Song lyrics:
I'm so bored, and I hate Spain.
All I want is to leave this place and never return again.
" "
" "
(Written to a punk rock melody by fellow abroad students and me, November, 2001)
After a month and a half of the same streets, the same classes, the same local dress and attitude, I was ready to return home. I missed the States, my girlfriend, my family, and the comforts of the predictable life that I had grown into. The result of such saddened longing and frustrations was the song above (though the rest of the lyrics have since been forgotten in the foggy archives of my mind).
In looking back, I was playing the sour grape. After all, what an amazing opportunity: study abroad; four days on, three days off; a historical city; brilliant peers and teachers; and so many other highlights to a vibrant city and country. And my classes: Spanish Cinema; Spanish Language; and Introduction to Photography. Our teachers were from our home state of (northern) California, and my peers were from a triad of community/junior colleges in NorCal.
Oh, and add to this: Tasty food; authentic and caring people; beautiful and lovely ladies; ....
I guess my reaction was valid, given my rookie status as international traveler.
Fast forward a decade and a year.
Our entrance to the Sandstone city was nothing short of awe-striking. My mom "uh'd and aw'd" as we both reveled in the brilliant vista of two cathedrals pressed on green hills and blue sky background. There are few views as pleasing and surreal as this one, and the second entrance to the city was almost as good as the first.
I was instantly thrown back into reminiscence zone as the feelings and memories poured out of me. How wonderful it is to have the opportunity to return to a city that previously housed my high hopes, painful insecurities, an opening up to wonder of the world, and the whole gamut of emotions and experiences. These memories, formerly stunted or forgotten, now reappeared in a flash.
I remembered spending time with Heather, my good friend from California. We'd walk through the whole city, discovering bars, restaurants, and parks. All the while, flirting, subtly, with one another. That takes me to the other girl that I feel for: the girl at Mandala Restaurant; a vibrantly creative take on tapas and other Spanish fare. Was the ravishingly lovely short-haired Salamancan beauty still there?! I though to myself, almost overtaken with childlike curiosity.
And, the school! Was it still thriving as it had been when my thirty-something mates and myself had attended it?! I'll also never forget that other Spanish beauty: Emma; the secretary from the most exalted reaches of the sky. All this made me ponder. Why is it that I wasn't single during those long, emotional, lustful, and world-/mind-expanding sixty days?? And rather, opting to stay the course with my controlling, insecure, cute, and equally-whipped Chicana girlfriend way back in little Lake Tahoe, CA. Wow! Sometimes we live and don't make the proper choice! And, sometimes we continue on for many years without waking up to the possibilities that are out there... I learned my lesson. Period.
So what is beautiful about this city, in particular? Well, I rediscovered all of this while my mom and I meandered our way to the city center in the company of a lovely University of Salamanca student named Francesca. She sparked up the conversation immediately after we all set foot on solid ground at the Salamanca bus station.
"Where are you from?" She inquired.
"From California."
"Cool! I've always heard amazing things about California." She affirmed as her eyes dazzled in excitement.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"From the outskirts of London. Stevenage; do you know it?
I respond, "Yes, I've seen the football team play on T.V...."
Wow! she exclaimed. "Very few people know it! I'm impressed!"
She went on to say, "I miss it. I'm actually returning from there after a week's trip stay with my family."
...
I knew that my mom and I had run into a "good egg," and that my mom's initiation to Salamanca was going to be a complete one given our giddy Londoner guide.
Francesca, my mom, and I walked our way up into the old part of the city where the real action is. Like most cities that have a concentric shape/configuration (read: European style), the old city is markedly contained within the outstretching in all directions of the new city. As we walked, I was amazed by the way in which Salamanca had expanded in the eleven years hiatus I had taken. I would say, upon view and guess, that the city is 10-15% larger than it had been when I was an abroad student there. Though it was significant, the growth of buildings, one could still bike around the city in two or three hours.
We headed straight for the Plaza Mayor, while wasting no time. Little time was wasted in terms of talking as well. Our little Francesca could chat it up three kilometers-a-minute, to be sure! She was wickedly intelligent, insightful, and sweet. If she were a few years older, she would've been a prime candidate for yours truly!
The road that led to the Plaza Mayor was an enticing one: cobblestone walking streets; sandstone buildings in typical European design (two stories - store/business on the ground level; residence on the top); memorable signs all done in traditional Castilla y Leon style; and attractive/well-dressed pedestrians and standbys.
I could feel the excitement of seeing the Plaza build up as memories shot back through my mind of all of the experiences that I had held onto for so long: meeting my peers below the Plaza's clock; eating tapas and drinking beer in the many eateries; sitting on the interspersed stone benches watching the passersby; etc.
I gave my mom warning of the sight to behold just steps ahead. Entering this Plaza is like entering the Coliseum on fight day, seeing the first glance of the baseball diamond at the World Series, or hearing the first note at a Yanni concert! Upps...What?! Did he really?? ... Maybe not that last one. Moving on...
And there it was: the contrast between blue sky above the buildings and earthy sand color of the structures; three-storied square shape; nucleus of the city; open and alive businesses and walkspaces. How wonderful it was to return to the most important and beautiful site of the city. Hoards of people the world over come for this very reason. It was Cultural City of Europe in 2002, the years before I was there; and, for good reason.
We headed off to other parts of the city that draw attention for much the same rationale that the Plaza attracts so much traffic.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Madrid, Oh Madrid!
Madrid, Oh Madrid!
Intercom Voice: Vuelo 215 Virgin, con destino Frankfurt. Por favor, acerquense a la puerta 75.
Virgin flight 215, with destination of Frankfurt. Please, approach gate 75.
It was Spanish in color: a light brown. It was European in shape: modern curvatures and detail done in a refined and cutting-edge manner. The signage was definitely not from the U.S.: "W.H." and "Aseos" gave explicit instruction to those less accustomed to "Restroom" guidance.
Barajas Airport had been renovated since the last time I had visited. Before, it was the destination of my first trip abroad, my home country for two long months of my life; now, I would only be staying a short two weeks, with constant movement being the call of the day.
The feel of the Madrid airport was good as my mom and I considered the possibilities of our first day in the capital. So, off we went to the metro to coordinate our desired destination: the Plaza de Espana and Gran Via, a popular staging ground for a large number of tourists to Madrid.
