The Rain in Spain Stays Mainly in Deutschland

The album of Madrid. You saw most of it, but again, it probably makes more sense now with the rest of the story.

Sunday morning in Madrid is as sleepy as any other European city on the Lord’s Day. Stores shutter, and some restaurants don’t open their door. Because of the lull in commerce, Madrid is also home to another European Sunday tradition: The Flea Market. The first Sunday of every month, the shopping center near my dorm in Bonn is host to a flea market (Floh Markt, literally “flea market” in German) where venders sell cheap clothing, jewelry, antiques, and toys. I’ve also walked through Sunday markets in Brussels, Frankfurt and Cologne. But Madrid’s market is supposed to be the largest in Europe. So, we were up and marketing while most of youthful Madrid was sleeping off the night before. The heart of the flea market is in Plaza Mayor. Rick Steves and Lonely Planet warned us the pick-pockets would be out in force, so we consolidated our wallets and I packed by travelers waist pouch (skinny fanny pack), and we took off for the Plaza.

We were expecting roaring crowds of hagglers, eclectic street performers, and overwhelmed tourists. We saw a couple old men.

The legendary market seemed to be composed entirely of coin sellers with a few historic postcard stands and stamp collectors. There was plenty of room to spot pick-pockets and there weren’t many buyers. Were we in the right place? The guidebook described the market as springing from the Plaza Mayor and flowing down slope towards the palace. We tried to follow this track, but the only stalls we were able to find were on the Plaza.

We were disappointed, and a little peeved about how much the event had been built up. One of the things I constantly need to remind myself is this is not peak traveling season. Really the “off-season” perfectly describes my tenure in Europe: October to April. So, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but flea markets also tend to be local events. Families, couples, and older folks with nothing else to do (and no hangovers to sleep off) tend to wander to the market as a Sunday excursion. So why would this one be so small? Lent had begun the previous week, maybe the devout Madriaños dial down their bartering during the solemn season? Maybe I’ll find myself in Madrid on a Sunday again, and I’ll be able to compare the experiences and solve the mystery. Until then, I remain baffled.

Haggling and trading extinct coinage (like the Deutsche Mark)

There remained one museum that Shane and I wanted to visit, the third in the “Golden Triangle” of Madrid’s art museums: Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. Originally a private collection accumulated by Count Thyssen, the museum fills in the gaps missing in the Prado and Reinia Sofia by providing Impressionist and Expressionist works along with stuff by lesser known masters such as the Italian Primitives and a sizable collection of American art. We wanted to see some Monet to complete our art binge of a trip, so we made our way to the museum.

We would only have about an hour-and-a- half in the museum and weren’t sure if we should spend our Euros to get in. After glancing through the museum’s catalog in the gift shop, we decided our souls would be better for even a short time with the art.

We saw Winslow Homer and cityscapes of Bonn and Munich. We saw Monet, Manet, Rodin and even an El Greco. But we had to fly through. Our mantra became, “Next time, next time, next time.” Next time we’ll see a bullfight. Next time we’ll club until 7. Next time we’ll speak Spanish. I say that as if I didn’t enjoy, even treasure, the things we did do in Madrid or Barcelona. Spain is a vast, hugely diverse place with a complicated history that’s complimented by its incredible artists who have given the deserts, mountains, and vineyards a voice. The place just requires more than six days.

A victory shot after touring the Prado, the Regia Sofia, and Thyssen. What do you want to know about Spanish art history? We can now BS and answer.

Reluctantly leaving the museum, we headed back to the hostel for our bags, but as we wove through the old town, past the site where the massive line on Calle de Jesus had formed up we were met with another befuddling mass of people. They were preceded by police and a dull roar of chants and singing. Then this line appeared:


A scaffold was erected along the street to repair the façade of a crumbling building. Shane and I climbed up a few feet and saw the parade of people disappearing into the distance. Most of them were women, and purple seemed to be the color of choice. Banners and flags proclaimed equal rights (we think). It wasn’t a violent protest (maybe violet). It actually seemed pretty laid back as older women taught teenage girls the words and gestures for the chants. There were also men mixed into the crowd, wearing purple, presumably in support of sisters, wives, friends and girlfriends. We watched in awe of the mass of humanity, guessing at what would have triggered the protest. We came up with nothing. Back in Bonn I would see a news clip in the train station documenting the events of International Women’s Day. I had no idea, but then I also have a Y chromosome. Maybe next year I’ll be more attuned to the date.

A parting shot of our federally protected hostel.

With our luggage reclaimed and the chants echoing through the subway station, we rode to the freshly completed Madrid Airport. We checked-in and cued up for the security check. We hadn’t grabbed lunch and just planned on doing that when we were at the gate. The security check was a mess. I expected a post-9/11 and 3/11 airport to have an incredibly efficient security system. Most airports have cobbled together their pre-gate checks and are still trying to adapt to new security standards. But Madrid could build with these security expectations in mind, but didn’t. After waiting in line, you were given a plastic bin. You put your belt, your change, your coat and bag into the bin. Normally this step simply involves rolling your bin up to the x-ray and sliding it onto the conveyer belt. Here you carried it for twenty-five feet before putting it on the conveyer. Bins were dropping and older passengers with canes were trying to juggle their bins and infirmity. People tried to lend a hand, but had their own awkward bins to keep track of.

As I watched controlled chaos unfold, the security guard grabbed my water bottle. I had forgotten to dump it out. Crap. Normally I remember to empty it, but on the occasion where I forgot to do so, I was told to take a sip, then it was dumped out. Not so in Spain. I had to hop our of line, reload my pockets and jog out to the taxi stand, which was a bit of a hike, dump the bottle, then get back at the end of the line. I was behind a group excursion of seniors. The bin juggling I just described went on at a grand scale. The security gate also beeped continually as people forgot to remove watches, belts, or change. By the time Shane and I were reunited, we had to bolt for the gate, our stomachs growling.

But we didn’t have to worry. We were flying LAN air, a Spanish-language airline based in Buenos Aires and Santiago. They happened to have the cheapest flights out of Madrid to Frankfurt. Instead of flying budget, where you need to pay for every convenience, we were served soda after boarding and Spanish wine with our lunch, I watched part of the movie “Cadillac Records” and got the Blues stuck in my head for the next week. It was worth the stress of chaotic boarding.

Back in Frankfurt, I felt like I had arrived home. I understood all the signs. I knew what I needed to do to get to the train. I felt…relaxed. Deutschland has become more than a place I stayed for a year. Like Columbus or Cincinnati, I have a place here. It felt good. That’s not to say I wouldn’t take another opportunity to wander further the next chance I got, but first I had claws to work on.

I hope your weekend will offer some time to explore, but you find the satisfaction that comes with arriving home. Until next post…

Tchüss!

The album again. Enjoy!

Never a reson to be mad in Madrid (just confused)

A link to the Barcelona/Madrid album. By now, just about all of the pictures should make sense.

