Thursday, August 18, 2005

You can’t go to Barcelona without seeing something Gaudi-related. It would be like going to London and not seeing Tower Bridge, or going to Los Angeles and not seeing the Hollywood sign. So on our last day in Spain, James and I went to see Gaudi’s unfinished cathedral, La Sagrada Familia, which promised to be a “once-before-you-die” experience. I had spent the past four years taking any opportunity I could to see the interiors of cathedrals, so how could I resist the chance to see one that’s been under construction for over 100 years?


Apparently James and I weren’t the only ones who wanted this “once-before-you-die” experience. Hordes of people and tour buses galore lined the streets leading to the church. We heard every language imaginable as we traipsed past vendors selling disposable cameras and holographic postcards of the pope and the Virgin Mary. And there, rising out of the crowds, were the towers of the Apostles and construction cranes overhead.

La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

We waited in a long line to enter through the large glass doors under a modern stone scene of the crucifixion. The façade looked nothing like I’d imagined. From pictures I’d always seen a building that looked as if wet sand had been dripped all over it, like the witches castles you can make on the beach. But this building was smooth, with pale, carved stones and mosaic tiles.

The Crucifixion

Inside, we visitors were roped into the perimeter of the building. The center was very much a construction site, with equipment, machinery and piles of mosaic plaques open to the elements. But oh, the rest of the cathedral. Pillars carved like tree trunks supported an arched ceiling carved with stars and leaves. Stained glass windows threw bright rainbows of light over everything. You can only imagine how magnificent it’s going to be once completed, with nature and religion all mixed up inside. Because the cathedral’s financing has always been directly from donations, construction is slow, and I doubt very much I’ll ever see the completed structure.

We exited the building through heavily carved doors opposite from where we had entered. This was obviously the older side of the building, begun first in 1882. Hard to believe that Gaudi wasn’t at the forefront of this cathedral from the beginning. He was only appointed to the position of Project Director after its previous director resigned in 1883. Gaudi redesigned the cathedral to what we see today. This older façade showed scenes of the nativity among aged, heavily textured stonework. One of the most wonderful things I noticed were statues of turtles forming the bases of the columns. This architecture literally drips with imagery, making it absolutely stunning to take in.

Doorway

The Nativity

After so much visual stimulation, James and I took it easy the rest of the day. We stopped for tapas and ate outdoors in the sunlight. Mussels in sauce for James, skewered spiced meat and potatoes in hot sauce for me. We make one last venture to the Mercat de la Boqueria for chili peppers for that night’s pasta sauce before jumping back on the bus to take us to the Tres Estrellas one last time.


Whatever inner peace I may have soaked up at the cathedral that day was shattered during my evening shower at the campsite. While in my cubical enjoying the hot water, I noticed a movement at the top of the cubical wall. As I watched, a male’s dorky haircut, acne-spattered forehead and eyes that were trained upon me slowly emerged over the wall. I cupped scalding hot water in my hands and flung it at his face as hard as I could, screaming a few choice swear words at the top of my lungs. He vanished, and I toweled off in a hurry to find James. We searched out a security guard and tired explaining what had happened, but unfortunately, we were in the middle of Spain, unable to communicate in French to the guard, who couldn’t understand Spanish or English.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Even when you’re traveling, you still have to think about domestic things like dinner and laundry. We were ten days in, and our underwear situation was getting pretty dire. James and I needed to find ourselves a Laundromat or else we’d have to start re-using, and that’s just gross. Our campsite, the Tres Estrellas, although certainly rambling as my Lonely Planet book had promised, was not equipped with a washer or dryer. So into the city we would have to go.


On the bus into Barcelona, James and I consulted my Lonely Planet book. We found one little listing of one little Laundromat somewhere off Las Ramblas, but conveniently, no street names and no idea of scale on the map. It looked extremely close to the Barcelona Mar Youth Hostel, so we figured if we could find that, we could figure out where to do our laundry. (By the way, on the bus ride between Barcelona and the campsite, we kept seeing women at the side of the road waiting or hauling white plastic chairs to the roadside. We soon realized that these were “working women” who were awaiting clients.)

Working Girl

James and I somehow found our way to the tiny Laundromat tucked away in the back streets of Barcelona off a quiet square. We felt very far away from the bustling boulevards, although Las Ramblas was just a few streets over. We sat on small plastic chairs reading while we waited for our washing to finish. It felt so strange to be doing something as normal as laundry in Barcelona.

Walking Distance

We weren’t too far away from the Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona, so when we finished we took our bag of freshly laundered underwear and visited the museum. What I remember most about finding the museum was that it was in a square that was filled with light. Emerging from small streets snaking their way between tall buildings was like suddenly opening your eyes. The white stones were absolutely brilliant. The Museum of Contemporary Art was light and airy, with dark galleries and high ceilings. There was an exhibition by Francis Alÿs called “Walking Distance from the Studio.” James was familiar with the body of work and was excited to see the video installations of Mexico City. He was also particularly inspired by the building itself, and later painted two images of it.

