drunk, but happy

no fanfare.

we are happily ensconed in Figures for the night. not where we thought, but definitly good enough. great train ride to get here, there is an amazing Dali museum, we have found a cute little hotel on the Ramblas, and have had a few too many cocktails and little food.

the perfect Catalan day. more to come...

Not Dead, just defunct

hello all, just wanted to let you know in spite of my absence from the online world over the past few days, all is well. the internet in the hotel decidied it had been more than accomidating and so it no longer works for me and my laptop. consequently i have been resigned to a smoking internet cafe a few doors down from the hotel.

none of it really matters because leah and i are leaving barcelona just as soon as we figure out where we are going... either tossa de mar or blanes, but now we say tossa de mar, but then maybe blanes, but no, tossa de mar. maybe.

alright, so all this means that if you don´t hear from me that i have most likely not been kidnapped and sold into slavery, we just don´t have access to the ¨real world¨for a bit. love and kisses.

A Brief Clarification

It was brought to my attention that I had made a typo in a previous blog regarding when exactly the Olympics here in Barcelona were. After a bit of conversation over dinner and sangria this evening, I realized that I was confused and so had probably confused everyone else. So here is a brief timeline to refer to in case anyone is interested, and also for my own clarification...

1889 : Barcelona hosts the first World Exposition (to promote the city more than anything else)

1929: Another World Exposition (the second for Barcelona, and also when the vast majority of the compound mentioned in the "Olympic Glory" blog was created)

1992: Barcelona hosts the Olympic Games, expanding upon the exisiting park area of the 1929 Exposition and building the afore-mentioned telecomunications tower

Okay, I think this is correct... but there may need to be further discussion over sangria... only time will tell.

Last Day on the Job

Today was our last official day. We still have a wrap up meeting and a farewell dinner, but for the most part we are now free to roam the city at our leisure. Perfect timing, as Leah arrives in the morning (almost as if it were planned that way…).

Leah is a dear friend, new to my circle but already an irreplaceable part of my life. She is also the single klutziest person I know – which is saying a lot considering my bestest friend Liz Cobb and I are constantly neck in neck for the title of “Grace.” But Leah can trump us hands down, both for daily activities and past stories of disasters (for which you’ll have to read Leah’s blog, assuming she ever writes one).

This concerns me because pound for pound I have never seen more people roaming the streets with broken wrists, arms, legs, hands, etc. than I have here in Barcelona. There also seem to be a spectacular number of blind people, I saw one guy that had no arms, and also a fair number of folks using those wrist brace crutch thingies (that is in no way meant to be offensive, I just can’t think of what they are called).

Serena seems to think this is due to the skateboarding park in front of the Modern Art Museum (hey, at least they found some use for it because it certainly isn’t drawing in the crowds for its intended purpose), or due to the high risk activities that can be found outside of the city, rock climbing in Montserrat for example. I think it may be due to the uneven pavement, the vast number of stairs, or just the daily obstacles that one encounters in a walking city. Basically, we don’t know for sure.

I don’t know why I bring this up. Possibly because I am tired of writing about preservation topics, and I figure if I’m tired of writing about them then everyone (meaning the three people who I think are actually following this blog) are probably tired of reading about them. Or possibly it’s because today was the last official day, and while Terrassa was neat (industrial buildings, 5th century churches, roman columns, blah blah blah) to me what lurks behind is not nearly as exciting as what looms ahead – the BEACH!

So I guess if Leah does fall down and go boom, at least she’ll have a soft landing in the sand. But that’s not for a few days yet, so in the meantime we’ll just thank the nice people of Spain for having socialized medicine and an on call doctor at our hotel.

It’s just a good idea to plan ahead.

Montserrat

The train ride to Montserrat is dark for the first half, cutting through the bowels of the city of Barcelona until suddenly you emerge from the tunnels into the light. From there on you journey through jagged countryside to the foot of the serrated mountains that are the natural guardians of the monastery. It’s a lovely trek, and not a bad metaphor for the recent restoration work done, if I do say so myself.

In the late 1980s an architect by the name of Arcadi Pla was commissioned to restore the leaking roof of the basilica, a seemingly inconsequential project. Unfortunately for the monks, it was a bit more complicated than that. The short version involves a 14th Century cathedral which was added to (badly) in the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries. The final basilica as it would have been seen in the eighties had lost its simple gothic style in favor of the more romantic “flying buttress” affair popular in the 1700s. Along with some structural decisions that did far more harm the good, the overall look of the church had slowly but irreverently been modified to be dark (all windows had been bricked over in favor of “decorative” facades) and fussy as opposed to the original light, classic design that had been built in the 1300s.

Imagine being an architect, trying to research the best way to fortify such a place, only to discover that the best thing you could possibly do for the building is to take it back to the beginning. Remove much of the additions, create a new roof structure, reclaim the old rose windows, pull down two floors off the top of the structure (added in the 16th century), and oh by the way you have to convince the abbot and the money, i.e. government, that this is a good idea…

Eee, gads!

