Barcelona? Oh my Gaudi!

Well, I’ve learned that Spain isn’t NEARLY as funny as China. But I can breathe and I’m mostly not getting body checked. Perhaps my inability to recognize humorous encounters is due to all the rookie mistakes I made before I even got here: forgot my ATM card, Rx’s didn’t seem to make it into my bag, and I decided to forego the umbrella. So on our first leg in Barcelona, I can’t make it rain, I’m a little damp because it did rain, and I’m off my meds. Should make for an interesting couple of weeks.

I haven’t been to Barcelona (nay Barthelona) since 1987 when I was cramming for tests the night before and reading/not reading during my semester abroad. I’m here at the more-than-kind invitation of my friend Molly’s birth mom and her husband (Margaret and Mike) for Molly’s x%th birthday. Beyond the Gothic Cathedral, my recollections of the city are vague at best. Perhaps it was that I was here just one day, and it was coincidentally (and ignorantly) on May 1, Spain’s national holiday of Labor Day (does that strike anyone else as funny in the land of siestas?) or I flat out wasn’t paying attention (the most likely scenario.) How I got through a liberal arts college AND a love of Art and Architecture without knowing Gaudi is a thing in Barcelona remains a mystery to me. But he’s rampant. Everywhere.

If you (like me) weren’t paying attention, Gaudi is either madman or genius. Gaudi designed half this city — from cathedrals, to parks, and buildings. It’s really quite remarkable. A student of the modernist movement, inspired by nature in which there are no straight lines, his structures and landscaping plans are that of a proud Italian woman on too much gluten: curvy with a solid helping of bold. And because he usually incorporated some wicked iron work, you could quickly be taken out by a sharp pointy object while you’re not looking.

We started our ‘Gaudi Day’ with Sagrada Familia (Holy Family) — an ambitious almost-modern day basilica still being built. Its original construction began in 1882 by some other guy who resigned within the year. Our story’s hero (Gaudi) took over, dumped all the old plans and his maniacal vision began, combining Gothic and Art Nouveau styles. It’s the Cirque du Soleil of basilicas. We weren’t quite sure if it pure brilliance or a bad nightmare after a night of too much tapas and sangria. What we did know was that our brains short circuited after about 30 minutes of walking around. Seriously a lot to take in.

Inside, 52 columns, one for each week of the year. The place is flooded with natural light through all colors of stained glass windows. Outside, 18 planned spires, representing the 12 apostles, the Virgin Mary, and the 4 Evangelists — in ascending order of their height. Their HEIGHT! Now, first off, which bible offers stats on physical appearance? And second, what about Jesus? Not to worry. He gets the central spire topped with a giant cross coming in at 560 feet total which will make this the tallest church building in the world. Unless Dubai catches wind and throws up something more grandiose first. The cross will be made of glass and you’ll be able to view the city from inside. Yikes. I love crazy heights and that terrifies even me. Maybe it’s the thought of being in a cranny of a cross hair, baking in the hot Mediterranean sun surrounded by a heat conducting material, but I will be sure to stop by the confessional downstairs first before making that accent (once it’s completed.)

There’s a whole lot of crazy decorating the facades and tops of spires. Bunches of oranges and grapes, corn and figs — all decked out in their mosaic best. The entire back facade is dedicated to the passion, the south side the nativity, the front is the glory facade. Various scenes of hell, purgatory, the seven deadly sins, and seven heavenly virtues cover every inch available. You can’t escape your guilt here. The carved figures at the back are sharp and edged, almost cubist. The front figures are classic and you don’t have to guess what you’re looking at. Countless artists have contributed over the years. After some statues were destroyed during the Spanish Civil War, a Japanese artist (Sotoo) stepped in with his magic. When asked why his angels had Asian features, his reply was “because I’m Japanese.” That was the end of the story according to our guide, but it sure felt like Sotoo threw in a “dumb-ass” at the end of his response.

We were able to go up one of the completed towers and were happy to see it was travel by elevator. None of this climbing up stairs built for Renaissance feet (dainty) along a curved walls (the St. Peter’s dome.) I’m pretty sure we were in the Judas tower. We get in, the door closes, and the vater girl says, “when you get off, please walk forward and it’s 400 steps down. There is no elevator down.” TRAITOR! She was completely confused as we laughed and said ‘oh, you tell us now!’ She simply didn’t understand how that could be a problem for some people.

From the top, and at several junctures down, the view of the piles of grapes, oranges and unhusked corn was spectacular.

(Note: this is NOT a tribute to Tom Osbourne’s 1998 win. Even though some of you think he is God, he is not. May I be struck down in shame. It’s to represent body/blood…bread/wine.) We even got to be up front and personal with “chillin’ Jesus” — a figure perched near the top of the current construction, presumably the risen Christ. But I prefer ‘chillin’ Jesus.”

Sadly, Gaudi died during construction at the age of 73. Because he had no wife or children, he’s buried in the crypt beneath the nave. Would that I could be so lucky. I will continue to rely on my niece and her husband who have unwittingly agreed to take me on when I’m old and crazy. One could argue that I’ve already arrived there, but I digress. Gaudi’s untimely passing was not due to some tragic accident where a stone topples from a great height thus crushing him. He was hit by a street car. Equally tragic and a sad waste of a way to go. Because mad genius, right? Having almost been hit by a street car in Heidelberg, I’m here to say those things come up on you fast. Or it could have been the ‘not paying attention” settling in again. Whatever the case, Gaudi apparently didn’t have Greg there to grab the back of his shirt and yank him back on the sidewalk. (Don’t confuse this with the almost getting hit by a cab or having the subway car speed away while you’re attempting to board. I really shouldn’t be alive.)

