La Manual Alpargatera
Crowdsourcing.
Felice now prompts me to write about our adventures, delighting in the feedback of my readers, who e-mail me the straight dope.
Having written about Barcelona, my inbox was instantly filled with recommendations, more than I could explore in weeks. But the one that intrigued me most said:
"And make sure you and Felice get to the ESPADRILLE STORE… It’s closed for lunch and siesta (that 104 degree heat !! )… But the espadrilles are gorgeous-men’s and women’s… Some made by the store owners, some not.Prices excellent. Whatever you may think of Pablo Picasso, if those espadrilles were good enough for him…
Your hotel will know all the above places."
I’m fascinated by Picasso. Not for his mistreatment of women, but his constant reinvention. Imagine if Madonna had musical talent. A better example might be the Beatles. In any event, Picasso created a trend, milked it, and then created a new one, again and again. (Give Madonna credit, she saw trends and blew them up again and again, if we stop calling her a musician and refer to her as a businesswoman or a performance artist, I’m willing to give her an A+.) Sure, there are some who mine the same territory over and over and somehow continue to maintain our interest, like AC/DC, but usually today’s artists are victims of the trend they ride to success, it passes and so do they, they’re suddenly nostalgia. How about that guy from New Zealand who sang "How Bizarre"? Or Jimmy Ray, who asked if we knew him in the eponymous "Are You Jimmy Ray?" Then again, one can’t say either of these performers truly invented a trend, never mind getting stalled there. Unlike Georges Braque, who was right there with Picasso with cubism and then…could never move on.
Speaking of artists, we started the day off at the Miro museum. And then took a taxi to the Palau de Mar for lunch.
And it was after dining that we ventured into the Old City to find La Manual Alpargatera, which, as Amy Krakow’s e-mail stated, the concierge of our hotel was fully familiar with.
You see the walls of the Old City that still remain and you’re intrigued and feel insignificant. Then you see the franchises on the tiny streets and you want to puke. Everything from Starbucks to McDonald’s to H&M. But following the twists and turns, we eventually ended up at La Manual Alpargatera.
Which had more styles of espadrilles than Bubba Gump had shrimp. Truly stunning and overwhelming. Made me want to buy something, even though I’m a dedicated Nike guy.
I zeroed in on a couple of styles, but couldn’t pull the trigger. Was I actually going to wear them? I remembered the photo of Picasso shod in his in the book on my mother’s coffee table, but I didn’t think I could fill the shoes. But Felice bought a pair. So cheap. And the experience was so authentic. The walls were covered in espadrilles, some in boxes, some just in plastic bags. You got the feeling this store had predated the chains and would survive them. Because, like AC/DC, they found a formula that worked and they stuck with it.
And from there we ventured to La Rambla, Barcelona’s most famous street, a tree-lined Venice Boardwalk. And halfway up, we sidled into the Mercat de la Boqueria.
Want to get real insight into a culture?
Go to their market.
Fresh fruit galore. You desire something to soothe your throat and relieve you from the heat.
But it was the ham legs and fish that truly got to me.
You buy the whole leg. Prices vary, there’s obviously a quality issue, I saw one for over a thousand pounds in Harrods. And I’m not exactly sure what you do with one. Have a party and eat the whole thing, or just slice off a morsel every night before dinner, to accompany your cocktail?Â
And the octopus could frighten small children, all bulbous and white. Many varieties of fish were for sale. I’d like to say my taste buds were titillated, but it made me never want to eat again. Like that line about sausage, you don’t want to see where it comes from.
And from there up to the Palau de la Musica Catalana, another Modernista edifice that is frivolous to the point of exhilaration. I’d love to go to a show there:
But the reason I’m writing this has nothing to do with what happened today. I got the inspiration on the way out of the hotel last night, on our way to dinner, when we were confronted once again with the rope men.
So we arrive in Barcelona on Sunday hungry and tired.
Eating at an outdoor cafe just shy of the Casa Batllo (the squid was tantalizing), suddenly four African men strode up on the sidewalk, unfurled blankets and revealed knock-offs, purses and other designer bags for the public to buy.
No big deal. Knock-offs are now an institution. Hell, there’s a whole school of thought that they BENEFIT the ripped-off companies. First, it is believed that those who buy the fakes can’t afford the real thing anyway, and that the image of Gucci and Louis Vuitton, et al, is actually burnished, flattered by the imitation.
I’ll leave you to your own conclusions, wondering whether you’re satisfied with the Liverpools or you need the Beatles, but I will tell you I noticed something curious. Every purveyor was holding four ropes, each attached to a corner of his blanket. A light went off in my head… If they yanked real hard, the blanket would close in on itself, like a giant sack at the end of a hobo’s stick, and they could run away instantly, with their wares intact, if challenged by the authorities.
I asked our waiter…Â Did the police ever crack down?
OH YES!
A few purchases were made, I didn’t want to get too up close and personal, those who did were handed bags (the seller keeping the ropes in their other fist) and implored to buy.
But when we were finished eating and were crossing the street, suddenly there was a commotion, the four sellers ran past us, the police in hot pursuit, just like that! You should have seen these guys run, they could have competed in the Olympics! But one was not fast enough, the policeman grabbed on to his blanket, spilled all his goods, and the seller ran off in frustration, head turned ’round, looking back over his shoulder at his loss, scurrying to catch up with his buddies, eluding capture himself.
Wow, crime in action.
And last night we came out of the hotel and saw the same four guys. On our side of the street this time. Once again, holding their ropes.
And I wondered… Was it a ring? Did you immigrate from Africa and start off with a job like this? Controlled by a knock-off pimp, who docked you if you got busted, but shared profits equally amongst all the sellers? And if you garnered enough money, could you graduate, leave the trade and go legit, or were you forever caught in the underworld.
They have crime shows every night on television.
But it’s nothing like being confronted by the real thing.
Everybody’s struggling to stay alive, to make a buck. Stay in school as long as possible, because the games don’t really begin until you’re out. And then what your parents told you is suddenly true. Better to start further up the food chain. Learn a trade, gain some skills, or get that liberal arts degree that allows you to nimbly navigate life’s curves, reinventing yourself as necessary as the years march on.
