Float Easy Little Brother
A night of paella, sea urchin, sangria, tattoos, flamenco, and the grief that still finds me, even in Barcelona.
*An excerpt from my memoir Anomaly. Today is the one year anniversary of my brother’s passing. It still feels like yesterday though. Names in my memoir have been changed to protect individual’s privacy.
Barcelona, Spain | October 2025
I take a paella making class in the heart of the Gothic Quarter later that evening, on my first full day in Barcelona. I’ve planned excursions at every stop on this journey to satisfy my love of food and desire to try new things. I want to know what locals eat, to learn how to prepare their signature dishes, shop where they shop, and generally expand my palate and culinary knowledge.
We begin the evening by walking through the ancient narrow pedestrian streets of the quarter to the massive open-air market La Boqueria, one I recognize from so many food and travel shows, but especially from my favorite, Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown. It is home to over 300 food vendors and a chef’s wet dream. Fresh mussels, fish of every imaginable variety, spiky sea urchins, clams, octopus, massive langoustines and tiny shrimp — the variety is almost overwhelming. But it’s not only seafood, its fresh produce, baked goods, desserts, spices, preserves, cheeses, anything your stomach desires.
We are given a few minutes to wander the stalls on our own which is very exciting, I want to try as many local delicacies as possible. I start with a round purple sea urchin that looks like a pissed-off porcupine. I point to it and nod to the vendor. “Por favor,” I say. He cuts it open, loosens the roe, places it in a paper dish, and hands it to me with a slice of lemon. Bourdain said it was one of the most scrumptious things you could put in your mouth, so I am glad Barcelona is where I get to taste it. It is surprisingly tasty and mild. The men behind the counter watch me eat it, thinking I’ll be disgusted, then smile approvingly when they realize I’m not.
I pick up a paper cone assembled beautifully with slices of salami, Spanish ham, cured olives, bite-size pieces of cheese, and a few crispy thin breadsticks. The butcher is slicing ham off a large, cured leg with a massive knife, each piece paper thin and melting in your mouth. Next, I pick up a small dish of fried calamari and whole sardines, squeeze the lemon over them, and pop an entire fish in my mouth, head, eyes, tail and all. It is crispy, salty, and addictive.
I rejoin our group and follow the guide as he purchases everything we need for the paella. The fish, clams, mussels, green peppers, onions, spices from the spice merchant, and the best Bomba rice from the grain vendor. When we’ve gathered it all, we head to the kitchen.
It’s a large class, about thirty of us from all over the world. There’s a couple from China on their honeymoon, and a family of four from Australia whose teenage daughter looks like a supermodel. A retired couple from Wisconsin. A woman in her fifties that has decided I’ll be her friend, she’s from Florida but has spent the last three years living in Scotland working as an engineer and traveling solo throughout Europe.
Our chefs have made roja sangria and it goes down a little too easily. They hand each of us an apron and assign us prep stations. I am in charge of dicing all the onions and green peppers with the newlyweds. Our eyes are watering, but we are beginning to feel the easy buzz of the wine, and everyone is loosening up and enjoying themselves. The pan they are browning the rice in is a massive round disk, easily three to four feet across, large enough to feed a group this size and it seems to need constant attention.
We each get a turn stirring the rice and adding our ingredients, the room smelling divine. When it’s finished, everything spreads in a thin layer across the pan for the final touch. The bottom layer crispy, the top tender and moist. We take our seats at the long communal table and raise our glasses in a toast as the cooks prepare our plates. It is an explosion of flavor and I’m so glad I’ve come.
When it’s over, it’s dark out and I walk back through the winding streets of the old town, taking my time. I stop for some churros dipped in thick, decadent milk chocolate, that are every bit as good as I’ve heard they are. The longer I wander the alleys, the more bars begin to fill, the music getting louder, the people getting drunker. I head in the direction of my hostel.
It’s been so busy the past week that I haven’t had time to think or process anything, and now I do. In the solitude of this night walk it surfaces again, that familiar sadness, the intense loneliness. I have no one to call and share this day with, no one who wants to know how the class went or that today I ate a sea urchin. The two people who would have been interested are no longer in my life, and I wonder if I will ever get used to that.
