Barcelona

Barcelona, Spain – Thursday, May 13th to Friday, May 14th, 2010

It was becoming a comfortable, familiar routine: checking into my evening’s accommodations, sitting down on the edge of the bed to unpack my laptop from my bag first, eager to catch up with the rest of the world, and discovering after ten minutes of futile refreshing, rebooting and network tinkering that the wireless signal simply wasn’t strong enough to reach the room I had been assigned to. Followed by silent cursing. That now brings the tally to 0 for 4 in Spain. At least when I brought my computer down to my hostel’s common area so I could research where I would buy a replacement camera the next morning, it opened the possibility of enjoying a conversation with numerous other world travelers, something my normal social attitude of “l’enfer c’est les autres” probably would have restricted had I not been baited out with the promise of wireless connectivity and free sangria (kindly provided at that evening’s social gathering event for all the hostel’s patrons).

Nationalities such as Belgium, Australia, China and more all had representation around the tables, providing a refreshing new array of dinner conversation topics, and the mixed cultures and occasional difficulties with the English language actually made far more comfortable my normally disastrous interpersonal communications skills… i.e. I never had to formulate an answer to that most vexing of questions, “what’s up?” I know this much about the appropriate answer: truthfully (“I lost my camera yesterday and can’t get wireless in my room”), ambiguously (“I don’t know, not much”), or literally (“the ceiling?”) are all wrong. Most keenly remembered was when a Frenchman learned that an American was in the midst, he wasted little time in making friendly acquaintance so he could disclose something which had urgently been bothering him.

“I am very worried, there is a… how do you call it, like a common image of a people that is false?”

“Like a stereotype?”

“Yes! I have heard that Americans have a wrong stereotype about me! There is a cartoon image of the Frenchman; they think we are rude, fat, and smelly, covered in body hair, and only wear berets and tight striped shirts that do not cover the bellybutton. Please, when you go back to the USA, make sure you tell everyone you know that this stereotype is not true! I am not hairy!”

So I could see. I replied with a quid pro quo request concerning the prevailing European stereotype that all Americans are loud, obnoxious and overly assertive, but I’m not sure if he heard me.

My first morning in Barcelona began by shelling out €220 for a new camera, a Canon PowerShot SX120 IS, which I thought might have been overpriced but when I showed it to a student from Hong Kong in the hostel he told me he thought it was a great deal and had paid much more for his own camera of lesser quality. I at least couldn’t complain about a reduced quality despite it being a ‘cheaper’ model, an upgrade to 10 megapixels over the past three years helped offset the shorter lens and absence of swivel LCD screen useful in getting more difficult angles; in all other ways the software was identical meaning I was back on the streets taking photos of random architecture in no time. (For those interested in closure for the yesterday’s story, while my dad’s camera I lost was never recovered, he told me he was actually pleased I lost it because the insurance meant he got a newer, better camera delivered to his door a few days later for free. Plus it finally forced me to get one to call my own, so all that was really lost was a second day’s pictures from PortAventura and whatever extra I paid through unfavorable exchange rates.) Here’s a small collection of the first photos I took with it, taken around Placa Catalunya (the central square of the city), Las Ramblas, and the gothic Barcelona Cathedral.

Being a tourist in Europe is accompanied with a mandate to develop an interest in topics one didn’t previously realize they held. History, religion, fine arts, architecture… all fairly narrow disciplines relative to the scope of academia as a whole, yet their monopoly stronghold over European guidebooks ensure that even the most philistine of marketing-communications students will at some point nod in what they think is genuine appreciation of some historical building or artifact they never knew existed more than an hour before. Then, several months later when they’re showing these photographs to their amazedly indifferent friends and family, will the reality of their situation finally catch up with them; “that’s right, I actually don’t give two shits about late-period baroque Churrigueresque architecture!” ¹

This is perhaps partly why Barcelona is such a popular destination amongst travelers… the architecture here actually will capture the interest of most people that see it, even absent of the sense of duty or obligation to purposefully seek out buildings that appear to be famous and important to other people. Most of this work is by Antoni Gaudí; too modern and innovative to compare to any other historical structure from Old Europe, but from too distant a time and place to compare to any other contemporary structure from the Age of Now.

Two examples of Gaudí’s odd style found in Barcelona are La Pedrera, a former office and apartment complex with a stony cave-like appearance, strange leaf-like steel banisters and not a single straight edge to found. Further down Passeig de Gràcia is the Casa Batlló, a dreamily multi-colored fantasy house with wavy coral balconies and cavernous stone arch windows (the entire block beyond it has some pretty crazy stuff as well, no idea if it was all Gaudí). After my initial reaction of amazement at the unique creative vision brought to these buildings, I had a moment to wonder if a deeper understanding of the aesthetics of architecture might actually undermine their statuses as masterpieces. After all, I (and everyone else walking on the street) was almost too quickly and easily impressed by this style, and we’re all pedestrian schmucks (no pun intended), our attention grabbed by whatever is the flashiest and offers the most instant gratification on a continent where many historical artistic periods were an exercise of measure and reserved excellence. How do I know I’m not taking pictures of the best of Spanish architecture and not the popular pulp; for that matter, is there any difference between the two, or if something evokes any sort of positive reaction from us does that automatically mean it’s a valid piece of work?

