Like most visitors to Barcelona, Spain, Sagrada Familia Basilica was on my must see list, so I was surprised when an employee of the hotel where I was staying told me not to bother going inside. “Tickets are very expensive and there’s not much to see,” he said. If I hadn’t been convinced by his advice, the block-long line of people waiting to buy tickets sealed my decision; seeing the outside was sufficient. Two months later I returned to Barcelona during the off-season. The long lines were gone and I simply couldn’t resist the lure of this UNESCO World Heritage Site.
At the passion facade I paused to examine the twin bronze doors that display snippets of verse from the New Testament, noting the differing heights of the raised letters, as if the artist wanted some words to stand out more than others. Blinking in the dim light, I made my way to the center of the nave and stood at the intersection of the Latin Cross floor plan. Soft light streamed through stained glass windows that wrapped the nave, bathing everything in rich shades of purple, green, gold, and pink. I craned my neck, tracing massive tree-trunk columns to the vaulted ceiling, where a canopy of stone leaves spread, as if protecting parishioners from the elements. A tingle ran up my spine as I soaked in the atmosphere of serenity and prayer. It felt as if I was looking at the church through the eyes of Antoni Gaudí, the famous Catalán architect responsible for the structure we see today. Read More
My first visit to Barcelona had been much too short. With only a few days remaining before I was due in Paris, I hopped aboard a double-decker bus for an orientation tour, hoping it would help me choose from among the many interesting sites around the city. From my upper-level seat on the open-airbus I looked down into the labyrinthine streets of the Gothic Quarter, making a mental note to explore this area on foot, but it was not to be on that visit. There was so much to see and do in Barcelona that I didn’t even have time to walk the entire length of La Rambla, the famous pedestrian street that connects Plaça Catalunya with the seafront.
After six weeks of wandering around France I returned to Barcelona, anxious to see more. Early the first morning I stuffed my pockets with snacks purchased at the Boqueria Market and headed into the Gothic Quarter. Within minutes I was deliciously lost in a maze of cobblestone streets where sinister gargoyles peered down from rooftop perches and narrow lanes emerged into broad plazas. Though awed by the beautiful architecture, I was also frustrated; I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at. I decided to call in an expert.
The following morning I met Nancy Daum Daily for a half-day “Undiscovered Corners of the Barrio Gotico Tour” with GetYourGuide. Nancy knew all the hidden courtyards and secret gardens within the quarter and was intimately familiar with its history and architecture. Surprisingly, much of what we think of as Gothic architecture in the quarter was anything but. The Gothic Quarter (Barrio Gótico in Spanish, or Barri Gòtic in Catalan) was originally settled in the 3rd or 2nd century B.C., though other than surviving coinage from that era, we know little about its first inhabitants. Read More
The smiling faces behind the front desk at St Christopher’s Inns hostel in Barcelona, Spain were a welcome sight after my bad experience with Equity Point Hostels the previous week. Their warm greeting was quickly followed up with an efficient check-in process and instructions for finding my females-only dorm room. My first big surprise was the attention that had been paid to security. I had to scan my key before the elevator would move, use it a second time to access the hallway leading to my dorm room, and yet third time to enter my room. Inside my room, the pleasant surprises continued. Double bunks were securely attached to the wall and each had dark gray privacy curtains, an individual light and an outlet. Below the beds were large metal lockers on wheels that were easily pulled out for secure luggage storage, using a padlock that I carry with me. My 22″ rolling suitcase and my mid-size backpack both easily fit into the locker. Best of all, with three wifi routers on each floor, there was free rocket-fast Internet available in all rooms.
I must have been 11 or 12 years old when my art teacher showed us a photo of one of Salvador Dalí’s best known works, The Persistence of Memory. I didn’t quite know what to make of its melting stopwatches and the walrus-like rotting head but I knew the disturbing images were a riddle waiting to be unraveled. I was a sucker for a mystery; no one could possibly have read more Nancy Drew novels than I had. Just like that, I was hooked.