Painting by James Keniston

Painting by James Keniston

Unable to resist the market, we explored again to find food for that night’s dinner. The sights and smells were mouthwatering, from the salty cured meat to the fresh seafood, the sweet fruits to the spice stalls. We purchased mushrooms, red wine, green beans, and steak. There’s nothing like a well-cooked steak in a garlic and red wine sauce with mushrooms and green beans cooked and eaten outdoors while the sun sets. I think most food you eat while camping tastes better because you’re outdoors and you’re hungry.

Meat Market

Fish Market

James and I discovered that while the Tres Estrellas was large and rambling, it wasn’t large and rambling enough. We had been assigned a space in the “young” section of the campsite with other teenagers and college-aged students, young 20-somethings who were on vacation to party. They drank and sang and played bongo drums and didgeridoos all night long, screaming with drunken laughter and general shenanigans. James and I, who were on vacation to see and experience as much as we could, were awarded an extremely poor night’s sleep, only being able to rest after everyone had passed out cold. In the morning we walked past mountains of beer cans and wine bottles, discarded musical instruments, and young men asleep on inflatable pool rafts with strange assortments of clothing. Fortunately, we would only have one more night at the campsite before moving on.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Once I read a book about a woman who travels around the US on the train with her camera, which, as a budding photographer, I found highly irresistible. She wrote about having “train face.” Years later, after an overnight train through Spain into Barcelona, I finally understood what she meant.


Looking in the mirror of the women’s bathrooms at Barcelona-Saints Station, I decided I definitely had “train face.” It’s what a night of poor sleep in a cramped, cold compartment with the conductor’s flashlight illuminating the semi-darkness every hour looks like. I needed some breakfast (ie. Coffee!) and I needed it fast.


I emerged to find James sitting on a bench, encumbered with our two huge backpacks, equally afflicted by “train face.” We found coffee and pastries at a food stall and welcomed the sugary food. We sat amid the morning commute, I with my vice-like grip on my backpack, remembering the story of theft and lies from my Lonely Planet “Rite of Passage” book that took place in the very station we were seated in. We consulted my copy of “Europe on a Shoestring” and decided to try out the Tres Estrellas campsite. The catch was that it wasn’t actually within Barcelona. It was a bus ride to the town of Castelldefels, south of the city.

Barcelona

We set off from Saints Station to find the Plaça Espanya and our bus. Along the way we met two backpackers from New Zealand who were looking for a place to stay in Barcelona. We swapped stories, and after everything we said, they would reply “Aw, true?” After we split up, James talked about dunnys until we found our bus.


Eight and a half miles later, we found ourselves on a stretch of highway near an airport. On the left side of the highway were campsites, including our destination. Unfortunately, we were on the right side of the highway with no overpass in sight. We got off the bus with a French couple who were also looking for accommodation. The four of us stood by the side of the highway, looking wistfully at the other side. A team of road workers took pity on us, and told us they would watch the traffic for us and tell us when it was safe to cross. Collectively taking a deep breath, the four of us took off running toward the center divider, our backpacks bouncing uncontrollably and hitting us in the heads with each step. We somehow managed to roll ourselves over the concrete divider, and then dashed across the rest of the highway to sanctuary. (We later discovered that if we stayed on the bus for just one more stop, we would be right next to a pedestrian overpass.)

On the way to Castelldefells

After pitching the tent and freshening up, James and I caught the bus back into Barcelona for the afternoon. We stopped at the Plaça del Catalunya, right at the mouth of Las Rambles, a pedestrian boulevard selling everything imaginable. From street performers to caged birds, Las Rambles had it all, including access to one of the best markets I’ve ever seen. The Mercat de la Boqueria seemed to go on forever, yielding endless stalls of fresh produce, eggs, seafood, meats and cheeses. The sheer abundance of foods took us both by surprise, and we spent ages just looking at everything.

Mercat de la Boqueria

Mercat de la Boqueria

Tearing ourselves away from the fresh goodies in the market, James and I continued down Las Rambles toward the seafront and the statue of Christopher Columbus. We wandered back through the Barri Gòtic and La Ribera, getting lost among the tiny, twisted medieval streets. We could almost feel the ghosts of Pablo Picasso and Joan Miro in the oldest section of the city. We saw the cathedral tucked among the high grey stone walls and discovered squares exploding out from the narrow streets.

La Merce Basillica

Barcelona

Barcelona’s older section was a visual feast and a virtual Where’s Waldo of architectural details. A stone courtyard yielded fountains, mosaics and elaborate wall plaques. Easily the largest city James and I had been to thus far on our trip, Barcelona overwhelmed me. The streets bustled with electric anticipation one moment, yet quiet repose seemed attainable just around the corner.

Candle Seller

We couldn’t resist heading back to the Mercat de la Boqueria to pick up our dinner. €2 later, we had some of the freshest vegetables we could find to make a vegetable stew back at the campsite. We made our way back to the Plaça del Catalunya to wait for our bus.