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 Travel Bug: Spain
A little bit of background I
don't know how Spain worked itself onto my list of places I
desperately wanted to go. Maybe it was the language.
Ever since I could speak English I've wanted to also speak
Spanish. Maybe it was
Flamenco. Such strong dance and passionate music could only come
from a thoroughly intriguing place.
Maybe it was simply the idea of warm weather and gorgeous
beaches. I really don't
know. But in 1999 I
applied for a month long artist’s residency in Mojacar, a small
village in the South of Spain.
When I received a letter saying that I'd gotten in, I was as
excited about going to Spain as I was about having a month to do
nothing but write. The residence, Fundacion Valparaiso, was situated
in the desert. It was
15 minutes from the long stretch of beach the village is famous for
and 20 minutes away from the mountains that cradled a cluster of
small, white houses which make up the town. The contrasts in the
landscape were stunning. I was enchanted by almond, olive and fig
trees; I fantasized about the taste of the beautiful-but
dangerous-cactus pears; I fell asleep to Flamenco and Spanish and I
wrote. I took trips to the market, our group of artists road tripped
to Granada to see the last Moorish stronghold, The Alhambra and I
marvelled over the fact that there was a park named after Garcia
Lorca (do we have a park named after a poet in the U.S?) In
Andalusia (the name of that region of Spain) the African and Islamic
influences are easily seen, particularly in the architecture.
Knowing this, I wondered why-in a place a stones throw away
from Africa, which owed much of it’s own culture to the
continent-folk sometimes acted like I was the first Black person
they'd seen. I did meet some nice folks, but I also had people
pointing at me in the market, running behind me, touching me,
snickering and calling out,“Negro.” So while Southern Spain was
beautiful, I had no intention of visiting it or any other part of
the country again. Fast Forward At
a wedding in Belgium two years later, a friend invited my boyfriend
and me to visit him in Barcelona. Martijn mused about how beautiful
Barcelona was. He said that we could stay in the apartment he and
his fiancée shared. It was a wonderful offer but I was not
interested. I thanked
him and declined. But Martijn would not give up.
He was sure I'd like the city.
He said I at least had to check it out. Well, maybe it was
because he seemed so convinced, maybe it was just to get him to stop
trying to make me change my mind, and maybe it was because he's
really cool, but I said alright. "For you. We'll come to see
you." Martijn smiled and told me Barcelona was going to be a
whole other experience. Day one is really evening one.
2/27/03 It
was 8 pm when we landed and seeing all the lights below was exciting.
I felt like a real city was awaiting me.
Before we even got out of the airport we were window shopping.
(shame) I was looking
at dolls dressed as Flamenco dancers. Dominique was looking at shoes.
We were chatting away excitedly, and when he went to ask the
saleswoman a question she looked at him puzzled. Most of the people
I’ve met in Spain only speak Spanish and the saleswoman was no
exception. Dominique and I scrambled for Spanish words. We managed
to get our question out, but I had difficulty understanding the
answer. In the end we
looked at each other laughing, “Oh yeah, we’re in Spain.” When
we tore ourselves from the airport (talk about tourism-damn) we
headed to our hosts, Martijn and Maite's, place. We got a bit lost
but what a place to get lost in.
Martijn and Maite live in the center of the city. There were
people everywhere: painters, musicians, shoppers.
I was looking around taking in the museums and the Cathedral.
Even the sidewalk, with its bricks engraved with flowers gave me
something pretty to look at. We
decided to get directions in a Senegalese store where a very
friendly man helped us get back on course. The place was obviously a
gathering spot: folk were there drinking tea, talking and getting
their hair done. When
we finally got to Maite and Martijn's place, they greeted us warmly,
offered tea, olives, wine, pasta and conversation by candlelight. I
went to bed that night happy, well-fed and excited about the
prospect of diving into the city. 2/28/03 We
were supposed to be going to a cafe to hear a Brazilian band, but
the place was too crowded for our little crew.
So we ended up outside the club where four women were singing
in Wolof and doing dances they learned from their Senegalese Maestro
in Italy. Dominique began playing the aslatos he got in Ghana,
another guy took a harmonica out and the rest of us began singing
and dancing with the young women.
About an hour later, a West African brother caught sight of
all this, came over, stood in front of us and counted,
"1234." Then he began leading us in an impromptu dance
class. Right there in
the street. "1234,"
and we all danced. Two older Spanish women stood and smiled warmly.
An Indian man watched and tried to sell us beer. It was 1 A.M. and
there we were, a crew of 10 strangers from Africa, Spain, Belgium,
Germany, Italy and the United States dancing in the street. Is this
typical life in Barcelona?? I don’t know, but it’s definitely
living. La Luta Continua 3/1/03
Yesterday
was full of tiny curving streets, music and drunken men dancing a
stomping flirtation. We ate delicious sea food, drank Sangria and
discussed politics. Here, in the middle of the historical center of the city
signs of protest against the war are everywhere. Huge banners hang
off balconies, signs sit in windows, and graffiti speaks on the
sides of buildings. There
was a beautiful poster that said it perfectly: it was red, white and
blue and the red stripes were shaped like falling missiles.
Maite and Martine explained that this outcry is as much
against the war as it is against the Spanish government. People are
upset that their government is marching hand in hand with the U.S.
government towards war. They
are critiquing their government in a way that I haven’t seen many
other European protestors do. There
were a million people in the Feb 15th peace march here and the
evidence is everywhere. It
thrills me to be in a place where folks are aware and adamant about
peace.
3/2/03
This
city keeps surprising me. I
can’t deny that I’m jaded about Europe-the nationalism that it
tries to hide, the gradual shifting of governments to the right, the
fear of immigrants and the inability to deal with difference.
