It’s said that the reason many Spanish speakers pronounce
their native tongue with a noticeable lisp is that a one-time Spanish royal was
afflicted with a chronic lisp, so rather than correct His Excellency, the
entire court and eventually the entire country lisped in sympathy. While this
may be nothing more than an enduring myth, there must be a kernel of
authenticity about it, if our experiences in Barcelona are anything to go by…
Whilst I’ve previously mentioned the politeness we
experienced in the Philippines, during our visit to Spain, it soon became evident
to us that their one time Spanish colonisers also consider mutual respect and compassion
to be essential social graces. Although a quick gallop through the Spanish history
of the Philippines will establish that while the colonials treated each other
reverently, Filipinos were not afforded the same courtesy. Sadly the behaviour
of all colonial powers towards those whom they colonise has been equally and appallingly
uniform.
The sight of the snow capped Pyrenees to our west as we
headed south from France both explained the recent and persistent wind-driven
chill factor and marked a new stage in our European adventure. Originally
hoping to visit Central and Southern Spain, we’d already trimmed our agenda to
Catalania, specifically Barcelona.
We stayed in a campsite, which was walking/cycling distance
from the small coastal town of Mataró. The staff (proficient in eight languages),
were cheerful, informative and helpful and although very reasonably priced, the
facilities were first-rate – offering showers, a café, supermarket, affordable
wifi and a free shuttle bus into Barcelona and Mataró. Sounding
seriously like a sponsored promotion at this point? What else can I say, “We came for three days and stayed two
weeks”.
Mataró, a short bike ride away, was a low-key introduction to a
Spanish town. Outside the campsite we ducked under a low passageway below the
main road to emerge beside the sea, where three fashionably pierced and attired
young women assisted the girls to cart their bikes up to a track - which followed
the rail-line into town. Calling it a cycleway would have been misleading
(indeed the staff were careful to say that it was possible to ride or walk). We alternately rode and pushed the bikes
along the narrow trail, which offered views of the beach, lonely nude bathers
and redundant gun emplacements sidling into the sea, until we arrived at Mataró
beach.
Although the track may eventually become a cycleway, the fact that
people make regular use of it, is worthy of comment. In Australia, the same area
would have been heavily fenced, yet here we were ambling along metres from the
railway track and hoving-to whenever a train clattered noisily past. My guess
is that if the local authorities don’t admit to its existence, they can’t be
held accountable if someone has an unfortunate incident with a train, but
equally they can’t be expected to improve or maintain it, because it doesn’t
exist…
As cycling had sharpened our appetite, we decided to investigate an
eatery. Shackling the bicycles we ventured upwards, via narrow streets which
blurred the distinction between pedestrian and carriageway, threading their way
between towering apartment buildings over shops and offices until stumbling
upon a central piazza. Marketeers were in the process of packing up their
stalls as we hastily bought some meat, cheese, olives, vegetables and fruit. An
impromptu mime show was performed by the butcher, when asked what type of meat
was in the sausages – pork as it turned out - though he was jeered, albeit
good-naturedly, by his fellow stallholders.
Markets are traditionally a good location for hearty and reasonably
priced fodder, so we scanned the surrounding streets. The most promising
appeared to be a modest looking cantina, but we were unable to understand the
menu. No problem – a young man exiting offered to translate –we evidently
looked hungry and puzzled. It was a set menu offering choices over three
courses. We were soon ensconced at a small table with bench-seats surrounded by
locals in passionate conversation over a dazzling array of dishes and empty
glasses. A tasty soup, homemade hummus or pasta, fish or goulash bread, and
fruit served with chocolate and strong coffee, were soon gastronomic history to
the delight of our smiling hostess.
Although we encountered heavy homeward bound traffic, we did make
swifter progress along the roadway (we opted to forgo the ‘cycleway’ in
consideration of the bicycles apropos our increased burdens) - though the carriageway
was quite narrow at intervals - making it a chastening experience. Arriving
safely home, after a mass u-turn on the boulevard afforded by a fleeting break
in the traffic, we reserved seats for the following day and our first visit to
Barcelona.
