Barcelona: Beauty and Joy

Feb 24, 2007

Ahhh, Barcelona... City of vivid contrasts and joie de vivre, of Gothic and Modernist architecture, of street performers and lively people. Here is a city I could be content living in. Such mystery and eclecticism: funky boutiques in narrow medieval streets next to ancient cathedrals buried in the Gothic Quarter (Bari Gòtic) and, not fary away, buzzing streets with wide diamond intersections ornamented with the work of Gaudi and other famous architects, with many more whose buildings speak much more to their talent than any recognition of their names.

Admittedly, we were a bit frazzled when we arrived at last in Barcelona. We parted ways with our short-time travel companion, Alec, who quickly found a good number of other Liverpool fans come to see the big game. We struck out on foot to the heart of the city, the Bari Gòtic, in search of a hostel in which to stay the night and, more immediately, in which to drop our packs. It was a further walk than expected and we became still more fatigued and flustered as we tried to locate the hostels mentioned in our Let's Go guidebook (the map it provides does not have or even display the names of all the twisting passageways that comprise this pedestrian-centered part of town). Finally, though, we gained out bearings and were able to find one of the listed accomodations: Hostal Rembrandt.

Hostels in Spain are invariably marked by flags outside the building, typically on the second story balcony, as there is usually store space below on the ground floor. In addition to the sudden change in language from our time in France, this was yet another noticeable difference - one has to look up the buildings in order to find a hostel. Ours was actually on the fourth floor, a long climb up steep stairs which was proceeded by a glass door at which we had to be buzzed in. Though a little more expensive than others listed in Let's Go, I immediately felt confident of its quality when the owner, an Indian man, asked without solicitation if we should like to see the rooms he had available. We chose a modest room with a comfortable double bed and opted to pay for two nights up front, as the owner informed us that there was a good chance he would otherwise fill up.

The hostel was quiet and welcoming. There was a breakfast area that doubled as a lounge, and there was a phone and internet station. Our room had a set of doors that opened into a Spanish-style interior courtyard with a few potted plants. The bathroom and shower were down the hall and our room had only a sink, wardrobe and bed. This spareness has been welcoming and is found much more often, perhaps, in European accomodations than American ones. What use have I for a TV in my room when an exciting city awaits just beyond my door? What need have I for a private toilet and shower when there is one merely steps down the hall? Sometimes we wall ourselves in as Americans. It is a fortunate thing, I think, that it is harder to do so in Europe. A community of strangers is formed because of it.

Our wanderings through Barcelona - a bit more focused this time than before with a free map from the tourist office - took us past several of Gaudi's architectural masterpieces: Casa Batllo, a dragon-like building that ripples and shimmers in the light with its purplish-blue-green tiles; La Pedrera, a seemingly plain tan building that mimicks the sea, with its coral-like construction and black ironwork resembling seaweed; and, of course, the absolutely stunning La Sagrada Familia, still under construction but awe-inspiring all the same with its Modernist decorum blending with Gothic sensibility and eight of a planned eighteen towers completed, stretching over 200 feet into the deep blue Spanish sky. We strolled the tranquil grounds of the Hospital de la Santa Creu i Sant Pau, which still functions. We were amazed that a hospital could remain so relaxed and inviting and agreed that we would like to have more like this in the United States. We also walked through the Parc de la Ciutadella and visited the Picasso Museum, which gave interesting insight into the painter's development as an artist.

Our culinary exploits in Barcelona were interesting and varied. All throughout our trip the first meal of the day has been a true continental breakfast: coffee or tea, orange juice, and bread with some type of jam or a croissant. This we experienced here again with varying quality, depending on where we were eating. The best breakfast - best because it was healthy, delicious and inexpensive - was at a little place called Croissanterie del Pi (or something like that). We had two light, flaky croissants, yogurt, and fresh-squeezed orange juice, all for under ten euros (which has been the benchmark price). Our lunches were often sandwiches and we enjoyed a number of perfect cups of coffe (espresso and cafe con leche is the norm; I don't even know if you can find brewed coffee). One night we had a cheap but fairly substantial and tasty meal at a little place called, "Organic is Orgasmic." The food was better than the name. A quick and forgetful dinner was had at Pans, a bit like a Spanish Subway. And, we had an unexpectedly expensive dinner at a place called the Attic.

Here's the story: Upon entering the Attic, we realized how chic it was attempting to be. It had an open and multilevel dining area with wood floors, the tables set with expensive china and linens and crystal glassware, all reflecting the ambient orange glow of the mood lighting. In addition to the waitstaff, there were men in dark suits running around with earpieces in their ears. They looked much like Secret Service agents and I almost want to say they had on sunglasses, too, but I doubt they did. What their function was I'm still not sure. Our waiter was very nice and he brought us bread after taking our order. I did notice there were a few others around us who were visibly unhappy with either their meals or the whole dining experience. I had to wonder why. We ourselves were surprised when the entrees arrived - they were so small! Truly this place fancied itself a gourmet restaurant, so that while the presentation was great, the portion size was stereotypically small. (I had roast ox. Yes, ox! With zuchinni and goat cheese. Mmmm). The one thing that was generously portioned, besides ultimately the bill, was the sangria I ordered. Knowing my limits, I elected not to finish it (though it cost me 11 euros!) and I still had quite the buzz...

When it came time to pay the bill we realized just how fancy the meal had been. And we deduced that we had been charged 4 euros for an equivalent number of average dinner rolls. I asked the waiter about this and he tried to explain, but I didn't understand his Spanish. Then he took the receipt and left, and when he returned he had removed the item from the bill. So, we paid and escaped into the night, a little poorer and amazed at our accidental extravagance. But more or less satisfied. I think I know what those other people had been feeling: it's that fear and embarassment and frustration of finding yourself somewhere partway into the meal, where you discover that everything will cost you more than you wished to spend. So you persist through the meal (and you have to enjoy it since you're spending so much on it) and though the food really is quite good you are still left wanting something - to spend a little less maybe. Let's coin a term. Let's call it gourmet shock.

On our last night in Barcelona, we attended a concert by the reknowned classical guitarist Manuel González, a native of the city. The venue was the beautiful Catedral del Pi, a gothic church whose interior was open and simple. The nave soared above at almost 100 feet and its construction, without the typical supportive flying buttresses, allowed the sound to resonate. There was the warm smell of candle wax in the air as the crowd sat hushed in the wooden pews and Señor González masterfully played a number of classical and Spanish compositions, among which were "Variations on 'The Magic Flute' by Mozart", "Recuerdos de la Alhambra", and "Romanza".

As a guitarist, it was amazing to watch him play, to see and hear his approach. He used the fingers of his picking hand (the right) to their full capacity, sometimes using two fingers to sustain a tremolo while plucking a bassline simultaneously and in polyrhythm with his thumb. Other times he would ply his fingers across the strings in arpeggios, or rake the strings with a flamenco flavor. The most amazing were the harmonics that he coaxed from his instrument in delicate moments and at the exquisite finale of one piece. It was beauty enough to make one weep. As for his left hand, on the fretboard, he positioned his fingers into interesting, constantly changing shapes that reminded me more of playing piano than the guitar styles to which I am accustomed. I have wanted to learn to play more classically and this performance will no doubt provide lasting inspiration. Manuel González slay his audience, like he was the bullfighter and we the bull. He plays the kind of guitar to which you hold your breath, until the last note has died away, for fear of crushing such a delicate sound under the weight of air.