The French Stench: españa part 3: mundo mediterráneo

Brain’s off. Sitting in the Brasserie du Midi hoping that the caffeine from my grand café will kick in soon so I can continue relaying my Spanish adventures to you guys. My fatigue (a definite symptom of oversleeping and not the opposite) is making it hard for me to tune out all of this French, so I apologize in advance for the inevitable broken English.

Barcelona Day 2: ¡Vámanos!

Having learned my lesson the previous day, I woke up Wednesday morning with the rest of Spain around 9:30. I casually took a shower, savored a delicious orange for breakfast, and checked out before throwing my duffle into the luggage closet and heading in the direction of Parque Güell, Gaudí’s magnificent park made famous – at least for me – by Cédric Klapish’s hilarious French comedy L’Auberge Espagnole.

Walking to the metro station, I relished in a brief moment of blue skies before descending into the city’s underworld. Of course when I resurfaced several minutes later at Vallcarca, a metro stop on the other side of the city, I was surrounded by nothing but (surprise!) rain and grey skies. Ignoring the bad weather, I looked in vain for signs I hoped would lead me to the park (signs that the guy at the front desk of the hostel assured me existed), but finding nothing of the sort and knowing that the Parque Güell was supposed to give me an incredible panoramic view of the city, I made an “educated” guess and picked a hill to climb. Makes sense, right?

Wrong.

I proceeded to get lost for over an hour, hiking up an increasingly steep hill that led me not to the Parque Güell, but to the Parc Turó del Putxet, some other, lesser-known green space several kilometers (hardly an exaggeration) from my intended destination. You may be saying to yourselves, “You idiot, why didn’t you turn around when you realized you were in the wrong place?” To be completely honest, I made this realization long after it was too late to turn back. In fact, even when I entered the illustrious “Parque” (probably one of the most popular tourist attractions in all of Barcelona) and saw absolutely no one, I was certain I’d somehow just discovered some secret side entrance known only to locals. Entertaining a whole host of these kinds of justifications (perhaps it’s the weather? or maybe it’s still too early for these people? is the park closed to the public today so that they can shoot another sequel to L’Auberge espagnole?), I climbed and I climbed. I followed a series of signs sporting pictures of cameras along narrow, winding paths, and happened, every now and then, upon the occasional runner or Barcelonan dog-walker. It wasn’t until I reached the summit, sweaty and out of breath, that I stubbornly admitted to myself I was lost, at which point I proceeded to descend the hill, realizing only when I got to the bottom that the park’s exit was, indeed, back at the top. What a way to start the morning!

(if nothing else, I got this amazing view of Barcelona with the Sagrada Familia in the distance)

Miraculously, I was able to find my way back to the metro station, where, with a bit of luck, I discovered the most pathetic excuse for a “sign” I’ve ever seen and headed in the direction of the real Parque Güell. Looking back on the experience, I’m not sure I truly appreciated this part of the city. Disheartened by my camera’s inability to cooperate with the cloudy weather, slightly discouraged by the events of the morning, and momentarily sick of being alone in a city of millions, I enjoyed the park’s splendor, but only superficially. Along with the hordes of tourists, I flocked to the colorful, mosaic-filled serpentine walls to get my share of photos of the city below me and the two gingerbread-house structures framing the park’s entrance. I waited there timidly, hoping to find a friendly-faced English-speaker to take my picture, but quickly gave up, and decided, instead, to leave the park and head back to the metro. (Rest assured that the next time I go to Barcelona, it’s going to be sunny, and with nothing but my camera and a book, I’m going to devote an entire day to exploring and appreciating every aspect of this whimsical park.)

(Parque Güell)

My negative attitude changed the second I walked out of the Sagrada Familia station twenty minutes later. This has got to be the most perfectly placed metro exit in the history of the world (L.’s words, but I completely agree). You walk out and immediately run into Gaudí’s world-famous cathedral, which, even 100+ years later, is still under construction. This thing is incredible. The product of true genius and unparalleled imagination, it’s one of those buildings you have to see in person before you can even begin to understand it. Like a dripping sandcastle, it towers far above any other edifice in the city and is so profoundly elaborate that you could stand in front of it a thousand times and still discover some previously unseen detail. Like so many of Gaudí’s pieces, neither words nor pictures can do it justice. And if the Sagrada Familia sighting itself wasn’t reason enough to raise my spirits, it came – at last! – with BRILLIANTLY BLUE SKIES.

(Gaudi's Sagrada Familia)

For the rest of the afternoon, I was unable to wipe the smile off of my face. After eating a lunch of tortilla española (traditional “Spanish omelet,” an odd concoction of eggs and – more than anything else – potatoes) right next to the catédral, I walked a couple of miles (miles? what are these?) down some vast avenue until I literally ran into the Mediterranean. The skies above me still an astonishing shade of azul (blue) and home to nothing but a few wispy clouds, I basked in the refreshing Mediterranean sun, the misty breeze making my skin sticky with sand and salt. Removing my shoes and socks and wading in the chilly February water, I walked along the Spanish coast until I found a comfortable spot among the rocks. There, I ate a succulently juicy orange, washed my hands in the blue water, and begrudgingly counted the short hours-then-minutes until I had to rush to my hostel, pick up my bag, and head to the Estació de Sants to catch my six o’ clock train to Valencia.