Wide streets, high buildings, and interesting interiors were the specs that inspired most visitors to the Gran Via area. The long street was split, in fact, between buildings that survived the Spanish Civil War bombing assaults, and those that were salvaged. As we walked down the long blocks of the Great Street/Lane, this highlight became evident. Inside of the old buildings, old elevators marked as the centerpiece of buildings, which to any non-East Coast U.S. visitor, the vertical motion machines were a delight to see and ride.
Many of the buildings had at least been partially renovated in order to house businesses ranging from hostels and hotels, to restaurants, to law offices, and more. The hostel that we randomly chose ended up being a steal in every way. The proprietors of Hostel Santillan were the daughter, grandson and granddaughter-in-law of the original owners. The hostel had been in the family since the 1950's, after the owner, who was Spanish but lived for an extended time in Venezuela, had desired to offer a service to an increasing number of visitors/tourists to the central neighborhoods of the capital. As homage to his grandfather, Aitor, the grandson, was visibly proud of being a part of this continued service to modern sojourners. So much so, that he gave us an inspired history of the business, the building, the neighborhood, and key points of interest that we should checkout.
As an interesting point, 11 years earlier, I had stayed in a hostel a half block up Gran Via from this hostel. Originally, I thought that we were in the same building, but, later the next day, found that my 2001 hostel was just up the road. At $55 Euros a night, with a newly renovated room with all the amenities and new bathroom, it was a hard price to beat.
The comfortable and clean room offered my mom and I a perfect site of respite, after a long almost 20 hours of travel. We rested well, and when we arose, the two of us were ready to hit the town. There's nothing like the feeling of waking up in a big city on a Friday night. We strode down the wide sidewalks of the heart of Madrid while checking out all that Madrid had to offer. Endless signs of Jamon, Queso, Tortilla Espanola, Calamar, Tapas, etc. passed our view as did the traditional colors worn by the Madrilenos on the street. As my mom fittingly commented, "All of them wear black to match their black hair." Another later comment was spot-on as well: "All the girls are so beautful." I had an easy time acknowledging these two factual observations and found it difficult during the rest of our stay in Madrid not to enter obsession zone in regards to the ladies.
We parked ourselves at a table inside of a well-lite and well-attended to joint just across from the Santillan. As we got settled, we immediately acquainted ourselves to our surroundings. A few observations will shed light on what one must come to expect while inside of any Spanish eatery: numerous cured pigs' legs hanging from the wall behind the bar; display cases with a wide array of tapas; waiters (not waitresses) in short-sleeved button-up shirts with black bow-ties and black slacks; large menu signs depicting what's held within the menu in your hand; Spanish beer (mostly on tap); an array of Spanish wine; and omnipresent couples chatting in a semi-private and refined manner.
The mesero worked his way around to our table. I ordered a San Miguel; my mom decided on a local red wine. As far as food goes, in addition to the complimentary selection of cured chorizo, we chose fried calamari, tortilla espanola, and tomato bread. This meal was a perfect introduction to Spanish cuisine; especially Madrilena cuisine. Well-fed and well-hydrated, my mom and I took a nice walk along the same streets as we happily and curiously people-watched. More black hair and clothes framed dark-complected beauty with almost painter-like perfection. Could I have stayed in this city forever? I immediately considered it.
Song:
Hoy en mi ventana brilla el sol. Mi corazon, se pone triste contemplando la ciudad, porque te vas.
This song, by the Spaniard Javier Alvarez, plays through my mind as I wake to the morning of day 2 in Madrid. It speaks of sun shining through the window while I my heavy (sad) heart contemplates the city (of Madrid) because you (the lover) left. I was anything but sad. And or hostel room at the Santillan had everything but windows with bright sun shining through. We did have ventilation in the form of a window which opened up to a patio spanning the height of the building. Given this latter aspect, our morning started at 11 a.m. rather than the desired 7 a.m.; the time of sunrise.
Plan for the Day: Tour the area of Plaza de Espana, the main Cathedral, the Royal Palace, and the neighborhoods in and around the Plaza Mayor.
This day was spent almost like retracing footsteps made during my first trip made to Madrid. Actually, I had no chance but to reminisce about that trip...
I was fresh off the boat. Never had I imagined being able to explore and live out the curiosities that I had always let run wild in my imagination. It was through travel, and through travel in Madrid, Spain, to be exact, where I would be able to wander streets, watch and talk to people that caught my interest, try food and customs that were foreign to me, and experience the colors, sights, sounds, and smells of cultures that comprise parts of the whole of humanity. It was in Madrid that the dormant curiosity for the world and for adventure was finally awakened, albeit uncomfortable and awkward.
How could I express such expansive feelings for life, people, and their creations? Where else can one find separation and space to explore the possibilities of one's own life? There was a whole world waiting for me; the call had been made.
All of these feelings rushed upon me as my mom and I strode along the perimeter of Plaza de Espana. We came to the road that led to Principe Pio hotel; it was from there that I remembered the roofless bus tour we made 11 years ago that took us through the circuit of sights throughout the center of the city. Also, I had the opportunity to meet new friends from the 40-something abroad group with whom I'd be spending time with on the two-month stay. Among them was a 21 year old kid named Peter, the grandson of former Chilean President, and human rights abuser, Augustin Pinochet.
We veered to the left toward what felt like the Royal Palace. Sure enough, as we stretched our way up the slightly uphill, I caught sight of the outer wall of the Palacio. It was there, during my first visit, that I remember buying a rose and gifting it to a pretty girl. Peter was also there; I guess I didn't know, at that time, the atrocities absurdly committed by my friend's grandfather, the fierce Chilean dictator. But, then again, can we really punish the descendants of a criminal. Oh yeah, gotta mention it, the U.S.-backed dictator of Chile that led to hundreds of thousands of deaths, disappearances, and ruined lives. I don't hold it against you, Peter...
What a beautiful, warm, and bright day it was on my return to the courtyard in front of the Royal Palace. Tourists mixed with a healthy helping of locals rambled along the ubiquitous walkways.
Intercom Voice: Vuelo 215 Virgin, con destino Frankfurt. Por favor, acerquense a la puerta 75.
Virgin flight 215, with destination of Frankfurt. Please, approach gate 75.
It was Spanish in color: a light brown. It was European in shape: modern curvatures and detail done in a refined and cutting-edge manner. The signage was definitely not from the U.S.: "W.H." and "Aseos" gave explicit instruction to those less accustomed to "Restroom" guidance.
Barajas Airport had been renovated since the last time I had visited. Before, it was the destination of my first trip abroad, my home country for two long months of my life; now, I would only be staying a short two weeks, with constant movement being the call of the day.