One gets the feeling as you approach most big cities, that
you’re circling the vortex; those overwhelming crowds, smells, noise, incessant
movement and the ‘aarrgghh’ factor (when you wonder why on earth you ever
came). Arriving in a complimentary, air-con coach with a gaggle of similarly
primed international tourists certainly cushioned the landing – but I have to
say that Barcelona was a very welcoming and relaxing city to visit.
We initially arrived just prior to siesta – so the streets
were thinning as the locals meandered off home, or into eating establishments
for lunch. We found something that day down a side street – a foodies chain
store. For a set price you take a plate, make your own salad, with
soup-of-the-day, bread and a drink. Second course was a choice from the grill,
pizza or baked meats and vege. However it was the desert bar, for anyone not
already sated, which had the girls’ eyes popping out of their heads.
During our postprandial wanderings, we observed that people
were very casually dressed and ambled rather than marched, as we visited a few
shoe shops (Heather and the girls being avid admirers of Spanish footwear) and
took-in the sights. At this point we detoured onto La Rambla – a deeply shaded
expanse of walkway lined with restaurants, cafes, gelatarias, tourist stalls, street
performers, artists and touts stretching from the Plaza Catalunia to the docks
over a kilometre away. Always teaming with people – yet no-one going anywhere
in particular. We joined the throng.
Having just visited Venezia (Venice), I can appreciate the
airy-open planning of Barcelona city. Venezia on the other hand has a more
claustrophobic feel – owing to its antiquity; as a pedestrian, one is directed
through the maze of streets and canals, shunted and corralled rather than
meandering at will. Barcelona has crowds but the design of buildings, plazas,
walking and cycle paths, parks and gardens by the city planners demonstrates
concern for providing social, visual and sensory amenity for both visitors and
locals. For example, a feature noticeable throughout Barcelona is the chamfered
corners of buildings, which enclose an intersection or plaza in order to
maximize lines of sight, allowing light into public spaces and encouraging the
growth of street plantings. Main arterial streets are shaded by mature trees
and remarkably wide to provide access to motor vehicles, pedestrians cyclists
and light rail.
The largest streets have vast pedestrian and cycling areas
directly up the tree-lined median section. Smaller roads have wide footpaths
and cycle-ways at road-level protected by large rubber mouldings imbedded in
the roadway. Cyclists, cars and pedestrians each have their own traffic control
systems. Although there are no buttons to press to cross the road, the lights
changed regularly and provide very generous crossing intervals (perhaps out of
consideration of the many elderly residents). The green man certainly rules!
Outside of the Philippines, I haven’t seen such devoted
motorcycle users. Although the bicycle is far and away the most popular
two-wheeled transport, the scooter is it’s closest motorized rival.
Two-wheelers can be and are parked anywhere, including indoors! Hence streets
are lined with vast arrays of bicycles, scooters and motorcycles. The fleet of
motorcycles tends to be older – including some veteran and vintage machines
obviously still enjoying active service. As there are no helmet laws
restricting those who use them, the public bicycle facilities here are heavily
subscribed. All manner of locals, provided they have a swipe card can take a
bike off one of the many racks around the city and pedal to their destination.
The bikes are naturally of a robust and all-weather design with carry basket
and rack, mudguards and lights – simply adjust the seat height and ride…
Over the twelve days we made multiple excursions into
Barcelona and Mataró, each time discovering new delights and marvelling at the warm
reception afforded us by our Spanish hosts. We caught a flamenco show, observed
a variety of street performers (generally outlandishly dressed with faces
painted to match their costume, standing stock-still upon a podium until a
passerby threw a donation into the hat, whereupon they acted out brief cameo
before inviting the punter to pose with them for a photo), visited an
evangelical Christian church, the Sagrada Familia, other Gaudi buildings and
took a guided tour-bus deco around the city.
On Tuesday May 1st we noticed decorative floats, people
dressed in variations of red, heard drums and whistles to herald Barcelona’s
May Day manifestation. We soon realized that the Spanish leftists take their
heritage very seriously, as some streets became wall-to-wall placards and vocal
demonstrators. Though there was no sign of the traditionally heavy police
presence, until we took a side street to avoid the crush. Parked up in a quiet
plaza were heavily armed and seriously pumped riot police in armoured troop
carriers. Their agitation was evident as they took turns to nip out of their
assigned vehicle for a quick puff. Stale sweat, machismo and tension exuded
from the troop carriers, which ominously had their motors running, despite the obvious
lack of emergency.
