Profundity

The grace of travel is that it's difficult so when it's time to leave the sadness can be borne.

But would that I had another week here, or a few days even. I've barely scratched the surface of this infrastructure.

Today, on our last day in Barcelona, we went to see the famed Sagrada Familia (the unfinished church, active construction of which has continued for more than 100 years). Let me assure you, it was as much a hardhat zone as a place of worship. Really, for its masterful architecture (and it has outlasted, one can argue, the religion it serves) its current format disrespects - dare I go there - its religious proposition.

In full disclosure, there are few peeps who have been raised more Catholically than me (especially in this day and age). I respect the Church enough not to go there, most of the time, because my beliefs do not align.

However, in this instance (and because I did not see it when I was in Barcelona last) I went for the architecture but I was astounded by the faith that fuels the engines. I was also astounded by the general lack of respect I observed. Where I come from, you don't take selfies directly in front of an Icelandic choir (the most beautifully composed, might I add). Moreover, you don't clap when it completes its choral exercise, but that's a whole different story... You do not wear club clothing (especially as the church rules stipulate modest dress). You do not speak in the central zone, demarcated from the rest as the meditative, prayer space. I could go on.

Um, let's interrupt this rant with some photos of the neo-Gothic (and seriously modern) marvel that is this place, shall we?

This sculpture, associated with the Passion of Christ, was beyond moving. The engraved doors, behind, were like nothing I've ever seen before.

That light is entirely created by the chromatic (and I do use this as a means by which to relate colour to music) stained glass.

There's something so Hannah Barbera about this exterior when you see it in photos. In real life, it's stunning.

Those pillars...

 

Have you ever seen stained glass like this? It's designed to be neither too dark nor too light because either extreme inhibits sight. This is a place of clear observation.

I know I sound like a crotchety old lady much of the time. (In truth, whenever I've played that game wherein you have to assess your "spiritual age", I have been 50 - like, since I was 5.) Righteously indignant is my natural state. I feel very strongly about how things should be and, when they fail to meet my expectations, the fire - like a dragon's breath - is unleashed.

It appears we return to the theme of Kristin's vacation: expectation.

My resilience was undermined by my kryptonite: terrible crowds, bright light and noise. Put these together and it's a recipe for my undoing. Thank God we had the foresight to book the tickets online. That meant we bypassed much of the queuing, though by no means all of it. We did have to wait in the unremitting sunlight for 15 minutes. (I forced Scott to leave our apartment with plenty of time to spare.) And then, the "pilgrim" hum, amplified by the acoustics - and at odds with audible construction - followed me ominously like a hive.

Scott swears he didn't know that a trip to the Bell Tower would be a claustrophobic horror - a descent even as an elevator drew us into the air and left us (unceremoniously) to make our way down an endless, dangerous stone staircase replete with constant opportunities to kill oneself by accident, by falling from unthinkable heights. Am I the only one who feels inclined to jump when confronted by heights? Am I the only one whose field of vision narrows (a propos of which, Lord, I was sorry to be wearing those progressives)?

I cannot begin to tell you of my thoughts during that part of the visit though a very nice Chinese woman, who walked in front of me, was kind enough to reassure me (in English) at regular intervals, saying such things as: This part is safe. Look, there's even a railing here. Yeah, to keep you from certain death.

On the way up, the elevator guide had a lively, foreign-language conversation with some other Catalan speakers. I could only pick out the words "claustrophobic", "scary" and some anecdote about people losing their shit half way through. I should have said no then and there, but Scott got all: It's going to be fine. They wouldn't let us do it if it were dangerous. Never listen to people who aren't afraid of heights.

I think it's safe to say I had a complex experience of the Sagrada Familia. And really, you must visit (despite the challenges) because it is a marvel in the truest sense of the word. Just don't go up the Bell Tower.

I drank my face off at lunch.

Sun, Sea and Sky

I have no words to describe the beauty I observed yesterday on Montjuic. From the citadel, we saw the unfathomable density of Barcelona city, on one side, and the splendor of the Mediterranean on the other:

Do yourself a favour and enlarge this panoramic shot. Alas, it does no justice to the real thing...

In the pantheon of my anxieties, heights is second only to bugs, so the fact that I look cucumber-cool in this shot (when actually I thought I would throw up), is really a testimony to the propensity of photographs to lie:

Yeah, there I am, gripping that seat for dear life. I know it seems like I'm saying: Oh, look at the Sagrada Familia in the distance! Really, I'm berating Scott for having lured me into the capsule of death (as I refer to those cable cars).

We did more "touristy" things yesterday than ever I have before (seriously) - the Olympic park, Placa Espanya, Miro museum, cable ride, Citadel - and every bit of it was spectacular because, when the weather is 25C with no humidity and you can see the world's most stunning views from every vantage point, what's not to love.

But one thing I will say, I loathe artsplainin'. I may have made that term up, just sub out "man" and insert "art", but nothing is more absurd, to my mind, than justifying surrealist symbolism with a kooky narrative. (And I did my degree in English Lit with a minor in Semiotic Studies?!)

Who the fuck cares if the butterfly is a symbol for erotic intent and arrows are like birds in flight?! It undermines an entire work of art to try and decode it because, really, at a certain point every fucking Miro looks the same. (In truth, I do love his sketches and early works, before the surrealist insanity kicked in.) I'm the first to admit that my knowledge of art history and theory is limited to what I've seen on PBS documentaries - and I like to visit art galleries and read articles. Point is, I'm not exactly learned on the topic. But I know enough to know that art is a subject of the heart. I'm never getting the headphones at a gallery again.

Perfección

Oh, peeps. It's like I've died and gone to heaven. I. LOVE. BARCELONA.

I love saying hola! I love the supermarket - it's like the land of custard. I love the boulevards. I love the people who are kind and cheerful and warm. I love the food - I had a superb meal for lunch (at 4:30 pm?!): a pasta with Iberian ham, some other kind of ham, cream and eggs followed by the hugest avocado vinaigrette you've ever seen, a chocolate cake-like thing that defies description and the most delicious coffee I have ever been served in Europe. It was a cortado - and by that I don't mean a Toronto cortado (aka a slightly drier than usual cappuccino). It was (and I can't tell you how rarely this happens) the perfect temperature.

I love the architecture, the weather, the horticulture, the sales, the shoes, and man, I love our apartment:

The view from our terrasse. Trust me, it is all that.

A small snippet of the living space...

In 1200 square feet, it's got 2 bedrooms, a separate (large), fully stocked kitchen, easy sleeping for 6, a dressing room (?!), a fantastic bathroom, original mosaic floors... Honestly, if you gifted me this place, right now, I would live here forever and would not change a fucking element of the design.

I'm writing this from my fabulous balcony, eating some kind of creamy, salty sheep's yogurt (I think that's what it is) watching the swallows and bats fly around. (Yeah: While I am completely freaked out by the tiniest bugs, I'm ok with bats and lizards, who the hell knows why...)

It appears that I cannot eat lunch at 4:30 and dinner thereafter. My stomach is having a bit of a flip out so we're snacking now, after wandering the insanely packed streets at 9 pm. It also appears that this culture does not sleep - or eat before 9:30. But so far, this apartment is silent.