The feel of the Madrid airport was good as my mom and I considered the possibilities of our first day in the capital. So, off we went to the metro to coordinate our desired destination: the Plaza de Espana and Gran Via, a popular staging ground for a large number of tourists to Madrid.
Wide streets, high buildings, and interesting interiors were the specs that inspired most visitors to the Gran Via area. The long street was split, in fact, between buildings that survived the Spanish Civil War bombing assaults, and those that were salvaged. As we walked down the long blocks of the Great Street/Lane, this highlight became evident. Inside of the old buildings, old elevators marked as the centerpiece of buildings, which to any non-East Coast U.S. visitor, the vertical motion machines were a delight to see and ride.
Many of the buildings had at least been partially renovated in order to house businesses ranging from hostels and hotels, to restaurants, to law offices, and more. The hostel that we randomly chose ended up being a steal in every way. The proprietors of Hostel Santillan were the daughter, grandson and granddaughter-in-law of the original owners. The hostel had been in the family since the 1950's, after the owner, who was Spanish but lived for an extended time in Venezuela, had desired to offer a service to an increasing number of visitors/tourists to the central neighborhoods of the capital. As homage to his grandfather, Aitor, the grandson, was visibly proud of being a part of this continued service to modern sojourners. So much so, that he gave us an inspired history of the business, the building, the neighborhood, and key points of interest that we should checkout.
As an interesting point, 11 years earlier, I had stayed in a hostel a half block up Gran Via from this hostel. Originally, I thought that we were in the same building, but, later the next day, found that my 2001 hostel was just up the road. At $55 Euros a night, with a newly renovated room with all the amenities and new bathroom, it was a hard price to beat.
The comfortable and clean room offered my mom and I a perfect site of respite, after a long almost 20 hours of travel. We rested well, and when we arose, the two of us were ready to hit the town. There's nothing like the feeling of waking up in a big city on a Friday night. We strode down the wide sidewalks of the heart of Madrid while checking out all that Madrid had to offer. Endless signs of Jamon, Queso, Tortilla Espanola, Calamar, Tapas, etc. passed our view as did the traditional colors worn by the Madrilenos on the street. As my mom fittingly commented, "All of them wear black to match their black hair." Another later comment was spot-on as well: "All the girls are so beautful." I had an easy time acknowledging these two factual observations and found it difficult during the rest of our stay in Madrid not to enter obsession zone in regards to the ladies.
We parked ourselves at a table inside of a well-lite and well-attended to joint just across from the Santillan. As we got settled, we immediately acquainted ourselves to our surroundings. A few observations will shed light on what one must come to expect while inside of any Spanish eatery: numerous cured pigs' legs hanging from the wall behind the bar; display cases with a wide array of tapas; waiters (not waitresses) in short-sleeved button-up shirts with black bow-ties and black slacks; large menu signs depicting what's held within the menu in your hand; Spanish beer (mostly on tap); an array of Spanish wine; and omnipresent couples chatting in a semi-private and refined manner.
The mesero worked his way around to our table. I ordered a San Miguel; my mom decided on a local red wine. As far as food goes, in addition to the complimentary selection of cured chorizo, we chose fried calamari, tortilla espanola, and tomato bread. This meal was a perfect introduction to Spanish cuisine; especially Madrilena cuisine. Well-fed and well-hydrated, my mom and I took a nice walk along the same streets as we happily and curiously people-watched. More black hair and clothes framed dark-complected beauty with almost painter-like perfection. Could I have stayed in this city forever? I immediately considered it.
Song:
Hoy en mi ventana brilla el sol. Mi corazon, se pone triste contemplando la ciudad, porque te vas.
This song, by the Spaniard Javier Alvarez, plays through my mind as I wake to the morning of day 2 in Madrid. It speaks of sun shining through the window while I my heavy (sad) heart contemplates the city (of Madrid) because you (the lover) left. I was anything but sad. And or hostel room at the Santillan had everything but windows with bright sun shining through. We did have ventilation in the form of a window which opened up to a patio spanning the height of the building. Given this latter aspect, our morning started at 11 a.m. rather than the desired 7 a.m.; the time of sunrise.
Plan for the Day: Tour the area of Plaza de Espana, the main Cathedral, the Royal Palace, and the neighborhoods in and around the Plaza Mayor.
This day was spent almost like retracing footsteps made during my first trip made to Madrid. Actually, I had no chance but to reminisce about that trip...
I was fresh off the boat. Never had I imagined being able to explore and live out the curiosities that I had always let run wild in my imagination. It was through travel, and through travel in Madrid, Spain, to be exact, where I would be able to wander streets, watch and talk to people that caught my interest, try food and customs that were foreign to me, and experience the colors, sights, sounds, and smells of cultures that comprise parts of the whole of humanity. It was in Madrid that the dormant curiosity for the world and for adventure was finally awakened, albeit uncomfortable and awkward.
How could I express such expansive feelings for life, people, and their creations? Where else can one find separation and space to explore the possibilities of one's own life? There was a whole world waiting for me; the call had been made.
All of these feelings rushed upon me as my mom and I strode along the perimeter of Plaza de Espana. We came to the road that led to Principe Pio hotel; it was from there that I remembered the roofless bus tour we made 11 years ago that took us through the circuit of sights throughout the center of the city. Also, I had the opportunity to meet new friends from the 40-something abroad group with whom I'd be spending time with on the two-month stay. Among them was a 21 year old kid named Peter, the grandson of former Chilean President, and human rights abuser, Augustin Pinochet.
We veered to the left toward what felt like the Royal Palace. Sure enough, as we stretched our way up the slightly uphill, I caught sight of the outer wall of the Palacio. It was there, during my first visit, that I remember buying a rose and gifting it to a pretty girl. Peter was also there; I guess I didn't know, at that time, the atrocities absurdly committed by my friend's grandfather, the fierce Chilean dictator. But, then again, can we really punish the descendants of a criminal. Oh yeah, gotta mention it, the U.S.-backed dictator of Chile that led to hundreds of thousands of deaths, disappearances, and ruined lives. I don't hold it against you, Peter...
What a beautiful, warm, and bright day it was on my return to the courtyard in front of the Royal Palace. Tourists mixed with a healthy helping of locals rambled along the ubiquitous walkways.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Granada: Journey to more than just Spain
Could this be the most inviting city on the Iberian Peninsula?