I didn’t worry about it for too long, just looking at the amount of expertise it clearly took to draft, fabricate and build so many curving, uneven edges was marvel enough… how is it that in this era of computer-aided drafting and engineering analysis and advanced construction techniques that our living environments have only yielded square, sterile and brutalist styles? Latent fascist aesthetic tendencies, I suppose.

This is actually the sort of inspiration I would like to see employed more often (or for that matter… at all) in amusement and theme park settings. I bemoan theme parks for creating a hyper-real but artificial environment that ultimately only alienates visitors from genuine experiences that traditional amusement parks offer, but that doesn’t mean I want Disney to become more like Six Flags. To the contrary I see the most future potential in modern theme parks and the tremendous creative and technical abilities they have at their disposal, but when I enter one of their fantastically crafted themed zones I should have a relationship with it similar to a Gaudí structure… questions of how ‘realistic’ it is or the ‘attention to detail’ would simply become incoherent because whatever is presented before me is the direct end expression of the aesthetic idea; La Pedrera and the Casa Batlló, for all their various marine or underworld inspirations, simply are what they are. Even in cases like Cinderella’s castle, you still have to go through that distancing reification process where the castle is a concrete representation of the presupposed idea of a fairy-tale castle, projecting extra metaphysical qualities to our perception of that structure which aren’t actually there.

I digress too far and this page isn’t even a review of a theme park. Later that afternoon I ventured over to the Picasso Museum, which didn’t host many of his most well-known later works, but the focus on a large collection early works dating all the way back from childhood and ordered by chronology did provide a fascinating insight into the creative evolution of the man who would become one of the most revolutionary artists of the 20^th century. I was particularly intrigued by the rooms dedicated to Picasso’s “Blue Period” between 1901 and 1904… one would think he’d have confronted the emotional implications of his reliance on only that somber color a bit sooner than after four years, especially since it’s not like that style was allowing him great commercial success at the time and I’m sure his paint dealers began asking questions.

Remember how I wrote back at the beginning of this series for Madrid that I arrived in Spain underprepared? (Of course not, I see the site statistics, they tell me what people are and aren’t reading!) On my way back to the hostel I picked up a brochure for Tibidabo which I was planning to visit Friday evening before heading out to my final city the next morning. While perusing the pages I couldn’t help but take consideration of the hourly schedule, which looked a lot like the red spots on a date indicated the rides would all be open but the yellow spots indicated only the top observational level would be open with most of the rides closed… and that Friday, May 14^th appeared to not be colored in red as I originally observed on the website when outlining this trip a few months back, but in yellow.

Oh. Mierda.

This begins a narrative whose unplanned repercussions would continue to accumulate and exacerbate throughout the rest of my travels until I sat down on a couch in an apartment flat in London. I was not going to miss out on seeing all of Tibidabo, it represented at least half the reason I was in Barcelona in the first place (and I’m being generous to Mssrs. Picasso, Gaudí and the City and People of Barcelona when I say ‘at least half’). So I hatched what I thought would be a suitable alternative plan: exchange my train ticket to San Sebastián from the Saturday morning train to Saturday afternoon (not without a fee, obviously), such that I would have a few hours that morning to take in the whole of Tibidabo which did promise to be open. Then because I had been planning to do my #2 most desired attraction in all of Spain (the Montaña Suiza scenic railway) that evening, I would have to push my bus ride to Santander Airport as late as possible so I would have maybe ½ hour Sunday morning for one or two rides. There went my dreams of finishing the trip with relaxed evenings in two of Europe’s most eclectic and historic amusement parks, watching from their spectacular vistas the sun go down and the lights go on, now replaced with stinted morning credit-grabbing sessions, as well as evaporating the few hours I had planned to see these northern coastal cities. But it was the best I was going to do while still getting to London on time for the start of my summer philosophy program.

The next morning was rainy and I ended up spending it sitting in the common area, half diddling around on my laptop, half watching a movie several people had on the television (Chris Nolan’s The Prestige; good movie, would be amazing if adapted to a theatrical stage play). When it finally started to clear I caught the Metro down to Placa St. Jaume, where both the Palau de la Generalitat (Catalonian government offices) and Ajuntament (Barcelona City Hall) are based. Here I joined on a bicycle tour hosted by the same company that operated the one out of Paris, which turned out to be an excellent means by which to see more of the city than foot would allow (Fat Tire, for anyone who may be visiting the city themselves and in need of a tour recommendation). The tour got to a start heading down to the medieval Plaza del Rei, a barren, stony and somewhat gloomy area where Columbus was greeted after his discovery of the Americas. Further down the tour was a pit stop in front of another remarkable piece of Barcelonan architecture, El Palau de la Mùsica Catalana (Palace of Catalan Music), designed in 1908 by a fellow calling himself Lluís Domènech i Montaner. We then moved on to the Spanish Arc del Triomf (never knew there was one until today…) situated next to the Parc de la Ciutadella, a large public park containing a large baroque fountain (Cascada) built by Josep Fontsère with some aid by a young Antoni Gaudí (later known as the fountain built by both Fontsère and Gaudí; then, built by Gaudí with some other guy, and today known as the fountain built by Gaudí.)

