Feliz Año Nuevo
Dec.
31-Jan. 1
I
asked the man at the desk about the runners, but he claimed not to know what
was going on. He gave me some explanation about people here are always finding
an excuse to run.
He
also told me that New Year’s Eve isn’t a big deal in town, but the Plaza
Catalunya is a popular place to spend the evening. I figured that if it turned
out to be as bad as Times Square, I could always stroll down to the Barri Gòtic
and have a good time.
I
got the plaza around 8 p.m. I wanted to last at least till midnight, so I
didn’t hit the bars right away.
I
did stumble onto one of the attractions of the city while I was wandering the
Rambla. The Boqueteria, one of Barcelona’s big markets, was still partly open.
It was in the process of shutting down, but I was able to see a few of the
stalls, mainly for chocolate and fruit, still open. It’s bright and colorful,
like all markets, and feels a little older than the Central Market at Valencia.
The
restaurants were already starting to fill up, and I wasn’t hungry yet, so I
walked some more and found another sight I had read about, the Iglesia de Sant
Agusti. This is an Augustinian church named for the Bishop of Hippo, not to be
confused with the God Augustus, who is remembered elsewhere in Barcelona.
People
were going in. Youngsters dressed in robes for a service were standing outside,
chatting. All right, now I’d hear the mass in Catalan, maybe pick up a couple
of pronunciation tips while I nourished my spirit.
This
service had an unusual feature—a projection screen that showed the words of
hymns so everyone could sing along with the choir.
When
the first slide came up, I was a little confused. I can’t say I know Catalan,
but I have been reading quite a few signs in the language lately. This didn’t
look like Catalan.
There
were some Spanish words, but spelled oddly, “diyos” and “Hesucristo” for
instance.
During
the sermon, the priest would slip into English for a sentence, or part of one,
and then go back to this language, and maybe throw in a little Spanish too.
It
was very interesting to sing along, not knowing what the words meant or even what
language they were in.
When
the service ended, I asked a lady in front of me, if she spoke English. She
did.
What
is the language of this service?
She
looked puzzled for an instant. What do you mean? The Tagalog?
I
went to church on New Year’s Eve in Barcelona and attended a Philippino
service. Is that lucky or what?
And
luck still held. I was getting thirsty and a mite peckish besides. There were
lines dozens deep outside the bars on the Rambla. So I started to explore the
square. There at the end of a bar was an open stool. So I took it.
I
bought a half bottle of red and cod in red pepper sauce. I expected something
muy picante, but the sauce was savory and a little sweet. Maybe I was having
fish with honey again. I’m not sure.
The
bartender was a joy to watch. He had told me he was new to the job, but you‘d
never tell by looking. When I got there, the place was only busy. He stored my
hat and gloves behind the bar for me while I went to wash up. Later, once the
place really filled up, he was racing up and down the bar. He got everybody’s
orders right in four languages. He could even answer their questions.
I
had a split of cava, the local sparkling wine, and then bought another around
midnight.
This
isn’t Chiang Mai. At midnight there were two floating lanterns in the air, not
hundreds, and every now and then an anemic, single burst from a rocket.
There
were, however, a lot of drunks spraying each other with sparkling wine, and an
improvised chorus singing Le Marseillaise. I stayed inside the bar out of the
fray for the most part, because I am down to one presentable suit. The other is
barely presentable, and there’s no access to dry cleaning until the second,
which is too late to help.
The
steps leading to the Metro station were wet.
The
revelry proceeded into the subway. There were two groups. One of kids with
modified Mohawk haircuts and whistles. One of them stood at the edge of the
platform and pretended to be falling.
I’m
thinking to myself: Should I intervene? If that kid gets hit by a train it’s
going to be a real buzz kill. What’s more, his blood may get on my suit and the
line will shut down, so on top of everything I’ll have to walk home.
But
his friends brought him back from the brink.
The
other group was singing something. I guess it was in Catalan. I’m pretty sure
it wasn’t Tagalog.
One
of them had what might have been a two-liter bottle of Fresca, and he was
pouring for everybody in his chorus. Judging by the way he was pouring (and
wobbling), I suspect the bottle had an industrial strength spike.
I
got back to the hotel around one and had trouble with the lights, so I went out
for a drink while the staff fixed the problem. I went into a place around the
corner with falshing lasers and disco music and maybe four people there.
About
halfway through my second glass of wine, a crowd of kids started to pour in.
They seemed to be regulars, because the barmen seemed to know them all.
Tequila
with a slice of lemon is a big hit with kids around here.
I
don’t think I passed out when I got back to the room. I may have gone conventionally
to sleep. Anyway, I woke up in the bed.
For
New Year’s Day, I went to the neighborhood called L’Eixample. Doesn’t mean role
model. Apparently it’s Catalan for “extension.” The city expanded that way late
in the 19th century, when Gaudí and his cronies had hit their stride. The
district was populated by rich merchants, who could afford to commission
elaborate homes.
