Nothing could have prepared me for Catalan. Well, maybe my sixty years of French study and forty years of Spanish study and those two miserable years of Latin. But the Catalan independence movement around here has become so fierce that the signs and menus are no longer bilingual in Catalan and Castilian Spanish, as they were just last year. It’s all Catalan, all the time.
We love our hosts! Vicens and Jeanette own the apartment we’re renting in Girona. They have provided us with an astounding place to live (remind me someday to tell you about the hot tub that shoots fountains in the air), and yesterday – quite to our surprise – they offered to take us on a drive to the Costa Brava, the “rugged coast” of northeastern Spain. Thirteen hours of unremitting wonder!
Slimy things on beds of ice. This is sort of the general tenor of the fish stalls at our Mercat, which is Catalan for market. The Mercat, of course, is full of raw, natural, farm-fresh unprocessed food. I’ll try any fruit or vegetable, but when it comes to proteins, I will admit that I prefer boneless, finless, scale-free meats and fish which I can recognize, and which is not still looking at me. I am not proud of this, but that’s how it is.