I think so. I say that since I have an a few intimate experiences to share that prove it so.
Here's one, for example.
Sitting at one of many restaurants in the city center just a stones-throw from the Cathedral, we waited for the waiter to make his way our way. As we sit, my mom and I watch a replay of the splendorous FC Barcelona vs. AC Milan Champions League game that ended in a 4-0 shellacking of the Italians. I was in bliss as we watched this game; it was fitting to later find that our night would very much resemble this initial excitement.
Once the 20-something waiter worked his way around to our table, his enthusiasm struck us both. "Welcome!" he cried out as my mom and I both responded with a calm-cracking smile. "Would you two like some wine, a beer, or something else?!" The man's exuberance was contagious as my mom and I spontaneously and immediately desired something that matched what our waiter had just consumed! "What is the house specialty?" I inquired. With no hesitation, he responded, "the Arabic coffee is our specialty; you'll love it!" My mom and I both agreed to the recommendation. And the waiter backed his way back to the front door of the restaurant with the same constant smile that marked his arrival to and stay at our table.
Once eye contact ended, the two of us threw around some questions:
Where is he from? What is up with him? My mom wondered: Is he single?!
Then, some affirmations: I think we found the right place! I know this'll be the best coffee ever! Wow...Granada is the best city in Spain so far!
As we sat contently at our place along the walking street littered with other restaurants, stores, and miscellaneous businesses, we knew that we were in for a wonderful experience. Our waiter returned as enthusiastic as ever.
And this story begins:
Tom was from a city on the Mediterranean coast of Morocco. He and his family came to Granada two years ago to set up their business. It was very obvious that they were giving it their best to attract tourists to their place and give them a level of hospitality and attention not often practiced in Spain. Tom inquired into our lives: Where are you from? We responded: California. He reacted: Wow! How wonderful.... I'd love to go one day!
This was a situation that everyone should experience at one point or another in their travels. There's nothing like being treated as humans rather than as exploitable tourists. For me, this is what I seek in my travels. These human connections that are possible everywhere, but are especially loud and fulfilling whenever they are made. I must say that that Arabic coffee was the best coffee that I had had; maybe ever! This, of course, shows us the positive impact of living through an attitude of gratitude. I've come to find, through careful attention to my hang-ups, that gratitude can re-frame the way that we perceive the world. Tom was yet another example of how to go about this with joy and focused intention.
After having kabob that impressed the hell out of us, we gave our profound thanks to Tom and his family and wished them well in every way. The rest of the night I seemed to operate in a fluid and almost slow-motion bubble; every feeling, thought, and action I lived was apparently set in motion by this interaction between Tom, my mom, and me.
Itch, itch, scratch, scratch. Wide awake and in search of the critters crawling all over my body! I couldn't scratch, shake, or scrub off anything. Was it bed-bugs?! I glanced over at my mom, frustrated. She was sleeping contentedly. I groaned in even deeper frustration. Eight hours of the same while wishing, hoping, giving up, and doing the same cycle over again.
The alarm sounds. My mom rises out of bed while stretching as if celebrating her successful night's sleep. I can only watch as I'm fully packed and ready to go after having showered and shaved. My attitude is in the dumps; in the same place where my energy is.
Another meeting of an angel. This time, I find him annoying given my chosen and involuntary disposition.
Angel: Hi, how are you?!
Man: I'm doing good and you?
Angel: I'm wonderful! Wow, that was a very nice place we stayed in; don't you think?!
Man: Yeah, I liked it a lot...
Angel: So, where are you from?
There's a cut in the action; the angel unknowingly pulls his roller-luggage right over the feet of an older woman standing next to him on the bus. The lady makes a painful cry.
The man offers a quick and almost unconcerned apology as he returns his attention, once again undivided, to the man in front of him.
Man (continues): I'm from Guatemala, but I live in the U.S. now.
Angel: Wow! Guatemala. How interesting! Where in the States do you live.
Man: in Los Angeles, actually.
Angel: Very nice! I used to live in the Silicon Valley for a number of years. I love California!
...
This may seem like a normal conversation to you, but one rarely is present to such passion, attention, and optimism that this man embodied.
Our bus moved it's way up the curvy uphill streets of Granada in the direction of our destination, el Alhambra. It was the last holdout of the Moors in Spain. It was originally constructed to be a fortress (in 889 AD) and later was converted into a castle (1333 AD). In 1492, the Christians seized control of the Alhambra and thus took up residence in it for summer vacations and during other royal visits.
Our journey to the precipice overlooking the valley of Granada below was breathtaking. One can see the sense that the Moors had in placing this fortress here. I'd be surprised if they also hadn't seen what this place had to offer in the future in terms of a future castle for the Muslim emirs who were to enjoy the sights of this area for many centuries. Six hundred years of rule in this city is a long time, and the effects of this time is visible in the influences in many other areas of Granadan society (and also that of the region). The music, dress, Spanish (and Portuguese) accent, food, drink, religion, cultural customs, and all other areas of life here.
I write all of this with our "Angel" in mind, since in various ways I could see how he could've been one of these Muslim emirs, or rulers, in the past. This makes me ponder something: Was Angel a reincarnation of a past ruler of this city? Was he only returning to his city to pay homage to his history, his people, his home, and his city? In this crazy world, you never know.
But, then my logical mind comes back into play. The analyzer/critic says: No, that can't be! He's from Bangladesh! Reincarnation isn't real! You're making all of this up!
I must admit, I was in a horrible mood that morning/day/trip (to Spain...) given the bout with imaginary bed-bugs the night before. What a drag it was to feel this at such an integral time; with such perfect company in terms of my mom, Angel, and others that we met along the way. I felt for the rest of our tour of the Alhambra as I was the walking/annoyed/frustrated dead only passing through this place in default mode. That was the last thing that I wanted when all was said and done.
Angel floated on through the park while my mom had to difficultly put up with me; the pain in the ass! The downer, the victim, the sorry soul that was in so much inner turmoil... Was there a way out?! Considered all parties...
The Alhambra is such an interesting place. With it's immaculate and spacious gardens that stretch the length of the park leading its way to the front step of structures that are detailed to the max in the intricate honeycomb patterns that are the norm in all Moorish/Arabic art and decor. The intricacies are usually present only on the ceilings and (some) walls, while the floors and many walls (especially exterior walls) are comprised of tiles or brick. Though the latter materials are block-like and heavy in aesthetics and weight, they are usually either adorned with beautiful motifs in a variety of patterns, as in the case of tile, or, as in the case of brick, each individual block is organized in a way that creates a larger pattern.