All that to say that I don’t expect to be awed by
Europe’s cities anymore but here I am, infatuated with Barcelona.
There’s always something happening; folks are just getting
geared up to party at midnight, beautiful buildings, sounds or
interesting sites are always catching my eye and I’m happy to be
dusting off my limited, but enthusiastic, Spanish. We
walked on a huge shopping street called the Ramblas today and there
in the midst of that street was a booth dedicated to the anti-war
movement. They were
giving out free stickers, posters and encouraging those interested
to sign petitions. On
our way to see an exhibition on harems and the different ways they
were portrayed in art from the East and the West, we spotted a group
of youth creating a peace mural with paint and newspaper clippings.
Activism is alive and well here.
People are finding creative ways of making their voices heard. When was the last time you wanted to run your hands all over a building?? 3/2/03
I’m sitting on the roof of la Pedrera, a building designed by Antonio Gaudi. Because my Father is architect, names of architects surrounded me during my childhood just as poets names surround me now. (I actually thought I’d become an architect one day but that is a whole other story) Anyway, I remember hearing the name Gaudi once because my father said he didn’t like his work. Well, if my father were sitting on this roof with me right now, I really think he would change his mind. There are all these crazy shapes up here. Some look like sea creatures, others like chess pieces, some are crowns, mosaic covered space mountains or rebellious minarets. The walls look like wind blown fabric. This architecture seems to bring out the child in everyone who looks at it. I notice most of us are smiling at each other uncontrollably up here. It’s a wonderland of colour and shape. Gaudi’s architecture makes me want to laugh. When was the last time you wanted to run your hands all over a building?? Hello, Dali? 3/3/03 Been
jamming to Martijn’s Tribe Called Quest CD for the last two
mornings. I still
remember the first time I saw the video for, “I left My Wallet in
El Segundo.” I loved Tribe instantly. (I wish I had a postcard of
my nostalgia.) Anyway,
we left Barcelona this morning to come to Figueres, the home of the
Salvador Dali 3/4/03
It’s
a gorgeous morning in Cadaques.
We’re staying in a hotel near the sea.
When we got here yesterday it was raining and we were tired,
but the sea, the mountains and the sound of the rain were so calming
that we sat in the car looked through the rain streaked windshield
and talked for an hour. After that we headed in for a nap.
It was nice to know that going to the hotel and napping would
not mean waking up to a ghost town. (You gotta love a country that believes in the siesta.) After
our nap we were on a hunt for dinner. We ended up at La Pescador
where the food was- in two words: insanely delicious.
We came here to go to the Dali
house, but that, like the museum in Figueres yesterday, is closed!
But Cadaques is so beautiful that even without seeing the house
I’m glad we’re here. We
met a really cool artist, Moises, who makes dishes and paints.
He told us that it is important to him to focus on the
traditions here in Cadaques like fishing and growing olives at his
grove. He said he’d been to London and New York but that he could
never live in either place because he needs nature.
He loves the sea. He also talked about the difference between tourists who come
to take and travellers who come to learn and share. Later we saw Moises again bringing freshly cleaned fish back
from his boat. He told
us that it is best to clean fish with sea water.
It was beautiful to see this man first with his art in a
studio, and then with other fisherman at the sea. Back In Barcelona 3/06/03 Our
last day here was powerful. We
had brunch at this organic food spot.
I went to the "ladies" for a minute and all of a
sudden I heard a clamour of voices chanting in unison. When I rushed
out what had-just a minute before-been a street only alive with city
sounds was transformed into a street crowded with thousands of
protestors. We
joined. We
marched, sat in the streets, sang, chanted “No Guerra no Guerra no
Guerra no” (“no war”) and, “Esta Guerra es tambien
terrorismo” (“this war is also terrorism”) and anything else
we could manage to say and understand.
Many of the marchers were young, I’d say some were as young
as 15. We realized, looking at their books and backpacks, that
we’d joined a student protest. Maite later told us that she saw
the march on television. I
could say the marchers were anti-war, because they were, but I think
it would more accurate to call them peace marchers.
The energy of the protest was strong and somehow, very pure.
Yes, the students were serious, “no Guerra per petroli”
(“no war for oil” in the Catalan language) but they still
laughed during the march and made a joke or two during their
speeches against imperialism Some
students had hearts and peace signs painted on their cheeks. I’ve
participated in a few marches, mostly in NY, one in California, some
in Alabama. I felt that this march was completely unlike many of those
marches where the outrage created unbelievable tension.
I think that we as conscious people have every right to be
outraged, in fact I tend to think that if you aren’t angry about
they way things are going then you’re not awake.
But I know that I do everything better-including protest-when
my anger is coupled with hope and love.
That’s what I felt from these students a sense of hopeful
outrage. No, there were
no hordes of police in riot gear; in fact there were more media than
police. The cops I saw
were stopping traffic so we wouldn’t get run over.
Obviously that is going to create a less tense environment. To
say that I am excited by the level of protest in Barcelona-whether
it is in the form of marches on Weds at noon; graffiti against war,
Nike, Adidas, Reebok, police, Nazi’s; peace banners hanging from
balconies and displayed in windows of businesses-would be
3/7/03 We’re
leaving! It’s 8am and the sun is strong. I wish I could stay.
It’s going to be another beautiful day in Barcelona...
For comments and
suggestions you can contact me by email: etallie@yahoo.com |
After
the protest we rushed over to Gaudi's masterpiece, Parc Guell. We
had to climb a thousand steps to get to it, but once we were there,
wow. I could see the entire city from up there. It's a sprawling
park full of winding paths and elaborate mosaic work decorates the
benches, fountains and ceilings. I’m telling you, I've never run
around a city fiending