Bright and early and up before the roommates. After our complementary breakfast, we were on the street under a clear sky once again. As we walked along the street we spotted a “churros y chocolate” café. This is a traditional breakfast, so we had to partake. It really seems like an American invention. You get your hot chocolate dipping sauce, which has the consistency of melted chololate rather than coffee or tea. You then dip your churro, a fried dough, into the chocolate and enjoy. You drink down the leftover chocolate. I really need to find a traditional hot chocolate place Stateside.

With our cups of liquid chocolate in hand we headed for the Puerta del Sol, the “Times Square” of Madrid. It also serves as the hub of New Years festivities (making the Times Square comparison inevitable). Puerto del Sol isn’t necessarily the center of the city, but it gets pretty busy and is packed with important landmarks.

Outside the former Post Office lies “O km.” All distances in Spain are measured from this plaque. I had no idea such a thing existed until Rick Steves told me about it in the guide book we borrowed from the hostel, but I felt it was a photo op anyway:


Rick Steve’s kindly filled us in on the significance of King Charles III whose statue stands front and center in the square (he is called “Madrid’s greatest mayor” thanks to all the civic improvements he brought the city, including botanical gardens and the university).


Mr. Steves also pointed out the “Bear and the Madroño Tree,” a statue of Madrid’s heraldic device, and the Tio Pepe sign over the Puerto (the oldest billboard in Spain advertises for a kind of sherry).

The Puerto has been the site of hundreds of protests, including the Spanish revolt against Napoleon that Goya immortalized in “The Third of May 1808,” and protests against Franco. Plaques commemorate these events and the victims of the March 11, 2004 terrorist bombings.

Having acquainted ourselves with the icons of the city and more of its history, we moved on to the Plaza Mayor, a Habsburg Era (18th century) construction project that features another equestrian statue. It was also home to significant events in Spanish history, including the execution of heretics during the Inquisition.


Today, the Plaza features a couple dozen street performers, musicians, artists, and pick-pockets. Cafés set tables on the plaza and you can watch other tourists gawk at the “Robotic” cowboys and Indians. Shane and I did not choose this path. Instead we headed for Torre del Oro Bar Andalú. Mr. Steves informed us we would learn a thing or two about bullfighting if we visited this narrow bar on the Plaza.

Inside Torre del Oro are the heads of a half-dozen champion bulls, gigantic creatures who look terrifying even when they’re missing the extra bulk of their bodies. Under the heads hang the knives used to kill the monsters in the ring. The rest of the walls are covered with action photos of matadors, picadors, and bulls flying through the air dodging, leaping past, and goring each other. I have a passing knowledge of bullfighting, primarily based on Looney Toons and the book Ferdinand. I’ve seen footage of fights on the Travel Channel, but I’d never seen such graphic moments from the ring. I’ve always thought of the bull as a relatively helpless combatant, but there were pictures of the beasts holding their own. A particularly terrifying image showed a 2,500 pound animal in mid air, diving into the bleachers as spectators scattered in terror. Wow. There are plenty of people who find this entertainment repulsive. I don't think I am one of them. The lover of old stuff in me really appreciates a ceremony - really what a bullfight is - that traces its roots back to the Minoans 3,000 years ago. And the spectacle of it all...

Inside the bullfighting "Hall of Fame." It's authentic (as far as I know). If you come during a fight, you can get running commentary on the whole event. I think I've already established that I need to come back...

A detail of some of the photos on the walls. There was also a series of a matador on the operating table after getting mauled by a bull's horn. He survived. Crazy.

Shane and I were in Madrid a week too early to see the fighting season, so we contented ourselves examining the memorabilia and the watching clips on the ancient TV in the corner of the bar. While we were in the bar we ordered a beer each. An older, very authentic looking Spaniard bellied up next to us, offered a toast and said something that made him laugh. We did, too. Then small plates of paella and a salty broth arrived. We weren’t sure if the bartender was taking advantage of the stupid tourists (Rick warned they would push the expensive tapas on us), but our companion received the same sides. The paella was delicious. Really a great mid-morning snack. As we took one more glance at the walls, we got the bill, realized we only owed 1.10 Euro each, and happily headed towards the royal palace, our ultimate destination.

The Cathedral by the palace drawing us on.

Along the way we dipped into the history of Spain by briefly following a group tour. Shane observed, “Man, Franco really was a bastard.” I agreed.

Across from the Royal Palace of Madrid is the new (by European standards) Almudena Cathedral. Plans were drafted in the 16th century, but they didn’t break ground until 1879. Construction wasn’t completed until 1993 (things were slowed down a bit by the Civil War) when it was consecrated by Pope John Paul II. Because it was so recently completed, the interior is strikingly modern with artistic styles ranging Neo-Romanesque to Impressionist, to Cubist, to Pop.

The newly finished alter space at the Madrid cathedral.

The Neo-Classical cathedral from the outside. It's kind of hard to figure out how it all link up from the outside.

After exploring the chapels and nave of the cathedral -including a provocative side-chapel to St. Josemaría Escrivá – while managing to avoid any confusing hoards of worshipers, we headed to the Royal Palace or “Palacio Real.” Equipped with audioguides, the new symbol of the European tourist, and Rick Steves we dove into the most opulent building I have ever entered.

The plaza in front of the Royal Palae. It's still used by the royal family for official functions, though I don't think they live here very often.

The current palace was constructed in the mid 18th century, and King Charles III was the first to move in. Every spot that can be ornamented, is. The walls, floors, ceilings, and furniture are all festooned with filigree. It really was sensory overload walking from room to room. Some had themes such as the Japanese tea room, or the dining hall that celebrates Spain’s massive, global empire. Paintings by Velasquez, Goya, and Carravaggio hang where their royal owners originally hung them. In the music room they showcased four Stradivarius instruments…It’s good to be the king.

The coolest space to explore, for me, was the armory. Dozens of suits of armor for men and horses were on display. Helmets with heraldic dragons and unicorn horns for knights and horses lined the walls. It was like all the drawings I made when I was little of arms and armor had suddenly come to life.

After a couple hours trying to sort out the royal family and Spanish history, it was time for a late lunch and another museum. Lunch was at a little sandwich place that had open tables on the street and an attractive price-list. We walked up to the register and started listing our orders from the menu hanging on the wall. The cashier rolled her eyes and handed us a copy of the menu with space to check off what you wanted. Even better. We could puzzle through the translation without annoying anyone. A lofty goal, I know. We noticed a “Six for a low price” deal. Apparently the sandwiches were small, so we would need a couple. Six sounded good, so we went through the list of maybe 40 sandwiches, checking off the six we wanted (three each). We then ordered beer, and turned in our menu. We also ordered a side of fries.

