The Dating Game (20 page)

The excited chatter of Catalans and Spaniards assailed their
ears as the four girls studied the menu which lay on the table.  None of them
spoke any Spanish, except for
gracias
and
por favor
.  Fortunately
there was also an English menu.  To their dismay, they noticed that it didn’t
actually contain any proper meals, just
tapas
.

‘Oh well, we’ll just have to order lots,’ Lisa’s
cheerfulness cut through the rumbling of Gill’s stomach.

‘What have
they
got?’ Debbie pointed as discreetly as
she could to a couple a few tables away.  ‘As the waiter walked past with it, I
got a whiff and it smelled delicious.’

Lisa, ever the unsubtle member of the group, craned her neck
to see.  ‘I think it’s baby octopus.’

‘Yuck, I’m not having that!’ Debbie grimaced, as she
hurriedly returned to perusing the menu.

They decided to copy their Spanish counterparts, and share
several
tapas
.

As they waited for their food to arrive, the girls
structured the rest of their day.  They agreed that they just wanted to wander
around, get their bearings, nothing strenuous.

The waiter brought their wine and after Lisa tasted it, he
poured them each a glass.

‘This is the life,’ said Angela.

‘What, being inside, when it’s glorious outside?’ came
Lisa’s sarcastic retort.

‘We’re not all sun-worshippers like you,’ Angela replied
curtly.

‘Right you two – quit it,’ Debbie intervened to keep the
peace.  ‘We’re on holiday.  Yes, this is the life, Angela, and yes, it would
have been better, Lisa, if we could have sat outside, but we’ve just got here,
we’re thirsty and we’re starving, so drink up!’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Gill.

Soon afterwards, their first round of
tapas
arrived. 
Debbie, of course, steered clear of the baby octopus, so Lisa magnanimously
said she would swap her chicken croquette in exchange for Debbie’s octopus.

‘Hey, don’t look now, but five o’clock,’ Debbie winked at
Gill.  Gill’s back was to the room, so she had to make do with the others’
description of the gorgeous Spanish man with the floppy black hair and gleaming
white teeth, who had just walked in, alone, and now stood at the bar.  From
their position upstairs, they could see him, without his realising he was being
observed.  Gill turned round, just as he glanced upwards.  He saw her watching
him and smiled.  Mortified, she quickly looked away.

‘He just caught me,’ she hissed.

‘He could catch me anytime,’ Lisa never one to be slow at
these things, had no issue in expressing her obvious interest in him.

‘Excellent, we’ve already spotted some talent,’ Gill
grinned.

‘That’s true.  Anyway, cheers to an excellent time in
Barcelona!’

Lisa’s toast prompted them all to clink glasses again.

They requested a second round of
tapas
, this time
plumping for
Pan Catalan
– garlic bread rubbed with tomato;
Montaditos
with
Jamón
and
Queso
– mini cheese and ham baguettes;
Tortilla
de Patatas
, and
Queso de Cabra al Horno
– grilled goats cheese with
Seville orange and chilli marmalade.

Soon after their
tapas
dishes had been cleared away,
Lisa said, ‘Hey, there’s a free table outside.  I’m going to grab it,’ and she
legged it outside.

They ordered another bottle of wine and sat in the sun,
sipping wine and catching up.  Gill was already beginning to feel a bit tipsy. 
The mixture of sun and wine always did that to her.  She would have to pace
herself.  Thank goodness for the little shade the tree next to their table
afforded them.

After an hour, they decided to move on, so they wandered
back through the streets of the Gothic quarter and onto the
Ramblas
. 
They paid particular attention to their belongings, since Barcelona’s
reputation as a notorious hunting ground for pickpockets preceded it. 
Sauntering down the thoroughfare, they peered at the newsstands and watched the
performing statues, as well as musicians from Russia and Peru.  Soon they came
across several open air cafés, where virtually everyone appeared to be drinking
huge
copas
of
sangría
.

‘We’ve got to have one of those,’ Lisa pointed to the
mammoth goblet from which a tiny, Japanese woman was drinking.

