No Vendar Flores
I didn’t get to bed until 4AM last night, but I suck at sleeping in and wake around 9. For once there is no rain, and I am really not bummed about busting on day 1 of the tournament, since I now have two more days to tour Barcelona. I haven’t yet been to La Sagrada Familia (The Holy Family), a 19th-century cathedral designed by Barcelona’s homegrown architect Gaudi and probably the city’s number one tourist destination, so that’s where I’m heading today. I eat breakfast and make for the train station, about four blocks from the hotel.
Cultural Fact 7: In the US, one often sees signs prohibiting certain activities in public places, with two of the more common ones being “No panhandling” and “Do not step on grass.” The Barcelonan equivalents seem to be “No vendar flores” and “No futbol”.
On my way to subway, an old woman approaches me with a fistful of flowers. I try to shake my head and wave my hand at her to indicate a lack of interest, but she is shaking her head right back, as though there is something I don’t understand. “No, no, es Fiesta.”
“Um,” I stare blankly as she forces a stem into my palm. I know this isn’t free.
“Es Fiesta. One cent.” Seriously? I reach into my pocket and pull out some coins. I don’t have any pennies, so I offer a Euro nickel. She shakes her head and jabbers at me some more in Catalan. I think I hear the word “Angles”. She wants an American penny? A British penny? Sorry lady, no comprende.
She jabbers some more at me, becoming more and more irritated, and finally snatches the flower back out of my hand angrily and brushes past me. Fine, I didn’t want your damn flower anyway. Oh, and one more thing: no vendar flores!
In Which The Sagrada Familia Restoration Authority Slowplays and Allows Our Hero to Draw Out
There is a train station devoted solely to surviving this tourist destination in what is otherwise a residential neighborhood far from any of Barcelona’s hotspots. People from all over the world are waiting in line to get inside what appears to be an amazing building. It’s hard to describe exactly what is so distinctive about it, but the style is just incredibly complex and detailed and just very strange, not like any other building I’ve seen before. There are all sorts of spires and arches and stone figures and scenes carved into the building’s exterior. I can only imagine how fascinating the inside must be.
The line is long, but it moves more quickly than I expected, and soon I am shelling over 8 euros for the right to enter. Inside, there is scaffolding. Everywhere. And ugly green mesh fences. The tourists are herded around the perimeter of the church in a little circle, but there’s not much to see. Virtually everything inside is obscured by the scaffolds and all of the stained glass has been removed. When will I learn?
I angrily stomp out a single revolution of the cathedral’s interior and am prepared to go find a new park (so far these have all been awesome and free) when I see that the green mesh fence has deposited my fellow tourists and me near a second line. A sign warns of a thirty minute wait, and there is a fee of an additional 2 euros, but apparently I’ll be taking an elevator up into one of Gaudi’s towers, where I’ll have a close-up view of the roof and the highest spires and a very nice overlook of the entire city. I hate lines, but I feel like I’m priced in. So far I’ve shelled out 8 euros for a pretty crappy experience, but maybe for just 2 euros more I’ll end up with something worthwhile?
The time passes surprisingly quickly, and soon I’m crammed into an elevator with some Japanese tourists and hauled up into a tower. We step out of the elevator, and WHOAH! We’re on a narrow bridge connecting one tower to the other. On either side, a stone wall rises to just below my shoulders, and then there is nothing but a free fall to the street hundreds of feet below.
Heights in and of themselves don’t bother me, but when there is so little between me and a plunge to my death, I get a little freaked out. Even though people literally have to push past each other to get by, there is no danger that I’d just accidentally fall. I think my real fear is that any time I am standing on top of something like this, I hear a little voice in the back of my head whispering, “What would happen if you jumped? You could do it, right now. Nothing stopping you. All it takes is one stupid little decision, a little pressure on the balls of your feet, a slight exertion of some arm muscles, and it’s lights out for you, buddy.” Believe me, I’m not suicidal, just fascinated by how easy it is for such a seemingly small action to have such drastic, irreversible consequences. I’m at once repulsed and excited by my ability to affect my life and the world around me in this way.
