Barcelona: 30 Years and 26 Miles

If you don't already know the story of how we wound up in Barcelona last week, here it is:

All last fall, David had been making noises about running the Paris marathon. He liked the idea of rolling out of bed and taking the metro to the race. In December, when he finally made up his mind to do it, he got online to register and found that the race was full; 35,000 runners had already signed up for the race in April.

Around the same time, I decided I wanted to get the heck out of Dodge for my 30th birthday. We were fresh back from a trip to Barcelona with my family, and I was still nursing a crush I had on Spain. And that's when we learned that the Barcelona marathon was only a few days after my birthday. Perfect.

Wednesday, February 27

Well, as airfare rates and vacation time would have it, we didn't leave until the day after said birthday. This meant I had to endure the day at work, being teased by my coworkers and getting my annual birthday headache. But I had the next day's trip to distract me, and that evening was spent packing and scheming over takeout sushi, so it wasn't so bad.

Thursday, February 28
We landed in Barcelona in the afternoon and took the shuttle downtown. Dragging our luggage behind us, we navigated to the Gothic Quarter and found the flat we had rented. It was located on a quiet open plaza, not more than a stone's throw from the Picasso museum.

The flat was accommodating, but the layout was a little unnerving for me. It was pretty much a long, thin cracker box, with a single window letting in a sliver of natural light at the end. But it had a full kitchen and a comfortable bed, and that was all we really needed. After settling in, we took a walk around the area to reacquaint ourselves and find some lunch. Finally we stopped in a little restaurant and shared some tapas.

Next we walked down to Las Ramblas and the same market we had visited last fall with my family. I should mention that we were extremely lucky, as David's male instincts as a human GPS kicked in and he navigated us perfectly through the whole trip.

In the market we breezed through buying loads of seasonal Spanish fruit, then struggled a bit with local meat (and how to say it in bad Spanish...yikes). In the end we had almost enough for two meals, and a stop at a local grocery store filled in the gaps. That night we teamed up and make ourselves chicken enchiladas - not too bad for an improvised meal in someone else's kitchen.

Friday, February 29
Friday was the only day that David figured he'd be able to do a lot of walking before the race, and he let me set the itinerary. But first breakfast at a local "chocolate and churros" place, where I sipped a cup of famous Spanish hot chocolate and we shared a plate of churros. I loved that little place, and went there for breakfast the day after as well.

Anyway, for our itinerary I picked the music palace first, and we walked there easily from the restaurant.

As it turns out, you can't go into the music palace unless there's an event going on, so we could only admire the building from the outside. That took about 10 minutes. Side note to family + Adam: you didn't miss anything much.

After that, we shuffled to the Gaudi house we missed on our visit last fall: Casa Batllo. We paid an obnoxious numbers of euros to get inside, then wandered through the house; me with the audio guide stuck to the side of my head, David with the camera.

What I appreciate about the Gaudi houses is that you're allowed to touch almost everything. I love to run my hands over the ergonomic door handles and carved wood, feeling the organic nature of the designs. I guess this won't go on for too many years before they start cutting off tourists from wearing down the work.

After we left Casa Batllo, the afternoon was still young and I'd run out of things I wanted to see. So we opted to walk to La Sagrada Familia, just to marvel at it from the outside and enjoy an afternoon stroll. We bought ice cream and walked around the cathedral again, pointing out weird things we hadn't seen last time.

From there we walked back to the flat, which was a rather long walk, and after a bit of a rest took the metro to dinner at a mussels restaurant we'd seen earlier. For a delayed celebration of my birthday we ordered a pitcher of sangria, which turned out to be a small mistake because David had to cut himself off early for the race and of course you know I can't drink much of anything. By the end of the meal we had half the pitcher left and I was friendly enough to want to offer it to a table of girls nearby. David curtly cut me off.