When our food was ready, I returned to the window to find a dozen little sandwiches in a wheel and a platter of fries. Apparently Shane and I are completely illiterate and had misunderstood the system. The Six-for-whatever deal included a set selection of sandwiches and we ordered six in addition. Oh well, we were hungry, and acted like we had planned to have a mound of mini-subs from the beginning. Very full, we were ready to walk some more.

It was time to visit Picasso. We had seen his early stuff in Barcelona, but Madrid is home to a chunk of his famous, cubist work, and its housed in the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, Madrid’s Modern Art Museum. Completed in 1992, it houses all art completed after 1881 (the year of Picasso’s birth. You might say he’s a favorite son). After getting the map pointed in the right direction, we entered the museum for free (after 2PM on Saturdays). Our main goals were Dali and Picasso. We knew we didn’t have time to see everything, but we were going to try.

The most famous work housed at the Reinia Sofia is Picasso’s “Guernica.” Picasso started the painting it 17 days after the fire-bombing of the Basque town of Guernica in 1937. The town was a stronghold of the Nationalist Army, so Franco wanted to get it out of the way. Franco’s fellow Facist Hitler wanted to test out his new Luftwaffe. The results established the tactics for modern warfare, and Guernica depicts the devastating effects of such total war.

We hadn’t picked up a map of the museum, so we were still trying to get oriented when we stumbled into a massive room and there it was. The canvas 26 feet by 11 feet. That’s the size of a small house. It’s huge. The figures and their twisted features dominate the room. It can’t be ignored. You can’t look away. I have probably read more about this painting than any other piece of art I’ve seen in the last year, and it was still a revelation to actually see it. Also in the exhibit were photos of the mural in progress as Picasso rearranged the figures as he painted. Originally the fallen rider had his right hand high in the air with a fist-full of flowers surrounded by a halo of bright light. Then the Master decided to drop the hand, leave one wilting flower in the figure’s fist and turn the halo into a bare bulb, or maybe bomb flash.

Other cubist, expressionist, and surrealist works were on display, with new names to digest. In a room featuring early photography was a Buster Keaton film. The silent slap-stick transcended language barriers and the room of Americans, Germans, Spaniards, and French were all laughing together at the hapless hero….really cool museum. Just not enough time to take it all in.

After getting kicked out of yet-another museum, we headed across the traffic circle to the Parque del Buen Retiro. The largest park in Madrid, it could be equated with Central Park with wide avenues and lots of statuary. As the sun set we continued to explore, finding the massive monument to Alfonso XII over a large lake with docked paddle-boats waiting for the sun. There were giant lion statues. I had to strike an iconic pose.
As we investigated the Palacio de Cristal, two figures suddenly leap up from behind a tree sending my heart into overdrive. They scampered into the darkness. Shane and I decided it was time to find a new direction.

A griffin at night.

Satisfied we had seen enough of the park at night, we started angling towards an exit. Strangely it was locked. Maybe they only keep the main gates open after a certain time? We continued to walk. A car crunched over the gravel, pulling up next to us with a driver and passenger. The driver leaned over to us and asked a question. There was a number written on the side of the car, so I said, “No, no taxi.” He looked confused, and said something more urgently. Then I took another look at the number and saw the Madrid Parks Logo. Oh. These were authority figures.

Somehow we managed to establish that it was past closing time. I think it was clear we had no idea, and they probably didn’t want to deal with us any longer than they needed to, so we gestured towards the next gate and started walking. The car rolled up again, and the guy riding shotgun stepped out and jerked the lock open. We slid through with a "Gracias." Next time I visit this country, I should know some Spanish, or at least have a Spanish speaker handy. I know enough of them.

Madrid's City Hall, near the recently closed park.

It was time to get food. Unfortunately it was late (10:30PM) on a Saturday in Madrid. That’s peak eating time. The procedure (I’m told) is you go out around 10 or 11 for Tapas. Then you drink at a bar until 2. Then you hit the clubs and stay there until 7 AM. The next morning you go out for churros y chocolate and presumably sleep through the day.

Shane and I just wanted the food. After trolling the packed restaurants and clubs, we finally discovered a small traditional café with a lone table tucked in the back of the building, behind a temporary wall. Good enough. We ordered Sangria and squinted at the menu. The owner brought us another. This was in German. Shane and I were weirdly flattered. Did they think we were German? We don’t emit that American vibe everyone always talks about (“I can spot an American a block away,” claims the European. “Well I can spot a jerk from two,” I reply.). But there were still mysteries. We knew there were egg options with…something. We recognized “jamon” (ham), but the rest was a mystery. The German menu just listed it all as “Fleisch” (meat). Not helpful. So we asked. Our waitress looked flustered, and in her panic turned to a table of college-aged kids nearby. They had a pow-wow and announced, “It is, how is it, pig meat…pork?” Okay, but what kind of pork? We knew that was asking a lot, so we stopped asking and ordered blind.

Shane’s eggs and potatoes came with bacon. Mine came with sausage. Mysteries solved. We were leaving the next day, so we wanted to have another glass of Spanish wine before skipping town. Things had died down a little and we found a small bar that had space at the bar itself. When I say small, I mean it was the size of my dorm room. Fifteen people, maximum, could enjoy a beverage in the establishment, but it looked so achingly hip that Shane and I slid in, thinking we might even speak to some real Spaniards. No dice, but we did enjoy our wine and then another beer. I really think I need the Spanish under my belt to pull off this conversation thing. So it goes.

We did continue hearing American-accented English as we returned to Cats for our final sleep in Madrid. Spring break is my going theory. I guess that’s why I was there (even though the German spring break is a six-week chunk of time). Exhausted, I collapsed into my bunk, scheming how to make the most of our final morning. Chances were, it was going to involve art…

Tchüss!

The link again, to the Barcelona/Madrid album.

Prado Day!

or,

Matt and Shane in a big museum for a long, long time.

The next morning, Shane and I got to be “those guys.” We were the last ones in and, with our alarms chirping angrily, the first ones out. Grabbing a quick breakfast at the hostel (I would recommend Cats to any visitory to Madrid on a budget, and yes, I wish I was getting paid to say that.) we blearily stepped into the clear Spanish day. Of course, one of the best days of the trip was the day we decided to devote to a day at the museum, but we tried not to think about that too much.

Actually, at this point, I think Shane believed we would just be spending the morning at the Prado, while I harbored a secret desire to stay until closing time. As we wove through the older section of town towards the world’s largest picture gallery, we noticed a line of primarily older women that snaked along the opposite sidewalk, disappearing around the bend in unmoving file of perms and fur. Of course, Shane and I had to investigate.

We tracked the line for about five blocks. It was endless and apparently immobile. The line then swung right onto Calle de Jesus. Madrid’s street signs have been decorated with images illustrating the street’s name since Medieval times. Calle de Jesus featured an image of Christ in bright purple robes. I immediately suspected a connection between our mysterious line and the street’s name. Abruptly we arrived at an inconspicuous church. Inconspicuous except for the fact there was a massive line trailing from the threshold that was being controlled by police and construction barriers. We curiously watched the line slowly file through the entrance of the church, disappearing into the crowded interior. On the other side of the church was an entryway that had no line and a regular flow of traffic. Did you need tickets to get in through that door? Only one way to find out….

