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 Travel Bug: Spain A
little bit of background I don't know how Spain worked
itself onto my list of places I desperately wanted to go. Maybe it was the language. Ever since I could speak
English I've wanted to also speak Spanish.
Maybe it was Flamenco. Such strong dance and
passionate music could only come from a thoroughly intriguing place. Maybe it was simply the
idea of warm weather and gorgeous beaches.
I really don't know.
But in 1999 I applied for a month long
artist’s residency in Mojacar, a small village in the South
of Spain. When I
received a letter saying that I'd gotten in, I was as excited about
going to Spain as I was about having a month to do nothing but write.
The residence, Fundacion Valparaiso, was situated in the desert. It was 15 minutes from the
long stretch of beach the village is famous for and 20 minutes away
from the mountains that cradled a cluster of small, white houses which
make up the town. The contrasts in the landscape were stunning. I was
enchanted by almond, olive and fig trees; I fantasized about the taste
of the beautiful-but dangerous-cactus pears; I fell asleep to Flamenco
and Spanish and I wrote. I took trips to the market, our group of
artists road tripped to Granada to see the last Moorish stronghold, The
Alhambra and I marvelled over the fact that there was a park named
after Garcia Lorca (do we have a park named after a poet in the U.S?) In Andalusia (the name of that
region of Spain) the African and Islamic influences are easily seen,
particularly in the architecture.
Knowing this, I wondered why-in a place a
stones throw away from Africa, which owed much of it’s own
culture to the continent-folk sometimes acted like I was the first
Black person they'd seen. I did meet some nice folks, but I also had
people pointing at me in the market, running behind me, touching me,
snickering and calling out,“Negro.” So while
Southern Spain was beautiful, I had no intention of visiting it or any
other part of the country again. Fast
Forward At a wedding in Belgium two
years later, a friend invited my boyfriend and me to visit him in
Barcelona. Martijn mused about how beautiful Barcelona was. He said
that we could stay in the apartment he and his fiancée
shared. It was a wonderful offer but I was not interested. I thanked him and
declined. But Martijn would not give up.
He was sure I'd like the city.
He said I at least had to check it out. Well,
maybe it was because he seemed so convinced, maybe it was just to get
him to stop trying to make me change my mind, and maybe it was because
he's really cool, but I said alright. "For you. We'll come to see you."
Martijn smiled and told me Barcelona was going to be a whole other
experience. Day
one is really evening one. 2/27/03 It was 8 pm when we landed and
seeing all the lights below was exciting. I felt like a real city was
awaiting me. Before
we even got out of the airport we were window shopping. (shame) I was looking at dolls
dressed as Flamenco dancers. Dominique was looking at shoes. We were chatting away
excitedly, and when he went to ask the saleswoman a question she looked
at him puzzled. Most of the people I’ve met in Spain only
speak Spanish and the saleswoman was no exception. Dominique and I
scrambled for Spanish words. We managed to get our question out, but I
had difficulty understanding the answer.
In the end we looked at each other laughing,
“Oh yeah, we’re in Spain.” When we tore ourselves from the
airport (talk about tourism-damn) we headed to our hosts, Martijn and
Maite's, place. We got a bit lost but what a place to get lost in. Martijn and Maite live in
the center of the city. There were people everywhere: painters,
musicians, shoppers. I
was looking around taking in the museums and the Cathedral. Even the
sidewalk, with its bricks engraved with flowers gave me something
pretty to look at. We
decided to get directions in a Senegalese store where a very friendly
man helped us get back on course. The place was obviously a gathering
spot: folk were there drinking tea, talking and getting their hair done. When we finally got to
Maite and Martijn's place, they greeted us warmly, offered tea, olives,
wine, pasta and conversation by candlelight. I went to bed that night
happy, well-fed and excited about the prospect of diving into the city. 2/28/03 We were supposed to be going to
a cafe to hear a Brazilian band, but the place was too crowded for our
little crew. So we
ended up outside the club where four women were singing in Wolof and
doing dances they learned from their Senegalese Maestro in Italy.
Dominique began playing the aslatos he got in Ghana, another guy took a
harmonica out and the rest of us began singing and dancing with the
young women. About
an hour later, a West African brother caught sight of all this, came
over, stood in front of us and counted, "1234." Then he began leading
us in an impromptu dance class. Right
there in the street. "1234,"
and we all danced. Two older Spanish women stood and smiled warmly. An
Indian man watched and tried to sell us beer. It was 1 A.M. and there
we were, a crew of 10 strangers from Africa, Spain, Belgium, Germany,
Italy and the United States dancing in the street. Is this typical life
in Barcelona?? I don’t know, but it’s definitely
living. La
Luta Continua 3/1/03
Yesterday was full of tiny
curving streets, music and drunken men dancing a stomping flirtation.
We ate delicious sea food, drank Sangria and discussed politics. Here, in the middle of the
historical center of the city signs of protest against the war are
everywhere. Huge banners hang off balconies, signs sit in windows, and
graffiti speaks on the sides of buildings.
There was a beautiful poster that said it
perfectly: it was red, white and blue and the red stripes were shaped
like falling missiles. Maite
and Martine explained that this outcry is as much against the war as it
is against the Spanish government. People are upset that their
government is marching hand in hand with the U.S. government towards
war. They are
critiquing their government in a way that I haven’t seen many
other European protestors do. There
were a million people in the Feb 15th peace march here and the evidence
is everywhere. It
thrills me to be in a place where folks are aware and adamant about
peace.
3/2/03
This city keeps surprising me. I can’t deny
that I’m jaded about Europe-the nationalism that it tries to
hide, the gradual shifting of governments to the right, the fear of
immigrants and the inability to deal with difference.
