Spain

Despite the gloomy announcements of 25 percent unemployment and a 50 billion euro deficit for Spain while we are there, Barcelona feels like party central. Of course most Barcelona natives don't consider themselves Spanish, we soon picked up; every apartment block in the city had the bright red and yellow stripes of the Catalonian flag hanging from their tiny balconies and successionist graffiti was everywhere.
Barcelona reminded me of nothing so much as a Baz Luhrman movie; 'Romeo and Juliet', say, or 'Moulin Rouge'. (Not 'Australia' which we laughed and yawned our way through one evening in the south of France.) Over the top. In your face. 'Oh, there's a party,' said an American tourist behind me in the street on our second evening there, as we watched locals cheering and clapping giant mythical figures towering through the narrow streets followed by the marching bands of local community groups. 'Seems like there's always a party going on here,' he added with a chuckle.
It reminded me of Indian cities. Every day, certainly every night, there seems to be some sort of holiday or festival, usually with vaguely religious connotations. And everybody, from babies to the frail elderly, are out in the streets drinking it in, getting in the mood and contributing to the cacophony and the fun.
And acres of dreary apartments in suburbs notwithstanding, the architecture, topography and monuments of Barcelona are every bit as in your face and OTT as the crowds in the streets late at night. There is so much of it I am exhausted trying to take it in, as our tourist bus trails past wonder after wonder. The biggest statue of Christopher Columbus in the world. The Olympic swimming pool, high on a hill overlooking the vast and crowded city. Crazy sculptures here there and everywhere, an gravity-defying cable car that swoops from Montjuic, the mountain on one side of the city, to the port. And there are beaches! Just when I thought there couldn't be anything else to ooh and aah over, to marvel at, there is a string of glowing beaches with azure water just begging to be swum in. Which I did, the following day, having walked from Park Guell in the north of the city, down to the centre, linking up with La Rambla, where the passing parade passes and parades all the way from the heart of the city - massive Catalunya Square, to the sea.
Then of course there's the Gaudi. The apartment where we stay is a short walk from wacky Park Guell, with its colonnades made of stone palm trees, bulbous tower, dragon and sheep's head of wild mosaics, curving mosaic benches where the local kids play and the tourist take far too many photos. There are the famous houses he created, the street benches and the paving stones he designed. Above all there's his unfinished cathedral the Sagrada Familia towering over the city and dominating the views from every high point. The Nativity facade looks like the giant drip castles that we used to build with the kids at the beach. The Passion facade is confronting and stark - the naked Jesus hanging over the crowds on a cross made of metal struts, Judas and his traitorous kiss, Jesus alone and lashed to a post for his flogging, Pilate washing his hands while his wife turns away in disgust.
The interior of the vast church is quite literally breath-taking. I haven't been rendered teary by a building like this since I saw the Taj Mahal. Massive stone columns like trees branch out overhead to support the distant ceiling and the colors of the windows are like the colors of heaven.
We walk (surprise surprise!) Barcelona for three days solid, and then we catch a train and a cable car to Montserrat. It's like a massive Mount Buffalo with a huge Benedictine monastery, complete with boys' choir school, in place of the chalet. There we walk more: mountain goat territory this, steeply up and down past and through rock formations like giant phalluses against the clear blue sky. Further exploration reveals the ruins of remote hermitages and tiny shrines, built into the rock of the mountain with statues of Jesus and black Modonnas and rooms lined with votive offerings that symbolize the prayers answered by the Virgin; motorbike helmets and wedding dresses and babies booties and toys. In the evenings we listen to the monks chanting at vespers, and the exquisite singing of the boys' choir afterwards.
After five, when the buses of day trippers leave, the high monastic complex, complete with hotel where we sleep for three nights, is as silent as Barcelona was rackety. Our room looks out to the Basilica and the crazy rock formations of the mountains lowering over it. But the Basilica is, in it's own way, as over the top as the city was, with it's profusion of gold paint and tiles, it's clashing architectural and decorative styles, it's black Madonna and child perched high high above the worshippers below.
Economically things are dire in Spain, and, doubtless, in Catalonia, much as it would like to be a separate nation. But as a casual visitor, you'd never guess.

Comments

[robin taylor]

great to vicariously enjoy your travels

[Pam]

I'm truly impressed with your stamina Clare!
I've been to Spain once, during our first visit to Europe (BC - before children). My most memorable memory - a Velasquez painting in the Prado. It was spine-tingling.

[Jay Robinson]

I want to go! The imagery of your words! Thanks for taking us with you!

[Fin]

Love it!