Shane and I ducked into the gate, and no one stopped us as we entered the church. The interior was packed with people who seemed to know what was going on. The priest was in the middle of the Eucharist, and the line snaked behind him and terminated at the feet of a life-sized wooden statue of Jesus, swathed in a royal purple robe. A priest stood at the intersection of two lines in front of the statue. At his signal, a line-member would step forward, genuflect, and kiss the feet of the statue. Thus the line slowly inched forward as each person performed this small ceremony. As the Eucharist ended, Shane and I were swept forward with the momentum of the crowd. It looked like we were headed to the statue, despite having no idea why we would kiss it. At the last minute we were swept into the wing and into a line for communion. I took the opportunity to file up, and Shane, who is not Catholic, managed to duck through the line with the wave of parishioners. He only raised a few eyebrows in the process.

Then we were back on the street. Theory: A miracle associated with the statue occurred on that date in early March, and it’s an annual feast. I tried corroborating this on the internet, but was stifled in my attempt by my weak Spanish Googling skills.

Our journey continued to the museum. It was sill bright and sky still blue, but we dove inside, past a massive statue of Velasquez. We wouldn’t emerge for another 9 hours. After spending two hours scrutinizing the Northern artists, including Bosch’s “In the Garden of Earthly Delights” and Brueghel’s “Triumph of Death” we realized we needed to get lunch and discuss our day. The map we were given by the museum had a small icon of each “masterpiece” in the museum accompanied by the artist’s name and the gallery where you could find it. We had a lot of masterpieces to go. Over a swanky museum lunch we committed to stay until they kicked us out. We bought pens at the gift shop to check off the masterpieces as we saw them. That’s not to say we didn’t linger with Goya or discuss the genius of Velasquez. The checking helped keep us on track.

Bosch's "In the Garden of Earthly Delights." If you have a few hours, find a large format copy of this and scrutinize the vignettes that cover this triptych. It's really surreal, trippy stuff.

A highlight: Seeing Goya in reverse. Francisco Goya was a court painter who did all the portraits required of him. Slowly a nationalistic edge crept into his work. By the end of his life he had gone off the deep end, creating “Dark Paintings” on the walls of his home including “Saturn Devouring His Son” and “The Witch’s Sabbath.” We saw these proto-modern works with their bleak themes before proceeding to his pastoral collection on the top floor. There we saw happy Spanish aristocrats on swings and playing with kites. We got psychological whiplash from the transition.

"The Prasol" by Goya. Everyone's enjoying a sunny day...

"The Third of May 1808" by Goya. Napoleon rolls into town and Goya starts to lose it (so does Europe).

"Saturn Devouring His Son" by Goya. Yeah, same guy that did the umbrella picture. He wasn't very optimistic about humanity and he died in 1828. As Shane said, "What would his guy have thought about World War I?"

Velasquez was also a knockout. His most famous work, “Las Meninas” a piece which some claim is the greatest painting in the world, was housed in a large gallery surrounded by the artist’s insightful, naturalistic portraits and vignettes.

Then there’s El Greco, his sinewy figures reaching for heaven through grey and gold…

"The Adoration of the Shepherds" by El Greco. Gotta love The Greek.

There were also a lot of new names in the Prado. Spanish artists who produced work targeted at the religiously devoted patrons. I had never really considered how an art museum might reflect the idiosyncrasies of the collector or, in the case of a huge national gallery like the Prado, a country. In the U.S., museums started their serious collecting after the arch of art history had been described. The Renaissance lead to Mannerism lead to the Baroque and so on. The masters of each movement were known and lionized. Each museum should be equipped with a Carravagio, Rembrandt, Tintoretto, and Monet.

An older collection like the Prado reflects real-time trends. The canvases the Spanish royal family chose to exalt dictated what Americans would want hanging in their galleries five hundred years later. The canvases play off of each other. You can watch faces become more naturalistic and poses echoed by artists experimenting with the same themes…I was excited anyway.

As the guards herded us towards the exits we glanced at the remaining masterpieces, but discovered we would need even more time if we ever wanted to see the whole thing. Maybe next time. Now we were hungry.

We were given a tip to check out a tapas bar called…a number…can’t remember what it was called. It was in the older, quainter part of town. The recommendation had only been the name of the place and the address. We didn’t know what made them so special, but we would soon find out.

Famished from a day spent entirely on our feet on marble floors, we dove into the place. A line had already formed for seating. We milled around looking for a table, and finally saw someone catch a waiter and ask for a spot. This was new. There are few restaurants in Germany where you are seated by a host. Here, you needed to get someone’s attention. We put in our request and awkwardly stood in the basement of the cramped establishment, wedging ourselves against the walls to avoid the waiters. While we waited we contemplated the menu which featured no prices and two columns of food items. We could pick out words for cheese and egg, but that was about it.

Finally our table came up and our waiter, in halting English, told us it was a self-serve kind of place, indicating the bar on the other side of the basement. We also asked for a food recommendation. He pointed at one of the mysterious items. We said gracias. I went to the bar to get drinks, then as we sipped our beverages we realized we had to order our food, too. We tried to wait for one of our neighbors to get up to demonstrate where and how you went about getting food. Everyone was in the middle of things, so finally I just stood up and went to investigate the first floor.

There I found an open window to the kitchen. I stood in front of it and a cook appeared with a pencil in hand. In halting recitation of our order I indicated the thing our waiter suggested and another thing that involved cheese and peppers. They were out. Flustered, I pointed at one that just featured cheese. I paid, and he stepped back to the grill. Now what? Do I wait by the window, does he call names? Yet again, there was no one to imitate, so I spent the next seven minutes dancing around the window, trying to get out of waiters’ and customers’ ways. The cook probably thought I was slightly OCD about watching my food.

Finally he came back to the widow and presented me with two mounds of freshly-made chips topped with egg and ham. One featured cheese. Both featured grease. He shoved them my way. I skeptically took hold of the tray and started weaving through traffic to show Shane what we had blindly ordered.

It turns out there are really only two types of food offered at the bar. Chips with egg, ham, and other stuff on top, or sandwich wheels (usually with chorizo). Huh. Well, it wasn’t the healthiest dinner I’ve ever eaten, but it was dinner. We downed our wine and were back on the street. Next stop, seafood. The bar was decked out with fishing tackle and the menu included octopus. We had to try it. Apparently the traditional Spanish way to prepare octopus is to grill a tentacle then slice it into disks. Top with olive oil, paprika, and a bucket of sea salt. Ultimately, you really just get the salt.By this point we were exhausted and it was only 10:30. One of the “must do”s in Madrid is a late night of clubbing. This was to be our night out on the town, but first, we needed a nap. We went back to the hostel. No one was in our room. We set our alarms to go off an hour later. About thirty minutes into our nap, one of our roommates busted through the door and flipped on the light. “Oh, crap!” She flipped them off. “Where ya from?” Apparently Shane had made eye-contact.