The view, however, is amazing. We are just below the Sagrada’s one-of-a-kind spires, and the intricacy is captivating. Each is carved to resemble a tree, with individual leaves visible and dozens of tiny stone doves circling it all the way to the top. The more I think about how huge this building is and how every inch of it contains mind-bogglingly precise detail, the more awe-struck I am. It reminds me of something I read once about how it is impossible to determine the length of a coastline because no matter the scale on which you view it, it always contains infinitely many inlets and bays and harbors. Shown two photographs, one taken from a satellite and one from very close-up with a magnifying lens, you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference.
Anyway, I try to enjoy the view but get off the bridge pretty quickly. Now I’ll be descending hundreds of narrow, winding stairs, but all along there are windows and balconies where I can see different parts of the building’s exterior and get a new view of the city, which spreads out for miles in every direction, a vast sea of dull white, clay red, and light gray buildings. This is easily worth the full 10 euros it cost me to get here. Sorry, Barcelona: you got me to make a mistake with my pre-flop call of 8 euros, but the implied odds were there, and you only charged me two euros to draw out. Better luck next time.
Cultural Fact 8: In America, an icon of a little white man appears to tell pedestrians it is safe to walk, and a red hand instructs them to stay put. When the red hand flashes, they have a few seconds to finish crossing the street before cars start coming, but as long as you are in the crosswalk when the hand starts flashing and don’t stop altogether, you’re generally fine without picking up the pace.
Barcelona features a nearly identical green man who gives pedestrians the go-ahead, and a red man who tells them it is not their turn. The equivalent of the flashing hand is a flashing green man, but there is an important difference: when that little man flashes, you hurry the hell up. You have approximately one second to get to the opposite curb before tires squeal and cars bear down on you.
Cultural Fact 9: In America, when there is no traffic light, white lines are painted in the street at an area designated a “crosswalk.” Although compliance is far from universal, pedestrians in said crosswalk generally have the right away and cars will often defer to them.
Although Barcelona’s streets feature similar-looking painting, do not be fooled. This is nothing more than government-sponsored graffiti and does not in any way compel drivers to slow down or yield to pedestrians.
Cultural Fact 10: In 1952, the municipal government of Barcelona commissioned M.C. Escher to design the city’s subway stations. The result was a maze of long corridors, stairs, and escalators that must be navigated to switch train lines. Entrances to the same station may be six or more blocks apart, and I am not exaggerating when I say that I once spent nearly ten minutes and traversed eight flights of stairs to change lines, all within the same station.
On the train, I crack out the guidebook and consider where to go next. I really want to show that uppity Montjuic that it can’t get the best of me, and two things in particular catch my attention. First, there is a sky car thing from the top of Montjuic down to the waterfront. Despite my earlier acrophobia, I really want to do this, it sounds awesome and like an amazing view. To get up the hill, it looks like there is something called a funicular. I know this is a word I’ve seen before, but I can’t remember exactly what it is. But hell, it starts with FUN, right? This is going to be great.
But first, there is Las Ramblas. Las Ramblas is a large shopping and walking boulevard that is another of Barcelona’s most famous attractions. It looks like I can get off the train, walk down Las Ramblas, then walk to the Montjuic funicular.
I’m underwhelmed. There is in fact a sea of people here, but most of them aren’t doing anything interesting. There are some pretty neat living statues where people have painted themselves very elaborately (moreso than I’ve ever seen on similar performers in the US) and pose for photos.
Also, for some reason, there are a ton of stalls selling live birds. These are about as depressing as mall pet shops, though a bit less so, since birds aren’t as cute as puppies. I saw one parrot who was nearly two feet tall crammed into a cage that was about 2.5 feet high. He was alternately chewing on the bars and calling out, “Hola!” to passersby. I know in Spanish that means, “Hello”, but I think it might be Catalan for “Help me!”
