A Restorative Day Trip

Dear Devon,

The New York Times and various friends have relayed stories and photographs of trials by snow, rain, and cold. Images of slushy puddles and cars trapped in the snow only strengthen my resolve that winter does not have to be this way. There are places where winter is indistinguishable from fall or spring, and that suits me just fine.

Locals say this winter has been unseasonably cold. Two weeks of temperatures in the low 30’s hardly seem a hardship, but this city has only had one day of snow in 10 years. Sitting in the glow of the fading sun, I am completely secure in my decision to run away from New York, at least for a bit.


Friends of ours, tired of a dreary East Coast winter, decided to take advantage of our restorative locale and made the seven-hour journey over the Atlantic for an all too brief visit. They requested two things: fresh seafood and the beach. Though some leather- skinned locals have already started prancing around in the sand, at this time of year, a gust of sea breeze gives me goosebumps, so I suggest shoeless walks in the surf, clothes on.

We boarded an early morning train and made the short coastal trip to the lovely seaside resort town of Sitges. Standing on the platform in Sitges, the train continuing on its way to Tarragona, my shoulders relaxed as I drew in the crisp salty air. Sitges lay before us, bathed in the early morning glow of the Mediterranean sun. We quickly shed our Barcelona layers of hats, coats, and scarves and followed the promising sound of lapping waves. After an hour of strolling the beach, my pocket was full of shells. I was calm, a bit sun-kissed, and scouting out my lunch options.

Lunch happened on the boardwalk, under the shade of a sprawling canvas umbrella and in the company of idle old men and their sun-worshipping dogs. We feasted on local specialties, including thick slices of bread with tomato puree and Sitges’ classic salad of olives, brined codfish, and tomatoes. Next came a giant black pot of steamed mussels and clams in a garlicky, olive oil rich broth. Fervent discussion about seafood safety proliferated, as the boys eager to indulge in all the wonders of the Mediterranean insisted on prying open the tightly-closed clams. (Don’t worry, Mom, the girls won that battle). The entire meal was capped with a 24-inch pan of squid ink fideuà, a paella-like dish made with thin noodles. Purplish-black, peppered with baby squids, sticky and delicious, the fideuà left dark rings on our lips, stained our fingertips, and smudged the tablecloth. By the time lunch was over, we had drained a bottle of red wine mixed with two bottles of soda water.

Back in my apartment in Barcelona, even I have to return to reality, but this lunch memory will remain long after my tongue returns to its normal color.