Monday, September 9, 2013

Then we flew to Barcelona

Spain is a place we’ve always sworn to visit “one day.” We love the wine, we love the food, we love the occasional Anthony Bourdain visits shown on television. We’ve always wanted to go, and figured we’d get there “eventually.” When our plans to leave Cameroon in June collapsed colossally and two of our dearest, most beloved friends invited us to join them on their way home via Barcelona, we took it for granted that this would be our silver lining.  During the hardest days as our time in Cameroon came to a close, we would sing “Barcelona!” to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s Messiah.

We landed at nearly midnight, found our tragically dirty luggage (giant camping backpack behind, standard sized backpack up front, and, oh, yeah, duffle bags, etc., over each shoulder), and hobbled to the taxi stand. After collapsing in bed in our little efficiency apartment, we woke to find ourselves in a land of sunshine and joy. Glorious, dignified old apartment buildings stretched upward on every street, offering comfortable shade, while balcony windows dripped with verdure. Occasionally a fine cooling mist would drift down on us as apartment dwellers nurtured their mini gardens above. We walked seven or eight miles every day, reveling in the freedom to do so, marveling when cars and busses and even the occasional motorcycle stopped at the edges of crosswalks and waited patiently for us to pass by. Barcelona is by far the most walking and biking friendly city we’ve been in. We ate asparagus and strawberries and cherries and bibb lettuce and all the things that were something other than the slightly over-ripe Roma tomatoes, onions, and garlic we’d had in everything for two years. We laughed, overcome by the absolute joy, and at the absurdity of being so overjoyed at the taste of a perfectly ripened strawberry, and tried not to drool over the delicious abundance and possibility down every aisle of the Mercat de La Boqueria.

We needed the time to reintroduce ourselves to Western culture. Daily the conversation would ensue:

Friend 1, ‘Do you think there’s a bathroom?”

Friend 2, doubtfully, ‘Mmm… probably…?”

Friend 3, ‘I’ll go check.’

Friend 3 absents and, after a brief interval, returns.

Friends 1, 2 and 4 look on expectantly.

Friend 3, ‘There was a bathroom!’

Friend 1, ‘How was it? Was it clean?’

Friend 2, ‘Was there toilet paper?’

Friend 4, ‘Was there water?’

Friend 3, “Yes, yes, and yes.’

All sit and grin like lunatics at the greatness of such an unexpected convenience.

We also needed to begin the readjustment process to shopping (as in, simply buying basic necessities). We needed new toothbrushes and walked into a supermarket. We made a beeline through rows upon rows of random things to the toiletries aisle. Apparently, one does not simply purchase a toothbrush. What kind of toothbrush did we want? What kind of toothbrush best represented each of us as a unique individual? There were toothbrushes of every color on the spectrum. There were flat headed ones, round headed ones, bristles that changed color, handle with or without grips, ridged ones, spiny ones, rubberized ones, vibrating ones, weird grippy things on the backs of the heads, inexplicable pointy things that flipped out from the handle. Are we still looking at toothbrushes?? After a moment of panic Kiyomi grabbed the two immediately in her direct field of vision and asked Jack, “Red or green?” Decision made. Crisis averted. All around reintegration success! We bought toothbrushes.

In Sagrada Familia we found a place that met, and perhaps even surpassed the majesty of Istandbul’s Blue Mosque. In simple human terms, the structure was first imagined by Gaudi in the 1880s, and is finally set for completion in 2026, following the design and instructions left behind in a feat that has transcended time, war, politics, religion, secularization, generations. When we first visited the basilica, we ran into a four hour line in the sun to purchase tickets, so we just walked around the outside. The Nativity façade at the back of the church (from the current tourist entry) shows the birth of Christ as the ultimate culmination of nature. Visions of the natural world – vines, animals, doves flying between abstractions of fruit and flowers, giant turtles or tortoises supporting the whole thing on their armored backs - climb the building, which stretches up, it seems, as far as the eye can see, culminating in a giant, richly green Tree of Life, reminiscent of an archetypal Christmas tree. In the midst of all the edenic (yeah, I made up a word) glory sits the artfully sculpted holy family in traditional stance. By contrast, the Passion façade is almost austere, with human figures rendered in spare abstraction meant to be reminiscent of skeletons (like the Deathly Hallows in Hermione’s telling of the story in the Harry Potter movie) gathered around a crucifixion. We, of course, bought tickets online to go inside the next day. Inside, it is as though Gaudi was the inspiration for every depiction of elfin architecture ever filmed. Stained glass colors the light green and red as you walk between support pillars designed to resemble massive tree trucks, drawing the eye up and up and up to a ceiling carved in leaf design and windows that let in a gentle, dappled sunlight. It makes you feel small and insignificant in the very best way; the way of spaces that are truly magical, that are holy, that are reverence itself. Each of us, with our varying degrees of traditional faith, varying degrees of question and doubt and trust and unknowing, found ourselves, in our own space, in our own time, pausing, deeply moved, feeling a sense of connection, of mystery, of some great unknown peacefulness.

Our week went too quickly, and, as at every stop on our way home, we found ourselves promising, “next time…” and “when we come back…”

Paris was waiting.