WanderLost

Next day, I wake up early and walk down to Casa Mitla to meet my friend. The sun is just rising, coloring the sky at the end of the street bright gold. The Casta Mitla looks like I remember it, calm and beautiful, like the waves it depicts. We sit and talk on a nearby bench for a while, have breakfast in a café, then take a walk, strolling along a new way to Plaza Catalunya. It’s colder today- windier.  We chat until the bus comes, then part casually, cheerfully.

I return to the metro and take the funicular back up to the Joan Miró Foundation, and spend an hour or two wandering the museum, admiring the exhibits.

In the temporary exhibit (Bodies Without Limits) there is a smallish Rodin sculpture. I  love his work, and like this piece even before I realize it is his. Entitled Man Walking, it’s a bare torso of a man, with strong muscled perfectly formed legs striding along, but there’s no head or arms, and the upper torso is sculpted more roughly than the lower part, so all attention rests on the perfect legs.

One of my favorite rooms has three main exhibits. The first has three blank white canvases, each painted with only a single line, entitled Drawings for the Cell of a Recluse. It brings to mind the life of a recluse– self-imposed exile, and how a recluse couldn’t stand any other portrait, just one line, just one life, unravelled from the tapestry and confusion and color of the others. Solitary and striking. The second is a white canvas with black dripping explosions called Fireworks, no other color, as though too much to represent, so it represents all– seen, known and imagined.
The third is three more paintings entitled The Hope of a Man Condemned to Death, each white with black lines, each portraying a different color: red, blue, yellow. Blue I see as tranquility, hope for heaven. Yellow as hope for heaven as well as hope for release and pardon. Red as anticipation of the event, memory of an evil deed, or the idea or thought of revenge.

The last room is my favorite– huge paintings. One of the most simplistic has the longest title, about a lark’s wing meeting a poppy in a field with diamonds. One is intense orange, but not the kind that offends my eyes– it is the opposite, my eyes wanted to drink it in, literally. It has some black lines, and is titled A Drop of Water on a Pink Shore. Another is green with orange splashes and glows– A Hair Being Chased by Two Planets. Vivid colors striking the eyes, drawing me in rather than repulsing.

Next, mind filled with art, stomach filled with lunch, I wander back over to the Olympic Stadium, snapping some daylight pictures. The wind is strong, whirling leaves, pushing me roughly as I walk.  I make my way toward the Telefonica communications tower– just as futuristic-looking in the daylight as at night, and walk round the odd square with its small banzai-type trees in raised concrete boxes, and tall cylindrical yellow light poles that make odd clapping sounds as the wind roared around them, as though whispering for the ghosts of the Olympic crowd. I cross the street to the Art Museum (sadly closed) and sit on the steps for a bit, looking out over the city, listening to a guy play the guitar, alone and content with my thoughts.

Finally, I retrace our steps from last night, walking all the way back to my hostel (lots of walking– my feet ache!). I gather my backpack, say goodbye to the nice girl at reception, then walk to the metro, and now I’m here in the train station, waiting to go back to Valencia.
As I was walking today, I pondered many things. It was nice, in a way, to be alone, though I definitely missed my friends. It was all right to be walking solo among the streets of Barcelona, especially along the trees and fall leaves lining the road at the top of the hill near the Foundation and the stadium. It’s good to have times alone, to yourself, especially in intriguing places like Barcelona. Then in the future, when I’m settled and comfortable and in good (yet perhaps crowded) company, I can say, “I walked the streets of Barcelona alone. I had my time.”  I will know that I have lived.

    Following a brisk walk to the train station at 4:30 am, past groups of revelers enjoying the holiday and planning to push their Friday/Saturday festivities into the late a.m., I arrive at the train station. I’m early, only to discover that the train, in true Spanish fashion, is scheduled to leave at least 20 minutes late. The place is empty in the middle, great floor polished and shining, with people clustered round the edges, in groups, pairs, or solitary. I sit down on a peripheral bench, and contemplate my upcoming trip.