So
since Sagrada Familia wasn’t a bust, I was going in quest of a little more
Modernisme.
Even
more than those sidewalks in the Rambla, the Ruta de Modernisme makes itself
felt in L’Eixample. One of Gaudí’s domestic creations, Casa Battllo, seems
almost as famous as his church.
It
is on a broad avenue called el Passeig de Gracia. It has a wavy front, and is
decorated with sculpture, grillwork, and tile. Sort of an early run-up to his
big work.
Passeig
de Gracia feels like Fifth Avenue, with its Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Lladro,
etc. There is also a museum of modernisme. I walked up the passeig and
eventually got to a metro station.
From
there I headed toward Parc Guell. The subway got me to within a mile of the
place. A security guard from somewhere, walking down the street and seeing I
was clearly bewildered, pointed me in the right direction after I came up from
underground.
What
I hadn’t counted on is that it is uphill all the way, and steep. Some of the
route must have had sharper
than10-degree climbs.
Gaudí
built a house for somebody named Guell up there, I believe, and now the grounds,
also landscaped by Gaudí, are a city park.
It
isn’t easy for a stranger to find. You follow a fairly large thoroughfare most
of the way, and then you hit side streets. Signage is a underdeveloped art
here.
I
knew I was close but had no way to know the proper direction. I asked a group
of people: Por favor, Parc Guell? (There was an upside down question mark in front
when I said it, but I don’t know how to get it when I’m not working in
Microsoft Word.)
They
shrugged. They were strangers too and looking for the same place. One of them
had a cell phone with a GPS app. So I followed them. If you ever go there,
here’s how to find the park: You climb almost straight up for a block, turn
left and then climb some more.
The
park is worth the work. It is full of Gaudí shaped structures, colonnades, wavy
walls, tiled terraces, and the like.
The
views of Barcelona and the sea are spectacular. I took several, but I like the
composition of this one the best.
And here is one in motion photographed higher up.
I
wandered through much of the park but didn’t see it all. I was getting tired and
thirsty and had to leave.
Of
course, I got lost in the twisting lanes. There were signs pointing me in two
vague directions at three- and four-point intersections. As I say, local
signage is a developing art.
I
had to go out the way I came in, because it was a residential neighborhood
around the park, and it would be a long walk to find a cab if I went the wrong
way.
After
about 10 minutes, or maybe several hours, of wandering, I found the vertical
walk I had taken to get up to the park. So far, so good.
It
was so steep and I was so tired, I had to go flat-footed to keep from falling
on my face.
I
remembered the way through the side streets to the main road, and right there
found an open tapas bar. I went in and muttered “Feliz Año Nuevo.” Then stood there
breathing hard for a second. They guy behind the bar said something, maybe
Catalan for “take your time” or “don’t let your head blow up.”
I
managed to get a single word across my parched lips, “agua.”
I
was a mess. Imagine: Harry walks into a bar and the first thing he asks for is
water. Then I made up for it with some anchovies, meatballs, and Rioja.
Breakfast
was a long time and a long walk in the past, so everything could have been
mediocre, but it was among the most delicious lunches I’ve had.
I
took the train back to the hotel for a rest and to finish writing this message.
It’s
a little after seven here and I’ve only had two glasses of wine today.
I’m
going out in a little while. Good places to eat are going to open in the next
hour and should be hitting their prime around nine.
Love
and good wishes.
Be
well all, and happy New Year, no matter what your time zone is.
Harry
Jan.
1
Hmmm, Grasshopper. glad to hear you
got a spot at the bar with an interesting bartender. Otherwise, New Year's Eve
sounded a bit underwhelming to me. Even my crazy experience in Jerez, even if
nothing was open, proved more interesting in the end.
Things are fine here, but my lodgings
could be better: the room is on the second floor and faces out on the street.
Yes, it's fairly quiet, with the exception of the occasional delivery truck and
dopey, loud-mouthed tourists talking about nonsense. I'm right across the
street from our second lodgings here. Indeed, I see the other hotel out my
window.
Larry
Jan. 1
Except for last year in Chiang Mai,
New Year's Eve has always been underwhelming for me. I usually spent it at home
with Nancy, watching one or another TV marathon. One year it was "Sex and
the City" on HBO. The best TV programming was sometime in the 90s. One of
the local New York stations ran a marathon of Italian Hercules movies. Getting
drunk to that was memorable.
One year, Nancy was helping with the
town's alternative New Year celebration, called First Night, designed as a
family-friendly, non-drinking event. The highlight of that was hearing a
traditional Chinese orchestra play in a church. That was interesting.
My night this year wasn't bad at all.
I strolled the old streets of Barcelona, a place I dreamed of seeing when I was
a kid. I got to sing in a language I'd never heard before. I got slowly loaded.
I had a great meal. Dozens of young people made assholes of themselves for my
amusement.
As I say, this was no Chiang Mai, but
given my experience of New Year's Eve, this was actually one of the better
ones.
Harry
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