride back to Barcelona and prided ourselves on staying upright...

We weren't ready to say goodbye, so we stopped at a cafe and had a cold drink before we separated ways after heartfelt hugs and kisses on each cheek.  Janet to Sants Train Estación and me toward the abyss of the Catalunya Metro.  

Un buen día (a good day).

https://www.montserrat-tourist-guide.com/en/photo-albums/photo-montserrat.html

Here is a link to the monastery if you would like to read about this mystical place.