Saturday, March 1
Our only goal for Saturday was to get David signed in for the marathon. After sleeping in, we meandered down to the site and into the exhibition hall. A flurry of volunteers steered us to his bib number and chip, a little backpack filled with rice cakes, Powerade, and maps, and finally a pasta lunch. Surprisingly, I was allowed to tag along on the lunch, the reasons explained to me in Spanish so who knows. I wasn't particularly hungry (isn't that often the case with free lunches? ironic), so I picked at my pasta for a while before turning the rest over to David, who really deserved the carbohydrates more than I did.

After we left the hall, we stepped into the sunshine and surveyed our surroundings. We weren't familiar with this part of Barcelona, and found ourselves at the foot of a large hill and a beautiful traditional Spanish building. We climbed up to the building, which we learned was an art museum, and appreciated the view of the city below. This was to be the site of the high drama the next day.
On the way back to the apartment we stopped in a plaza in the Gothic quarter to take a few pictures and scope out the local ice cream scene.

For the rest of the day we tried to take it easy. David spent a lot of time reading, and I went on a hunt for a coat I had seen on our last trip to Barcelona. In the end, I found the coat, but not in my size, and settled on another one I like almost as much.

Back in the apartment, I made David another high-carb meal and we went to bed. I was pretty tired from my shopping ordeal, but David was antsy and agitated. He woke me up a few times in the night to talk about how he couldn't sleep. I did my best to be sympathetic before falling asleep again.

Sunday, March 2: Race Day
David was fired up and ready to go when the alarm when off and I dragged myself out of bed. We left right on time and walked the quiet streets with the other runners and their supporters. The metro was full of excited, jumpy people in running gear. The air was crackling with anticipation.

Back at the foot of the hill, I watched while David took a little practice trot and adjusted his knee brace a few times. Then I escorted him to the gate, said my nervous goodbye, and he funneled himself into the starting grid with the others. From there I promptly lost him.
In a normal situation, David is a breeze to pick out: he's usually the tallest guy around. But it turns out that being tall and thin is popular for runners, and I was left desperately searching for my tall thin runner in red (also a popular color for runners) until the starting gun went off.

I watched the excitement as the mass of people pressed toward the starting gate and burst through the other side like water from a high pressure hose. After most of the runners had passed and the tension ebbed, I opened the course map and realized I had no idea what I was doing. Most of the spectator crowd was walking in one direction, so I drifted along with others.

Eventually the crowd thinned and I found myself walking aside four Brits who seemed just as confused as I was. I quickly made friends with them and asked to tag along. As luck would have it, they all worked for a transit company and were experts at reading maps: civil engineers (this is my bizarre talent: give me a room of 100 people and I will find the engineers blindfolded). Not only that, but one of them had run marathons before and could calculate where our runners would be at what time. Perfect!

Well, by the time we'd been fully acquainted, we found ourselves standing along a quiet road with orange cones set along one lane. Where exactly were we? Not a minute later, a policeman shooed us out of the way and a guy on a handbike whizzed past. In a marathon, the fastest group goes first, which means the handbikes, followed by the elite runners, then everyone else. We were at the front of the race!

So we clapped for every one of the handbikers that flew past, and not soon after the first elite runners came around the bend. And those guys were fast. My new friends and I stood in open-mouthed awe as a half-dozen human gazelles sprinted past us. And they were going to carry on like that for another 32 kilometers? You have to be kidding me!
After we'd recovered from that sight, we walked up to the bend for a better view. There weren't a lot of other spectators, so we had great views of the runners as they approached. Although I was worried I'd miss David if he was in the middle of a pack.

This part of the race was my favorite, because the runners were still fresh and happy. They slapped high fives as they ran past, they yelped and chatted with each other and smiled when we clapped. I even got winked at.

I don't know how long we waited, but finally I spotted David bobbing merrily along the course. I jumped up and down and hollered excitedly before regaining my composure and turning on the video of my camera.

I recommend turning down your volume to avoid hearing my excited squeals. It's embarrassing.

I told myself that I'd take still photos with the good camera at the next spot, but alas, I never saw him again until the race was over.

The Brits and I waited for another twenty minutes or so looking for their friend Stuart, who they estimated was on a slightly slower pace than David. Finally we gave up, and put our heads together to figure out the next best place to see him.