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Debbie agreed, and the others traipsed
behind Lisa, already intent on sorting them out a table.  It was busy, but a
little flirting from Lisa, a toss of her long blonde hair and they had their
table.

They ordered four
copas
, which arrived quickly, and
were soon enjoying the delicious fruity alcoholic concoction, as they sat
watching the motley crew which made up Barcelona’s visitors and locals pass by.

‘Hey, we never did vet those new dates Gill received,’ realisation
dawned on Lisa.

Gill carried her tablet with her, probably not a good move
in Barcelona, she knew, with its theft problems, but she always carried her bag
slung across her body.  Even when seated, she wrapped one of the straps around
the leg of her chair and sat with her bag between her feet.  Her precautions
might have seemed extreme, but apart from general pickpockets, teams of
seasoned criminals from Colombia and other parts of Latin America, came to
Barcelona simply to steal from unsuspecting tourists who let down their guard.

The girls pored over the tablet and readily accepted that
James didn’t sound right for Gill, except for Lisa, ‘Sounds a bit of a tosser,
but so what, he’s loaded.  Think of all the places he could take you.’

Gill shook her head and they promptly stopped talking about
James.  Mark, however, was a different story.  In the time it took the girls to
finish their three quarters of a litre
copas
of
sangría
, everyone
had given their opinion, and the conclusion had been reached that despite 
being only five feet seven, Gill should meet him, as he was cute.  Debbie even
went as far as to say she liked ginger haired men.  The others stared at her in
shock, until she said, Paul Bettany in
Wimbledon
.  Her friends conceded
the point.

So, Gill sent a brief e-mail to Caroline, already buoyed up
by a
copa
of
sangria
, saying she’d like to meet Mark, but
regrettably didn’t think she and James would be suited.

After two
sangrías
, plus all the wine they had necked
at
Bar del Pi
, the girls were positively squiffy.  In an attempt to
sober up a little, they went for a walk down the
Ramblas
.

According to the map,
Plaça Reial
was just off
C/Ferran
,
and
Plaça Reial
was the ultimate square in which to be seen. 
C/Ferran
swarmed with Catalans, most likely returning from work.  Debbie pointed a
little way up and said, ‘That’s the
Ajuntament
or City Hall, where the
action all kicks off tomorrow night.  Maybe we can go for a walk up there
later, before we head back to the hotel?’

More mumblings of agreement, before Lisa once again managed
effortlessly to secure them a table at the absolutely heaving
Plaça Reial
.

‘I’m hungry again,’ Debbie’s stomach emitted a low rumble of
confirmation.

‘I could eat again, too,’ Gill chipped in.

‘Well, we did only have
tapas
,’ Angela reminded
them.  ‘No harm in getting a few more.’

The girls whiled away a few hours, drinking some of the
lovely
rosé
wine which the restaurant recommended, and devouring
patatas
bravas, aceitunas, albóndigas
and
croquetas de pollo
.

‘Those chicken croquettes are to die for.  Would it be
really bad if I ordered some more?’ Debbie asked.

‘You’re a pig!’ Lisa said.

‘They are pretty moreish, though,’ Gill stuck up for her
friend.

‘Am I the only one that’s still hungry?’ Debbie wanted to
know.  ‘I just love the food here. Juicy, fat olives, those spicy chips are
fantastic, and as for those meatballs…’

‘Stop it!  You’re making me hungry again,’ Gill berated her
friend.

They ordered another round of
tapas
and talked about
their game plan for the next day.

A quick detour to check out
Plaça Sant Jaume
, venue
of Friday night’s festivities, then the girls threaded their way through back
streets, chock-full of people, until finally they arrived back at their hotel.

‘That was a long road for a short cut,’ said Angela, as they
said goodnight to each other outside their rooms.

‘What time we meeting tomorrow morning?’ Debbie, ever the
practical one, asked.

‘Nine?’ Gill suggested.

‘Sounds good.’

As Gill brushed her teeth, she realised she hadn’t thought of
Anton all day.  Now, however, she found herself wondering what he was up to
tonight.

Friday 23rd September

Their room rate didn’t include breakfast in the price.  The
friends were happy enough with this, as they quite fancied trying several of
the little cafés close to the hotel.