After a quick stop outside the bullfighting ring (which is scheduled to be closed forever soon as most of northern Spain is becoming keen to phase out these cultural events contributing to animal suffering), we toured down what appeared to be fairly ordinary inner city streets which seemed to be taking us further from any worthy sights. But as if by random one block revealed before us the towering Sagrada Família… and like the well-informed tourist I was, I had little idea what this structure was or what it looked like before I started this bike tour. This is what I found

I’ve seen plenty of impressive cathedrals around Europe, but this was something completely different. It’s a 500 foot tall sandcastle iced in molten wax with lizards, bats, vines and angles scaling the sides, a stone tableau of the crucifixion imagined as a postmodern acid trip… and over 100 years later it remains a literally active construction site, cranes buzzing hundreds of feet overhead as they work to prepare the structure for work on the central spire. I learned that when Gaudí started the project in 1883 it was expected to take several hundred years to complete using the methods of the time, although since the 1980’s a large amount of funding and use of modern stone-cutting techniques mean that it should be completed within the next two decades. There’s a commitment by the Catalonian community to this project I don’t think I’ve ever seen anywhere before in the modern western world we live in. For me, that was the most breathtaking and uplifting thing to consider about the Sagrada Família. Sadly we did not have enough time to do anything more than walk around the exterior once, because of all the European landmarks I’ve visited, I think this one may have left the most lasting impression.

The tour concluded on the Barceloneta beach, where our group had a chance to relax and converse on the sand while we ordered and sipped on sangria, the moment of tranquility contrasted with the ominous black storm clouds that drifted nearer from the surrounding mountain ranges. Throughout the course of my travels several new European friends expressed surprise that they met an American student that drank less than they did. I’ve always avoided anything close to insobriety, as even in moderation I think of it as a means to distance oneself from their life experiences and transform their identity into one that makes it easier to feel socially accepted. I actually never did as much drinking as I did while in Europe, and only then because it had then become a ‘cultural activity’ that needed to be lightly sampled to get the full experience. One thing I enjoyed about Europe was never being carded when ordering an alcoholic drink, there’s something satisfying about watching the waiter simply respond with ‘of course’; that’s almost a rite of passage or something. So sure, I’ll order one sangria, please.

Most of the other couples on the trip ordered a pitcher to share between them, but for most these turned out to be larger than they required. As a broke college student aware of the value of every euro I never let anything go to waste. So when a few other travelers offered to give me the rest of their sangria, how was I to turn down this offer? I couldn’t even notice the alcohol content, to me it seemed just a particularly tasty fruit punch confection. As the skies started to open to a light rain we started the final leg of the tour. I stood up to leave and… whoa, that hit me out of nowhere!

“My phenomenological experience seems to suddenly have an unusually large ratio of incoming sense data relative to my cognitive processing abilities…” (Yes, I really did think that.) Now, to just mount this bicycle and peddle it down narrow, winding, slightly slick sidewalks crowded with pedestrians while staying in formation with the bikes ahead of me. This was easier said than done.

I made it back to the tour office none the worse for wear. I deemed it prudent to return to the hostel for an hour to two before I’d chance taking to the streets of a foreign city again… just to let the rain pass, you see. It never became a downpour and just as soon cleared up. This was my final night in the city, the one I was supposed to spend in Tibidabo, and I needed to find something significant that would make up for all the inconvenience and missed opportunities my last-minute travel rearrangements required. Checking over the map I decided one major sector of the city I had not yet seen that was within walking distance was Montjuïc, a small mountain situated next to the harbor overlooking the rest of the city, topped by a medieval castle. The evening sky was turning a dark blue, soon transforming to a starless black before I could even improvise a path halfway up the hillside. Reaching the pinnacle revealed that far from a popular tourist destination at this hour I was nearly all alone although the occasional other people I did pass by appeared to be married couples walking their dogs or such so I figured it was a relatively safe area.  Often the only thing I had to light my path along the cliff outside the castle’s perimeter wall was the moon and city lights refracted off the water particles that still hung in the air. The only visible stars were below me, a twinkling urban skyline whose silence made it seem as far away as Alpha Centauri, not that you still don’t secretly believe if your reach was just a bit longer your could reach out and grab one.

Somehow the time escaped me and fifteen minutes later I realized three hours had gone by since I left the hostel. I hurried down the backside of the mountain, passing by the empty Olympic Stadium and National Museum of Art of Catalunya. As soon as I reached the bottom of Montjuïc the populous that had been completely absent on the ascent seemed to appear from thin air, all gathered around a gigantic illuminated ‘Magic Fountain’. Here I stayed transfixed for at least twenty minutes, watching it cycle through several changes in form and color whilst people-watching the crowds congregated around its basin. It turned out to be a satisfactory way to end the day.

[1] I might be giving people too much credit; I know a fair number of students that are open about the fact that they only went to Europe because they heard the nightclubs were good and the drinking age was lower.

Next: Tibidabo

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