Despite having ample amounts of time, I still feel on edge– that near-departure nervousness that only recedes once in one’s assigned seat. The thrum of a warmed up train vibrates through the air like electricity, and the girl at the end of my bench taps her foot nervously, sending more vibrations through me. I practice deep breathing techniques, then lean back to watch the station slowly begin to fill up, and the clock hands inch onward.

The train arrives at 5:30 am, hissing up to the platform. When I enter, the light in the car is muted, with that special almost-hush that hangs around groups of strangers sleeping together. I have a window seat, the other empty, and snuggle in by myself. Warm air comes from the vents– comfortable and soothing. At first I watch the scenery roll by in the gray dawn, but then the gentle rocking lulls me asleep. I half doze, and half contemplate– past, present, future.

Dawn breaks ahead of the train and I see pink sky and clouds. Small towns roll by, overlooked by stone castles on hills, some with towers crumbling, but all whispering back to a past of clanking armor and lute music. On the other side, the Mediterranean Sea spread sout in a flat silvery shiny sheet.

I get into Barcelona on time, despite the late start. In the metro, construction is holding up the line. Nearby, a group of English-speakers try to get information out of a nearby metro employee with little luck.
“Doesn’t anyone here speak English?” one asks in exasperation.
“I do,” I respond after a moment’s pause, stepping forward, and repeating their question to the woman. We begin a relay of words, English-Spanish-English, with me in the middle. The tourists, not wanting to wait for delays, argue among themselves and leave. The woman and I chat for a few moments, then the metro appears (almost as though mocking the impatient Americans). She says goodbye, making a light-hearted comment about wishing she spoke English, and warning me about pickpockets. I step inside with a smile on my face.

From the metro station I find my hostel, chatting with a nice girl from Peru at the desk. Walking back down the street, I recognize the architecture and realize I am in the immediate neighborhood of Gaudi’s Casa Mitla. Happy about that, and happy joining my friends a few blocks down.

We have coffee, then take a walk down Las Ramblas, chatting the whole while. It’s crowded, but just as I remember- people, street performers, and flowers flowers flowers. We stumble upon the Plaza de George Orwell, with a modern sculpture. Follow small streets to the front of the cathedral where large groups of Sardona dancers perform. Then twist through the crowd at the Christmas market. We find a restaurant, order a huge dish of delicious paella, and talk over it for hours.

We move on– the Sagrada Familia, Poble Espagna, the Joan Miro museum, the Olympic stadium. We marvel at the gorgeous view of orange sky and pink clouds over the bright city, a strip of the Mediterranean shining on the horizon, lampposts around us glowing in the darkening light. Later followed food, more talk, and ice cream under Christmas lights strung through pedestrian alleyways.

11-29-07

cold nights
walking close to the side of the sidewalk where the restaurants have put out heat lamps to shield their diners
responding to a directions question in rapid-fire spanish
walking past the old stone church
feet sliding on smooth cobblestones
footballers playing in the park, shouts, punt-sound of kicked soccer balls
graffiti
waiting for the light to turn
splash of fountains
squares of yellow lamplight, auras
tiny dogs on leashes
home

7-31-07

The sweetness of returning to Spain– remembering the palm trees, understanding the foreign speech around me. The moment I exited the subway station and came outside, I knew I liked this city. It all embraced me suddenly– the heat, the sun glancing off the Spanish-style buildings, dusty orange trees, that special feeling in the air one can only find in the south of Spain. I took pictures of the cathedral in the Plaza de la Reina but none of them can capture the warmth of the air, or the sweet smell of white geraniums on the breeze, or the ringing church bells. I easily imagined myself wandering around, going to the beach, writing, reading. Working, living. Prague had been new, all new, but Spain is an enticing mixture of familiar and new– adventures recalling fond memories. A good choice.