Ambling onto the
Ramblas
, they headed up towards
Plaça
de Catalunya
and stopped at a little café about fifty metres from the metro
station.  Tables set for breakfast greeted them and a few tourists were already
sampling the continental breakfast.  Marmalades, croissants, and fruit-filled
pastries, as well as bowls of chocolate with
churros
, covered most
surfaces.  Diners held the obligatory
café sólo
or
café con leche
in their hands, as they chatted to their companions.

This time, Debbie secured them an outside table.  They
ordered their coffees and pastries and sat in the early morning sunshine,
content.  Today they would go to
Parc Güell
, quite a distance from the
centre.

After breakfast they took the metro to
Lesseps
.  When
they exited the station, they didn’t see any signs for
Parc Güell
.

Angela, ever astute, said, ‘I reckon that’s where everyone
else is going.  Look!’ and she pointed out a group of German tourists, with a
guide in tow.  True enough, some of them were holding maps.  As inconspicuously
as possible, the girls fell in line behind the group.

Soon they turned left and saw a steep incline ahead of them,
complete with escalators.

‘That’s bizarre,’ Lisa said aloud what the others were
thinking.  ‘Escalators outside?  What happens if it rains?  Would you not
electrocute yourself?’

‘It doesn’t rain here much, I don’t think,’ Debbie said,
wishing the same could be said of back home.

‘But it must rain sometimes,’ Lisa quickly refuted Debbie’s
reasoning.

‘Who knows?  Anyway, hurry up, they’re getting away from
us,’ Gill chivvied them along, as the Germans strode ahead.

Eventually they saw signs indicating
Parc Güell
and
Casa
Gaudí
.  Once they entered the park, the path forked in different
directions, so they decided to ditch the Germans.  They passed Gaudí dragons
and lizards, in the colourful and unmistakeable mosaic pattern.  Soon they came
to a café area, where they ordered soft drinks.  It was baking hot.  From up
here, the entire city of Barcelona spread out below them.  The
Sagrada
Família
rose up majestically in the distance.

Drinks finished, they wended their way down the paths to the
Casa Gaudí
museum.

They listened to the audio tour and read the boards which
depicted the history of
Parc Güell
.

Lisa who was less interested in the cultural aspect, but
quite liked the Hansel and Gretel appearance of the houses, appointed herself
group photographer, snapping away in unison with the Japanese tourists.

They were almost ready to leave, but Debbie wanted a photo of
their little group first.  Lisa went down below to take the shot of the other
three, standing in the window of
Casa Gaudí
.  On the other side of the
main gate stood another colourful building, similar in style, which housed the
souvenir shop.  The girls bought
Gaudí
themed souvenirs before leaving
the park.

‘Why don’t we try walking back through the city?’ Angela
suggested.  ‘I’m sure it’s not as far as we think.’

No one put up much complaint, so they meandered out of
Parc
Güell
and down the road, back down the escalators, marvelling at just how
many people were coming up.

‘I’m glad we did this in the morning,’ Debbie said.

‘Me too,’ Gill agreed.  ‘Can you imagine how hot it’s going
to be up there now?’

Angela checked her watch.  ‘That’s half one, must be time to
eat soon.’

‘Well, why don’t we just wander down until we see somewhere
that catches our eye?’ Debbie said, struggling with her bag, which kept falling
off her shoulder.

‘Good idea,’ Lisa led the way.

The streets they took were empty.  Any self-respecting
Catalan was either indoors or still at work.  Usually they ate lunch between
two and four – already very late by British standards.

The girls happened upon some chairs set out in the street,
but no sign of a bar or restaurant. Thinking they could at least sit there to
study the map properly, they sat down.  Their bums had barely touched the seats
when a waiter materialised brandishing menus.

However, it was a bar, not a restaurant, and again, they
didn’t serve meals, only
tapas
. Deciding a small bite would do for now,
the girls chose a mixture of
aceitunas, rollos de atún, patatas bravas
and
pan Catalan
.  The wine wasn’t as nice as the night before, but it
was wet and it did the trick.

