Barcelona, Spain

by Marc Latham

My plane was on time, but I was twenty-five years late.

In September, 1987 I had spent the afternoon on the E-90 north of Zaragoza hitching to Barcelona. When I got a lift in the evening with a couple who didn’t speak English I’m pretty sure I told them I was going to Barcelona. They couldn’t have understood me, because I saw the lights of Barcelona in the distance to my right; fade in and out of view. It was deep night by then, and I didn’t raise much protest; if any. They took me to Figueres, Salvador Dali’s hometown, and from there I continued north.

Now I’d finally made it to Barcelona; to run a marathon in a few days time. It was experiences like Zaragoza, where I had walked for several miles in intense Los Monegros desert heat, that made me think I could endure running long distances. In my experience, independent travel can be just as grueling as organised events, but achievements usually go unrecognised; taking place with only road and nature as witness; forgotten like desert dust blown off a worn rucksack.

Montjuic Park, Home of Olympics 1992

I settled in on the first two days, and on Saturday visited Montjuic Park for the marathon expo; to collect my race number and timing chip. The Museum of Arts towers over the front of the park; above cascading fountains framed by rows of steps. Musicians and giant dolls entertained in the square at the bottom of the cascading fountain.

I returned in the night to watch the Magic Fountain show. Every fifteen minutes between 7pm and 9pm the circular fountain at the foot of the hill seems to be awakened by music, spraying water high in the air while changing colours.

The next morning I joined about 20,000 runners below the fountain, with the elite runners setting off at 08.30. About twenty-five minutes later I passed the start line, ran around the twin Venetian towers and half way around the Praca d’ Espanya roundabout. The area had a facelift for the 1929 world exhibition, and provides a nice introduction to Barcelona for those entering the city from the main El Prat airport, about fifteen miles to the south.

Running Thru History

After about four miles the circuit took us past Camp Nou; the 98,000-capacity home of FC Barcelona is the largest stadium in Europe. That night I joined 68,000 people at the stadium to watch Barcelona beat Rayo Vallecano 3-1. Climbing to a seat about five rows from the top of the 150-feet-high stadium was hard work, but worth it, with the sensation of emerging into the steep-sided seating above the bright green pitch reminding me of the Lost Horizon story of a Shangri-La hidden in the Himalayan mountains.

In about ten miles the marathon route returned us to the city centre, running up Gracia past the Modernisme architecture that distinguishes Barcelona. La Pedrera statues pierce the sky from Casa Mila’s rooftop, while buildings such as Casa Amatlla and Casa Batllo seem to shout loud colours from intricately glossed lips.

Antoni Gaudi was Modernisme’s most famous artist, and a couple of miles later we passed the movement’s crowning glory. La Sagrada Familia is still under construction a century later. The 13,000-capacity cathedral’s size distinguished it from other cathedrals while passing, and on closer inspection so does its blending of nature into the design. Gaudi liked curves rather than straight lines, claiming there were none of the latter in nature; and some spire-tops are decorated with balls of fruit-colours.

After looping north we ran parallel with the Mediterranean Sea, and through Barcelona’s Modernisme-style Arc de Triomf; built for Spain’s first international exposition in 1888; the event an important showcase for the city’s art movement at its peak. The last kilometre returned us to Montjuic Park, where we’d begun.

A good crowd braved rain-showers to cheer runners home, and along with all the drinks-volunteers, musicians and spectators along the way they made the marathon experience into more than just a time and achievement.

Post-Marathon Sightseeing

The sky cleared the next day, and temperatures rose into the 60s Fahrenheit. I took the train out to Monistrol de Montserrat, and hiked to the Santa Maria de Montserrat monastery. To the north-west, snow-capped Pyrenees signified the border with France, while the Mediterranean Sea was visible to the east.

The Benedictine abbey seems more amazing than La Sagrada Familia in many ways; within nature rather than including nature. The abbey is nestled near the top of the highest Montserrat peaks; like a ship in bottle; hardly noticeable from the train below. I wondered how it was constructed; before the bus, train and cable car that now service Catalonia’s most important religious retreat provided easy access.

