Catalonia is not Spain!

21-22 mayo 2010: Barcelona, Catalonia (Spain)

The message is very clear, folks:

We do not speak Spanish, we speak Catalan. Just because it is a bastardization of Spanish and French does not make it any less of a real language. We are not really part of Spain. We should be an independent country like we used to be. And we say all this in English to make sure you understand.

... But since this is Barcelona – a hip, modern, fashionable, tourist-friendly European city – we also speak English all the time anyway and follow European trends in high heels.

In these Barcelona posts, I will start switching between languages, just to warn you. I've given place and building names in Catalan because that's how they were written on my map, but otherwise I might refer to things in Spanish. I'll try to define things if it might be confusing!

~~~

I arrived Friday night, walked briskly through the modern airport (black, highly-polished faux-marble floor), found an electronics store and successfully negotiated in Spanish the location and purchase of a plug converter so I could charge my Irish phone. I had borrowed Kelsey's phone charger in France, but if I wanted to keep in touch with her and Grace, as well as my friends who would be arriving in Barcelona soon, I needed to be able to have my phone all the time. Skipping over any sort of customs (once you are in the European Union, they don't bother with stamping your passport again from country to country), I came out to a horde of people all waiting to greet their friends or relatives or pick up businesspeople. I turned away from them and went to the Oficina de Turismo. I got a metro ticket for the duration of my stay, a map, and directions to my hostel which proved not very useful in actually finding it, as the street it was on is not marked on the map, but at least it got me almost there.

I took a bus down to Plaça Catalunya and walked around it 'til I found La Rambla. The street sign is hard to find, but the street is impossible to mistake. La Rambla is a pedestrian street, basically. The walkway down the center is wide enough for a set of stalls on either side plus space to walk down the middle, and then there is one lane of car traffic on each side, then the buildings. I rushed through the flower section, pausing to examine a street show with blindfolded people in a circle whose shirts read (in different languages) 'You hit me, I pay you.' Which they did. One girl from the crowd was brave enough to walk up to one of the performers and slap her in the face. And the performer pulled a coin from her pocket and held it out. I'm not entirely sure what the point was, though. I passed through on the bird-sellers and at last turned onto Carrer de Ferran that was to lead me to Plaça Sant Juame.

On one side of the plaza a wedding was finishing. The happy couple walked out of the City Hall to rose petals, cheers, and a shower of rice. On another side was the Palau de la Generalitat. I had to try a couple of cross streets from there and do some exploring of narrow streets before I found Plaça Sant Michel, a tiny one with a playground and the only modern building in the entire Las Ramblas and Barrio Gótico neighborhood (that was actually redundant, as 'barrio' is the Spanish word for 'neighborhood', but that's what happens when you start switching between languages!). From there, it was easy enough to find the street sign (considering how well they often hide them) for Carrer del Palau (above, on the left - the tiny balconies full of plants, arched doorways, and motorcycles are typical of the area). The building housing both apartments and my hostel had the door open, so I walked in to a quiet little courtyard (below) and up the stairs, worn in the middle from long years of use, to the hostel.

I settled into my room and had some of my pasta for dinner. I boiled water and cooked the pasta in the microwave because I was terrified of having to use a match to light the gas stove. True night finally settled in and I sat down to make plans. From the screen-less window (I envy the lack of bugs in Europe) cool evening air flowed in and carried with it the soothing sound of cathedral bells chiming a tune of sorts and then the hour. The two girls who were my roommates for the next few nights came in from the beach and we did introductions; they were Americans, but had spent the semester studying in England and had just come from a visit to Amsterdam the day before. They ended up spending most of their time in Barcelona at the beach, I think, but they were nice roomies and good to chat with at the end of the day.

~~~

Saturday morning my alarm went off early and I grumbled at it, but got up, dressed, and took my box of cereal and a book to the kitchen. Thus completing the wake-up-and-become-civilized routine, I got out my map and checked the route I had planned the night before. Most of the big highlights I planned were on Liz's recommendations - namely the art museum and Antoni Gaudí architecture, but I basically just looked at the map to decide on the rest. I eliminated the Picasso museum, even though it was close because my feelings on him are generally negative, though I do like his blue period and a other things here and there. Anyway, first up was the Barcelona Catedral I saw marked on the map near my hostel. I hoped it would be open at nine, as the art museum didn't open until ten. I packed my purse and headed out, through Plaças Sant Michel and Sant Juame and from there I picked a street that looked like the one I wanted (look, cathedrals are big, hard to miss once you get going the right way, it wasn't that stupid).

