a holiday in spain

I was in Barcelona for the weekend holiday of Carnavales. It’s similar to our Halloween in the states… a bunch of grown adults playing dress up… essentially. Here’s a tale or two from my journey.

This morning I’m sitting in an amazing little café. It’s warm and filled with people and the cranberries (no joke) are playing over the radio. Ha… the whole place sooths me. I love finding places like this one. And it’s right next to one of the famous cathedrals. Yesterday was a day of exploration.

It begins with a flight and a hostel hunt. From there I search for some food. Exploring the streets, I observe many attractive restaurants. Much of them look as I had envisioned a typical Spanish eatery. I finally choose a spacious café near the famous street of La Rambla. I’m excited to use my Spanish… especially since I’ve been seeing so many Americans. The city is very international and plenty of English is spoken. No hay problema… ‘hola sinora!’ a laugh and a ‘senora? Nooo.’ apparently an inappropriate term for such an age and in such an instance. I guess women in their thirties prefer a different term. Wups. I chuckle nervously in response. Yet again another ‘lo siento.’ But I press on. ‘Que es esto?’ ‘queso y hamon’ ‘ooh… muy bien!’ and I begin an ordering extravegansa. I’ll take this and what is that and don’t forget the café con leche! plus I even ask if I can pay with a credit card… all in Espanol… boo ya. Yet, all the while I’ve forgotten food will inevitably cost me. Racking up a fairly hefty bill, I realize learning does come at a cost… but going hungry has a price tag as well. Another smallish lego may just have been strategically situated.

The market’s up next. On La Ramba, exists one of larger markets I’ve encountered. A cornacopia of fresh fruit, legs of lamb (hanging from the rafters), and fish intently, and unflinchingly eying me… definitely winning the contest. Don’t even attempt, the flapper’ll win every time, guaranteed. Also, the delicacy I mentioned before… the piglet, yeah… I witness the pre-cooked version. Ever been to one of those ‘body works’ exhibits. Picture frying one of them up for dinner… ah yeah. Onto even more.

I approach the Picasso museum, not from some preplanned appointment but a kind of meandering through narrow streets. I pass zipping mo-pedestrians and a cathedral that though impressive on the outside does little justice for what I latter observed on the inside. Some preliminary background of my knowledge of Picasso: well… the guernica… um… so now that you have a clear understanding of my ignorance, let’s move on.

I’m enthralled for no less that quarto horas. I may have discovered my new idol. From his early age (i'm reminded of Asher Lev) his enormous talent emerged. A prodigy and a genius really. While I was out running around punting kick-balls and other people and pulling girls hair and yelling and sliding in the grass and staining myself and swinging and aaaahhhhhhh!... this youngster known only as Picasso is whipping up a few masterpieces…  He was a realist, an impressionist, a cubist, a ceramist, an engraver, a sculpture, a ladies man… yep, and for obvious reasons. Plus he had such a great appreciation for others artwork. A grand collector, Picasso packed his home with his colleagues artwork. If you’re in Barcelona, see this museum. You will be tired but you will be awestruck and intrigued and inspired and curious. This guy was a master.

The next experience was a gift. I stroll by the aforementioned cathedral (Santa Maria) on my way back to the hostel. A door’s cracked open, a hint of light creeps into darkness. It’s now nighttime, and in a symbolic fashion I’m beckoned towards the light. I tiptoe inside. My eyes adjust. My chin thrusts upwards. One hundred foot ceilings reveal even greater lengths through Spanish history. This antique structure demands my silence... my reverence. One of the pews provides me a seat for a prayer… not the typical tourist activity but the most peaceful moment of the day. Lit candles surround me, their glow permeating the nooks where the saints reside. After a couple of enchanting and elongated laps, and a few deep breaths, i step slowly to the door. Now just think about this... these amazing places of worship are created for the King, the Savior, my friend… for the one far more beautiful than these simple, yet intricately placed stones and mortar…  and how much more unbelievable is the recipient of such a stunning tribute

Later in the evening:

Now I must ask a question. What’s it like to be serenaded by an elderly Spanish gentleman? A rhetorical question. let me enlighten you. I’m sitting amongst newly acquired friends. Enjoying each other’s company we chat, sipping on some beers. hola!… up pops a partially coherent elder. With a polite cheer, ‘salude’, he raises his can. In unison we respond with an enthusiastically American outburst ‘salude!!’ With raised glasses tapping and clinking, the vocal show begins. I’m quite shocked but very impressed at the ensuing tones. He proceeds to belt lyrics of an unknown sort for in excess of two minutes. Now, mind you, all our glasses are still raised. I steal glances from the others around. I make eye contact with the Voice. I disregard the cramp forming in my arm. Absolutely incredible… with multiple octaves and pitches this guy delivers an anthem, stopping at nothing. Yet, this soundtrack regrettably comes to a close with a final note worthy of Carnegie Hall. I erupt… more glasses raise, now they smash. Claps and fist pumps (these primarily from me). After a simple nod, the man slowly retreats. Wow. What a day

I’m back now in my little apartmento in Getxo… and I did finally go shopping today. I came back with three bags filled with TONs of food. I’ve bee having trouble a) taking care of myself (I was sick last week) and b) feeding myself. Ha, but I’m getting better. After many oranges, my sniffles have diminished. The cabinets are now stocked and my belly’s full.