Somehow, Pla did it. It took about 15 years from start to completion, cost around 3 million euros, and completely changed the face of the mountain – whether with accolades or derision I was afraid to ask. In my humble opinion, however, the project is stellar, an example of how preservationists can act not only as architects and designers, but also as historians and archivists. It is – again – exactly the type of work I would like to one day achieve in my own practice.

Cathedral or Bust

Gaudi built many buildings throughout Barcelona, but for whatever reason the Colonial Guell Crypt is one of the most acclaimed. Only the finished basement area of what should have been a massive cathedral, the Crypt Guell is impressive in its current manifestation, and probably would have been stellar had the money - and interest - not run dry. For now, it is a small chapel in a small town, attracting a few Gaudi fanatics and tourists like ourselves.

What makes it noteworthy for me, besides its obvious beauty and contribution to Catalan modernism, is the dubious talk of finishing Gaudi’s plans and completing the church. This is exactly where preservationists’ ideals begin to differ in the real world, as I learned by having a very interesting conversation with fellow traveler, Jeff Morrison.

Jeff and Brandy Morrison are two of the more interesting members of the course, both architects and the only two marrieds to share the same last name. While wandering away from the tour, Jeff played devil’s advocate to my anti-completion sentiments, an activity I find helpful in developing my own ideas – which basically amount to this…

While that original design of Gaudi would, I’m sure, inspire awe and architects, the fact remains that the design was not completed in his lifetime. No matter how many plans, details, and concepts remain of what could have been, what is is a beautiful, if small, chapel for a lovely and small town. The roof of the structure, which should have housed the floor of the grand cathedral, is now an open air patio of sorts and surrounded by vacant and undeveloped park in some areas, and a lovely pine forest in others. If it were left in my hands, the space would be further developed as what it currently is, a lovely chapel and park, and not some monstrous completion that can never actually be reproduced because the artist himself is not around to complete it. If one wants that, one can head to the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona proper.

Couple that with the desperate need of funds placed into education and – eek! the S word – social programs and I just can’t see the justification for one more modernista building to be expanded. It seems to me that the money would be better spent elsewhere. That may be blasphemy to Gaudi lovers but modern preservationists, urban planners and economists I think would agree with me.

Olympic Glory

There are quite a few structures in Barcelona that illustrate its rich cultural heritage and advanced methods of preservation. Then, there are the moderns.

Like the water company offices, known locally as Le Suppositorium for its shape (it looks like a giant suppository or worse depending on your imagination) and the concept of unnatural insertion of modern skyscrapers in a relatively rural and historic fabric. There is also the Needle building, which during its construction in the early 1980s was an unwelcome reminder of Barcelona’s trouble with street drugs, especially heroin (if you haven’t already guessed, it looks like a large hypodermic injecting itself into the tallest mountain surrounding the city).

But some structures, like the telecommunications tower built for the 1992 Olympic Games, add both function and curiosity to the overall composition of the city. At first glance it looked to me a bit like a sewing machine, poised and ready to quilt together the world through advanced cell phone coverage. But after a thorough explanation today, I discovered that the designer (both engineer and sculptor) envisioned not an oversized “Singer Serger,” but a figure kneeling as though to accept an award. It is difficult to describe to someone who has never seen the structure, so I will make my first foray into publishing photographs with my blog a little later – if there is a picture, you’ll know I was successful. Otherwise, you’ll just have to take my word for it when I write that it is a unique and interesting structure that I feel does contribute to the overall skyline of the city.

The Olympic compound in general is fairly spectacular, if virtually unused. There was our small group, the Fat Tire bicycle tour, and a handful of grade school kids who came flying down the stairs in a screaming flailing ball of energy to launch themselves at the small bit of grass to be found here. The former home to the world’s greatest athletes is mostly abandoned. Little or nothing happens here, and the stadium area shows signs of decay and neglect. The delicate neo-Romanesque façade of the stadium is pocked with water marks and failing plaster. There are “temporary” barricades blocking off the entire lower half of the park which show no signs of being removed any time soon. The whole thing calls to mind Atlanta’s own Centennial Olympic park and its consistently doomed efforts to make it a place people will want to come.

In the meantime, the tourist trade seems to be the only thing really happening in the former mountains of Barcelona. There is a museum in the former main hall, which does have a spectacular exhibit on 12th Century frescoes of various rural churches from throughout Northern Spain. The grand staircase that leads up up up to the building looks like it should be popular with joggers, but really just holds the stagnant “magic” fountains that are only turned on for Friday and Saturday evening – why then, I have no idea.

For me, the greatest remnant is the German Pavilion. Actually dismantled after the Olympics, it was rebuilt during the 1980’s and took almost 3 years to reconstruct. It is a crisp and clean look at modern architecture before its time, and the international style at its peak. Most people walk right by it and don’t even notice it. Probably the lack of towers…

Girona and Besalu

Girona and Besalu. Two medieval cities that have been relatively untouched by time. Both have seen their share of strife, social unrest, and persecution, especially among the Jewish populations.

