Decompression

© Simon Poulter 2017

What is it about being beside the Mediterranean in March, enjoying a shot of early spring sunshine while nibbling away at an agreeable glass of local vino tinto, that feels simultaneously decadent and undeniably relaxing? Whatever it is, it was a significant part of my Friday, and just what the doctor ordered. For the first time in what seemed weeks, there were no meetings or conference calls, no e-mails marked 'Important' with "URGENT" stamped in the subject line, just in case the red exclamation mark didn't work.

Like Punxsutawney Phil I emerged yesterday morning from my burrow, after weeks of preparing for and then attending Mobile World Congress, to suck in some sea air and soak up the Catalan vibe. It was a decompression day, one when I could sleep in and then, once self-levered out of my pit, saunter down to the hotel restaurant for a Barça breakfast of kings (noticeably comprised of sausages, some more sausages, several sausages and a Montserrat Caballe-sized hill of scrambled eggs. It is possible, however, that I subconsciously, but quite belligerently, missed the fresh fruit and yoghurt buffet...).

Either way, stuffed on a large quantity of artery clogging porcine goodness, and before I'd had the chance to ask what "cardiologist" was in Spanish (cardiólogo, Google later advises me), I set off to blow away cobwebs accrued over the last few weeks slaving over a steaming laptop and the last few days spent in a large metal shed with a corporate lanyard around my neck.

The not-so guilty pleasure of coming to Barcelona at the end of each February for a trade show is that, if you're lucky, you can catch your first reviving blast of Vitamin D. It's not always easy, as you find yourself sucked into a cycle of airport → taxi → hotel → taxi → event → taxi → hotel → taxi → event → taxi → airport, but if you're smart, and don't have anything or anyone to rush home to, you'll stay down here in this most engaging of Mediterranean cities for an extra couple of days to unwind.

© Simon Poulter 2017

And thus so yesterday proved: what started out as a gentle stroll from my hotel next to the vast Diagonal Mar shopping mall, became an engaging walk along the three-mile beachfront down to the preposterous sail-shaped W hotel with its pretentious staff and equally pretentious restaurants (so typical of the brand), before curling back into the Barceloneta district and the marina, with its vast - and I mean aircraft carrier-sized, Russian-owned (apparently) yachts.

This all might sound like a route march, but one of the eminent joys of Barcelona is going on foot and stopping as often as you want and not feeling under any pressure to be doing anything. At all. Somewhere in the midst of all this "vigorous" exercise I managed to squeeze in a latte, a sizeable vessel of Rioja and a light selection of tapas, not that this was any kind of novelty as I seemed to have existed almost exclusively on tapas as my evening meal over the last seven days.

The idea of tapas being a bar snack has almost been abandoned in Barcelona, as restaurants have based their entire menus around the cuisine. From shaved ham and croquettes, through to octopus and salted vegetables of every hue, no single eaterie seems to offer the same dishes, with the only common denominator being the red wines and cold cervezas that, even at the wet and blustery tail end of winter, trickle down a treat.

© Simon Poulter 2017

Until evening, this particular Friday was blessed with fine weather, which meant that there was no excuse to be indoors for anything. And so, after lunch (tapas) in the Barceloneta district - the marina on one side, the beach on the other, it was back walking again, moving up into the city centre where, by mid-afternoon, the British stag and hen weekends were already luridly spilling out all over La Rambla already, a calamity-in-waiting of ill-fitting T-shirts bearing legends like "Dave's Stag Do - Barcelona Or Bust" or "Susie's Final Weekend Of Freedom". There are times when you can really be embarrassed to be a Brit abroad.But who cares, each to their own.

My Friday had begun without agenda and so continued that way. By the time I'd reached the north end of La Rambla, and the sprawling Plaça de Catalunya - heavily armed police conspicuously standing guard, a sad fixture now in European tourist spots from Paris to Milan - it was time to stop and download a cold beer and take it all in. According to an app on my phone I'd walked just over six miles since leaving my hotel mid-morning. As evening bore down, it was time to refuel again. At the suggestion of my friend Mary, meat was the recommended option. Not a great surprise, I grant you, given the amount of vegetarian-unfriendly dishes I've consumed this last week, but it was, I was promised, going to be a meat feast untold.

And so we ended up in the somewhat unassuming La Vermuterie, appropriately just off Carrer de Londres, where we were offered an 800g pile of cooked cow, preceded - natch - by the prerequisite tapas selection. I'm not a huge meat eater (note the lack of a comma there) so the idea of a Flintstones-sized plate of flesh and bone wasn't all that appealing. But - man alive! - what turned up was remarkable. For a restaurant that looked more like a local Starbucks (at the table next to us sat a man with a Macbook consuming the WiFi, as you would find most of the day in any coffee outlet), this was exquisite fare. Such was the quantity, I won't be eating anything today. Or this week. And possibly not until April.

© Simon Poulter 2017