A Sunday in Barthelona

Sunday here is indeed a wonderfull day to be out and about. Their Sundays appear to be what Sundays used to be, that old fashioned idea of having a holiday; shutting shops and even going to church. I rose late after a cooking class the night before, the sangria to blame along with my second flu after only shaking the prevoius one 3 days earlier. But as you do when travelling, I got up and ignored it as if it were a school bully. Ignoring it works ok apart from the occassional wave of aching fatigued dull pain, much like an invisable freight truck has just gone directly over top of you. the only other issue I had to contend with was a bit more dangerous; one of the symptoms of this flu was totally unpredictable lurches of lurgies that rose from the depths of my lungs. If I`m not quick this can result, without warning, in a large green alien being propelled from my mouth with a roaring filthy cough. This is all well and good, not too much of a worry, until later that evening when leaning forward to within a few inches of a painting at the Picasso museam to inspect the brush work...

The first Sunday event was encounted as soon as i stepped out of the front door of my hostel. They seem to turn certian squares into certian markets on certian days here, what is one day a quiet little square, is the next a bustling hyve of activity. This was a collector`s market, which are most interesting for the people they attract. Avid collectors are as fascinating as the things they collect, you can imagine how interesting a conversation with a man who owns 18,637 postcards with trains on them would be. As I couldn`t speak spanish I had to refrain from stricking one up.

The Sunday atmosphere was candid. Young adults out walking slowly with their parents, all impecibly dressed and with formal manner. The gentle hum of pleasant Sunday conversation was reverbirating off the age old concrete walls. I suddenly wanted my Sundays back... close the shops!

The old town church had opened its courtyard and there was a procession of local Spainiards lighting candels. In the center there was a procession working its way in the opposite direction; the local church geese strutting their defiance with a papal pride. They had obviously lived in the courtyard for many years. I almost felt as though i was imposing, they certianly considered it to be their church rather than God`s.

I rounded the corner of the church into a main square, I had to look twice as I caught a busker in my periferials. He had some how managed to string himself up to a cross above the ground so arrestingly that he didn`t even need a gimick when someone deposited a coin in his slot - he just remained crucified. The square was buzzing - in a quiet respectable way as it wa s mostly full with elderly and there abouts. There was a brass band on the steps of the church playing a tune that, if wasn`t comical, was rather average. There was a large gathering infront, as I drew closer to the center of the gathering i noticed that its nucleus was a large pile of coats and bags and the electrons surrounding it was a ring of people linking hands and dancing a sort of Spanish ring-a-rosie for the older generation. There was no fall down, only 4 steps that just got repeated over and over.- Still, who am I to mock from my youth, there`s not more than 2 steps repeated over and over in most night clubs. I wonder if, when our generation is old, we will have DJs on church steps and we will stand around with our artheritis and do 2-step.

Next I went to the shoe museam. This was interesting, not for its shoes, but for its comic quaintness. It was a single room 4m x 7m with a glass cabinet on each wall and one in the middle, all curated by a formal little man all of 80 years old. The museam was no more impressive than a collection of 18,637 postcards with trains on them. I did enjoy it though for its novelity. Although we had established upon entrance that i had zero Spanish the wee man would appear at my side every time i stood infront of a new cabinet and speil off a well rehersed formal explination in articulate Spanish.

(I just helped a sweet little french girl down with her suitcase on the train toward Brussles, when she smiled at me and said "merci beaucoup monseiur" it was truely my pleasure!)

I left the Museam after staying a proper length of time so as not to be insulting to the dear little man and moved onto another square. There was a busker exceptional on the didgeridoo, he had several carnations including a massive ornate metal one, unsure of its origions but it was certianly not the work of an aborigionie. Around the corner there was another busker, a charismatic blind African playing guitar and singing with a Louis Armstrong/Al Green talent that was truely soul touching. I stayed for an hour and bought a CD.