To me, Moorish art is the meeting of two worlds: the earth; and the heavens. Bricks and tiles have a grounding/foundational affect, whereby the detailed engravings in the marble of the columns, ceilings, and many walls is more ethereal in appearance and feel. In considering the visible difference between Moorish and Christian art, I'm struck by the common grains found. For one, hard blocks with little detail for the foundation and the upper reaches of the structures hold the inspiration in terms of passion/spirit; angels and apostles for Christians, dizzying yet organized honeycomb patterns for the Moors.
The wonderful aspect of the Alhambra, similar to other Moorish and non-Moorish buildings, is that it provides one the impulse to pause and sit in the relaxing wonder of its architecture, both inside and out. And that's what we did, after the hour or so of passionate inspection of the ceilings, walls, columns, foundations, gardens, and pools/fountains of the area.
It was so relaxing to sit and breath the cool air that flowed through the grounds. It was easy to image what days in the past were like for the former inhabitants, clergy, and soldiers of the Alhambra. In times of peace, it would be a hard place to leave, since most everything was held within its walls. Most integral of all, the views of the city below, the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains the protruded from the earth, fountains, pools, bountiful flowers and plants... Wow! I was falling into the hippie wonderland that can be any setting if we give ourselves the time to pause, breathe, and let go...
I think so. I say that since I have an a few intimate experiences to share that prove it so.
Here's one, for example.
Sitting at one of many restaurants in the city center just a stones-throw from the Cathedral, we waited for the waiter to make his way our way. As we sit, my mom and I watch a replay of the splendorous FC Barcelona vs. AC Milan Champions League game that ended in a 4-0 shellacking of the Italians. I was in bliss as we watched this game; it was fitting to later find that our night would very much resemble this initial excitement.
Once the 20-something waiter worked his way around to our table, his enthusiasm struck us both. "Welcome!" he cried out as my mom and I both responded with a calm-cracking smile. "Would you two like some wine, a beer, or something else?!" The man's exuberance was contagious as my mom and I spontaneously and immediately desired something that matched what our waiter had just consumed! "What is the house specialty?" I inquired. With no hesitation, he responded, "the Arabic coffee is our specialty; you'll love it!" My mom and I both agreed to the recommendation. And the waiter backed his way back to the front door of the restaurant with the same constant smile that marked his arrival to and stay at our table.
Once eye contact ended, the two of us threw around some questions:
Where is he from? What is up with him? My mom wondered: Is he single?!
Then, some affirmations: I think we found the right place! I know this'll be the best coffee ever! Wow...Granada is the best city in Spain so far!
As we sat contently at our place along the walking street littered with other restaurants, stores, and miscellaneous businesses, we knew that we were in for a wonderful experience. Our waiter returned as enthusiastic as ever.
And this story begins:
Tom was from a city on the Mediterranean coast of Morocco. He and his family came to Granada two years ago to set up their business. It was very obvious that they were giving it their best to attract tourists to their place and give them a level of hospitality and attention not often practiced in Spain. Tom inquired into our lives: Where are you from? We responded: California. He reacted: Wow! How wonderful.... I'd love to go one day!
This was a situation that everyone should experience at one point or another in their travels. There's nothing like being treated as humans rather than as exploitable tourists. For me, this is what I seek in my travels. These human connections that are possible everywhere, but are especially loud and fulfilling whenever they are made. I must say that that Arabic coffee was the best coffee that I had had; maybe ever! This, of course, shows us the positive impact of living through an attitude of gratitude. I've come to find, through careful attention to my hang-ups, that gratitude can re-frame the way that we perceive the world. Tom was yet another example of how to go about this with joy and focused intention.
After having kabob that impressed the hell out of us, we gave our profound thanks to Tom and his family and wished them well in every way. The rest of the night I seemed to operate in a fluid and almost slow-motion bubble; every feeling, thought, and action I lived was apparently set in motion by this interaction between Tom, my mom, and me.
Itch, itch, scratch, scratch. Wide awake and in search of the critters crawling all over my body! I couldn't scratch, shake, or scrub off anything. Was it bed-bugs?! I glanced over at my mom, frustrated. She was sleeping contentedly. I groaned in even deeper frustration. Eight hours of the same while wishing, hoping, giving up, and doing the same cycle over again.
The alarm sounds. My mom rises out of bed while stretching as if celebrating her successful night's sleep. I can only watch as I'm fully packed and ready to go after having showered and shaved. My attitude is in the dumps; in the same place where my energy is.
Another meeting of an angel. This time, I find him annoying given my chosen and involuntary disposition.
Angel: Hi, how are you?!
Man: I'm doing good and you?
Angel: I'm wonderful! Wow, that was a very nice place we stayed in; don't you think?!
Man: Yeah, I liked it a lot...
Angel: So, where are you from?
There's a cut in the action; the angel unknowingly pulls his roller-luggage right over the feet of an older woman standing next to him on the bus. The lady makes a painful cry.
The man offers a quick and almost unconcerned apology as he returns his attention, once again undivided, to the man in front of him.
Man (continues): I'm from Guatemala, but I live in the U.S. now.
Angel: Wow! Guatemala. How interesting! Where in the States do you live.
Man: in Los Angeles, actually.
Angel: Very nice! I used to live in the Silicon Valley for a number of years. I love California!
...
This may seem like a normal conversation to you, but one rarely is present to such passion, attention, and optimism that this man embodied.
Our bus moved it's way up the curvy uphill streets of Granada in the direction of our destination, el Alhambra. It was the last holdout of the Moors in Spain. It was originally constructed to be a fortress (in 889 AD) and later was converted into a castle (1333 AD). In 1492, the Christians seized control of the Alhambra and thus took up residence in it for summer vacations and during other royal visits.
Our journey to the precipice overlooking the valley of Granada below was breathtaking. One can see the sense that the Moors had in placing this fortress here. I'd be surprised if they also hadn't seen what this place had to offer in the future in terms of a future castle for the Muslim emirs who were to enjoy the sights of this area for many centuries. Six hundred years of rule in this city is a long time, and the effects of this time is visible in the influences in many other areas of Granadan society (and also that of the region). The music, dress, Spanish (and Portuguese) accent, food, drink, religion, cultural customs, and all other areas of life here.
