Having a Great Time in Barcelona!

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Let me just say simply – I Love this city. It is a wonderful vacation city – well organized, vibrant, relatively clean for Spain, with plenty of things to do. This is a city I know I will come back to. A weekend was not nearly enough time to take everything in.

I Love this city. It is a wonderful vacation city – well organized, vibrant, relatively clean for Spain, with plenty of things to do.

I arrived on Friday, after twelve hours of traveling, to the festival of San Juan – a crazy, insane, party night with the streets overflowing with people. Handheld fireworks explode every few seconds, sometimes right at your feet. The night air fills with what seem to be gunshots in all directions. Las Ramblas, the famous pedestrian street Barcelona is known for (and where, I’d venture, we get the verb “to ramble”), was so crowded with people I felt more like a salmon swimming upstream than a human being. While this would be a wonderful night to be settled into your hotel room with a group of great friends ready to go out and party, or staying at the house of a new friend and a local who can show you the intricate details outlanders miss, it was not a night to be arriving without a reservation and with luggage in tow. First hotel, $150 – I don’t think so. Second, third, fourth – full. Fifth – 90, better. Full, full, full then 60. Then I spotted it “Pensione”, down a side street. The door opened so fast when I rang the buzzer and said I was one person, I felt like a long lost relative. Scaling three flights of stairs, with bags, I decided anything 30 or less I would take.

It seemed more like the set of a “Finding Forrester” movie - other side of the tracks kid makes it out - than a real place. The paint was peeling off the wall, where there was paint. The steps were concave and the staircase actually caving inward in some places. As I reached the second level I heard locks sliding on a door above me. A young Asian man came down the steps and, to my endearing appreciation, carried my bag the last flight. He was prim and proper, full of decorum, with straight posture and a brisk manner but there was a definite kindness in his eyes. He was apologizing before he opened the locks to the hallway of rooms, and again before he opened the lock to “my” room, explaining that this was all he had. The door opened to the teeniest room I have ever seen. Orange plaster walls, a small window that opened to an interior vent shaft, a half-size twin bed, a square 2 ft by 2ft cabinet, and quite literally, just enough room to turn around between the cabinet and the sink that jutted out of the far wall. I couldn’t put my suitcase on the floor and stand in front of the sink at the same time. I burst out laughing. He apologized again. It was all he had. “How much?” “20 euro” “I’ll take it.” He knew I was out of my element and was ever so kind. He came back a moment later with a fan which he plugged in with another apologetic smile. “You need anything. Have any problem. You call, okay.” I, uh, settled in i.e. put my suitcase on the bed, stood in the 2ft square foot space in front of the sink, washed my face, and headed out the door into even greater insanity.

They say it is the favorite Barcelonian past time – to amble up and down Las Ramblas, past the craft booths and street performers, the tourist shops and café tables. While I love ambling, and I love street performers and outdoor cafes, Las Ramblas is just a little too much for me, especially on a festival night. The energy is frantic on any given day, but the night of the San Juan festival it is downright frenetic. I walked the length of the street, sat and people watched for awhile, politely refused, seven times, a proposal for coffee with one man and politely refused the old man who stood glaring at the proposer the entire time then, when the other man left, approached me to tell me I was smart not to give the other my number and asked if I would I like to come live with him. It was definitely time to go back to my closet with the little door-handle lock. I’ll be the first to admit it. I was scared - one easily kicked in door between me and whoever else would stay in this place. The gun shot sounds from the fireworks every few minutes didn’t help. After an hour of nervous sleeplessness I finally barricaded the door with the clothes cabinet - which I wedged, diagonally, between the wall on the opposite side of the room and the door – that’s how small the room was. I popped a whole Tylenol PM, little sleep-inducing miracles, and slipped into a surprisingly deep slumber.

I woke up, still alive (this surprises me many mornings), with not a cockroach or rat to be found, though I think a few visited in my dreams. I threw on clothes and headed out for a walk in the hopes of finding a hotel with air conditioning and a little more peace of mind. I stumbled into a little two star pension, St Remo, that was just perfect. Set on a small circle, just two blocks from the Plaza Catalunya, and only 35 euro. I had my own room, bathroom (sans toilet), air conditioning unit, and balcony. Heaven!

To every negative there is a positive and so it is with the St Juan festival. The shops are all closed the following Saturday, and most people are at home or in hotels sleeping off hangovers, leaving what I imagine are unusually peaceful streets to the few tourists who did not see the wee hours of the morn. I’ve always loved walking streets of a party city early on a Sunday morning when you can feel the energy of the night before still pulsating in slow waves yet the streets are yours alone. Barcelona was like this all day Saturday. I wandered the streets past the impressive Triumphal Arch, built for the 1888 Universal Exhibition, through the Ciutadella, Barcelona’s largest city park which rivals Central Park in size, and past dozens of young folk passed out cold on benches and statues, in the grass or on stairs, baking, obliviously, in the high noon sun, with half-empty cups of beer next to their heads, before heading back to get my bags. The day was sweltering so I lingered awhile in my precious air-conditioning, rejoicing in the pirated internet signal from my room, before heading out again.