The next day I returned to Montjuic Park, going past the Arts Museum to the Olympic Stadium, which brought back memories of the 1992 Games. I walked past torch-pillars and the Telefonica tower to the tree-filled green zone leading up to Barcelona’s castle. Cannons point up and down the coast and there are great views of the city all the way to Tibidabo Mountain, overlooking Barcelona on the western horizon. The castle has a chequered past, being used to hold and execute prisoners in the civil war and other twentieth-century conflicts.

There was time to visit the La Rambla shops, cafes and street entertainers; the Waterfront; and Gothic Quarter’s narrow alleys in the afternoon. The latter also has Roman ruins and La Catedral. On my last full day I visited Gaudi’s Park Guell in the north of the city, before returning to La Sagrada Familia and the other Modernisme masterpieces in L’Eixample; seeing that some have now been converted into designer shops.

I could only walk past and admire; but it inspired a thought. I’d also converted something old into something new in Barcelona; a road-tale memory into a road-running achievement. And as Barcelona continues to craft La Sagrada Familia, I’d also fitted in one more piece of my quarter-century-old original journey plan.

If You Go:

♦ Barcelona is an international hub served by an airport; railway and bus stations; and has a modern metro system. There are tourist buses providing a hop on service to main tourist sites upon purchase of a day’s travel ticket.
♦ Marc stayed in Hostel One Sants, which is nice and friendly, and near the railway station.
♦ There are tourist information offices in many city centre locations. People speak Catalan as well as Spanish, and English is widely spoken. The Euro is the currency.

 

All photos are by Marc Latham:
Olympic Stadium
Montjuic Park
Magic Fountain
Modernisme
Cathedral
Santa Maria de Montserrat
Arts Museum

About the author:
Marc Latham travelled to all the populated continents during his twenties, and studied during his thirties, including a BA in History. He now lives in Leeds, and is trying to become a full-time writer from the www.greenygrey.co.uk website. Marc has several published and self-published books available on Amazon.

Barcelona, Spain

by Fredricka R. Maister

I was just a college girl majoring in art history when I became smitten with the architectural genius of Antoni Gaudi (1852-1926). Captivated by Gaudi’s unconventional, whimsical and gravity-defying architecture, I yearned to visit Barcelona where I could see his creations “in the flesh.” This was decades before Barcelona appeared on the radar of hot travel destinations and hordes of tourists waited in round-the-block lines to enter the Church of La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s crowning achievement.

Sadly, my yearning stayed unrequited for almost 40 years, that is, until this summer when I vacationed for 18 days in Spain, 10 days of which I dedicated to exploring Barcelona. As expected, Gaudi did not disappoint. To finally see, touch and feel the power of Gaudi’s work in La Sagrada, Parc Guell, Casa Mila, and Casa Batllo was an awesome experience, punctuated with endless “WOW!” and “Oh my God!” moments.

However, the most memorable highlight of my long-awaited trip to Barcelona to see Gaudi had nothing to do with Gaudi, but with a symbol of Catalan identity and pride: the Sardana, the traditional dance of Catalonia. Catalonia (or Catalunya in Catalan), an autonomous region in northeast Spain with Barcelona as its capital, has its own history, language and culture. Often at odds with Spain’s dominant Castilian culture, Catalonia’s history has been marked by the loss and recovery of its political and cultural expression as well as the appearance of nationalist movements and political parties advocating for further autonomy or full independence.

Francisco Franco, the fascist dictator who ruled Spain for over 35 years, viewed Catalonia as a threat because of its independent spirit and nationalism. He banned the use of the Catalan language and other Catalan traditions, such as the Sardana. With his death in 1975 and the passage of the Spanish Constitution of 1978, Catalonia regained its political and cultural autonomy.

I had read in a guidebook that on Sundays at noon local Barcelonians gather together to dance the Sardana in the square by the Barcelona Cathedral in the Gothic Quarter where my hotel was conveniently located. The Sardana was on my “to-see” list, but I only had one Sunday in Barcelona and I wanted to spend the day hanging out in Gaudi’s “must-see” Parc Guell on the other side of town.

I lucked out when I decided to go for a pre-dinner stroll Saturday evening. As soon as I exited my hotel, I heard spirited “brassy” music coming from the square and felt compelled to check out the source.

Several large moving circles of dancers, hands joined together and held high, filled the square. Accompanying them was a small band of musicians assembled on the Cathedral steps. I could not believe my timing: I had stumbled upon the local performance of the Sardana I had wanted to see but would have missed because of my sightseeing schedule. I found a prime “orchestra seat” on a step below the musicians.