She proceeded to interview each of us in the most stereotypical Canadian accent this side of “Canadian Bacon.” We tried to echo her chipper attitude that seems to come with the accent while also indicating we had other things to do, like sleep. For the next half-hour we stayed under the covers, but finally gave up the pretense of napping. This was probably for the best since she had given up the pretense of trying to let us sleep.

Her travel partner came in shortly thereafter and we began exchanging travel stories. The new girl had a proper British accent. We just needed a Kiwi and an Aussie and we would have made a complete dialect set. The girls had been Euro tripping for a couple of weeks, though they didn’t seem to be traveling the way Shane and I might. They were discussing maybe going to the city park the next day. Maybe. Budapest was not a favorite city because the hostel wasn’t so nice…I think there are some people who travel the Continent for the hostel culture more than the actual culture. Different strokes, I guess, though they almost gave me one after this exchange:

Girl: So, why were you guys nappin’?
Shane: We had a long day, really a full work day, at the Prado.
Girl: What’s a Prado?
Shane: It’s the art museum…
Me: It’s really big? Has famous stuff.
Girl: Oh, huh, didn’t know they had one of those.

Then they mentioned clubbing the night before. We perked up. Shane and I are pretty standard geeks/nerds/dorks (pick your poison). This means we don’t know jack about finding clubs in new cities. Here was some experience. They might know where we should go to check off a “must-do.”

So, around 2 AM (when Madrid’s clubs, I am told, are just getting started) the four of us took to the cobble stones in search of a club. We wandered through the Placa del Sol and Placa Mayor with no luck. The bars were closing shop. We were told this was when the clubs opened. We tracked a man with a glowing necklace and devil horns. He probably knew where the party was. Unfortunately, we lost him. Now we had nothing, and it was becoming increasingly apparent the two girls we were with had little interest in finding a place to dance. They were just as geeky and awkward as us.

Wide eyed at the city at night, but not sure where to go but home, we made our way along Calle Gran Via, the main drag through the newer, ritzier part of town. There were clubs on this stretch, but it looked like you needed gobs of hair gel and a black leather jacket to get past the bouncer. I was rocking my I-just-napped-for-a-half-hour-and-need-another rumpled ‘do with my maroon sweater. I wasn’t going to get in. After a bum smashed a bottle on the street, we all decided to get back to Cats. A late night in Madrid, but it would be another early morning. No sleep in Spain!

Placa Mayor. We'll see it a little busier tomorrow morning. We'll also see a couple dead bulls. Stay tuned.

Tchüss!

Adéu Barcelona, Hola Madrid!

Some photos of the final day in Barcelona and a preview of Shane's and my wandering through Madrid.

As the sun greyed the sky, we rolled into the subway, a little bleary-eyed as we dragged our luggage behind. Our first destination was the Barcelona train station where the visiting Floridians caught a direct train to the airport. We said our goodbyes in the terminal that was slowly turning up the volume as commuters and tourists shuttled through the open common area.

It was a heartfelt goodbye. I’ll admit I was a little apprehensive joining the group, knowing everyone else had a deep history, and I would clearly be the interloper, the ruiner of inside jokes. But they had all made me feel welcome. I had only known these visitors for about 48 hours, but we had shared so much aimless wandering, and discussion over wine and beer, that it’s hard to deny we had become friends, and I am deeply thankful they were just such cool people to explore with.

After goodbyes, Shane and I went to the information desk to ask about tickets to Madrid, specifically if we could get a discount with our German Rail 50% off cards (Bahn Card 50. It’s a wonderful deal, half-off every ticket you buy in Germany for a nominal cost upfront). We were told we would get 25% off. Cool. The helpful Barcelonan then handed me a sheet with the cost we would pay highlighted in yellow. This is a key transaction to remember.

Three team members down, Shane and I turned to the subway again and headed to the fringes of town in search of Park Güell, the final Gaudì masterpiece that was easily reached from town. We hopped out of the station as the sun was painting the clouds a radiant pinkish gold. We grabbed caffeine and sandwiches to fuel our morning and started climbing the hill towards the park. Totting our breakfast with the hopes of enjoying it at the park, we crawled up the slope until it seemed to deflect in the wrong direction. We had taken a wrong turn. I’ve become pretty deft at whipping out the map, and we began to ponder. Unfortunately we had ranged beyond the edge of the view offered by Lonely Planet. Cobbling together the address, a bus map, and the guidebook, we eventually figured out we had to backtrack, losing the elevation we had just bought with our tired legs.

Turning a corner, we saw a series of outdoor escalators climbing a particularly steep, San Fransisco-like slope. We gratefully rode upwards, still clutching our coffee, praying the sun would take its sweet time waking up this morning. At the top of the hill, a sign helpfully showed the entrance to the park…was under construction. We hoofed it around a towering stone wall, searching for a way in. As I power-walked ahead, Shane noticed a gate, with a small map. He called me back, and we inspected the gate inscribed with the words “Park Güell.” We had found it.

We hustled through, barely registering the winding pathways, and arched tunnels. We needed to find a scenic bench, stat. We were getting really hungry. Finally, we found the main entrance, decorated with a whimsical twisted spire over the gatehouse. Next to the iconic mosaic lizard (more specifically, under the lizard) we found a bench where we could watch the sun rise, and take in the city, just as Gaudi intended. Between the view from the Park, Casa Milà, and the cable car, I think I have a better idea of Barcelona from the air than from the ground.


Park Güell was constructed between 1900 and 1914 as a housing complex conceived by one of Gaudi’s patrons, Count Eusebi Güell. He envisioned a gated community with a common area, gardens, and pathways surrounding a school for the community’s children. Unfortunately, the fortunes of the city began to change after the turn-of-the-century, and people were reluctant to move to the new development. The gated community idea would take a few more decades before fully flourishing in West Chester, Ohio.

You may notice the ending date also coincides with the beginning of World War I. There’s something slightly tragic about walking through a building (or park) built near 1900, or reading a book from that time period. Optimism infused the work of Gaudi and Jules Verne. Technology was producing incredible wonders like airplanes and the telephone. The future was gleaming with opportunity. Then Franz Ferdinand was assassinated and Europe was dragged into a series of conflicts that wouldn’t end until the close of the next century. So much for that optimism…

The Park became the site of Gaudì’s permanent home, as well as Count Güell’s. Soon after funding fell through, the park was opened to everybody. Apparently not many people take advantage of it at 7 AM. Besides the ornate entry, the park features a colonnade that functions as a public space and rain catchment. Above the columns is a massive common area surrounded by a looping mosaic bench, and a clear view of Barcelona. If I didn’t love the city before gazing off that balcony, I was ready to buy the ring and set the wedding date as I looked out over the harbor.


