In Barthalona. My friend Greg thaid it like that for fun, and now I can't thtop. Try it, it's dangerous...but really, I love the way they say it here. Bar-che-lo-na, with a ¨che¨ like in ¨cello.¨ Sitting now in Parc Guell, and it's a sunny and breezy 60 degrees this morning in Spain.
I have stumbled onto another really nice place to stay, in the Barri Gotic, the old gothic core of the city. It's a bit like Stone Town, actually, with a maze of narrow streets, and all the landmarks disappearing when the storefronts close. I got here yesterday and had my first almost-disaster of planning. The directions to my hostel were really, really explicit- which is good because, from the street, it's completely invisible. So, in fact, is the street itself. There's a row of graffiti-covered garage-style doors, and a small number "4" and a bell that says, "Marcela 3A." The door itself is cut into one of these larger doors, so it's hidden, too. I ring the bell and...nada. I ring it several times....nada again, and I am standing in pickpocket central, with all of my luggage. I don't care if they take all my clothes at this point- it's all just laundry, really- but I will fight tooth and nail for my Turkish boots and Zanzibar presents and Italian groceries.
I re-group. I drag my luggage to the first place I can find to sit down. I have a sandwich and a coke and decide, if I can't get into my hostel, to just find an new one nearby and eat the cost. It doesn't come to that. I drag my luggage back down the winding streets to the hidden street and the secret door, and by great good luck, this South African guy named Clinton is there to let me in. Clinton is my new best friend, because there is no elevator, and he cheerfully carried my biggest bag up three flights. I was just going to abandon it for three days, it's ridiculous, but he was still smiling when he got to the top and just said, ¨"That's quite the heavy one, isn't it!" Bless him. And he showed me my room, which is fun and really funky, and he takes out a map. He writes all over it- the place with the 75 cent champagne, and the place with the cool fountains, and the subway stop and the two towers I need to look for to get there, and the best tapas place.
He shows me something else I didn't know on the map. Barcelona used to be three villages, and you can see them still on the city map with lots of small and winding streets. They were knitted together at some point in an expansion called "l'Eixample," with a grid in between to unify the whole city. It's really easy to tell when you've stepped out of one of the villages into the grid. Here, the buildings are pulled way back from the corners at all of the intersections in gentle curves, and the area in the intersections looks more like the shape of a roundabout. Most streets have huge medians, which are either for pedestrians or huge bike lanes.
The most famous street here, La Rambla (or Las Ramblas, if you string a few of them together) is for promenading. In fact, this city seems to have a different take on the public realm than Italy did. Here it's all about movement. Promenading is a big deal, and the public spaces I've seen are either these long, wide pedestrian districts, or full-on parks. There are little expanses here and there, plaças, but they're not really gathering spots. In the pedestrian areas, there are cafes with tables, but no benches to speak of for the general public. You're meant to keep moving. The word "Rambla" has something to do with the movement of water, but it sounds like ramble, and that's what people are doing. There are different Ramblas scattered about the city, in addition to the main one. Another "movement" word- there's also a street nearby called the "Passeig de Gracia," which I love.
My thoughts on Las Ramblas: I´m sorry. I don't like it. But it has nothing to do with Las Ramblas itself- it's one of the great streets of the world, and I know this because it's in my Great Streets book. The problem: it's infested, just infested, with those fake statue people. For those of you who don't know this personal quirk of mine, THESE PEOPLE CREEP ME OUT. They creep me out like clown dolls. I pass them and I feel awkward, and then embarrassed for them, and I wonder why they feel like standing still entitles them to any of my money? There are some clever ones around here. There's a creepy soldier in camouflage holding a rifle, which is even scarier; there are some headless bodies with floating hats and spectacles; some eerie all-in-black-lace ghost women. Right now in the park I'm watching a caveman put on makeup for his ¨homo barcelonus" diorama. He's been doing this for 20 minutes. But again I say, they are not street performers, they are just standing still. When I walk past them, I always have the look on my face that Will Ferrell has in Elf, when he's testing the Jack-in-the-Boxes. Creepy. So, Las Ramblas on a Sunday means dodging these people every 15 or 20 feet, and trying to snake through the crowds gathered all round them, waiting for them to ...what?? What is it they think they're going to do??
In other news: pickpockets in Barcelona. They are legendary. I have found them, in the form of Gaudi ticket sales people. They separated me from 10 € today to get into Sagrada Familia, but didn't tell me in advance that, due to construction, I would be able to tour all the open spots in less than 2 minutes. You're not allowed to use the stairs, but they will sell you a ticket for an elevator ride. Mean mean mean. I wanted to love it, but between the jackhammers and scaffolding and crane action, you really can't see much of anything in there. Some of the details, like the beautiful doors and the strange sculptures, are worth a close look. Some of it looks like...a drizzle castle.
Pickpocketed again at Casa Mila, but that one's only 6 € and totally worth it. Again, strange. After Parc Guell, and Sagrada Familia, and now Casa Mila, I'm starting to wonder about this man. I love Gaudi in theory: I love Art Nouveau; I love his color theory; I love that he tried to work outside the box and push the envelope. Up close, though, it's all so snaky and reptilian and spinal. It's supposed to be organic, but it's a little unsettling. On to Casa Batilo, my last Gaudi stop of the day. The thieving scoundrels and hoarders of culture at the gate want 18 €. For reference, the Uffizi is 10; the Louvre is 9, a ticket to the pyramids is like $6, at ticket to the Acropolis, or the Roman Forum, is like 7€. Leaving Italy I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with myself over the travel budget, so I decided to skip that last one. Criminal. Gaudi is everywhere here, though, and so is Art Nouveau, and it adds a really nice atmosphere to the city. So I won't complain about them trying to capitalize on it. Much.
Tonight: budget picnic, delicious actually, in front of the cathedral. I found the perfect antidote to the fake statue people: three of my favorite street performers of all time. They actually had a dance-hall piano out there, and a banjo and a trumpet. The lead singer looked like Kurt Cobain but sounded like Louis Armstrong. They sang "Makin' Whoopie" in front of the Barcelona Cathedral. A perfect moment.
And now: off in search of the 75 cent champagne place.
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