Back to Barcelona
“Back to Barcelona.” How anomalous the feeling of arrival can be to something familiar, when its been “only the once” before? It felt totally natural that the Metro halted for 20 min in the murky darkness, while the passengers at first loudly berated the system, grilled the two Securitas chaps and then settled down to gossip or iPhone-clicking, starting to make themselves comfy. It felt homey that the little shop below the flats was open at 11pm, the Indian running it looking cold and telling us he hated freezing Barcelona, but smiling in a friendly way as we got our milk for the morning tea. Little does he know about freezing.
Thomas, Alexandras boyfriend, had bought beautiful aromatic Rioja Reserva wines for us, and we opened the first bottle together with Bellota Jamon, the thinly sliced cured ham from wild bores, and cheeses. A perfect welcome! Both Alexandra and him continued to spoil us, taking us to places in taxis, whizzing along underground or walking, always ready to stop for a Tapas or coffee. To exaggerate hurry is so not Spanish!
This time we let the big magnets of Gaudi works alone, letting the wriggling snakes of Asian tourists take the arena alone, and snuck into the narrow and dark alleys of del Born. There in the shadows, with only a few shapes moving, history came alive.
-The palaces, rich and impenetrable, where Bernat Estanyol could have lived, being an actual historical figure, and where I was asked to read aloud a passage from Falcones “La Catedral del Mar” by the charming and very energetic guide. Here sunlight softly fell onto honey coloured stairways, the busy bustle only a murmur behind thick walls.
-The simple, block-like houses where the persecuted Jews lived and were, in the very centre and beginning of Barca, killed and hanged and slaughtered. The sign of the Catalan Inquisition still blatantly visible on the wall, 200 years before the rest of Spain followed suit. Heresy was to be wiped out! The screams, the agony. And I looked at the very building.
-The gallows that were a sinister welcome to any visitors, placed at the entrances of Barca as a warning. Bodies swinging to and fro in the wind.
-Moneylenders, shipping, wool-spinners, the “Mal” street where “food was badly made from bad food for the poor”, all had their places firmly riveted on the map of the city. It was no easy life then, and now the pattern is restated. Beggars sit with their bare feet in a cold puddle of water, dressed in rags. These are the Romani. “Don’t give them money…no, never” we were advised. I was not fooled my the theatrics of bear feet when an expensive bag held a pair of shoes, but my heart broke for the mentally ill who sang, clutching a hungry, but friendly pet dog or kitten, eating from the dustbins. Or a young man trying to make a living by singing, his coat patched but clean. No, life has struggled here for a long time.
But then there is the wonder, the utter beauty that suddenly dazzles you.
-In the middle of the medieval maze squats Santa Maria de la Mar. The exquisite church built by the people for the people, every stone carried on the back of a humble bastaixos, port-workers, who in their free-time did this labour of love. 700 year ago, the stones for La Catedral del Mar, were carried on the bent backs of the proud stone-carries of Barcelona. High above the soaring pillars are the five key-stones, the very “buttons” of the Basilika, beloved by the people. If you closed your eyes you could almost hear the chipping of stone, imagine the dream, the slow rise of stone on stone, until the keystones were reached. In the medieval times like reaching for heaven.
Its like an airy Catalan barn, austere in its grace. Magnificence lies elsewhere, here is mere homely security, light and the spirit of adoration. You can still see the soot marks from the fire that raged here during the Franco war, but the diffident smile of the Virgin Mary is still serene . And though the sea-shore is more distant, you can hear it murmur through the cobbles.
A wonderfully lively guide made it come alive…”listen, there goes the poor wretch who asked for grain at the market, and is now being beheaded…”
-Or the sun shining on golden hair of a little boy, in the eyes of my Alexandra, or an old face choosing a cheese. Blue glitter of the sea, the soft light, falling , falling to meet dusk and the crowds wanting wine and friendship, every Tapas bar and restaurant beckoning in the chilled air. Fountains of water, palm fronds beating the rhythm. Police cars, politcia, screeching their way on rubbers towards hopefully faulty alarm calls.
A cold chablie under stone pillars, generous portion of green pimientos and cheese ready, or just a cup of coffee and the Barca “croissant”.
-The “Mercat” was a wonderland of colour, fruits and veggies, spices and meats, all laid out as if for a canvas suggestion for a still-life painter. A market that wants you to linger and taste and smell, so as not to make any hasty decisions about tonights supper. Along the Rambla it felt a bit like Paris, artists painting with coffee or ciggies in one hand, a paintbrush in the other, but in the distance the sea was felt, like a living, moving thing, breathing its fresh winds along the streets and plane trees.
The last day we were there, it was the great general strike. Strange to walk along the wide, totally empty calles, only blocked by black Marias and young husky police dripping with guns, their berets at unbelievable angles on their heads. One felt pretty safe! But in the back streets the café owners had shut down, in fear of pickets thrashing the place, but some were open for us thirsty travellers, though keeping their roll-doors half shut and popping out now and again to see if the way was clear. Some windows had been smashed, the frustration taking over, food lying around getting spoilt. Ear splitting blasts went off in alleys, but never disturbed the quiet, hidden corner where we found the Roman remnants of a few pillars of the Temple of Augustus. A house had been built around the tall columns, but now it was released from those beams and they rose in their lone majesty, reminding us of who was master here once.
