Chapter 3
Chapter Three
VANESSA
By the time her flight had landed in Barcelona and she had collected her bag, Vanessa was flagging. Travel was tiring, especially after an eventful day. The sky was darkening, night beginning to fall. She sat on a bench just outside the airport and allowed herself a moment to collect her thoughts.
She pulled a brush from her bag and quickly drew it through her hair. The heat of the day was beginning to ease but there was still a pleasant warmth in the air. She tied her hair back into a ponytail to keep it out of her face, and checked her phone.
She located the details of the place she was staying, then googled how to ask a taxi-driver to take her there. She rehearsed the words a couple of times under her breath before looking up to see where the taxi rank was.
Once inside the taxi, the driver seemed none the wiser when she repeated her prepared script, and in the end, she showed him her phone with the address on it. He nodded his understanding. She sat back as the car pulled away. She would have to work on her Spanish, but that could wait until tomorrow.
The apartment she’d rented was dark and bare, with little in the way of furniture, but it was clean and had all it needed.
It was hard to tell what the neighbourhood was like in the dark, although the Spanish way of life meant the streets were still thronging with people.
She left her bags by the door and made her way back down onto the narrow streets, rejuvenated by the buzz outside.
She was hungry and knew that there would be a tapas bar somewhere nearby, if her guidebook was to be believed.
It took just minutes to find a suitable-looking establishment, and as she walked through the front door, the tall, thin man holding the menus welcomed her enthusiastically in Spanish. “Lo siento,” she said – she’d learned how to apologise, thanks to her guidebook. “English?”
She cringed at her own crassness.
The man’s face fell slightly, and then he readjusted and in heavily accented English took her to a table and gave her a menu.
The place was clearly a favourite with tourists, with all the dishes described in English and Spanish, and before long, Vanessa was tucking into a plate of green padrón peppers and tomato bread, a Barcelona speciality.
It was a welcome delight after the salty pasta served in a plastic container that had been provided on her flight.
Eating, and sipping at a crisp glass of chilled white wine, she began to relax.
Yes, this was the place she was supposed to be.
Vanessa imagined her grandmother sitting opposite her, no doubt telling her not to drink so much, or to sit up straight.
She smiled sadly. There wouldn’t be any more of that.
After some more tapas – meatballs and an interesting broad bean dish – she headed back to her apartment, more than ready for bed.
As she reached the front door of her building she noticed a bakery opposite: Petritxol Pastelería.
She grinned. It was a sign, surely? The window was dark, but the lingering scent of sugar and yeast was unmistakable.
This would be a place to return to in the morning.
And by the following morning, the smell of delicious baked goods was already seeping into her bedroom.
She threw on some clothes and dashed down the stairs.
It was already 8.30am and the city was bustling with commuters.
She skipped across the narrow street, narrowly avoiding a cyclist, and went into the cafe.
The glass counter was covered in colourful macarons, pastries, cakes and churros.
Vanessa’s eyes grew large. There was so much to choose from.
She was disturbed from her overwhelm by a gruff-looking woman who rattled off a sentence of Spanish that left her completely lost. It didn’t help that she had yet to have anything to eat or drink yet that day.
She looked up at the woman, her blue eyes flinty, wisps of blonde hair peeping out from under her white baker’s cap.
She was wearing a white apron and had her arms folded, and the muscles in her forearms gave the impression of a woman who worked out.
Or perhaps it was all the dough kneading that she presumably had to do.
“Oh, um, I’m sorry,” stammered Vanessa. “Can I have one of those?” She pointed at a pastry that was coiled into a circle. “And a white americano, please? Por favor?”
The woman regarded her for a moment, sighed and then nodded, gathering the order.
Vanessa pressed her lips together. This wasn’t quite the romantic welcome to the city she had hoped for.
It certainly wasn’t how it happened in all those films where the protagonists travelled to far-flung corners of the world in search of their fortune.
But then, this was real life, not fiction.
Again, her grandma’s matter-of-fact voice echoed in her mind.
“Gracias,” she said to the baker as she picked up her order and paid. “And sorry.”
“De nada,” said the woman, who paused and pointed at the pastry. “Ensaimada,” she added, then turned swiftly to the next customer.
Vanessa took a seat in the cafe by the window, enjoying watching people as they went about their days.
She bit into the flaky pastry, which she figured must be called an ensaimada, and revelled in the way it melted in her mouth, the perfect balance of sweet and savoury.
It was very similar to a traditional croissant, except that it was lightly dusted with icing sugar. It somehow felt more decadent.
A larger, older woman emerged from the kitchen behind the counter. She was also wearing white overalls, and she channelled a stream of words Vanessa didn’t understand towards the gruff baker. The baker said a few words back, nodded, then untied her apron and headed out of the door.
“Buenos dias, senorita,” said the older woman.
“Buenos dias,” Vanessa replied. “Good morning.”
“Ah,” the woman’s eyes sparkled. “You are English. Visiting us for the first time?”
This was more like it. “Yes, thank you. Yes, that’s right. It’s my first morning here.”
“Well,” said the woman, whose forearms were also formidable, but far more rounded than her younger colleague’s, “you have come to the right place. This is the best bakery in Barcelona – the Petritxol Pastelería.” She smiled, her English perfect, if strongly accented.
Vanessa smiled back. “Fabulous!” she said. “It was meant to be.” She took a sip from her coffee before she spoke again. “Actually, I’m opening my own bakery in England. I’m here doing research.”
“Oh,” said the woman, her hands raised in delight, her generous bosom wobbling under her apron, “you are a baker, too? How fantastic. This is the right city to come to. You must tell me your English delicacies.”
“Oh, well, um, I’m not yet that much of a baker,” confided Vanessa. “I’m still learning, but I’m searching for—”
Her words were cut off by the sound of the cafe door slamming. The gruff baker was back, large plastic containers of milk in each hand.
“Joey!” exclaimed the older woman in English. “You must meet our new customer. She is a baker just like you.”
“Conmigo?” said Joey.
“Josephina, be kind to our new friend. She is going to teach us how to bake English dishes.” The older woman’s eyes sparkled.
“Me llamo Joey,” said the baker, as she dumped the milk containers unceremoniously on the counter. She was ignoring Vanessa and addressing the other woman, and Vanessa was fairly sure there was an eyeroll involved.
“Yes,” said the older woman, still in English, “we should introduce ourselves. My name is Carmen.”
“And I’m Vanessa.”
Carmen eyed Joey, before smiling back at Vanessa. “Don’t mind Josephina, she’s not had enough coffee yet this morning.”
Vanessa reckoned Joey had more problems than not enough coffee, if her body language was anything to go by.
Joey grunted and looked over her shoulder at Vanessa. “Hi,” she said, before disappearing into the kitchen.
Vanessa up picked her notebook, wrote down ‘ensaimada’ and made some notes on the texture, the appearance and the flavours.
This would be a must in her new cafe. It would be good to see it being made, but she would wait until Josephina or Joey, whatever her name was, wasn’t around before asking Carmen. Maybe tomorrow.
Her coffee had reached the perfect temperature, and as she sipped she could feel possibilities opening up before her. Maybe she could show Carmen how to bake an English classic – if she could work out how to do it herself. She went back to her notebook, and started making fevered notes.