For many years I knew only about the artist’s surrealist and cubist works, but when I moved to Florida briefly in 2006 I visited the Salvador Dalí Museum in St. Petersburg. This largest collection of Dalí works outside of Spain includes a series of floor-to-ceiling canvases that contain optical illusions or double images that can be interpreted in different ways. I wrote about this technique in an earlier story that illustrated this technique in Dali’s painting, Halucinogenic Toreador (view it here). Some of the phantom images, such as Venus de Milo morphing into a bullfighter, are immediately apparent, however many of the illusions are harder to see. Look closely and you can pick out a dying bull with a pool of blood becoming a lagoon and a Dalmation dog, among others.
Dalí called this his “paranoic-critical method,” with which he exploited the mind’s ability to perceive links between things which are not rationally linked. Humans do this constantly. We see images in cloud formations or a sinister hulking figure in the shadow cast by a pile of trash in a dark alley. Dalí carried this to extreme, stimulating paranoia in order to destabilize his world and document the results in his art. Read More
There’s a book in my future. More precisely, there’s a book in my past that I need to get back to writing if I ever expect to finish it. The problem is, it’s hard to write a book when I’m traveling around the world, switching countries every few weeks. Rumbling around in the back of my head was the idea that I might just stop for a while, if I found a place that I liked well enough. I’d often thought that Spain might be that place, so I was pleased last fall when I learned that a travel blogging conference would be scheduled in Girona, the capital of the Catalonian region in the far northeast part of the country.
Unfortunately, three back-to-back press trips booked immediately after the conference left me little time to explore Catalonia before I was scheduled to leave for Paris. But the idea of Spain as a temporary base just wouldn’t go away, so at the end of my French experience I returned to Girona for a longer stay. This time, because I wanted to connect with the locals as much as possible, I arranged to rent a room from a young couple who had an apartment near the city center. In theory it was a good idea but sometimes things just go awry. Rather than being born and bred Spaniards, my hosts both turned out to be struggling immigrants, one from South America and the other from Palestine, who had only just moved in together. To save money they kept the heat turned off, even when temperatures began to dip, relying instead on one small electric space heater that was alternated between bedrooms. It was a relief when they informed me that family was unexpectedly arriving and I would have to find someplace else to stay.
A few days later I moved to the Equity Point Hostel, just a couple of blocks away. I should have suspected that something wasn’t quite right when I was required to sign a form stating that I understood refunds were not possible for any reason, but the front lobby looked fine so I didn’t question it. Five minutes later I walked into the hostel hallway and was assaulted by the rank odor of sewage welling up from the floor grates. Read More
Slim-hipped Oscar de los Reyes emerged from the shadows and took his mark within the circle of light on the small wooden stage. Clad entirely in black, he stood ramrod straight, arms held rigidly at his sides. His black eyes glittered, reflecting sparks from the single spotlight as he stared straight ahead, oblivious to the expectant audience. The world renowned Flamenco dancer’s body was a mere ten feet away but his essence was galaxies away, drawing power and inspiration from some higher power.
A cantaora abruptly pierced the stillness with an anguished wail that wandered up and down the scales, drawing the audience into the power of her song. De los Reyes responded with lightning-fast footwork, his nail-studded boots a blur as he tapped out complex steps. I watched with rapt attention as his arms reached outward in a plea, up in jubilation, inward for a self-protective embrace. His long black curls spewed droplets of sweat with every twirl until, saturated, they plastered permanently to his forehead. For the next 30 minutes his passions, his heartbreaks, his joys were laid bare. It was the most electrifying, sensual performance I had ever witnessed.
I left the performance on a natural high, my feet barely touching the pavement. This was the kind of energy I had expected to encounter in this popular Spanish city, but over the past few days I’d found it difficult to connect with Seville. Read More