We left with the taste of Tapas and Catalan wines in our mouths, hoping we could come back at least once more. There was still far too much we had not seen.
Back to Travel Doors
Thomas, Alexandras boyfriend, had bought beautiful aromatic Rioja Reserva wines for us, and we opened the first bottle together with Bellota Jamon, the thinly sliced cured ham from wild bores, and cheeses. A perfect welcome! Both Alexandra and him continued to spoil us, taking us to places in taxis, whizzing along underground or walking, always ready to stop for a Tapas or coffee. To exaggerate hurry is so not Spanish!
This time we let the big magnets of Gaudi works alone, letting the wriggling snakes of Asian tourists take the arena alone, and snuck into the narrow and dark alleys of del Born. There in the shadows, with only a few shapes moving, history came alive.
-The palaces, rich and impenetrable, where Bernat Estanyol could have lived, being an actual historical figure, and where I was asked to read aloud a passage from Falcones “La Catedral del Mar” by the charming and very energetic guide. Here sunlight softly fell onto honey coloured stairways, the busy bustle only a murmur behind thick walls.
-The simple, block-like houses where the persecuted Jews lived and were, in the very centre and beginning of Barca, killed and hanged and slaughtered. The sign of the Catalan Inquisition still blatantly visible on the wall, 200 years before the rest of Spain followed suit. Heresy was to be wiped out! The screams, the agony. And I looked at the very building.
-The gallows that were a sinister welcome to any visitors, placed at the entrances of Barca as a warning. Bodies swinging to and fro in the wind.
-Moneylenders, shipping, wool-spinners, the “Mal” street where “food was badly made from bad food for the poor”, all had their places firmly riveted on the map of the city. It was no easy life then, and now the pattern is restated. Beggars sit with their bare feet in a cold puddle of water, dressed in rags. These are the Romani. “Don’t give them money…no, never” we were advised. I was not fooled my the theatrics of bear feet when an expensive bag held a pair of shoes, but my heart broke for the mentally ill who sang, clutching a hungry, but friendly pet dog or kitten, eating from the dustbins. Or a young man trying to make a living by singing, his coat patched but clean. No, life has struggled here for a long time.
But then there is the wonder, the utter beauty that suddenly dazzles you.
-In the middle of the medieval maze squats Santa Maria de la Mar. The exquisite church built by the people for the people, every stone carried on the back of a humble bastaixos, port-workers, who in their free-time did this labour of love. 700 year ago, the stones for La Catedral del Mar, were carried on the bent backs of the proud stone-carries of Barcelona. High above the soaring pillars are the five key-stones, the very “buttons” of the Basilika, beloved by the people. If you closed your eyes you could almost hear the chipping of stone, imagine the dream, the slow rise of stone on stone, until the keystones were reached. In the medieval times like reaching for heaven.
Its like an airy Catalan barn, austere in its grace. Magnificence lies elsewhere, here is mere homely security, light and the spirit of adoration. You can still see the soot marks from the fire that raged here during the Franco war, but the diffident smile of the Virgin Mary is still serene . And though the sea-shore is more distant, you can hear it murmur through the cobbles.
A wonderfully lively guide made it come alive…”listen, there goes the poor wretch who asked for grain at the market, and is now being beheaded…”
-Or the sun shining on golden hair of a little boy, in the eyes of my Alexandra, or an old face choosing a cheese. Blue glitter of the sea, the soft light, falling , falling to meet dusk and the crowds wanting wine and friendship, every Tapas bar and restaurant beckoning in the chilled air. Fountains of water, palm fronds beating the rhythm. Police cars, politcia, screeching their way on rubbers towards hopefully faulty alarm calls.
A cold chablie under stone pillars, generous portion of green pimientos and cheese ready, or just a cup of coffee and the Barca “croissant”.
-The “Mercat” was a wonderland of colour, fruits and veggies, spices and meats, all laid out as if for a canvas suggestion for a still-life painter. A market that wants you to linger and taste and smell, so as not to make any hasty decisions about tonights supper. Along the Rambla it felt a bit like Paris, artists painting with coffee or ciggies in one hand, a paintbrush in the other, but in the distance the sea was felt, like a living, moving thing, breathing its fresh winds along the streets and plane trees.
The last day we were there, it was the great general strike. Strange to walk along the wide, totally empty calles, only blocked by black Marias and young husky police dripping with guns, their berets at unbelievable angles on their heads. One felt pretty safe! But in the back streets the café owners had shut down, in fear of pickets thrashing the place, but some were open for us thirsty travellers, though keeping their roll-doors half shut and popping out now and again to see if the way was clear. Some windows had been smashed, the frustration taking over, food lying around getting spoilt. Ear splitting blasts went off in alleys, but never disturbed the quiet, hidden corner where we found the Roman remnants of a few pillars of the Temple of Augustus. A house had been built around the tall columns, but now it was released from those beams and they rose in their lone majesty, reminding us of who was master here once.
We left with the taste of Tapas and Catalan wines in our mouths, hoping we could come back at least once more. There was still far too much we had not seen.
Back to Travel Doors