Bye, bye, Barcelona

Early morning pilgrimage

Thursday morning, the alarm went off at 630am. I was up and out the hotel door by 654. Carrer d'Olzinelles was empty and silent in the pre-dawn darkness.

When I reached Passeig de Sant Antoni, my path bent to the right, toward Barcelona-Sants Estació.

As I made my way, a thin stream of solitary pilgrims trickled onto the broad avenue from the lesser side streets. Towing luggage, shouldering backpacks. All silent but for the clacking of our suitcase wheels on the sidewalk. Ahead, the station lights cast out an indifferent beacon, drawing us like moths to the flame.

Time to leave this timeless city. On to whatever is next.

Bye bye, Barcelona.

Sagrada Familia

Statue in la Plaza Cataluña

Arched entrance to the Cathedral in the Gothic Quarter

Inside the Cathedral

Mass inside the Cathedral

Elaborate (ostentatious?) displays of piety

Fountain in the Gothic Quarter

Roman wall in the Gothic Quarter

Beach at Barcelona

Estatua de Colóm

The natives didn't know what they were signing on for...

Feeling happy, but a little lonely, up on Mount Jüic.

View of the harbor

Turret from the fort on Mount Jüic

Barcelona

Turkish food for lunch

Travel day from hell

Casa bonita en Barcelona

I am at this moment depressurizing, and trying to remember that all travelers will, from time to time, experience days like this: a day from hell.

Where to start?

I got moving this morning at about 9am. I had three specific tasks that I wanted to accomplish in the morning so I might enjoy the rest of the day and the evening: 1) Purchase a reservation for the train to Lyon, France, which I will take on Thursday morning; 2) Inform my friend, Tim Hundsdorfer, who will be hosting me while there, of my hour of arrival; 3) Retrieve the laundry I'd dropped off yesterday at the lavandería. Simple enough.

Barcelona's province, Catalonia has a strong separatist movement.These flags (indicating support for an independent Catalonia) are everywhere in the city.

First things first. I got breakfast (coffee, orange juice, and a bocadilla con queso y huevos (eggs and cheese sandwiched in a baguette). Then I hopped the Metro out to the train station, which was about a half-hour ride. Once there, I found the ticket booth and inquired of the pleasant young woman behind the counter if I might buy a reservation for the train to Lyon on Thursday, the 22nd.

She informed me that, yes, I certainly could. Might she please see my Eurail pass? I searched in my backpack and through all my pockets, but could not find it. Then I remembered seeing it lying on the nightstand, next to my bed, back at my room. I'd left it there specifically so I would not forget it. And there it remained. So, no, I couldn't purchase a reservation until I brought my Eurail pass to the ticket counter. Sigh. Oh, well. At least I learned that there was only one train per day that went to Lyon and that it leaves at 825am. Good enough.

Back on the subway for another half-hour ride to my room. I got there and found my Eurail pass exactly where I had left it. Small sigh of relief. But it was still only 1130am; too early to go to the lavandería to get my clothes. They wouldn't be ready until the afternoon.

Guy on the subway with a friendly message on his cap

What the heck? thought I. I'll just bite the bullet and go back out to the train station now and get my reservation. Then I'll have the whole afternoon to enjoy myself.

Back on the subway. Another half-hour to the train station. Now the queues at the ticket counter were very long. So I had to wait. And wait. But I finally got to the window and purchased my reservation without any further complications. Whew.

Half-hour ride back to my room. I was a little footsore, and a lot sweaty. (The air in the Metro is stuffy, plus I'd been doing a lot of walking). I rested for about a half-hour and now it was 130pm. Time to get my clothes. I gathered all my stuff in my backpack, making especially sure to put my laundry ticket in my pocket.

In the process, I sat on my glasses, bending the frames all out of whack and popping out a lens. Now my ire was starting to rise. But I remained relatively calm while I put the lens back in and delicately bent my frames to a shape that would at least keep them on my face.

I couldn't remember the exact location of the lavandería that had my clothes, but that was not a problem. I had my laundry ticket, which had the name of the place on it. From there it was a simple matter of getting directions from Google maps.

And there it was: the location popped right up on my map. It was about a 30 minute walk, according to Google maps, which was a little puzzling. Hmm... thought I, I don't remember it being that far away. But I thought it best to trust Google maps.

So, off I set, eyes glued to the little dot on my iPhone that indicated my location. After a few wrong turns and direction changes I finally arrived at the lavandería. Uh-oh. Problem.

Not this lavandería...

This is not the lavandería where I left my clothes! Frantically, I checked my laundry ticket. Yes, the name on the ticket was the same, but Google maps had directed me to a different branch!

At that point, I had no wifi access, so I couldn't search for the other location. I had to wander around for several blocks before I found a restaurant that had free wifi (for customers). Inside, I ordered a plate of spaghetti carbonara and asked the waitress for the wifi password.

"Yo no lo sé," she said. "I don't know it."

I stared at her, helplessly, and I think she took pity. "Un momento," she said and disappeared upstairs. After a long 10 minutes she returned with a piece of paper on which was scrawled the password. It was about 20 characters long, full of numbers and letters, both upper and lower case. It took me 4 tries to finally succeed in gaining access to the wifi.

