Spain Drain 8

Rambles, Ramblas, and Boardwalks

Dec. 31

I did a lot of wandering last night. Didn’t have enough walking earlier in the day.

I took the Metro back to the Barri Gòtic and got out at a new stop, one farther away this time.

When you come up from underground, if you have a sense of direction as bad as mine, you have no clue where anything is, except up. That you know because if you lean your head back, you see it.

So I trace a little circle in the crowd until I see a fingerpost to the Seu. That’s what they call a cathedral in Catalan. So I rambled down there and went in while a mass was in progress. Was it in Catalan? I tried to join the service but much of the nave was roped off.

Then a guard removed one barrier, so I tried to go in. She said no.

I can’t join the service? How can she tell I’m a heretic just by looking?

Tomorrow. Go! Limited English or limited civility, I do not know.

I went back to see what I could on the video monitor. The mass was ending. The priest walked out of frame, and then the congregation was leaving. I wasn’t the only one, but I was being thrown out of the Seu. Is that anything like excommunication?

So after that I wound up on the Rambla, which leads to the statue of Columbus at the Old Port. It is a wide avenue with narrow lanes for traffic and a broad pedestrian mall down the middle. The surface of the walkway is not level, but wavy by design. It is part of the Ruta de Modernisme, according to a plague set somewhere along the street in the tiles. That’s the local version of the Art Deco movement represented by Gaudí and his contemporaries.

The surface is not as challenging to walk on as I had expected on first sight.

I caught a glimpse of Colom’s column and knew where I was. So I headed into the old city. I love these little old streets. They are filled with shops selling everthing from “cheap gifts” to tony clothes. Half of the places are bars and restaurants, some still shuttered after 8. Maybe they open later. 

Spain runs on late time, as evidenced the other day by the Ghost disco in the Tryp Diana.

After about a half hour of walking, I came to Ronda de Sant Pau. “Ronda” I’m not sure. “Sant Pau” I believe is “Holy Peace.” I went into the first bar and opened my map. 

I actually found that street on the map, way the hell on the west side, when I thought I had been walking east. This was fun. I had finally managed to get lost. I have no idea what I saw from the Rambla. Certainly not El Almirante Colon.

And this is how lost I was. I finish my vino tinto and ask the bartender where the Metro is. He points. It’s directly across the street.

Three stops to a transfer and then five more stops brought me back to home base.

In the morning, I decided to go down the shore. You turn right outside the hotel and walk straight until the land ends. Barcelona’s beaches extend from the Old Port to I don’t know where because I didn’t go that way.

On the way to the beach, I strolled through a cordon of cops. First I saw a cop car and an ambulance, then more cops, and yet more. 

They didn’t look anything like the Guardia Urbana, who wear yellow safety vests. These guys had heavy boots on, and even heavier side-arms. They wore black uniforms and berets and little microphones like Britney Spears or Madonna.

I got about two-thirds of the way past them when one told me to walk in the street. I was walking between them, in front of this one, behind that one, and was probably getting too close to what they wanted to protect. Besides, remember I’m the guy wearing the pony tail and the black suit.

I have no idea what the building was, but I’m assuming an unpopular elected official was inside. Hell, maybe they’re all unpopular, especially now in the age of budget cuts and political protests.

The road ends with a kind of boardwalk-looking bridge over the highway, where you can stand on a pier and peer out at the Mediterranean.

Then I came down from there and followed the beach. There was a building in the distance that looked like a fish.

I walked for a while on top of the sea wall separating the Mediterranean from a marina full of masts. Some of the boats were registered in the British Virgin Islands. That may be a registry of convenience, or maybe they crossed the Atlantic. They looked small for an ocean crossing, but were probably bigger than Columbus’s caravels. They looked heavier than that reproduction of Drake’s Golden Hind in London.

I followed a boardwalk from beach to beach. There were some people actually in the water, including two guys who were convinced they could surf on waves that were about a foot high.

High up on one beach in the sun was a group of guys my age. I had a flashback to some of the Russians on the beach at Pattaya. Why would any man falling apart or drooping think he looks presentable in a Speedo?

After that revelation, I may stick to a suit and tie on the beach.

Eventually, I found myself in a street of warehouses, boatyards, and Club Natació. Maybe that means swim club. The old guys up the beach may have been members. Didn’t ask, so I’m not sure. 

Near the end of the street, it occurred to me I had no knowledge of the way ahead. So I consulted a bus route map at a kiosk and found that the only way out of here was to walk all the way back. Or take the 64 bus to Columbus’s column. So I bought a rest for two euros and got myself dropped off just past the column by a remnant of the medieval city wall called the Santa Madrona Gate. 

Behind it was an old building. I thought it was a museum, but when I started to go in a guy told me it was a hospital. He led me to the maritime museum down the street. Through Pidgin English and Pidgin Spanish, I learned he was from Puerto Rico and had a sister in Boston. 

I gave him two euros. He tried to talk more out of me.

The museum is in a 13th century building that was the shipyard for the King of Aragon. I was too tired and thirsty to do more than stop in for a glimpse. There is a diorama that shows the city in the 15th century. I could recognize some of the landmarks.

Once I got to the Rambla, I could see Columbus and vaguely knew the way to the Seu.

But first I needed rest and refreshment. I stopped at a place that had a special of the day consisting of one drink and a tapa for 3.5 euros. Very tasty pincho, which is anything served on a slice of baguette, and some macaroni and tuna salad with a vino tinto. Then I ordered more vino and some duck with applesauce. One order was almost like home and the other like no combination I’ve had before. There was raspberry syrup on the applesauce. That wonderful, almost rancid flavor of duck was perfect with the sweet-tart of applesauce and the syrup. 

I went to tour the cathedral next. The lady who sold me my ticket was the same guard who threw me out the night before. 

The cathedral has the remains of some martyrs—St. Sever, a bishop from the late third century, who has a side chapel where he is buried, and St. Eulalia, whose crypt is under the main altar. You can go down steps from the nave to the gate of the crypt. The sarcophagus dates to the 14th century. It shows scenes of her martyrdom and above them the procession bringing her remains to the cathedral. That is today's photo.

There is another replica of the Black Madonna of Monserrat in another side chapel. She is the patron saint of Catalunuya.

There may have been more exposed bones or skulls, but I didn’t see them.

I came back to the hotel for a brief rest before I venture out on St. Sylvester’s Eve.

It’s about 6:30 local time and there are people shouting and running past the hotel. It may be a New Year’s Eve celebration, or the Barcelona Half-Marathon. I will go and ask. I’ll tell you later what I learn.

Happy New Year’s Eve, everyone.

Harry