Now off to Parc Gruiel, The Gaudi designed park. I was in search of a nice grassy patch in the sun in which to lie down and give the old body space to nutrualise the dirty flu. It didn`t really work out that way. There was a monumental climb to make it to the hill top park and once there i found it suffered Spain's typical lack of grass, every open area was neigh but sandy, dry dirt. Any grass that was about was securely sectioned off from the public as if some sacred shrine, unavailable for feet, let alone a back. So then, a park bench... good luck, every bench with any sun on it was basically being qued for. I eventually found somewhere with some filtered sun and got some kip. The park was increadible, amazing to be in an actual designed park, especially when designed by someone with the vision of Gaudi.

Then back to the Picasso museam, a splendid day topped by an enlightened adventure through Picasso's development into the most famous style in the world of art.

The next day was set aside for a trip to Figures, the Mecca for a Dali fan. A quick check at the train station to make sure the Dali museam was actually open on a Monday proved both worthwhile and devistating. My last day in Barcelona and it was the only day of the week that it was shut. I was overwhelmed with dissapointment. But not to perk up and enjoy my last day would have been silly, like tying barbed wire around my thigh and whiping my own back to purge my guilt. Not for me. I made for the massive cathedral on the hills bordering the city. It was visible from everywhere and could only be phenominaly huge by its disruption of the skyline. The day continued to throw me bad cards when, after trecking to the foot of the hills, I found the tram to be a corpse. I blindly pointed myself upward and started walking. As I did so a Thai man called Tun did identically. I walked all day with him, he was an amazing dude. We walked a long way around the hill before getting any upward progress, obviously on the wrong track. Then faced a set of steps that Wellington would boast about. Then more upness. Then to the top of the neighbouring hill... we got there in the end and all without a word of complaint, only "oh well" positivity, he was my kind of dude. What had been a potentially black day had turned out to be splendid, a great advertisment for positive attitude. The next day was going to prove itself a far greater challenge to my attitude though.

I wont dwell here, only document it to to be fair and balanced in my portrayal of the trip... its not all roses.

The day started with me turning up to Barcelona airport befuddled by the absence of a Ryanair sign. The classic Ryanair faux pas: wrong airport. And the reason i hadn't foreseen this issue, it was not Barcelona (gir) as my ticket said, but infact, Girona (bar). Girona was over 100km out of Barcelona, bloody uncreadible! On realising this I wrote off any chance of making the right airport and defended again with positivity, going straight back to the train station and buying an overnight train ticket to Brussles. This freed up the day for the Dali Museam, brilliant! though an expensive treat at 200 euro for my train ticket.

The Dali museam was amazing, just as I'd expected–surreal. An entire museam designed by the genius, it was like walking around inside one of his paintings. At galleries I like to get up close to the paintings and see exactly how the artist has used his brush to create the apparent realism, getting close to a Dali work you only find there is no secret, just meticulous patience and detail. He was, unlike most famous artists, not an alcoholic, as proclaimed by an unbelievably steady hand–it was just his mind that was beautifully unsteady.

The Dali museam was an essential stop, it did cause further problems though, well, more my miscalculations and lapses into easy-goingness really. Two unplanned half hour waits for connecting trains left me with a scedualed arrival time at Estade France of 21:01 and a scedualed departure time of 21:05. Oh to have been in Japan now, even switzerland... anywhere but Spain! the chance of these times being correct were as shakey an an alco's hand. I was alert as hell on the last connecting train, knowing that I still had to locate my platform. The train slowed to a walking pace as it approached the station 21:00... 21:01... 21.02... 21:03... ... ... 21:07 and the platform appeared out the window. I was loaded up with my pack, sweating and pacing from door to door, freaking out the other typically ralaxed Spanish commuters. I was sure they were half expecting a police welcome at the station to pull the murdered body out of my pack.

As the train squeezed to a halt another train came into vision on the opposite platform gathering momentum. The doors opened to the wooshing tail of a train bound for Brussles. My positive attitude sat sulking in the bottom of my gut, no smile could be forced now. I resolved to jump on any train i could find, a kind of lucky dip, just flash my Brussles ticket when asked and say "opps"... there were no trains. I resolved to sleep in the station... I was kicked out. I took my dejected, angry, sulky self out onto the street and started walking in any old direction with no idea where i was. All I wanted was a wee dark room where I could tie barbed wire around my thigh and whip my own back.