The goal to finish construction is in 2026 for the 100th anniversary of his death. No streetcars allowed. It’s 70% completed now. They started in 1884. Granted, there was some time off for war stuff and poor stuff, (oh, the entire thing is funded by donation,) but I don’t see how 30% in 8 years is possible. Then again, math isn’t my strong suit. There is a ridiculous amount more that could be said about this place, but the pictures will have to suffice.

The next stop on our Gaudi tour was Parc Guell. I guess if you’ve got loads of money (such as Count Guell) and want to create the early 20th century version of a gated community for the Spanish rich and famous (he bought a hill to do so,) you hire an archetect to design it for you (which he did.) Despite Gaudi doing another mad hatter number on the grounds — 3km of roads, walks, plazas and gardens, it was a flop and by 1914 was abandoned. Yay! One for the little guys because now we get a gated park! The pavilions at the entrance will strike terror into any witch who dares to enter for its immediate comparison to Hansel and Gretel’s wood stove widower maker. The style moves from blue and white Dutch boy to Fred and Wilma Flintstone’s colonnade. It was a teenage girl’s selfie paradise for it’s angled, sloping columns and vaulted ceilings. It only took me until day 2 to really despise the selfie. Sometimes you need a picture, sure, but step out of the damn path to put your Insta filter on! Mama needs a pic without belly-shirted duck mouths. (Oh yeah, more belly-shirts and Daisy Duke rompers are headed your way America. Hooray.)

We climbed and climbed our way to the top of the park, questioning our shoe choices until we saw one gal with stilettos and another with a wedge of ill advised height. I always wonder where these people think they’re going when they head out the door. “Maybe they have air conditioned walkways with moving sidewalks?” No. Those are not inspired by nature, love kitten.

At some point, I realized that for the past hour, there was a group of children being led in song by a camp counselor of sorts. But it was the same song. Endlessly. Over and over. The Spanish version of “cars for kids.” Sure, we don’t speak a lot of Spanish, but you’re not fooling us by repeating the same ditty. I went to the pavilion to see if there was actually a wood stove there I could take for a spin. A guy from Texas did that thing where you point your finger gun to one side of your head and use the other hand to mimic the explosion coming out of the other side. Having a bad Disney tune stuck in your head really does a number on your already over stimulated cerebral cortex. We ran away. Just like Hansel & Gretel.

It was time to meet up with Jaume (Jow-ma,) Barcelona born and local tour guide to these stars. He’s a friend of a friend of my new friends. So now he’s my friend. The day before, he’d taken us on a preliminary walking tour of the city. He’s, well, I’m not sure how old he is, but old enough that we should be able to keep up with him. We can’t. Several times he said “we are a block away” and 20 minutes later, we’d still not be to our destination. Chalk up one for the language barrier. Earlier, he had given us directions to our meet-up point. You know…”man directions.” (That would be sexist if it weren’t so damn true.) “Exit the dragon gate and go down the hill. I’ll meet you at the light.” First off, that’s not a dragon. It’s a gecko. And the hill is a meandering city street with little to offer in the way of street signs. We arrive (?) and wait. Since he’s always extremely punctual, we contact him when it hits 15 minutes past meeting time. OH! We’re in the wrong place? Not sure how that’s possible. We get in a cab and drive for a solid 10 minutes or so, making turns of all sorts, on flat streets and hills until we arrive at a Gaudi building. Look! It’s curvey! Then another and another. They’re all curvey and surrounded by Gaudi street lights. We came upon four buildings, each by a different archetect and thus displaying drastically different hallucinogenic styles side by side. The archetect’s version of ‘no, mine is bigger.’

After the mildest of siestas (we haven’t quite figured this tradition out yet,) we head out again with Jaume to see the evening sites. Along the way, he is giddy to show us the Joan Miro sculpture “Woman with bird.” Mike took one look and said “looks like a penis with a coffee cup and a banana.” Indeed sir. Indeed. We snap photos from the taxi and we go whizzing by on our way to the bullfighting arena. In an architectural display of irony, the building was appearing to scream. Before you get your panties in a bunch, Barcelona no longer has matadors or the killing of the bulls. They’ve converted the arena into a legit shopping mall in which the red cape is a pack of preteen girls clustered together as young boys charge forward to their certain death. (Ah youth.) The view from the top is again wonderful. We’ve trekked all this way so we can see the “spectacular” fountain show — complete with lights and music. Except that this is a big fountain that shoots water into the air in various heights and patterns with music playing in the background. The Bellagio this is not, yet thousands of people show up for two viewings a night. Molly got to see an engagement that surely years from now the gal will be telling her second husband how cheesy it was the first time she said yes with Cold Play as her soundtrack and the fine mist of recycled water leaving her cheeks dewy. (Ah youth.)

What Molly should have been checking out was the street vendor selling selfie sticks who said I was looking beautiful (uh — 12 hours of walking and sweating…I’m not the only tho k here that doesn’t smell right) and begging me to “just give him a chance.” Considering the last guy to try and pick me up was on his way to his unemployment appointment, this offer was tempting because at least this guy had a job. With the glow of attention still upon me, the 3Ms and I retired to our flat to dream of Gaudi and peddlers and one more day.