From the park, Shane and I began a walking tour of the city’s architectural marvels. Normally when I visit a city, I seek out the museums for the rare artifacts or art that I would never see anywhere else. This is part of why shopping in a city has never really appealed to me. I’ll probably be able to find the same store somewhere else with similar wares, but, in Barcelona for example, the buildings are unique to this city.

We first walked to the Hospital de Sant Pau, a series of Neo-Gothic buildings constructed by Lluís Domènech i Montaner with emphasis on vibrant colors and plenty of light for the patients.

You may recall Montaner was responsible for the Palau de la Música Catalana where we saw the German string quartet the night before. Montaner preferred making public buildings, while Gaudi often worked on private residences. The hospital, on the site of a 14th century hospital, is a sprawling complex with subterranean tunnels connecting the wards. This system allows patients more natural light in their rooms.



The problem came when the hospital had to be brought up to code at the turn of this century. A massive “modern” building was installed North of Montaner’s structure. Instead of getting creative, the new building is a white, concrete eye-sore that would look at home in any mid-sized city in the United States. Fortunately they preserved the older hospital for the medical school’s use.





With a blue sky over our heads, we walked from the hospital to the Sagrada Familia, snapping slightly less-soggy shots of the soaring spires. Following a guidebook map of non-Gaudi Modernisme buildings, we walked by a half-dozen residences that tried to buck the stylistic trends of the Industrial Revolution.



Shane considered his possible future as an architect-chemist. I tried to get the map pointed in the right direction. Eventually it was lunch time, and we had no idea where to grab calories before catching the train out of town. Right on cue, the farmer’s market we ate at the night before appeared at our feet.

The restaurant was closed, but the stalls were open with fishermen banging pots to get some attention, and more subdued vegetable salespeople (vegetables are a necessity, let the people come to you, I say). Tucked into the corners of the indoor market were small tapas bars. They seemed cheap, but we had no idea since there was no menu. We did see on key word “Tortilla.” Shane had been told to try a tortilla before leaving the Iberian Peninsula. This seemed like the time. After waffling over how best to approach the counter, I finally just dove in:

Me: Hola!
Bartender: (Expectant stare earned from watching two confused Americans wandering hesitantly around his stand).
Me: Uh, un? (Pointing at a tortilla) und..er…y cervesa, bitte…I mean please, or por fav…
Bartender: (Hands me a beer) Sit there (pointing at a small table)
Me: Dank…Gracias…Thanks.

And I slid into my seat. Confusing German and my sliver of Spanish would become a common occurrence. Apparently I keep all foreign vocabulary in the same folder in my brain, and randomly select which word will best fit the situation at hand. Rarely am I correct. But, I had ordered. Shane went through the same halting process, but eventually we each had our lunch before us. I should note that a Spanish tortilla resembles a quiche more than a pita. It involves a wedge of crust, egg, and cheese, just in case you were wondering what I was doing with a flat piece of fried dough for my dinner.

Food eaten, we walked by a final Gaudi apartment, took a picture of his crest over the door:

and went to the train station. There’s an hourly train that connects Madrid to Barcelona via a high speed train. This means it’s slightly expensive to get between the two, and it is probably more cost effective to take a flight (though it probably won’t save you time, since the train hurtles over the 504 kilometers at 200 km/hr). In general, I prefer the ease of the train. You load your luggage near the center of the city and depart near the center instead of calculating routes into town from the airports that are usually near the fringe. The downside of the train is dealing with the ticket agent:

Me: Hello, is English okay?
Him: Yes, how can I help you?
Me: I would like to buy two tickets to Madrid. (With that I slid three cards under the glass barrier: my DB card for my discount, my German debit card, and my student ID)
Him: What is this for?
Me: Uh, the Deutschebahn card is for the Rail Plus discount…
Him: You do not get a discount.
Me: Um, yes, I believe I do, it has a “Rail Plus” logo on the back.
Him: This is for German trains.
Me: I know but the Rail Plus logo means (at this moment he turned to the ticket seller at the next window, pointed at me and laughed) uh (angrily I reached into my bag and hauled out the price list I had been given that morning) Here, this came from that guy (pointing emphatically like Chris Columbus at the Information booth. His smile fell).
Him: Oh, well…(getting angry) this won’t work (he shoved the debit card at me).
Me: Okay, um it’s a debit card, not a credit card.
Him: It won’t work.
Me: (Riled) Fine, use this (Slide American Express card under).
Him: (After sliding it through his machine, crowing with triumph) This won’t work either!
Me: (Angry) Then try this! (Flinging Visa at him. The computer beeps and boops. It goes through and the tickets print).
Him: Gracias!
Me: Danke!

It turns out American Express forgot I was off the continent for the year and froze my transactions. It also turns out everyone in Spain isn’t as friendly as you might hope. Though, to be honest, one of the insights I’ve gleaned through extensive traveling is this: There are assholes everywhere, and sometimes, you just gotta deal with ‘em.

After a brief wait in the station, we descended to the train. Our bags were scanned and our tickets and passports checked by at least three different individuals. This was new. In Germany you show up at the platform and dive onto the train. It’s possible to make it from Hamburg to Bonn without having your ticket checked once (though this is not common). Not so in Spain where terrorism has been a constant threat since the Civil War was started in the mid ‘30s.

On the train, Shane napped while I looked out the window. We crossed deserts and mountains, climbing through badlands and forests until we were on the Central Spanish Plateau, surrounded by vineyards and the capital city of Madrid.

An image captured as we hurtled through the Spanish countryside.

My first impression of the city was a very positive one. It’s only one Euro to ride the metro to any point in the city. For six Euro, you can get ten rides. It’s cheap to move around, so we felt obliged to do so. We headed for the center of town where we had made reservations for a hostel near the Opera House. We entered the building and were quickly informed by a clerk that the hostel was no longer located at that address. Confused, I walked into the street and called. Oh, they had forgotten to tell me their new address, and what? We wanted to stay until Sunday? Oh, they don’t have rooms for Saturday night.

Thus began a pleasant few minutes as we worked our way through Lonely Planet’s hostel list, eventually finding Hostel Cats. Our new home was nestled near the oldest part of town and thence all the tapas bars. I didn’t fully understand what tapas meant, but it seemed like a good place to stay. We soon discovered that Cats was set up in a former Muslim palace, and damaging the mosaic courtyard or stained-glass windows was a federal offense. Shane and I put away our spray paint and Louisville Sluggers.

We threw our luggage in our dorm, praying the other four beds would remain vacant. We also checked out our shower and toilet. A shower curtain divided the bathroom from the sleeping area. The toilet sat beneath a gable, causing you to risk concussion every time you needed it, and the shower was wedged into the corner with curtains hemming it in. They weren’t quite reaching the floor, so a shower looked like a slightly messy process. Fortunately, there were more…established facilities on the next floor.