Almost immediately I stopped to take a picture. It's the first one under Barcelona in the post with all the pictures. Go on, scroll down. I'll wait......... Isn't it lovely? Later I saw a postcard of the same arch, with the evening sun shining from behind - apparently it is most photogenic and emblematic arch in the neighborhood. And did you spot the little gargoyle coming out of the left wall? It's Catholicism meets Islam. Liz would later tell me that in Granada the Moors built the narrow, windy streets on purpose to be maze-like so as to confuse invading enemies. The same goes for Barrio Gótico, walled until the mid-1800s, and the heart of the medieval city. Until then end of the 1800s, the whole city of Barcelona consisted of Barrio Gótico, La Rambla and two other barrios now comprising Ciutat Vella (Old City). Things expanded fast.

El Catedral wasn't hard to find. A little further along the street and there it was. I walked through the doors into a covered walkway around a beautiful green-filled courtyard. Old stone arches supported the walkway and created niches on the walls adjoining the church where saints stood tall and worn. The origins of the cathedral date back to the 8th century, though my guess is that the current building dates to the 17th or 18th century. The central part was blocked to the public by a wrought iron fence, but the flock of white geese that lived there had no qualms about coming right up to the edge and asking for a bite to eat. A little fountain bubbled in with them and palm trees reached up almost past the roof. There seemed to be a service in session, so I didn't go into the nave of the church, but the courtyard was enough. It felt old and green, like you might expect an overgrown Mayan temple to be, but it was so alive with the geese and so peaceful when they were quiet.

~~~

Next up: the metro to Plaça Espanya. I got on at a La Rambla stop and off at the Plaça where I had to pull out my map and re-orient for a moment. Then I set off to the street opposite the way to the art museum. Plaça Espanya is basically a big traffic circle with a big grassy circle in the middle dominated by a complicated statue-thing... It is hard to describe eloquently. It is all stone, three-sided, and each side has an alcove with a statue, there's statues on top praising what appears to be a bowl, and there's lamps and columns around, too. Like I said: complicated. On one of the corners is Plaça de Toros les Arenes, or the bullfighting arena. It just looks like a stadium from the outside, though definitely a Span-, excuse me, Catalan one with some nice arch-work and such. I wonder what will happen to it now that Catalonia has outlawed bullfighting... See what separatist notions get you? The outlawing of traditional sport. I almost went to a show that weekend, but it was just too expensive.

Just beyond the stadium is the Parc de Joan Miró. He was a pretty cool dude in my book, and I once made a self-portrait after his style. He designed the park, thankfully not to the abstract ideas that his paintings and sculptures follow; a very pleasant place to rest and walk and play (there's a tennis court, basketball court, playground, etc.). The trend in Spanish parks versus French ones that I noticed was a) more levels, so more stairs (mind you, the two cities I visited were near mountains), b) more palm trees and other semi-tropical plant life, often growing on trellises over pathways, and c) the space is more divided into separate, more private sections than the openness of the the Parisian parks (not including Versailles). Miró did put in a sculpture or two of his as well. In my opinion they are beautiful, and just odd enough. To the right is Dona I Ocell.

By the time I finished meandering in the park, it was well past nearly 11am, definitely time to head to the Museu Nacional D'art de Catalunya (National Museum of Art of Catalonia), also known as the Palau Nacional because it was once the palace of Alfonso XIII. To get to the Museu, you take a fountain-lined avenue from Plaça Espanya to the first set of escalators. Take the escalator up and walk across the bridge over the road and the first set of stairs and cascade fountains. Now you are on a plaça with the famous Font Montjuïc, also known as the magic fountain. But none of the fountains are actually running during the day, so we'll have to come back at night to see them lit up and spilling water. From here, you can take more escalators (or the wide, shallow stone stairs) to the next plaça where you can see real Cascade fountain (dry) and the final steep sets of stairs to either side of the staircase fountains. And you take the escalator or you brave the stairs and see 'Catalonia is not Spain' spray-painted on the landing at the turn of the stairs. And then you are at the top and you can look out over the city and see the man who busks there apparently every day for most of the day with his guitar and CDs for sale. A few more shallow stairs and you are in the museum.