The main drag is boring me, but I see an interesting looking old church down a sidestreet. I wander through a neat little plaza and up to the church. I can’t actually go in, but I get some neat pictures, as it’s a much older building adjacent to some pretty modern looking ones, an interesting contrast. As I’m turning off my camera, a wiry old woman approaches and asks, in broken English, for change to make a phone call. Sorry grandma, I wasn’t born yesterday. In one fluid motion, my left foot pivots, my left hand deposits the camera safely into my pocket, my right hand delivers a haymaker to the old woman’s jaw, and I’m off and running.
Montjuic Redux
I haul ass over to the funicular.
New Vocabulary Acquired: “Funicular”- Slow, crappy uphill subway.
They should call it the gayicular. At least put it above ground so we can look out the windows while we’re going up. Damn, Barcelona, sometimes you make me so mad! But it’s only cuz I love you. Baby.
The funicular does not go all the way to the top, and this time I’m going up the opposite side of Montjuic, which as cool as the other side was barren. First off, it is covered in playgrounds, and not just any playgrounds, but badass themed playgrounds. One of them is made entirely of ropes, with ropes to swing on and climb on and even rope platforms to stand on.
Another one is like water-themed. There is a pump (broken, unfortunately, or I would have spent at least half an hour here) where I guess if you brought a bucket you could fill it up, then there are platforms and stuff like a regular playground, except they are connected by funnels and troughs and pipes and water wheels and all kinds of crazy awesome things.
I did ride a really long (like 30 feet at least) zipcord at one of the playgrounds, so that was something.
There are also quite a few gardens on this side of the hill.
Cultural Fact 11: Sleeping on a park bench does not seem to have any stigma attached to it in Barcelona. In fact, during siesta time, it is not uncommon to see men in business suits happily dozing beneath the afternoon sun.
Cultural Fact 12: Barcelonan women have a temperament befitting their Mediterranean environs. Virtually every time I saw a couple, no matter what age, the woman was generally either yelling and gesturing angrily at her partner or engaged in some public display of affection, ranging from walking with her hand in his backpocket (this woman was at least 60, which made it seem a bit more odd) to tonguing his ear on a park bench in broad daylight.
By time I near the top of Montjuic, my feet are pretty tired. Thankfully, there is a little stand with tables and chairs set up near a scenic view of the harbor. What to order, what to order. They’ve got food, beer, a full bar…. Hmm, I haven’t had sangria since I’ve been here, this seems like a good spot for it.
Big mistake. This place has a clear plastic tank of sangria like it’s lemonade or slushee mix. It tastes like rubbing alcohol mixed with fruit punch. I finish my fourth glass and resume my walk. Not far to the chairlift now. Then I’ll float gracefully down to the waterfront to get some lunch. This thing had better be cool enough to make up for the funicular catastrophe.
I’ll never know, because THE MOTHER [censored] CHAIRLIFT IS CLOSED FOR REPAIRS!!! This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.
But what’s this? Perhaps that bitch Fortuna has taken pity on me and decided to swing upwards: Montjuic Castle is just ahead. If anything can rival my love of chairlifts, it’s my love of castles!
This one turns out to be pretty neat, though not very old-feeling. The moat has been drained and replaced with a garden, but there is still a drawbridge and some turrets and stuff. I wander around for a while and take some pictures and am walking through a corridor into a new part of the castle when suddenly two men start yelling at me in Catalan. I spin around like a deer caught in headlights, and they keep shouting at pointing. Finally I am made to understand that I need to pay like 3 euros to get into this part of the castle. Fine, whatever, I fork it over and go about my business. A very loud alarm starts blaring, and there is more shouting and pointing. Eventually I figure out that I need to walk through a turnstile.
It seems this is a military history museum. Not something I would have paid for, but I am here now, so might as well look around. It’s kind of neat, with a lot of swords and polearms and guns and that kind of thing from all different time periods. There is also a pretty cool collection of toy soldiers from different periods of Barcelona’s history as well.
It’s actually a very large museum with a whole bunch of different rooms, and I do feel like I got my money’s worth, but on principle, I think I should be entitled to some kind of refund, because the door labeled (and I swear I am not making this up) “Machine Gun Room” was locked.