I write all of this with our "Angel" in mind, since in various ways I could see how he could've been one of these Muslim emirs, or rulers, in the past. This makes me ponder something: Was Angel a reincarnation of a past ruler of this city? Was he only returning to his city to pay homage to his history, his people, his home, and his city? In this crazy world, you never know.
But, then my logical mind comes back into play. The analyzer/critic says: No, that can't be! He's from Bangladesh! Reincarnation isn't real! You're making all of this up!
I must admit, I was in a horrible mood that morning/day/trip (to Spain...) given the bout with imaginary bed-bugs the night before. What a drag it was to feel this at such an integral time; with such perfect company in terms of my mom, Angel, and others that we met along the way. I felt for the rest of our tour of the Alhambra as I was the walking/annoyed/frustrated dead only passing through this place in default mode. That was the last thing that I wanted when all was said and done.
Angel floated on through the park while my mom had to difficultly put up with me; the pain in the ass! The downer, the victim, the sorry soul that was in so much inner turmoil... Was there a way out?! Considered all parties...
The Alhambra is such an interesting place. With it's immaculate and spacious gardens that stretch the length of the park leading its way to the front step of structures that are detailed to the max in the intricate honeycomb patterns that are the norm in all Moorish/Arabic art and decor. The intricacies are usually present only on the ceilings and (some) walls, while the floors and many walls (especially exterior walls) are comprised of tiles or brick. Though the latter materials are block-like and heavy in aesthetics and weight, they are usually either adorned with beautiful motifs in a variety of patterns, as in the case of tile, or, as in the case of brick, each individual block is organized in a way that creates a larger pattern.
To me, Moorish art is the meeting of two worlds: the earth; and the heavens. Bricks and tiles have a grounding/foundational affect, whereby the detailed engravings in the marble of the columns, ceilings, and many walls is more ethereal in appearance and feel. In considering the visible difference between Moorish and Christian art, I'm struck by the common grains found. For one, hard blocks with little detail for the foundation and the upper reaches of the structures hold the inspiration in terms of passion/spirit; angels and apostles for Christians, dizzying yet organized honeycomb patterns for the Moors.
The wonderful aspect of the Alhambra, similar to other Moorish and non-Moorish buildings, is that it provides one the impulse to pause and sit in the relaxing wonder of its architecture, both inside and out. And that's what we did, after the hour or so of passionate inspection of the ceilings, walls, columns, foundations, gardens, and pools/fountains of the area.
It was so relaxing to sit and breath the cool air that flowed through the grounds. It was easy to image what days in the past were like for the former inhabitants, clergy, and soldiers of the Alhambra. In times of peace, it would be a hard place to leave, since most everything was held within its walls. Most integral of all, the views of the city below, the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains the protruded from the earth, fountains, pools, bountiful flowers and plants... Wow! I was falling into the hippie wonderland that can be any setting if we give ourselves the time to pause, breathe, and let go...
Four Days in Barcelona: Uncommon Travels
Barcelona
Our four day visit to the beautiful and creative capital of
Barcelona came after an 18 hour bus ride from Granada and north along the
Mediterranean coast. Ntrance into the city was a bit blurry given the time of
day: 7 am. My mom and I had no plans; other than the fact that we wanted to be
somewhere centrally located in order to have access to the majority of the
city’s sights and sounds. Luckily for us, we struck it rich! After following
the guidance of trusty metro attendant, we took the metro three stops from the
airport in the direction of the city-center, and surfacing in the center of
L’Example only a couple blocks from La Sagrada Familia.
Trying our luck further, we asked a local business owner
where a nearby hostel might be. She responded: a half block down. We checked it
out. Later, after finding out that there was no vacancy at the hostel, we
contacted another hostel two blocks away. We chatted with Byron, a Senegalese
immigrant, who was cordial in every way. He prepared our room, and, given his
newbie status at the hostel, mistakenly assigned us to a four-bed room at the impressive
price of just $50 Euros. What more Northeastern Spain! These rooms were
spacious, interestingly decorated and adorned with late 19th century
style that formed a perfect comfort to our search. The employees were very
professional and took quite a liking to the only female that worked the front
desk. There’s nothing like the seductive accent of a Barcelona girl.
What more could you ask from this city?! What it provides is
an introduction into the freedom that one finds in many areas of Europe. An openness
in terms of art, expression, and possibility. This could’ve been my perspective
unto the whole thing, but that’s the essential feeling that I had during our
four-day stay in the city. La Sagrada
Familia, no words can describe the grandeur of this building. To me, the
natural adornment and décor of this building, both inside and out, is a way of
Gaudi saying, “let’s make our religion as fluid and natural as possible.” I
believe he also recognized that there was little difference between Nature and
God. By validated Nature through his natural styles incorporated in his
architecture, Gaudi attempted to return the church to its rightful owner: that
is, God.
Las Ramblas: I would imagine that the stores, restaurants,
and stops that previously stood in this area were much more interesting and
alluring to visitor and local alike. Let’s not forget that during the last 20
years (Since the Summer Olympic Games in 1992?), Barcelona has enjoyed a huge
spurt in popularity, as noted by the “development” (I would say, degeneration)
of Las Ramblas. It’s an interesting place to visit, with no shortage in
Disneyland/tourist-like services and goods and a fair-share of pick-pocketers,
but I would avoid this area at all costs. A worthy part of the city that is a
must is La Barceloneta and El Barrio Gotica, this is the home of the Picasso
museum and a variety of shops, stores, and restaurants all tucked away on
narrow streets reminiscent of most European towns and cities. The dark streets
give way to the light of activity coming from each of the businesses. Some
shops are owned and operated by artisans, though most house products (clothes,
shoes, etc.) that are crafted elsewhere.
I’m disappointed that we missed visiting the majority of
museums, cultural sites, and other landmarks, but, to my personal liking, my
mom and I visited the glorious steps of Montserrat, which stand an hour’s drive
northwest of the city center.
Montserrat is prettiest on any day of the week, in any
weather, and with any form of company (be it solo to with the rest of the
world). The presence of this mountain, which is named after the serrated
quality of the rocks that form the mountain (hence, Montserrat, or Serrated
Mountain). Our day was overcast, cool, and foggy; a perfect day to see this
special area. I want to go back to this place. I still can’t get over the fact
that Montserrat is so close to the impressiveness of the city of Barcelona, its
lovely hilly outskirts, and the expanse of the Mediterranean Sea.
Toni, our guide, and my friend from a trip that I made to
Ecuador a few years back, met us at the University station close to the Camp
Nou. In his minivan, my friend took me and my mom to this place.