Barcelona has a wonderful air about it. It is a large cosmopolitan city, filled with museums, diverse architecture, great shopping, impressive tourist sights, beautiful gardens, a vibrant port, a culturally diverse population, and all the other elements of a cosmopolitan city. Yet it somehow miraculously still keeps a small town air about it, especially in the winding pedestrian streets of the Gothic Quarter and Old Town. The city definitely has something for everyone - the rich who like to shop, the artsy who like museums, the intellectuals who like history, the architectural buffs, the partiers, the wanderers and ponderers. I was sad to miss the impressive lineup of museums – 28 in total – everything from the Museum of Chocolate and of the History of Shoemaking to the Picasso Museum with an impressive selection of works by the great painter to the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, housed in the Palace of the 1929 International Exhibition overlooking Plaza de Espanya and boasts an impressive collection of Romanesqe Art. The museums were closed Saturday for the festival, had shortened hours on Sunday and were closed again on Monday so I didn’t see nary a one. I will go back for this alone.

The still and tranquil energy of the still recuperating city enveloped me as I meandered from place to place with no real itinerary. When evening came I retrieved my computer to search for a little café where I could eat and write. As I was walking through the old district, I spotted an incredibly enticing little place called Sukúr – small Arabic style tables made of dark worn wood sat clustered in the front near the street windows, candles and soft lights created a soft glow, warmed by the long flowing sheer fabrics that divided the long, slender restaurant and bar into little private sections. It was clearly a fusion of Turkish, Arabic, and Middle Eastern influences and irresistibly inviting. I took three steps backward for I had already passed before my mind had processed the intricate, warm, appealing atmosphere, and walked in. There were three, I must say, extremely attractive men chatting at the bar. Sometimes I surprise myself – so often I am shy, closed in my own little world, trying to hide in my book or computer where hopefully no one will notice me and sometimes I walk into a place like I’ve been there every day of my life for years and know everyone knows me or should. This was one of those nights. I was so brazen in my approach, I think I threw these men off a bit. If I had to guess, I’ll bet they thought I was looking for a little action rather than just some good conversation and a cool drink after ten hours of walking. Luckily I found both there. Nicholas the bartender made the best damned Mojito I have ever had in my life (and was oh-my-god-cute). Dimitri, the owner and hot as hell, didn’t have much to say though he had one of those great mysterious untouchable energies – the proprietor of the disco type that all the girls want to seduce. Costas was attractive as well in his own beatnik, armchair philosopher way. He and I engaged in most of the conversation, dancing around philosophical topics. He was clearly a Nietzsche-ist – not that he necessarily follows Nietzsche, we didn’t get that deep, but in that disdainful philosopher attitude I always imagined Nietzsche to have where the first tenet of the philosophy is everyone else in the world is an idiot. Actually come to think of it Socrates was a bit like this as well. It began to be fun watching him swallow the condescension in his words despite the fact it showed so clearly in his eyes. The conversation, though, was intelligent and engaging and I was happy to have a little time to play philosophical cat and mouse in my own mother tongue. It was almost 11pm when I finished my Mojito. They were all so cute in such different ways, it was impossible to decide which one I’d want to seduce, so I shouldered my backpack and headed out in the night.

The still and tranquil energy of Saturday was nowhere to be found at 9am Sunday morning. There were tourists everywhere – lines circled up and down the streets for entrances to museums and Gaudi designs. Even the hop on/off bus stops were cued. There was no way I was going to get in everything I wanted to do with this madhouse of tourists. This would not be a meandering day - to get even half my list done would require a carefully conceived strategy. Now my kids will tell you no one is better at conceiving a perfectly planned strategy for a day of fun. Fortunately, now it is a skill I can invoke. Ten years ago it was an anal-retentive–compulsive necessity, much to the consternation of my children – especially at amusement parks. I would sit them down at the fountain that you find at the entrance of every amusement park and take a poll of what everyone wanted to do. Then I would pull out the map and develop the most efficient route that allowed us to see everything with a minimum amount of backtracking. Can you imagine these poor kids – 5, 9, and 13 – chomping at the bit to ride roller coasters and drive bumper cars that lay just beyond this dancing water and mom sitting there with the map saying “just a minute more” (for thirty minutes) while she analyzed whether it was better to cut through It’s a Small World or Old Colonial America! I’m not sure they have forgiven me to this day, actually I know they haven’t.