Once lunch was over and they were preparing to leave, Debbie
had a brainwave.  ‘Why don’t we go back down into the city, stopping at little
squares on the way?  We could have a drink in each of them, and then go back to
the hotel and get changed for tonight.’

‘Now, that is a great idea, Mrs Orr,’ Lisa put her arm round
Debbie’s shoulder.  ‘So, which direction do we need to go in, to find the first
square?’

They checked and identified one only a few streets away. 
They got lost a few times, ending up at a tiny church, then a row of old shops,
but no square.

‘That map’s faulty,’ Lisa was irate.

‘No, I just think it doesn’t have all the streets marked on
it,’ said Debbie.

‘We really should try and buy a better map, when we get a
chance,’ Angela said, propping her sunglasses on her head and wiping her
forehead.  ‘Jeez, it’s warm, isn’t it?’

‘Thirty-one degrees according to that big clock we passed
earlier,’ Gill added.

Just then, Gill heard chatter coming from their left.  Sure
enough, rounding the next left turn, then a right turn, lay the square they
sought.  It was tiny – just one café, but it overflowed with Catalans, not a
single tourist in sight.

The girls quickly grabbed a table and deciding that it was
time to really celebrate their holiday, they splurged on cava, instead of wine.

‘Our heads will probably not thank us in the morning,’
Angela warned, ‘for mixing our drinks, but right now, I don’t care.’

After two glasses each, they prepared to move on to the next
square.

Again with Debbie in control of the map, they wove their way
through the back streets of the
Gràcia
quarter and ended up, after a few
failed attempts, in the
Eixample
district.  They had to stand for a
little outside the café, as no seats were available straightaway.  They weren’t
the only ones either.

‘This is a bit bizarre,’ Lisa complained, ‘queuing to get
into a café.’

The others agreed, but Gill said she supposed it was no more
unusual than waiting in line to gain entrance to a busy nightclub.

Thankfully the queue dissipated very quickly and soon they
had a seat with a prime vantage point over the small square.  School was
clearly out for the weekend, as children in uniform walked past with their
parents.  A few small children played on scooters; one drove a little car
across the square, squeals of excitement emanating from him, as his father
pushed the car, making it go faster.  Aside from the children’s laughter, the
overall atmosphere was one of tranquillity.

Two Spanish men, one dressed in a pink striped shirt and the
other in a blue shirt sat down at the next table but one from them.

‘Psst,’ said Lisa.  ‘Check them out,’ she waved her
sunglasses indiscreetly in their direction.  They were handsome, if a little on
the short side.

‘The Spanish speak so fast,’ Debbie said.

‘Well, it doesn’t help that we can’t speak Spanish,’ said
Angela.

‘Or Catalan,’ said Gill.

‘Can you tell the difference?’  Lisa was intrigued.

‘What do
you
think?’ Gill smiled at her.

The men must have felt their gazes on them, as one of them
turned around and stared straight at Gill.  The other, listening to what his
friend leaned forward to say to him, then sat back and smiled at Debbie, who
appeared flustered.

Lisa chose this moment to go to the toilet, making a point
of going past their table, brushing lightly against Pink Shirt’s chair and
continued towards the bar.  She knew their eyes would be on her.

Lisa freshened up, sprayed on some perfume and sauntered
back out, only to find an empty table where the two men had been sitting.  Her
jaw dropped in disbelief.  Where were they? She looked over in bewilderment at
her friends, who had dissolved into fits of laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’

Gill wiped the tears from her eyes, and then said, ‘They’re
gay.  Pink Shirt just kissed Blue Shirt full on the mouth, then as they left,
Blue Shirt felt his arse!’

‘You’re kidding!’ Lisa was gobsmacked.  ‘They didn’t look
gay.’

‘Obviously Spanish gay men look different to Scottish gay
men,’ Angela choked.

‘Your gaydar must be faulty, or out of range,’ Debbie
squealed.

‘Very bloody funny.  Well, plenty more fish in the sea.  No
biggie.’