Toni is a Catalonian born on the outskirts of Barcelona,
where he currently lives close to his family. I met Toni when I was in Quito,
Ecuador in 2007. I had the pleasure of meeting and spending time with him and a
handful of other marvelous travelers whose nationalities spanned the world’s
arsenal. Toni and I had an unsaid connection which usually manifested as short
outbreaks of laughter and appreciation for one another and whatever common
point of focus.
When Toni isn’t helping his father with his carpentry
business, my friend spends a majority of his time creating truly one-of-a-kind
art from velvet and paint. It’s some of the most innovate, beautiful,
socially-conscious, and interesting art that I’ve ever seen, and it’s further
proof that, regardless of monetary success, giving the world of oneself via
one’s passion, talents, and abilities is the most important action that anyone
can do.
We wound outside of the city, through the industrial parts,
along an unnavigable river, to the turn off which stretched up the mountainside
to the diamond in the sky.
Upon arrival to basecamp, we strode past a museum, a former
monastery, and a cathedral housing the infamous Black Virgin. Give background
to this…
We took a walk up a wide looping road that culminated in an
almost panoramic view of the entire area to the northeast of Barcelona. The
splendor of the city and sea are usually viewable from this perch in the sky,
but on this occasion, given the patchy fog of the afternoon, we could only make
out these elements from the sun’s faraway reflection that shone through clouds.
Toni asked me what I thought about the United States and how
their ability to rise in power in every aspect was so pronounced and seemingly
unbreakable. I had to pause for a moment and could only respond that the U.S.
has the benefit of the “Protestant Ethic,” which is the source of many of the
catchphrases in our vocabulary today. “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps,”
“…,” “…,” etc.
It’s this mentality that led to the focus and importance
placed on the individual in our society. Also, much later, the impact of Ayn
Rand-type thinking that demands that each person be completely self-sufficient
and self-reliant. To me, this is a brilliant idea if only it could be given
context. Not everybody is in a position to benefit from being completely
self-reliant, since assistance is often needed to get a start, catch a break,
and have an opportunity to improve one’s state/status. In Rand’s vision,
empathy is thrown out the window, and me, me, me, or, us, us, us (and not:
them, them, them) is commonplace. In terms of owning one’s own personal power,
Rand’s ideas are perfect and fitting. On the other side of the equation, the
social safety net side, empathy through assisted support/living is completely
necessary.
Toni was still in awe of this. After all, he was currently
embroiled in a difficult social, familial, and personal financial situation
where he had been questioning the false promises and projections that the
Spanish (and other countries’) government had posed. Something failed: the
fraudulent projections of banks, markets, and companies. Buy, buy, buy; then,
go bankrupt and wonder what happened and how it all went so wrong. I had been
sleeping at the wheel; much of what was occurring in Spain was reminiscent of
other countries including, Greece, Ireland, Portugal, and even the U.S. I knew
this, but I had chosen, previous to this, to cover my eyes and enjoy my area of
bliss. Toni woke me up in that moment, as I realized that none of us can ignore
the bad decisions being made at the level of the Corporatocracy.
At that moment, my head was cluttered with why I hadn’t been
able to give Toni a quick and easy and clear response to why the U.S. system
was the way it was and how it had come to be. My frustration for wanting to
know led me to investigate further, and after the initial confusion, I now understand
the reality of the U.S. socio-economic structure, and that of the rest of the
world.
At the tail-end of our descent from the heights of
Montserrat we reached the town of… this little hideaway at the base of the
mountain was a perfect place to satisfy our hunger. There’s no better way to do
this than to eat the famous sausage/chorizo of Catalonia, Butifarra.
We parked ourselves inside a local restaurant that had an
obvious history of hikers that frequented the place. Toni filled us in on just
how rich this restaurant’s history has been in terms of famous and lesser-known
hikers. I was impressed with the décor I saw, the ambience I felt, and the
stories that I heard. How fulfilling it is to go to traditional and local
restaurants that reflect the livelihood of the population.
The Butifarra and fava beans were delicious and just what
was needed after an enjoyable day.
After a pleasant and relaxing ride back to the University
metro station, Toni and my mom and I said our good-byes. It was great to have
had the opportunity to see Toni again, and to know that he was doing well in
terms of following his passion for art and life.
To add to the beauty that we had observed during the whole
time we spent at Montserrat, that very same day, we made it to center of all
sports, the hallowed grounds of football mecca, the Camp Nou, home of FC
Barcelona! This was as rich of an experience I’ve ever had while traveling,
given my insatiable love for football and that of the FC Barcelona team. Prior
to my arrival at the Camp Nou, I had to slap myself on the face to wake me up
from the sleep that I had been so buried in for so long. It was a short metro
trip from where Toni left us off to the area of the stadium. We arrived early,
perfect in every sense given my wanting to take in every aspect of the
experience. I didn’t bring my jersey, but so be it. I was present; that’s all
that mattered! We had an accomplice in the ticket arrangement. One Mr. Luis. We
ran into him as we were approaching the ticket window to the stadium. I had
previously bought one ticket for the game, but I wasn’t banking on using the
ticket, since we were two. As we stood in line and I wondered out loud, a
70-something man took me by my arm. I was alarmed, but listened to his message.
Though I was completely skeptical from the start to about halfway through the
game, I felt that Mr. Luis was to be given attention. We rode the wave…Though
my mom still can’t believe that we did what we did… After making the
arrangement for the tickets (which were from the son and grandson of our
accomplice), Mr. Luis mentioned going to a nearby bar to have a chat. The
comforts of my home had all but vanished when we stepped foot into this
traditional of traditional bars only a block away from a main entrance to the
football stadium. Beer-bellied men and a couple women stood, sat, and adorned
the sardine-packed drinkery. Out of the majority of the experiences that I had
while in Spain, there’s no way to turn down this one. The images that I
remember are the following: newspapers wet with beer littering the tables,
bottles of Estella Damn, radios belting the Hymn of FC Barcelona, people
chanting the hymn to perfection with no shortage of fervor, and a
sixties-seventies feel of adornment to the place.
