Friday, October 9, 2015 Tarragona

Today we have train tickets to travel down to Tarragona, an old Roman town lying about an hour southwest of Barcelona, along the Mediterranean. Now that we’ve been trained up right, we find the Sants train station without incident. We arrive in due time for RENFE workers, using their magic ramps, to help me onto the train.

Arriving in Tarragona, we disembark, then leave the train station. As Keith wheels me out, we’re greeted by two women from the local Barcelona TV news station. Hearing our speech, they believe they’ve found a couple of English people. We often find ourselves considered English as Spanish speakers can’t distinguish between an American accent and an English one. The English would be so insulted. The women ask us if the Spanish train service and disability assistance rival or outperform England’s. I respond that I don’t know as I could still walk when I visited England 15 years ago. We praise RENFE as people have been so incredibly kind and helpful. But we regretfully report that in America we have no trains (except Amtrak, which doesn’t really count). Also, as my compatriots know, we live in a country so vast that we fly over it, or drive our cars for shorter distances, leaving us no real comparison. Our country has invested in freeways, not trains. All in all, we provide little help to the reporters. Their quest continues.

We begin our Tarragona visit by exploring an old Roman stadium. During Roman times, the authorities would fill the stadium with water from the Mediterranean and stage mock sea battles. The Bear happily wanders all over the ruins. Finding no berries, he returns.

Bear pushes me uphill to the top of town. Up, up, up we go, very hard on Mr. Bear. Although perhaps he could stand to lose a few kilos, poor Bear has already shed all additional weight he needs to relinquish by pushing me about.

After gaining the top of the hill, we stop to visit the Archaeological Museum of Tarragona. The story of an English ship named Deltebre I consumes much of the first floor. In 1813, during the Napoleonic wars, the British wanted to cut the Peninsula in half, eliminating Napoleon’s supply routes. To do so, they laid siege to Tarragona, but failed. After lifting siege, before sailing away, the Brits beached or deliberately sank any unneeded vessels, denying Napoleon their use. The museum has salvaged part of one convoy ship and placed it on display, along with its story.

Museum Outside

Going upstairs we find very cool busts of nearly every Roman Emperor. We stop and say hi to Claudius, my favorite Roman Emperor, due of course to the I Claudius television series. Next, we see some great Roman mosaics, including two of Medusa, and a peacock.  We find a stairwell enveloped by the mosaic of a hunting scene.

Leaving the museum, we seek our lunch. We find a stellar spot right across the Plaza. Using incredibly fresh seafood, the restaurant crafts one of the best meals we have in Spain. We order an amazing lobster dish. We watch the table next to us devour enough food to feed someone for three days. And they aren’t fat. Do they just have their big meal at noon? Or perhaps, given the cost, do they only eat once every three days?

After our memorable lunch, we visit the cathedral. Various peoples erected holy edifices in the same spot, the church merely the latest incarnation. Initially the Romans constructed a temple either to Jupiter or Augustus, supplanted by a Moorish mosque. Following the 1492 Reconquista, locals built a basilica. As I had promised, I say a prayer and light a candle for my Spanish teacher Irma, who back in the States prays for me. The cathedral has numerous chapels dedicated to various saints with the Virgin enshrined as the best saint ever. We wander through the church enjoying the various chapels and the architecture. 

Near the cloister, we find a museum of the Diocese, all descriptions in Spanish, that I can’t honestly say we understand, but a door from there opens onto a most delicious courtyard filled with fountains and trees. What in the world is a diocese anyway?

Following our cathedral visit, Bear wants to explore the city further before returning to the train station. He hands me the map of Tarragona. Stopping for a minute, I orient to the map, pointing out our whereabouts, and putative path, based upon his desires. Bear says, “This way looks interesting.” With that, he charges off in the opposite direction to the one I indicated. While still pushing me about, he continues to ask our location. I quickly give up, having no idea whatsoever. Eventually, we find ourselves lost on the main drag, another Ramblas, turned around going exactly the opposite way from what we intended. Nice helpful people explain our location, and how to get down to the train station. We attempt to heed their advice, but everywhere we go we encounter more “fucking steps.”

Admitting defeat, we follow the car route to the station, neatly avoiding the “fucking steps,” as we know cars can’t take stairs either. We reach the train station in the nick of time and return to Barcelona.

With bittersweet nostalgia we acknowledge our last night in Barcelona. After 10 days, the city feels like home. We grab a late bite to eat one more time at the Gent del Barri. Turning in, we reflect on how much we like this place but realize our age precludes moving here. With aging, comes a respect for, or at least a grudging acceptance of, the necessity of big spaces that accommodate power wheelchairs, grocery stores, and cars.