All that to say that I don’t expect
to be awed by Europe’s cities anymore but here I am,
infatuated with Barcelona. There’s
always something happening; folks are just getting geared up to party
at midnight, beautiful buildings, sounds or interesting sites are
always catching my eye and I’m happy to be dusting off my
limited, but enthusiastic, Spanish. We walked on a huge shopping
street called the Ramblas today and there in the midst of that street
was a booth dedicated to the anti-war movement.
They were giving out free stickers, posters
and encouraging those interested to sign petitions. On our way to see an exhibition
on harems and the different ways they were portrayed in art from the
East and the West, we spotted a group of youth creating a peace mural
with paint and newspaper clippings.
Activism is alive and well here. People are finding
creative ways of making their voices heard. When
was the last time you wanted to run your hands all over a building?? 3/2/03
I’m sitting on the roof of la Pedrera, a building designed by Antonio Gaudi. Because my Father is architect, names of architects surrounded me during my childhood just as poets names surround me now. (I actually thought I’d become an architect one day but that is a whole other story) Anyway, I remember hearing the name Gaudi once because my father said he didn’t like his work. Well, if my father were sitting on this roof with me right now, I really think he would change his mind. There are all these crazy shapes up here. Some look like sea creatures, others like chess pieces, some are crowns, mosaic covered space mountains or rebellious minarets. The walls look like wind blown fabric. This architecture seems to bring out the child in everyone who looks at it. I notice most of us are smiling at each other uncontrollably up here. It’s a wonderland of colour and shape. Gaudi’s architecture makes me want to laugh. When was the last time you wanted to run your hands all over a building?? Hello,
Dali? 3/3/03 Been jamming to
Martijn’s Tribe Called Quest CD for the last two mornings. I still remember the first
time I saw the video for, “I left My Wallet in El
Segundo.” I loved Tribe instantly. (I wish I had a postcard
of my nostalgia.) Anyway, we left Barcelona this
morning to come to Figueres, the home of the Salvador Dali 3/4/03
It’s a gorgeous
morning in Cadaques. We’re
staying in a hotel near the sea. When
we got here yesterday it was raining and we were tired, but the sea,
the mountains and the sound of the rain were so calming that we sat in
the car looked through the rain streaked windshield and talked for an
hour. After that we headed in for a nap.
It was nice to know that going to the hotel
and napping would not mean waking up to a ghost town.
(You gotta love a country that believes in the
siesta.) After our nap we were on a hunt for dinner. We ended up at La
Pescador where the food was- in two words: insanely delicious. We came here to go to the Dali house, but that, like the
museum in Figueres yesterday, is closed! But Cadaques is so beautiful
that even without seeing the house I’m glad we’re
here. We met a really cool artist,
Moises, who makes dishes and paints.
He told us that it is important to him to
focus on the traditions here in Cadaques like fishing and growing
olives at his grove. He said he’d been to London and New York
but that he could never live in either place because he needs nature. He loves the sea. He also talked about the
difference between tourists who come to take and travellers who come to
learn and share. Later
we saw Moises again bringing freshly cleaned fish back from his boat. He told us that it is best
to clean fish with sea water. It
was beautiful to see this man first with his art in a studio, and then
with other fisherman at the sea. Back
In Barcelona 3/06/03 Our last day here was powerful. We had brunch at this
organic food spot. I
went to the "ladies" for a minute and all of a sudden I heard a clamour
of voices chanting in unison. When I rushed out what had-just a minute
before-been a street only alive with city sounds was transformed into a
street crowded with thousands of protestors.
We joined. We marched, sat in the streets,
sang, chanted “No Guerra no Guerra no Guerra no”
(“no war”) and, “Esta Guerra es tambien
terrorismo” (“this war is also
terrorism”) and anything else we could manage to say and
understand. Many of
the marchers were young, I’d say some were as young as 15. We
realized, looking at their books and backpacks, that we’d
joined a student protest. Maite later told us that she saw the march on
television. I could say the marchers were
anti-war, because they were, but I think it would more accurate to call
them peace marchers. The
energy of the protest was strong and somehow, very pure. Yes, the students were
serious, “no Guerra per petroli” (“no war
for oil” in the Catalan language) but they still laughed
during the march and made a joke or two during their speeches against
imperialism Some
students had hearts and peace signs painted on their cheeks. I’ve participated in
a few marches, mostly in NY, one in California, some in Alabama. I felt that this march was
completely unlike many of those marches where the outrage created
unbelievable tension. I
think that we as conscious people have every right to be outraged, in
fact I tend to think that if you aren’t angry about they way
things are going then you’re not awake.
But I know that I do everything
better-including protest-when my anger is coupled with hope and love. That’s what I
felt from these students a sense of hopeful outrage.
No, there were no hordes of police in riot
gear; in fact there were more media than police.
The cops I saw were stopping traffic so we
wouldn’t get run over. Obviously
that is going to create a less tense environment. To say that I am excited by the
level of protest in Barcelona-whether it is in the form of marches on
Weds at noon; graffiti against war, Nike, Adidas, Reebok, police,
Nazi’s; peace banners hanging from balconies and displayed in
windows of businesses-would be
3/7/03 We’re leaving!
It’s 8am and the sun is strong. I wish I could stay.
It’s going to be another beautiful day in Barcelona...
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After
the protest we rushed over to Gaudi's masterpiece, Parc Guell. We had
to climb a thousand steps to get to it, but once we were there, wow. I
could see the entire city from up there. It's a sprawling park full of
winding paths and elaborate mosaic work decorates the benches,
fountains and ceilings. I’m telling you, I've never run
around a city fiending