An invitation to ascend and dream. 

Gerhard tugged at his navy sweater and fell into a deep sleep.  The imprint of his Spanish summer jaunt colored his thoughts.  When he traveled abroad, he always found that it was hard to express exactly what was different about the places and people he met.  Language was an obvious difference, but it was more than just “aqua” for “water.”  Spaniards were full of energy, but had this contrasting aloofness that gave them an air of seemingly being less friendly than he had remembered.  That didn’t seem like an accurate assessment thought Gerhard as he recalled fondly the nice Catalans he met at the Olympic swimming pool on Montjuic.  Admittedly, it was more of an exchange of head nods and arm gestures motioning to circle in the lanes than actual words, but what fun he had with swimming with them.  Maybe it was the lack of language—his inability to exchange ideas or at least words—that made him feel a bit alone amid the crowd of people.  Yet the silence and absence of engagement was a nice respite from the constant ‘dialogue’ with his fellow New Yorkers who seemed to live too much in his personal space at times, particularly on the crowded 7 train.  He wasn’t sure and was slightly frustrated at his lack of finding suitable words.  Sometimes little bears have words and thoughts that don’t translate easily into English and this was one such occasion. 

Gerhard stirred and was aware that he was half-awake, on the cusp of dreamy sleep.  He continued to observe his rambling thoughts.  He was more saddened that his Barcelona had become crowded with too many people as was scarily evident in the masses of city folks and visitors clogging the narrow calles in Barri Gothico.  Fourteen years ago, you could ramble the streets and alleys and not see anyone.  “Fourteen, wow, that is a long time,” thought Gerhard.  Somewhere those Barca days felt like just yesterday and, yet, they felt of another lifetime, as if he were someone else then.  As he tucked deeper under the blanket, Gerhard was happily aware that at this point in his life he felt very much himself.  Sometimes one journeys to find oneself.  Fourteen years ago, he didn’t know what he wanted or what he believed in so it was easy to be open to new adventures.  Quiet Barcelona was perfect for long strolls on empty autumn beaches and getting lost in the meandering streets to make discoveries.  Now, older and greyer, he was certain of his simple, perfect way of being.  He was a bear that loved routine, but believed that even in the familiar there is a newness if one is present.  Above all, a dark baguette—one with crispy crust enveloping a pillow-like light dough—and good coffee were essential to his happiness. 

Gerhard interrupted this revisit of old memories to think on ChocOchat and his love of chocolate.  Gerhard was glad that he had secured ChocO a Santa Clara chocolate croissant and that it was safely sealed away in a Ziploc bag in Gerhard’s blue Rimowa international carry-on suitcase.  “Desde 1834” it said on the white Santa Clara wrapper.  Gerhard had discovered this charming bakery on the Carrer de La Llibreteria on his first visit to Barcelona.  Its recipes of deliciousness were passed down generation to generation and persevered despite Franco’s oppression.  How many Castellers munched on these croissants before climbing their amigos’ shoulders in Plaça de Sant Jaume or celebrated La Mercè with Pan con Tomate?  Are generations united by a love of a great bread?  That is probably an over-simplification, but if he correctly comprehended Adam Gopnik’s book "The Table Comes First: Family, France, and the Meaning of Food,"Gerhard understood that the meal gathering is about sharing moments with important persons in one’s life (family and friends), even more so than the actual meal or what was eaten.  That often one’s association with a particular food’s taste is enhanced by these personal memories.  Gerhard reflected for a moment and thought that while there was much truth in that, for him, it was still about the bread and that the pure taste of a dark baguette with Bouchon jam would always be pure love for him.