I'm just returned from the annual outing to Gartner Symposium. Once, it provided delightful blog entries from the south of France. Then the closure of the Cannes convention centre moved activities to Spain. And though I enjoyed those French trips, I have much more exploration left to do in Spain before I miss the cote d'azur.
The work part of the week saw me back at the Barcelona Princess. Last year I found the place striking but hard to love. My room was cold, both in temperature and decor. Though on the seaward side of the building, I wasn't high enough to see much more than the sprawling convention centre. This year by some fluke of luck I got upgraded to the Desigual Loft. This Spanish design company is known for its vivid colours and starburst designs. Think Moorish meets '60s psychedelia. They've taken over two floors of the hotel, which converge on a two-story lounge and a rooftop pool, and lavished their designs all over. It's quirky, festive and totally un-corporate. It brought the otherwise austere and angular rooms to life. Add to that the fact that my room looked over the city, the mountains and had a clear view of La Segrada Familia, and it was warm enough to take a couple of quick dips in that pool between work commitments, and I became a very happy customer.
Work complete, I moved up the street for some fun. Literally. The Diagonal is the very long avenue that cuts across Barcelona from sea to mountains. On Thursday afternoon I moved 2 kilometres up the road, saving 100 euro a night and dropping a century back in time.
We were exploiting another of our club's reciprocal memberships, this time at the Circulo Ecuestre. This club, originally founded by keen horsemen, occupies a gracious Modernist (Spanish Art Nouveau) mansion in the heart of the fashionable Eixample district, formerly the home of a wealthy family. The old house holds lounges, restaurants and function rooms; hotel rooms are in a more modern building next door.
While not as shocking as Gaudi, the building had the audacious curves and naturalistic forms typical of the city's most famous son, and all the furnishings and art were in keeping with the time period. In a city so defined by its architecture, I was delighted to be staying somewhere so evocative. It was a bit odd, however.
This is a club, after all, not a hotel. And, according to the girl at the front desk, the Circulo Ecuestre is heavily a business club that gets little usage in the evenings or on weekends. Thus Thursday night found me entirely on my own on the palatial ground floor, choosing from five empty lounges radiating off the spectacular great hall as I considered where to nurse my Campari and soda. I finally chose the room at the front and centre and sank into a wingback to watch traffic flow up and down the Diagonal through the big oval window. When I wandered to the restaurant I was at one of three occupied tables. On Friday night, Piers and I again had the ground floor to ourselves, and on Saturday they'd closed it off completely. But were having a private party in the conservatory that also served as a breakfast room.
There weren't many staff around. On both nights we had to hunt for someone to get us a drink, and the front desk was only manned at peak hours. Though a doorman was there 24/7 to let residential guests through. Not many guests, either. I'd guess there were perhaps 12 rooms; we never saw more than six other people at breakfast. After the mob at the trade show, I found the slightly strange isolation soothing.
It was Piers' first visit to Barcelona, and only my second, so we did the standard tourist itinerary. Gaudi buildings (of which more next), the city bus tour (hop-on, hop-off, excellent value), the Boqueria market (where I resisted a repeat of the poor numerical skills that found me buying £120 worth of morels), a meander through the Gothic quarter, a bit of shopping (Vincon is the coolest home store ever). And food. Lots of food. Of that, more to come.
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