From there the rest is blurry. Luis and I started to chat
about his history with the team, his family, their whereabouts, the possibility
of FCB making the Champions League Final, and, most intriguing of all, Luis’s
work experience as a train conductor. Our accomplice worked for the train
system in mostly the Catalonia Region of Spain for almost fifty years. Right
away, he bragged about his free access to all trains in Spain for the rest of
his life. He, in fact, had just returned from the south of Spain a few days
prior where he had visited family friends from many years past. Next, we
discussed the current state of the economy in Spain. I got the clear picture,
as I did from numerous others during the two-week visit, that Spain was in a
deep hole; one that will take some time to climb out of. Similar to most other
countries, world-wide, the lack of spending power of a middle class (and the
absence of such a middle class), is the issue. The divide between rich and poor
is palpable when talking with people, though it’s not very apparent upon view
of the externals. I’ve talked to others that hail from more stable parts of
Spain (i.e. the Basque Region), where it is mentioned that the impact isn’t
real. A valid point if the surroundings aren’t in the bad shape that
characterize the larger part of the country.
Next topic: immigration! Wow! Mr. Luis gave me a clear idea
of his take on the subject. All these “non-Europeans” with their interesting
habits and illegal activities are the reason that Catalonia and the rest of
Spain/Europe aren’t in a more stable economic situation. I couldn’t have
disagreed with him more. Though many undocumented immigrants use the system
that is provided to them when living/working abroad, they always offer their
employers (and, by extension, the country/economy) a population of exploitable
workers without “rights” to a fair wage, proper benefits, and protection
rights. Very similar to the United States where the
“traditionalist/conservative” camp always needs a scapegoat to point at when
financial/economic times are tough. The Irish, the Italians, the Blacks, the
Browns… Choose your enemy! Filthy and classist/racist upper classlessists
always have a finger to point.
What a day it had been! First, the smart, centered, and
open-minded qualities of Toni found up at the majestic mountains of Montserrat;
then, the entertaining, stubborn, and traditional qualities of Mr. Luis just
outside of the Camp Nou.
Now, it was time to get going to the game, for Judgment Day
had arrived. Would my mother and I be permitted to enter the stadium? Or, would
we be caught, arrested, and deported away from our desired destination of
Football Mecca?! We made our way to the entrance gates where we had originally
set up the deal with Mr. Luis. I was shaking, my mom was terrified, and Mr. Luis
was as cool as ever as the latter presented three laminated photo-clad cards to
the ticket attendant. My heart skipped a beat; then two;…. Were the cards
real?! Was it enough to pass “Go”?! Could my mom and I pass as relatives of our
semi-racist Catalonian friend?! Just when the last of three “No’s” had crossed
through and into the jumble of my mind, the gatekeeper did a half-second glance
to the entrance cards and a nod to our guide, and we were able to enter the
park! What a rush! Ok, so we were in, but would we have set seats once inside?!
My mom and I both wondered simultaneously.
The venture further and deeper into the unknown continued as
we located our seats. The entrance to the field from the sub-stands area was as
good an entrance that any field/stadium provides to the spectator. The three of
us expectantly walked up the stairs toward the light that shone from the source
of pure football divinity. As I look back, we, and everything in the world, was
in double-slow motion as I took the last step that propped my head into a
position to set eyes on the field. The glory of the Camp Nou was like no other;
I would equate it to the feeling of going toward the light at birth and death.
Anything else that is comparable is unknown to me, at least at the time of
writing this piece.
From here, we quickly located our seats. The rest was like
going to the most amazing spectacle of one’s life. Willy Wonka’s Chocolate
Factory, the Castle of Oz, Heaven; all worthy destinations comparable to the
Camp Nou! The field: perfect condition. The stands: 99,000 seats, stretching
from field up to eternity. The players: doing warm-ups. Busquets, David Villa,
Iniesta; and there he was! Lionel Messi! Number 10! The greatest player in the
world, maybe in the history of the sport…
The pitch glistened almost readying itself as a stage for
the show of a lifetime. As we came closer to gametime, the glimmer of the pitch
seemed to be matched by the camera and cell phone lights snapping shots of the
stars of the night. Aside from the large contingent of local fans, the foreign
fans present represented the whole wide world. They were here to pay witness to
the show, the court, the spectacle, the theatre. Who could deny that Barcelona
has been the best team of the last five years. All of that would be on display
on this night against a mediocre opponent in Rayo Vallecano, the third or
fourth best team in Madrid (though they were competing well this season).
FC Barcelona did not disappoint in their 3-1 defeat of Rayo
Vallecano. Messi scored two goals, though he could’ve marked at least four all
day. It was a nice follow-up to their impressive display of attack shown the
previous Tuesday versus AC Milan in the Champions League.
Mr. Luis saw our contentment in watching this show together.
Though he left a bit early to beat the crowds, Mr. Luis thanked us for
everything and wished us well. My mom and I returned the cordial act too; our
new Catalonian friend was responsible for being the guide that made this
interesting, engaging, exquisite night possible. So, to all of you that have
been or will be touched by the seat and experience opportunities that one Mr.
Luis, the Catalonian Train Conductor, offers, cheers to you!
After the game, we waddled at a sheep's pace and mindset out of the stadium; it was a fulfilling end to what is a modern day sacred experience. All fans reveled in the solid and successful game played by Barca. Chants belted and echoed their way through the underground tunnels as the hoards worked their way above terrain. When that finally happened, we set upon a comfortable evening even in spite of being only a speck in the massive 80,000 plus crowd exiting the Camp Nou!
Here, as we strode back toward the underground metro station, I became fully aware of who was who in terms of the fans. In passing some merchandise booths selling all the stuff, 15 or so Chinese kids excitedly and simultaneously called out what they desired. It was a noise that overpowered the collective din of the rest of the 79,985 plus of crowd! I glanced over as I laughed to make eye contact with a lovely Barcelonean girl that appreciated the cute spectacle as much as I did. The ocean of fans moved on...
After the game, we waddled at a sheep's pace and mindset out of the stadium; it was a fulfilling end to what is a modern day sacred experience. All fans reveled in the solid and successful game played by Barca. Chants belted and echoed their way through the underground tunnels as the hoards worked their way above terrain. When that finally happened, we set upon a comfortable evening even in spite of being only a speck in the massive 80,000 plus crowd exiting the Camp Nou!
Here, as we strode back toward the underground metro station, I became fully aware of who was who in terms of the fans. In passing some merchandise booths selling all the stuff, 15 or so Chinese kids excitedly and simultaneously called out what they desired. It was a noise that overpowered the collective din of the rest of the 79,985 plus of crowd! I glanced over as I laughed to make eye contact with a lovely Barcelonean girl that appreciated the cute spectacle as much as I did. The ocean of fans moved on...
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