I was surprised that the dancers were wearing contemporary casual attire and not traditional folk costumes as I had envisioned. A number of them were wearing espadrilles for comfort and, I assumed, in keeping with their deep sense of national pride, to celebrate the shoe itself as an original Catalan creation.

The circles were comprised of “Sardanistes” of varying ages, the majority of whom appeared to be over 50. In the center of each circle in a heap were the dancers’ personal possessions, a symbolic “laying down of life’s burdens,” as I read somewhere, or more likely, I surmised, given the active crime scene in Barcelona, a way of keeping one’s things safe.

Never one to stay still when an opportunity to dance arose, I wanted to join one of the circles. I studied the footwork, which consisted of very small, precise steps—side-to-side moves, points, crossovers, forwards and backwards. It seemed easy enough to follow. However, each time I was sure I got the sequence of steps down, a new sequence would be introduced or there would be a sudden change in tempo or direction. Even when the dancers seemed to abruptly pause I was deceptively lured into thinking that a dance was over, but then it would suddenly resume. I had no choice but to give up my grandiose ambition to be a Sardanista!

When I wasn’t watching the dancers’ feet in exasperation, I found myself alternately intrigued by an elderly man in one of the larger circles and two young couples who had formed their own circle on the periphery.

The man, perhaps in his 80s, was small and frail with a proud weathered Catalan face. Even though he did not perform the intricate steps, he moved his lips as if recalling the steps or the count. I wondered about his past. Much of his life had no doubt been lived during Franco’s rule. Did he have painful memories of that repressive time? Had he and his family kept the tradition of the Sardana alive or had they been forced to abandon it altogether? And, as I watched him dance, touched by his spirit and commitment to participate despite his physical limitations, how was he feeling in that moment, free to raise his head and hands high in an expression of Catalan solidarity?

The young couples, while just as concentrated and serious about the dance as their older counterparts, seemed to put their “own spin” on the dance with lots of energetic jumping up and down. Was this some new choreography of the post-Franco generation? Had they learned the dance from their families or had they taken Sardana lessons? Was it a social outing or a need to celebrate their Catalan heritage or both that brought the foursome to the square every weekend?

And then there was the “cobla,” the traditional woodwind band accompanying the dancers. I watched in amazement as the musician who sat behind me simultaneously played a small flute (“flabiol”) with one hand and beat a tiny drum (“tambori”) with the other. I later learned that the flabiol and tambori are typical Catalonian instruments. I could only marvel that the sounds from this small ensemble could fill a huge public space and beyond. It was, after all, their music that first beckoned me to the square.

While tourists streamed in and out, I stayed for the entire performance that lasted almost two hours. At one point a Sardanista, who “worked the crowd” to solicit donations for the local Sardana organization, accidentally hit me in the back with her foot. I was fine, but profusely apologetic, she kept coming back to me every fifteen minutes to assure herself that I was okay. After the performance she told me, through her French-speaking friend (I know some French), that I must return the following day (Sunday) at noon for the next Sardana performance.

Before I left for Parc Guell on Sunday, I did return for the encore performance but only stayed a half hour. It was hard to leave the Sardana but Gaudi was waiting for me.

That was not my final encounter with the Sardana. On my last day in Barcelona, while walking in Parc de Montjuic, the mountain overlooking the city, I unexpectedly found myself face-to-face with the Sardana Dance Monument, the famous life-sized sculpture of figures dancing the Sardana by the Catalan artist, Josep Canas. For me the sculpted figures were not anonymous slabs of stone. In my mind’s eye, I could see in them the elderly man, the two young couples, my “solicitous friend” and the other Sardanistes who danced for me in front of the Barcelona Cathedral, proud, united and steadfast in their homage to their Catalunya.

Wine Tasting and Shopping with Lunch from Barcelona

If You Go:

You can see the Sardana dancers on weekends at the Plaza Sant Jaume or in front of the Barcelona Cathedral. Check locally as times and places vary.

 

About the author:
Fredricka R. Maister is a freelance writer who lives in New York City. She can be contacted at fmaister@yahoo.com.

Photo Credits:
Stone dancers by Joan Aranda; Cobla by Stanley Epstein; Sardana dancers by Catherine Larson; Dancing shoes by Ellen Edelman.