Tuesday July 27th.
But I don’t! - sleep well, that is. Throughout the night I am awoken by the clattering of something falling on the floor. Not once, but FIVE times. It turns out it is the bed falling apart! No….really. It’s one of those Ikea type jobs that has a lengthways central batten that the wood slats slot into. If two people move to the middle of the bed the batten flexes….and the slats drop out! We look under the bed and see all the slats and realise we’ve been sleeping on half a bed! It takes us about an hour to completely fix it.
Anne knocks early to say that she and Eric are going to take the same bus and go to the Gaudi garden….it’s a must see for everyone ( unless you’re in a wheel chair or have a bad hip/knee - there are literally hundreds of steps). We arrange to meet at lunchtime and then take the second route of the tourist bus in the afternoon.
We potter for a while and, since the bus changeover point doesn’t look that far on a map, I suggest we walk it. It’s midday in Barcelona heat and I am wearing Crocs! And the bus point is a little over FIVE KMS ( around 3 miles for those of you on the old system). I’m certain I won’t make it, or I’ll die of a heart attack , or the heat, or both! But somehow I do and it gives us a chance to have a closer look at Gaudi-land.
Tony wittily, but quite cruelly, describes Gaudi as a frustrated wedding cake decorator and there’s an element of truth in the tag. What’s fascinating is that his buildings and designs are all curves….there isn’t a corner or a sharp angle amongst them. They are hauntingly bizarre and beautiful - or ugly - it’s hard to say which - but certainly outside the realm of anything seen before or since. Gaudi inspired many others and the whole Modernista movement has given Catalania a claim to fame it might otherwise never have known. I don’t take pictures…… every one of the Modernista buildings has been photographed from every angle and there seems little point in me making inferior copies. Tony hates the mosaics but concedes it’s one way to recycle broken teapots. He’s a very simple man in some ways. Simple….and sarcastic J
None of us has been very specific about where we are meeting and I’m suffering from blistered feet and dehydration plus some aching muscles. I haven’t walked that far in one hit since our last trip to Europe five years ago. We stop about halfway and have a cold beer at a little bar called the Re:Public house. We like the clever name, and the owner - a young Brit from Birmingham, chats to us about his eleven years in Spain and the economic state of the country. To see the way people are spending money it’s hard to believe the predictions that Spain will be the next country to declare bankruptcy. I find I can manage about 20 words of Spanish….which is about 15 more than I thought I knew. Tony asks me why the Spaniards look confused when he greets them with “Cameron Diaz” and it cracks me up!
There seem to be no flies in Barcelona - but the Bourdiquet flies have sent messengers ahead to brief the mosquitos and midges who have clearly fasted before our arrival so they feast on peaches and cream! With the red bites all over me I look like the winner of the polka dot jersey in the tour de France.
When we finally find E&A we have a hurried sandwich for lunch, climb on board the tour bus and make our way upstairs to the open top deck and the blistering sun. This tour takes in the south of the city and is even longer than yesterday’s - 3 hours. Within an hour I am burnt….even my scalp is on fire.
Barcelona is a beautiful city made up of many different styles, though almost all of its distant medieval past has been eradicated in the name of progress. It has wide boulevards and public squares and churches galore - much older and less threatening than the Sagrada Famiglia. It still basks in the glory of the 92 Olympics and it hasn’t made up its mind what it wants to be yet. But places either speak to you or they don’t - and you know it instantly. Barcelona doesn’t speak to us - it doesn’t want to know us and couldn’t give a toss if we stay or go. We look at the buildings and fountains, the old palace and the remnants of the Olympics without ever being emotionally engaged. There are no “oohs” and “aaahs” or wishes to come back here and spend more time. We’re observers, nothing more. It simply isn’t “our” place….not like Paris.
Anne and Eric get off at some gardens to ride a cable car to the top of a mountain with an old castle on it. We beg off and stay on the bus down to the Port Vell and Christopher Columbus territory. I hadn’t realised that Barcelona has 5 kms of beach on the bay - not unlike St Kilda….no, really! The downtown part is more interesting and I wish we were going back to La Rambla and the Gothic quarter tonight - my mother was part Spanish gypsy and maybe that is what is calling me. Instead we have a last dinner with Anne and Eric. They’re leaving early in the morning for Canada via Geneva. Anne says she finds Barcelona overwhelming - just too much to take in. Maybe that’s the problem for us - yet some part of me feels I have taken in all I want to. We find a nice place for dinner and the paella is good…but still no churros. Perhaps I’ll have to wait until we get back to Melbourne. We say our goodbyes and, despite them being good company, we are glad we will be on our own on the way back. We are in desperate need of together time.
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