I recalled an earlier visit to Barcelona in 1979. From Australia I’d lodged
an application for entry to a South London art-school (which subsequently
failed), meanwhile I’d been working in a local café and the Royal Free Hospital
in Hampstead as a wardsman. Rather than succumb to despondency I’d cycled
through France until meeting-up with Andy, a friend from London, in Barcelona. In
the Plaza de Catalunia, we’d noticed several busloads of police arrive before
chatting cheerfully as they donned their paramilitary clothing (a parade
perhaps?). Being young and footloose we naturally drifted to one of the plaza
bars off La Rambla, which sold super-sized Spanish beer intending to drink very
slowly to savour the experience (outdoor-seated bar prices in Spain are
expensive).
In the farthest corner of the plaza there was a mild disturbance;
raised voices (football fans?), the sauntering Saturday afternoon parade broke
into a trot before a loud shot launched pandemonium. Suddenly panicked people
spilled into the plaza while diners rose from their tables with drinks spilling
and waiters scurrying to herd their patrons indoors. For two uncomprehending, out-of-town loafers the prospect of
bulk free beer was too much to pass up and so we imbibed greedily…
I was just putting another cold draught to my lips when a small car
exploded with a metallic percussion and fountains of flying glass. Either live
ammunition or close-range volleys rubber bullets served as a warning to anyone
not already sheltered indoors, to clear the area. A phalanx of helmeted riot
police armed with shotgun-like weapons or truncheons jogged jauntily into the
plaza before turning their truncheons on any hapless bystanders. Grabbing
backpacks, we made a bee-line for the nearest door. Most bars however already
resembled a phone-booth packing exercise for the Guiness Book of Records. Finding
a slightly less crowded bar I held open the door for an elderly woman who
gratefully sidled just as a hail of blows fell about by back, shoulders and
head. Turning to the perpetrator I remonstrated briefly with a shiny visor and
helmet. Quickly realizing my folly I immobilized the truncheon by holding the
business end firmly, until I was safely inside the bar.
We were reliably informed that ‘manifestations’ occurred in Barcelona every
Saturday afternoon - a kind of extreme urban sport. As I later observed, some
demonstrators were armed with slingshots while others threw whatever was at
hand at the riot police who retaliated with rubber bullets and truncheon
charges. The rubber bullet shotgun makes a throaty bang as the projectile
leaves the barrel spiralling drunkenly towards its target, eventually skidding
and slewing along the ground. Sadly upon returning to the Royal Free Hospital
back in London, I was met by a Spanish colleague – minus his right eye – having
been struck in the face by a rubber bullet whilst leaving a family dinner
(coincidentally, on the very same day we’d witnessed).
Fortunately, this May Day the leash was on and the day passed without
serious incident – though I did video some rock ’n roll leftists singing and
dancing on the back of a flatbed truck. Things are looking up - socialism was a
rather more serious, bookish affair in my day, though everyone still loved a
good demonstration...
Our girls were rather taken with the exploits of some Spanish boys
staying onsite, one being dubbed ‘Bonds’ after dropping his pants to show his
undies as a form of greeting. Perhaps he’s an immature adherent to the ‘underwear-on-parade’
fashion, which has lately become such a widespread phenomenon, Spain being no exception.
Young men wear their jeans pulled so low that the crutch is virtually between
the knees, the waistline constricts the buttocks giving the wearer a simian
gait, whilst a full hand-span of underwear lolls suggestively over the top (though
suggestive of lapses in hygiene, rather than anything raunchy).
The girls fed some overindulged farm-animals, rode their bikes, played
on the toddler equipment, while adults lolled in deck chairs, read, grilled
meat on a charcoal barbeque, or snoozed in the heat of the midday sun. Sadly,
for Australian tourists without a special visa, visits to the Schengen
countries in Europe are limited to three months – so all too soon it was time
to move on – to Italy via Southern France. Catalunia isn’t Spain, but the foretaste
was certainly very appetizing.
Girls and Gaudi
Vintage Montessa