Back into the night. We only had two days in Madrid and we were going to make these count. It was time to figure out what “Tapas” meant. In a slightly rustic bar, we soon discovered it meant appetizers. Fries, sausages, cheese, calamari, if you can put it on a toothpick or eat it with a small fork, it’s a tapas. After a beer and first round of snacks we rolled on to a bustling diner with the words “Cafeteria, Cerveceria” over the door. That seemed promising both for our wallets and our stomachs. The demographic ranged form high schoolers to old timers in for a brew. The owner found us a table wedged against the freezer and he quickly brought us a bottle of wine and a plate of fries and Chorizo with bread. Everything was fantastic, including the people watching. The pair of dudes next to us left behind half their wine. The owner swung by again, asking if we wanted to finish it up. We thanked him by reaching into the freezer every now and then to fish out ingredients.


Our final stop for the evening was a slightly trendier establishment that advertised cheap Sangria. We were in and seated, sipping the fruited wine and eating open-faced sandwiches before the door had swung closed behind us. It was a great night of bonding and people watching as we discussed girls, traveling, and science. Eventually we had to call it a night since we had the Prado to explore in the morning and we would need to rally our strength to take on all the Old Masters.


Stumbling slightly into our dorm, we were disappointed to find one of the other bunks was occupied. We quietly dove under the covers, setting our alarms for an early wake-up. Sleep when you’re dead (or back on the plane to Germany).

Coming next time: Art! Mass! Pilot Cow!

Tchüss!

The requisite photo album.

The Beautiful and the Gaudí

A link to illustrations. It's the same album from the previous post, but with the following entry, more of the photos might make a little more sense. Also included at the end.

The next morning Rose, Kristen, Shane, and I were out the door and on the subway as the city got rolling. We were headed to the Eixample, a district primarily built up during the end of the 19th century. It’s now a very swanky shopping district and seemed like a good place to start our wandering. As we emerged from the subway, I looked across the street, searching for a street sign to get my bearings and was confronted by a riot of pastel mosaic tiles and rippling, skull-like balconies. The building was nestled between two standard high rises, which made it even more difficult to ignore.

Me: I think that thing’s famous.
Shane: Yeah, we should check it out.
Me: How much do you think a ticket costs?
Shane: Does it matter?
Me: Fair.

And thus began a day spent in adoration of one of the most creative, visionary architects I’ve ever heard of: Antoni Gaudí.

Because the Eixample was built up at the turn of the last century, Art Nouveau was in vogue as a loopy, organic rebellion against the hard angles and steel of the churning Industrial Revolution. Barcelona’s architects took the spirit of the French movement and infused it with a whiff of the Mediterranean and hard-edged Spanish mysticism, and Catalonian Nationalism producing “Modernisme.” The master of Modernisme was Gaudí. Intensely patriotic, and obsessed with natural forms, his buildings evoke wild gardens, and a little Dr. Seuss.

Then entry way to Casa Batllò. Everything, even the pottery, ebbs and flows.

The building confronting Shane and I was Casa Batlló. The apartment building was built in 1870, but Gaudí was asked to renovate it in 1905. Instead of just sprucing up the façade, he decided to move through every room, destroying right angles and infusing the building with light. Shane and I paid the entry fee, armed ourselves with audioguides and dove in – an appropriate metaphor as the interior has a very marine feel with blues, purples, and greens mingling in bubble-like fixtures. A massive ridge of tile fronts the façade with twisting chimneys and a lance-like tower slicing through the gable.

Gaudi was a very patriotic Catalonian and some people see Casa Batllo as a metaphor for Catalonia’s patron saint: St. George. The tower is capped with a cross and “JHS”, the Christian saint’s weapon slaying the pagan dragon. The victims of the beast are symbolized by the skull-like balconies and boney entrance-level. The attic evokes the ribs of the dragon with stark white arches leading to the roof.

The spires are maybe the spikes on the dragon's back, the gable his raised neck, and the cross the tip of St. George's lucky lance.

A less iconic example of Modernisme, to remind you that Gaudi was unique, even within his artistic movement.

After ogling at one of Gaudi’s smaller works, Shane and I were ready to visit everything else the man had constructed. After walking up and down the street to take in some of the less iconic, non-Gaudi Modernisme buildings, we headed for Casa Milà on Passeig de Gràcia. The massive, melting apartment building was built between 1906 and 1912. People live and work in the structure, but the top floor had a museum to Gaudi, explaining some of his biography and techniques. There were bones, leaves, and shells, some of his favorite motifs, and reproductions of the furniture he designed.


He was on the vanguard of ergonomics, making chairs that trace the arch of the back, and handles that perfectly fit the required grip of the hand. It’s a bit of an understatement to say he was ahead of his time. The roof of the apartment is festooned with a rolling, concrete hillside with twisting spires and interlocked arches. The rain should have driven us inside pretty quickly, but we continued to explore, taking in the view of the city, including a view of Sagrada Família (more on that building a little later).

After checking out the roof, we walked through a reconstructed apartment with furniture and fixtures that would have been common in 1910. It was actually a little shocking to be inside such a modern structure and suddenly be confronted with the lacy curtains and antiquated picture frames that would have been installed by the first tenants of the building. Next, we headed down the street for Gaudi’s masterpiece: the Sagrada Familia (The Holy Family).


The drizzle continued, so we grabbed lunch at a cafeteria-like restaurant recommended by a guy at a coffee stand. We sat by the window so we could try to take in the soaring spires of the structure while enjoying an unlimited supply of coffee (a rare thing on The Continent).

The full title of the building is “Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família” or Expiatory Temple of the Holy Family. Gaudi broke ground in 1882 and worked on it for the next 40 years. In 1926 Gaudi died after being hit by a tram at the age of 73, but construction has continued (with a brief respite in 1936 due to the Spanish Civil War). Estimates for the date of completion range from 2026 to 2080, though advances in design tools and materials have made the earlier dates more feasible. Construction is completely funded through private donations and ticket sales from visiting tourists like us. I’m glad I shelled out a couple of Euros to help make Gaudi’s greatest project a reality.

Now there are eight spires twisting towards the sky. Eventually there will be 18 representing the 12 apostles, the four evangelists, Mary, and Christ. The spire devoted to Christ will stand over the center of the building with a massive crystal cross acting as a kind of lighthouse for the ships steaming into Barcelona harbor. The Eastern façade was completed during Gaudi’s lifetime. It depicts the nativity and the tree of life. The opposite façade tells the story of the Passion. This section was designed by a Josep Maria Subirachs, who ignored Gaudi’s plans and infused the scenes with his own angular style.