The day was grueling but I did make the most of it – focusing on Barcelona’s world famous architect, Antoni Gaudí. Never having heard of Gaudí before I came to Spain, I was blown away by the uniqueness of this man’s architecture and the willingness of a city to let him express his vision. If you have never heard of him, run a google search and check out his life and accomplishments. His designs are playful, fun, enticing, entertaining, and daringly original. His masterpieces are sprinkled throughout the city – the Mila, Vicens, and Calvet houses, the Palau Guell, Bellesguard, Finca Miralles, but it is the church of the Sagrada Familia that is considered his masterpiece. It was his dream and he threw himself heart and soul into the work, even living within its walls. His sudden death in 1926 left the project unfinished yet his vision was so strong, despite the fire that destroyed many plans, the city continues to work on its completion, funded entirely by private donations. The west façade is dedicated to the Nativity, the east to the Passion, and the south to the Ascension (still incomplete). The Nativity and Passion are breathtaking and captivatingly unique. There are pictures in the Barcelona photo album though they don’t begin to do the work justice. Personally, I was a little disappointed inside given the percentage of the place that was under construction but was happy to have walked through and seen this masterpiece, the vision of a man, and the will of a city to continue the vision through lifetimes of work as mankind did hundreds of years ago.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time to tour any of the other Gaudí buildings but I did scale the hill up to Guelle Park – what an amazing place. With the popularity in the early 1900s of the English garden-cities, Gaudí and his patron, Eusebi Guell, undertook what was to be a residential district of 60 homes on 15 hectares of land where the residents were promised a radically new way of life. Gaudí was to prepare an “ideal town plan” with complete freedom of expression in the buildings and decoration. Unfortunately, the project failed. Only two lots were sold, one to Gaudi himself. In 1922, the city acquired the area and transformed it into a park. It says, I think, a great deal about Barcelona and its people that they embraced so completely this fascinating, unique individual, even in his failures.

I continued the hop on/off tour – which unlike Seville is well worth the 18 euro in Barcelona. The buses and stops are frequent, on all three lines that encircle the city, and the guide is replete with information and coupons for virtually every attraction. The major loop is a little long to use for transportation, but it is excellently designed to hop off at each stop, tour that area, and hop back on for the next one. They don’t tell you, but the second day is only $4 more and well worth the money given how large the city is. I “hopped off” to take a walk around their Plaza d Espanya, the beautiful Palace that sits on the Montjuic hill overlooking the city below, through the Guell Pavillions, past the Olympic City, and ended the day with a walk through the port. I had wanted to ride the Funicular at sunset but was disappointed to find it closed.

It is Sunday night now. I am sitting at a little outdoor table at a sidewalk café across from the port area. Soccer is playing on the TV set behind me and I am so obviously American sitting by myself, typing, with my back turned to what is clearly the most important thing in life for Europeans. Ah, paella and sangria, the perfect dinner for my last night in Spain – according to my 8^th grade Spanish book. Tomorrow I take a plane to Italy for a few days downtime with Daniele. Having averaged ten hours of walking a day and about 500 calories a day of food for the last two weeks, it will be good for me to give my body a break and nice to be taken care of for a few days. As I prepare to leave and look back over my four weeks here, I have mixed feelings about Spain. Vaughan Town was wonderful, yet a strange surrealistic land where there was no free time and yet in a strange way stress-free time, a peace that comes from doing rather than deciding. Max was a great host and a great person to meet, as was Geoffrey. Carrie too made an impression on my heart. As did the kind people I met in passing. But the conversations and people to relate to (not to mention the couches) were few and far between. Spain is filled with amazing places, some of which, like Barcelona and Santiago, I know I will return to one day, some of which, like Avila and San Sebastian, I know I won’t, and some, like Cordoba, Cadiz, and Toledo, I hope to see someday. Yet for me, it was difficult to keep overcoming the abrupt attitude of the service industry. People like Jose Luis, Nancane, Alfredo, the hotel staff in Santiago, the Greek boys at the restaurant, the sweet train hostess, and others all did their share to overcome the negative attitude of those in the service sector, yet for me, personally, consistent negative attitudes are hard to get past. I left Miami in large part for the abrasive attitudes of virtually every bank teller, gas station attendant, and store clerk. I guess I was spoiled growing up in the south where entering a business, one is greeted with a smile and a “how’do’ya’do” – something I am sad to say is disappearing also from the southern states. Even my kindergarten teacher said I was an oversensitive child. I guess it is still true because it only takes about ten mean people before I have to break down and cry, like the night in the Seville train station. That said I am glad to have seen at least some of the beauties that this land has to offer and experience, just a bit, its culture and vibrant life. It will be interesting to see what lies in the lands ahead…