Having been brought up by a renounced catholic father and an agnostic mother, my own religious background is incongruous at best. Raised in the south, I was never really exposed to Judaism, knowing only limitedly that it existed and having no clue as to the histories of its people or their beliefs. It wasn’t until I was 21, visiting Dachau outside of Munich, Germany that I began to wonder. Who are these people that have been so inauspiciously oppressed for the better part of two thousand years, and what is it that repeated societies throughout history have against them?

To this day I can not understand the consistent hate that seems to ebb and flow in the direction of these people. They exist seemingly peacefully in a community and then they are subject to expulsion and genocide. In Besalu they were given less than two weeks to completely remove themselves after being falsely accused of causing the plague through poisoning the food and water. In Girona, it seems, there was no time to escape, hundreds of people being murdered with little or no warning during the countrywide “cleansing” of 1391-92.

Today in Gerona a modest museum filled with tombstones and memorabilia commemorates their struggle, a lovely courtyard with a Star of David in the center the only thing remaining of the former synagogue. Besalu is in the process of excavating their synagogue, covered for hundreds of years in modern rubble and plumbing materials - as it would have remained were it not for the fortunate discovery of Spain’s only remaining Mickva (holy bath) while drilling for a well. These sites, while lovely and worthwhile, seem little consolation for thousands of years of religious persecution.

I’m not a Jew, I have less than a handful of Jewish friends, and I still to this day know almost nothing about one of the oldest surviving faiths in the world. What I do know is this… My grandfather fought in World War II, was a POW in a German concentration camp, and returned home weighing less than a hundred pounds. When asked of his experiences, I’m not sure that he ever spoke more than a few words. But he fought, was imprisoned, and was returned.

When I think of his sacrifice and that of millions of others, I can’t help but get angry. The concept of war - futile and pointless, driven by greed, ego or insanity – tends so often to be started by a difference of opinion. Faith, religion, color, creed… At the end of the day, I have never understood war – which to me is just community approved murder – and I can’t see that I ever will. But I loved my grandfather, respected his decision to fight in a cause he saw worthy, and I approve of that conviction.

I guess that is exactly the point. Conviction. The Jews have kept theirs through so much hardship, through death and disruption, through infill and destruction. And when I stood today in a spot that was once dedicated to the purification of an entire faith of men and women, I can’t help but feel connected to it, to them. Regardless of my faith, or lack thereof, today in the Mickva I felt purified. Cleansed. Because I know that respect is the universal common denominator.

As Kadu says...

“We are still speaking sense…”

Sometimes, the best experiences in life have nothing what-so-ever to do with studies, history, or the lessons one may learn in the classroom. And while today the secrets of Antoni Gaudi were revealed even further to us at the Casa Batllo and Casa Mila, his rivalries with his contemporaries, and the Block of Discord, these are all topics I can write papers on.

What I can not (should not) write about in an educated setting is the joy of amassing a group of former strangers, brought together due to common interests, bonded together due to common tastes – in this case, Sangria. After another educational day of servitude to higher learning, sometimes there is no greater joy than gathering amongst your peers in your hotel room for a little R&R.

And three liter boxes of the red stuff later, you can feel a little closer to the ones you share space with, a little more at home in your surroundings. Home is where the heart is, after all, and what is a heart without friends?

Perhaps this is something Gaudi would have appreciated, dying alone with empty pockets and no family to mourn his passing. But that, as I have said, is a topic for the papers. For now, it is enough for me to know that I have made new friends here, in this new home away from home. These are people whom may never know all my stories but, after a few weeks together, will surely know the best ones. Amongst them I see future artisans and award winning architects, literary scholars and individuals I will be proud to call friends.

I have often in my life “collected” people for what they can offer me. In this group of educated and talented men and women, I know I am starting yet another assortment of dynamic individuals whom I hope I can offer as much to in the coming years as I know they will impart to me. Trips abroad, extra knowledge, friendships and community in this new and different world I am entering into… From here, the future looks bright and entertaining, and I am grateful for it.

Leisurely Sunday

Along the port in Barcelona, the former slums have been reclaimed to provide locals and tourists alike with a lovely promenade across the water. Here, temporary tents selling anything from antique post cards to silver decanters flow into the more familiar if unwelcome mega mall. Commercialism at its finest, and all laid out for the perfect Sunday stroll.

When my tired feet (and my wallet) could no longer support me, Serena and I headed back to the Park Citudatella for a little study time near the “uninteresting” fountain of Gaudi. We sat surrounded by sunbathing locals, children having a water fight, and the sounds of the Cappoera Dance Fighting exhibition that set up shop in the gazebo near us.

It was the perfect place to read more of Robert Hughes – perhaps the only place. Only here, in Barcelona, having walked the streets and seen the sights of which he speaks, can his writing make sense. And today was an amazing day, compounded by the fact that I finally finished The Great Enchantress.

One down, one to go…