Well, like I said, I was with map readers and a former marathon runner. They estimated where our runners would be and we moved to the next site: La Sagrada Familia.

It took a lot of walking and metros to get ourselves there, and as we approached the course I noticed that we had already missed the handbikers and elite runners. We craned our necks, searching for our friends until I saw a the 3:45 pace balloon: we were late.

Again we huddled around the map and picked the next best location: the Torre Agbar, or Barcelona's version of the London gherkin. The runners would pass through that area three times, and surely we would see them there.

Lots more walking, and we found ourselves at the base of the gherkin, again craning our necks. The thing was, the runners did pass that point three times. Three times within 10 minutes. We saw the same group of runners three times, and it seemed we were again late to catch Stuart and David.

This happened a few more times again. It seemed my friends were excellent at determining exactly when the wrong group of runners would be at the various spots.

In the end we rushed to the finish line in time to see the clock turn over to 3:40. I ran all over Barcelona and I missed David's finish. The Brits missed their friend entirely. I was heartbroken. I parted from my friends and spent the next thirty minutes wading through a sea of people, trying to find Dave.

Finally I located him at the base of a fountain, exhausted and desperate. As soon as we were reunited he fell over on a patch of grass and asked wearily, "Where were you?"

He told me his stories, told me about the pace balloon he tried to overcome, the beautiful sound of nothing but shoes hitting pavement and the painful last seven kilometers. Finally he pulled himself up and said: "I need food."

So I bounced up and started walking with purpose (we all know that when David's hungry, it's in everyone's best interest to remedy the situation as soon as possible), but soon realized that he was hurting and we had to keep a careful pace. As we left the site of the finish line, I read the back of another runner's t-shirt: Going down stairs backwards: this is what happens after a marathon. I thought that was a bit strange and pointed it out to Dave. He just smiled and winced.

And then when we reached the metro I understood everything. As I started to bound down the stairs, he grabbed my shoulder and said "hold on." Because, in fact, he needed to hold on to me. I guided him down to the train (mercifully, the Barcelona metro is not far underground) and back to the Gothic quarter, where we stopped in a pita shop and he killed a shwarma and fries.

Finally we reached the apartment, which I silently cursed for being on the 3rd floor. We carefully climbed the stairs, one step at a time, and into the apartment, where David collapsed on the couch and remained there, muttering something about never ever doing that again.

I let David rest and spent some time wandering around El Born, which was the district close to where we were staying. I came home to find him weary but ready for dinner. On his dad's recommendation we went out to the Olympic harbor, where we picked a restaurant based on its promise of peel-and-eat shrimp on the appetizer menu. I had a plate full of fish and shellfish, some of which I'd never seen before in my life, and David ate a well deserved steak. We toasted the marathon and my birthday (again) and I got silly over half a glass of sangria. Again.

Monday, March 3
When we woke up on Monday, we lamented not staying for an extra day for a bit more recovery. But that's how good vacations always end, isn't it? If only we had one more day.

David was sore, but more movable than the day before. Surprisingly, my legs were in considerable pain, what with hoofing all over the city and standing on my tip toes for a long time looking for him. I know, I know: David ran 26 miles and I'm complaining about sore legs.

We took a cab to the airport, silently staring out the windows and dreaming about that extra day. We had three and a half days in Barcelona, but it all flew by so fast. I think this is why the French have so much vacation time and use it well: it takes a few days just to unwind from the tension of a French job. We had barely chilled out when it was time to repack, board a cab, a plane, and finally a train to get back home to our apartment.

And the apartment wasn't exactly welcoming, either. The painter had come by in our absence to repaint our peeling bathroom ceiling (it had taken six months of coordination to get this stupid task done) and every surface - even the cat - was covered in dust.

Oliver was beside himself, as usual, and had shown his displeasure by throwing up on the couch and floor. We hadn't even taken off our shoes and jackets before we were running around with wet paper towels, dusting and scrubbing and cursing.

Anyway, grumbling aside, I've already requested that we go back to Barcelona for my next birthday. I think Dave's on board, but he swears he won't be running the marathon again.