Modern designers and artists have been given a little more license to develop their own visions of the project since many of Gaudi’s plans and models were destroyed in a fire set by Catalonian Anarchists in 1936.

In 2000, much of the interior vault was completed. The columns are like massive twisting tree trunks that branch near the ceiling. Skylights are surrounded by sunbursts or leaf designs, creating the impression of walking through a forest clearing lit by radiant stained glass. Construction is heavily underway as cranes swing overhead, and workers climb through the scaffolding.


Really the most incredible aspect of the Sagrada Familia, or really anything Gaudi built, is that it is truly one man’s vision. He conceived of a spiritually infused naturalistic world in concrete and steel, and people bought into his vision. To see the Sagrada Familia built is to see one man’s dream become a reality. Other artists – painters, photographers, sculptors, writers etc. – often work alone, or with small groups of people who share their vision, presenting their individualized vision as a completed whole for others to adorate or dismiss. An architect must convince hundreds of people – financiers, city officials, and construction foremen – to participate in his concept of the world. Gaudi’s was distinctive and people went with it. How often does that really happen?

As the temple closed behind us, Shane and I resolved to return in the mid-21st century to see the structure completed. If it’s not done by then, then we’ll take up masonry, and help speed the process along.

From there, Rose, Kristen, and James went shopping in the trendy department stores of Barcelona, and Shane and I went to immerse ourselves in a museum dedicated to another Spanish artist with a singular, distinctive vision: Pablo Picasso.

A (Self) Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (after this I was told there was to be no photography in the museum. I thought it was just no flash. Whoops.)

The Picasso Museum was established in 1963 in the city Picasso flourished in (before going to Paris, that is). The collection begins with the young Picasso’s first artistic forays. From a very young age he showed an incredible eye for realistic portraits. When he was 16 he created his first prize-winning piece “The First Communion” followed by “Science and Charity.” The museum then moves through each phase of the artist’s career. You can watch him experiment with Impressionism, Pointillism, and Expressionism, then, after the Red Period, there’s a massive gap in the record. Enter Cubism.

Shane and I had to hustle through the exhibits, but had plenty of time to watch the mature master study “Las Meninas” by Velazquez, deconstructing then rebuilding the piece in Cubist strokes. In a few days we would see the original “Las Meninas” in Madrid, approaching the piece through Picasso’s eyes before using our own.

Again, the door was closed and locked behind us as we departed exactly at closing time. We know how to get the most out of our time, and really tick off museum guards (sorry, Grandpa).

The Barcelona Cathedral which was, you guessed it, closed for renovations.

From Picasso we headed to the theater. James had the brilliant idea to pick up tickets for a string quartet performance at the Palau de la Música Catalana. The Palau was finished in 1909 by Lluís Domènech i Montaner, another Modernisme master (Gaudi didn’t have the whole city to himself). The concert hall is a riot of green, blue, and purple glass. The proscenium is decorated with charging, mounted Valkyries and a bust of Beethoven. The opposite side of the proscenium has a bust of a famous Catalonian composer who drew on traditional folk tunes. Over his head, arches a stately tree. The folk symbols and classical symbols meet to support the artists below.

The facade of the "Palace of Catalonian Music," a mix of brick, steel, classical columns and dancing color. Modern music made tangible.

As students, we had the cheap seats for a performance that appropriately featured a German quartet tracing music’s growth from the Baroque to the Romantic (the Romantic is when folk stuff started to mingle with the more theoretical Classical). It was easy to zone during the early parts of the program, but the concert hall offered plenty of decoration to occupy my eyes. Once Beethoven rolled around, my ears became just as engaged.

No photos allowed here, but I wanted you to see the pegasus I got to stare at for the entire concert. Follow the link for more interior views.

The problem with the concert was its timing. It started at 8 and dropped us on the street at 10:00. We were about to have food problems again, since we were trailing the edge of the brief dinnertime window. As we hustled across town, headed for a restaurant our guidebook recommended, we ran into another pair of tourists looking for food. We confessed we didn’t know where we were going, or if it would still be open. Where’s a knowledgeable Barcelonan when you need one?

With a wrong turn, we found ourselves outside the closed farmer’s market. As we power-walked by, we noticed a very trendy restaurant with open tables. A glance at the menu told us we had a lot of cool options, so we strode in, unsure if they would turn the lights off before we finished dining. Shane and I split the Lobster Paella, Rose ordered a traditional Catalonian sausage, Kristen had a baked Catalonian cheese dish, and James enjoyed his curry. The ingredients all came from the neighboring farmers market, including the Spanish wine. We had plenty of time to eat and chat. The nights never flicked off, and the bar was still going as we took to the streets again.

A crustacean making a second appearence in two entries. Do I see a theme brewing?

We were a fair piece from the hotel, and the subway had stopped running an hour earlier. Thus we found ourselves contemplating a cryptic bus schedule on an empty street in Barcelona. I got frustrated with the sign and suggested we walk. I didn’t think it would take that long to cross town. I had forgotten I was in European mode, and was prepared to walk anywhere. The three visitors weren’t necessarily conditioned for trans-urban trips, and after walking for about twenty minutes, I could feel mutiny brewing. Next time, I’ll take the hint earlier and look into hailing a cab (this would be hammered home in Copenhagen, but stay tuned for that episode).

When we got to the hotel, James checked in for the evening. The Floridians had to check out at 5:30 AM the next morning. It was already going on 1 AM. The rest of us decided to just stay up through the night, but we needed a place to do so. Unfortunately, the streets around the hotel were dark and very closed. We asked the hotel desk for a bar recommendation. He pointed at a small restaurant across the road, saying it was one of his favorites.

We crossed and found a fluorescently lit restaurant with a row of surprised locals bellied up to the bar. We were shown a place to sit around a corner, out of sight of the regulars. Our waiter was an enthusiastic Korean man who was clearly eager to practice his English. We obliged, but only stayed for one drink, before taking to the street again in search of a place that had a little more…atmosphere. A club a few blocks away seemed promising until we discovered it was 10 Euro a head and wouldn’t offer much opportunity for chit-chat. Back to the street. Finally, glancing into every storefront, we started to lose hope and considered buying a can of beer from one of the hundreds of guys wandering the streets with six packs, ready to sell their wares for a Euro. This army of vendors had been confronting us for the previous night as well, a kind of zombie army of booze, and maybe something a little harder.

Just then we chanced by a Turkish fast-food joint run by Indian dudes. They still had the lights on and a table of Spanish hipsters gathered around a table in the back. This seemed like a place to stay for a bit. As we chatted, the staff enthusiastically offered us more rounds while also lowering their protective garage door partially over the entrance, indicating they were closing up shop. As we packed up, they protested, but we decided the door was a good indicator that it was time to get back to the hotel to pack up, get showers and begin a new day….

Stay tuned for a good-bye to Barcelona and hello to Madrid with a short tangle with the Spanish transport authority!

Tschüss!

The photo album again.