The Museu is not nearly as big as the Louvre, and probably not quite as big as the National Gallery in D.C., but it a good-sized museum and an excellent one if you want to feel like you accomplished seeing something thoroughly in one day. From about 11am until about 3pm, I explored every part I could. The Renaissance and Baroque section was closed and I didn't really look at the Gothic section, though if they I could have done them both completely, it probably only would have taken another hour or two. I started with Romanesque (11th-13th centuries) where they had an amazing collection of murals from churches in the Pyrenees. They actually took the walls of these churches and moved them into the museum so that it's like walking through nave after nave of old churches. Some murals are well-preserved, others are barely sketches left on the walls now. Some of the other things, such as painted altar pieces are in wonderful condition and the colours are just as bright as they were when they were painted. Then I went through Modern art (1800s-1940s) which had some really neat Art Nouveau furniture. Because all the art in this museum is Catalan, it is very interesting to see familiar movements in art, but taken in a slightly different direction or a familiar style with an unusual subject. I also took great delight in the temporary exhibit: 'Praga, París, Barcelona: Modernitat Fotogràfica de 1918 a 1948'. Famous avant-garde artists were displayed, such as Man Ray, and Brassaï, along with lesser-known artists from Catalonia who also joined the movement. There were plenty of odd photographs, videos, and magazine illustrations, but many more amazing ones. Something that gets me every time about photography is that it cannot help but be an exact reflection of the world, and yet close-ups, manipulation of the set, overlapping of negatives, and other such tricks can make even the most common, every-day objects abstract and thought-provoking.

When at last I walked out of the museum, the plazas were nearly empty of people, for a Saturday. I checked the time - ah, of course! the three o'clock hour is lunch and siesta time! I found a bench in the shade to sit and eat my sunflower seed-cranberry-raisin-chocolate chip mixture as my lunch. Then I set off to explore the area surrounding the museum: Montjuïc park. Or rather, a collection of parks, gardens, old buildings, Olympic things, and so on. Montjuïc is just the name of the mountain (very large hill, in my opinion) on which everything is located. I walked by, but did not go in (it cost) a scaled-down replica of a walled town (the walls were very high), I guess the Spanish equivalent of other European county's medieval fife systems. I explored innumerable gardens and parks, including the sculpture garden by the Miró museum (which I also skipped due to cost and already having seen his park), and all infinitely beautiful and peaceful and very green. At last I made my weary way up the steepest part to Castell de Montjuïc, a medieval (I think) fortress overlooking both the sea and the city. It was somewhat empty-feeling, but offered some of the best views of the city and coast.

From there it was down, down, down, down, back into the valley of the city and down underground to the metro station. Back aboveground at Palça Catalunya and this time I took a slow walk down La Rambla. I paused to peer at birds, but not too long because I didn't want to have to shake off any persistent salespeople. There were people selling little things that you could put in your mouth and make chirping bird sounds. Children love them because they are high-pitched and annoying after about 2 minutes of chirping. The men would walk around chirping, holding a long string of the packages of the things, offering them here and there. There were performers of all kinds, the most popular being the statue. Some statues were better than other, and the best could almost be mistaken for real statues. One man dressed as a metal statue of a coal miner was so good I nearly walked into his bucket for tips because I was avoiding crowds and didn't realize he wasn't inanimate. There was a very good ancient Roman soldier, a really cool-looking plant, a scary monster that would stay very still then move suddenly and scare children and adults alike, and so many more. Another day I saw a man frozen in a walking position, his legs wide as though he was in a rush to get somewhere, but the wind was working against him because his hair was gelled back into windswept-points and his tie was permanently fixed to be blowing over his shoulder. He would un-freeze to talk to people and pose for pictures, but when he was still, he was still. I don't know if he even blinked, which was uncomfortable because it seemed as though he was staring right at you if you stood in front of him.

I also stopped at Mercat St. Josep, the market of stands of fresh fruits, vegetables, meats, candies, and other such stands. A cursory exploration proved Saturday evening to be very popular for shopping, as it was almost impossible to move through the crowds, and revealed stand after stand of full, colourful displays of all kinds of foods. I wanted to pick up some fruit, but the crowds were intimidating and I wasn't about to try the Aladdin market-trick. And there were some things that I had no idea what they were!

At last it was starting to get dark, so I headed for home and made another dinner of microwave pasta. I spent some time writing postcards and deciding what to do the next day in anticipation of Allison, Val, and Kirstin's arrival in the afternoon. At some point during the day we had picked up another roommate, a woman, perhaps in her late 30s, who only spoke spanish. She went to bed rather early, so conversation with my other roommates was quiet and limited that evening.