Soon afterwards, they decided to head back.  They needed to
change before dinner, and they didn’t want to miss a second of the evening’s
action.  The parade of giant, dragons and
capgrosses
– oversized heads -
was due to set off from
Plaça Sant Jaume
at ten.  It would then wend its
way through the winding streets of the Gothic Quarter before finally returning
to its starting point.  Huge numbers usually attended and the girls had heard
from previous festival-goers, that the squares were usually packed,
sardine-style.

Surprisingly their hotel was only twenty minutes from the
last square they had visited.  Gill took a long shower and decided she needed
another coffee, as she felt tired and a little tipsy.  Food would help, too. 
Freshened up, the girls hit the city once more.

There wasn’t a single seat to be found in
Plaça Reial
. 
The girls ventured down a few side streets and eventually found a little
restaurant with outside tables.

Lisa’s jaw dropped, ‘Jeez, would you look at the prices! 
Six euros for a bottle of water!’

‘Let me see,’ Angela took the menu from Lisa.  ‘Dear God,
this better be good, twenty euros for a platter of
Jamón Serrano
,
fifteen euros for a cheese platter, three euros per pincho.’

‘What’s a
pincho
?’ Debbie asked.

‘A
pincho
is like a
tapa
, but it's usually
skewered on a spike or a toothpick,’ Gill said knowledgeably.

‘Have you been reading my guidebook again?’ Angela asked.

‘Can you tell?’ Gill shot her friend a grin.

‘In a word, yes!’ Angela slapped Gill playfully on the back,
as she went to sit down.

‘Anyway, that’s bloomin’ outrageous,’ Debbie said.

‘I know, but everywhere is full.  We’d never get a table
anywhere else,’ Gill pointed out what they all already knew.

‘Fair enough.  OK, let’s just have something small – I don’t
like letting these greedy pigs rip us off.’

‘Just you tell it how it is, Lisa,’ Angela said, and they
all laughed.

The women ate their vastly overpriced
tapas
and drank
the lovely, but terribly expensive wine, as Lisa grumbled you could buy it in
the supermarket for five euros, and here it cost twenty euros a bottle.  They
were just about to pay the bill when Debbie gasped.  Walking towards them were
several
Gegants
.  They looked like contestants from the eighties TV
programme It’s A Knockout.

‘This is so cool,’ Angela reached for her camera.  Debbie
clicked away with her camera phone, as Gill searched in her bag for hers.  Only
Lisa remained cucumber cool, sipping her wine and watching the proceedings.

‘It’s a bit like a fashion show,’ Lisa said, as she refilled
her glass from the bottle.

‘Ah, I think I’ve worked it out,’ Debbie said, ‘The giants
are going into the back of the building, so they can come out the front into
the square.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Angela held the map and tried to
orient herself.

They watched as the
Gegants
filed past them.  One
stumbled and had to be righted by a passer-by.

When the waiter returned, they asked for the bill, which
arrived quickly.  Cheers arose from the square close by and the girls hurried
so as not to miss anything.

Soon the crowds roared, as the first brightly coloured
Gegant
ventured forth from City Hall.  The
Gegant
rotated and waved then
started its parade through the streets, as the next in line emerged to another
cheer.  One by one the
Gegants
left the building, followed by the
Capgrosses
and finally a few, what looked like pantomime horses.  The procession continued
through the back streets, onto
Via Laietana
and back round to
Plaça
Sant Jaume
, before the participants climbed the steps onto the stage.

‘This is fantastic,’ said Angela, ‘even better than I
expected.’

Gill tried to take pictures, but night had fallen, and the
photos were so indistinct as to be useless.

The king and queen of the
Gegants
began to dance
together – no easy task, as each measured more than fifteen feet tall.  It was
almost eleven o’clock, but toddlers and children of all ages, accompanied by
parents, were amongst the spectators.  Three-year-olds hoisted on parents’
shoulders frustratingly blocked the girls’ view from time to time.  The square
was so packed with people, the girls found it difficult to move a fraction of
an inch.  After the king and queen, came the pantomime horses and what seemed
like Morris dancers.  It certainly rated as the most bizarre spectacle Gill had
ever witnessed.  She glanced over at Debbie, who grinned at her, as if to say,
‘
Isn’t this mad
?’