By now it was 3pm and time was running short. The lavandería closes at 5pm, and if I didn't get there in time, I'd be stuck in the clothes I was wearing, sweaty and odoriferous, for another day. I had to find that lavandería! I took my glasses off to rub my eyes, and the lens popped out onto the counter.

Put the lens back in and searched. There it was! Right where I remembered it being. Only about 800 meters from where I was staying. The problem was that I had wandered at least 3 kilometers afield. Time to hustle, Dade.

I was gritting my teeth, let me tell you, as I bulled my way through Barcelona's crowded sidewalks. I had a great urge to push people out of my way, especially gawkers and idlers who didn't seem to know where they were going.

In my haste, I made several wrong turns and had to double-back. It seemed I missed the walk signal at every crosswalk. I could feel my blood-pressure going through the roof.

But eventually I saw it ahead. The lavandería!

I had a temporary moment of panic when I pulled on the door and it didn't open. My God! Have they closed early? That was my thought. But then I noticed the sign on the door that said "Empuje." Push.

I pushed my way in, and was nearly overcome with a rush of relief.

One final complication awaited. When the laundry attendant asked me for my ticket, it was not in my pocket! Another frantic search of all pockets ensued.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nope. It was not there. I had lost it somewhere while I was tramping all over the city. I had to explain the situation to the attendant who, thank God, looked on me with kindness and retrieved my clothes without further hassle.

That plastic bag I'm hugging has my clean clothes in it. Never held anything so tight.

At this point it was nearly 4 in the afternoon. An entire day shot just trying to accomplish a few errands. I was exhausted and nearly spent, but relieved.

Like I said, when you travel, you will have days like this. Days from hell. I've never had a trip that didn't include one or two of them. And they make for great stories when you put enough temporal distance between yourself and the events.

And after all, I've got my train reservation and I've got clean clothes. So tomorrow, my last day in Barcelona, my one objective is to relax. With a capital "R."

Barcelona bus tour

What a city!

Objective #1 for the day became apparent when I opened my suitcase in the morning: two clean shirts, one clean pair of boxers, and one clean pair of pants. I needed to get some laundry done. Today.

Dressed, stuffed my dirty laundry into a plastic bag, grabbed breakfast at a cafeteria across the street, and used their wifi to locate a lavandería within walking distance. Which I found with surprising ease.

The attendant was a harried-looking woman, a few years younger than me. Her hair was pulled back in a work-practical ponytail and she wore the expression of a person with a lot on her plate. I dropped my bag of dirty clothes on the counter.

"¿Las quiere limpiar?" she asked. (Do you want them cleaned?)

"Claro," I said. (Of course.)

"Mañana, por la tarde," she said, in a firm tone of finality.

"Tomorrow afternoon..." I thought. What to do? Did I want to spend time trying to find another lavandería to see if they might be able to clean my clothes on a more convenient timetable? Or would it be best to leave my clothes here and be done with it? I still had one clean shirt. But I was wearing my last set of clean underwear.

Snap decision time. Tomorrow, I wear my one clean shirt and my pants. As far as boxer shorts, I'll just have to go "commando."

These are the sacrifices that travel sometimes demands.

Genius architect Gaudí's magnum opus, La Sagrada Familia, Construction began in 1882.

La Sagrada Familia

La Sagrada Familia

La Sagrada Familia

Construction continues, long after Gaudí's 1926 death. Estimated completion date? 2026!

Decision made, I found my way to a street corner, right across from la Iglesia Sagrada Familia where I caught a tour bus to take me around the city. Another of those hop on/hop off affairs.

My first hop off was another Gaudí work: Parque Güell. It's an architectural masterpiece as these photos clearly show.

Parque Güell

Parque Güell

Parque Güell

Parque Güell

Parque Güell

Parque Güell

Parque Güell

Parque Güell

The park was full of tourists, all of us shooting photos like smolt snapping at mosquitoes. In the midst of it all, I had a fond memory of the last time I'd been here, in 1999, when I had shared a picnic lunch with a lonely Chinese-Canadian girl named Tara. I wondered where she is now, and how the intervening years have treated her. I hope she is as happy as I am.

Eventually, I left the park and started back down the hill, to hop back on the tour bus. But I stopped first, and had a peak inside a Catholic church dedicated to Saint Joseph. Within, I found one of those unsettling depictions of the Crucifixion.

Inside the St. Joseph church

I love the Catholic church, but I've never been comfortable with these macabre depictions. Then again, I'm not Catholic. Not yet, anyway.

My next stop on the bus tour was La Pedrada, another of Gaudí's works. This is an upscale house that demonstrates Gaudí's vision. Somewhat ironic, when you consider that Gaudí, himself, lived the life of an ascetic and died in a pauper's hospital after being hit by a streetcar.

La Pedrada, facade

La Pedrada, inside

La Pedrada, rooftop

La Pedrada, rooftop

Turn that damn music down!

After I finished short-stepping it through La Pedrada, I'd had enough of dealing with tourists. (Said it before and I'll say it again: there's no contempt like self-contempt.) I spent the rest of the afternoon riding on the top deck of the bus and scouting out places to visit over the next two days.

Because I've got another 2 full days of Barcelona. And being here brings back why I love this city so much.

Hope all is well at home or wherever you are, dear reader. Thanks for checking in on my adventures.

Last day in Madrid

Iglesia cerca del Prado

When traveling in a foreign country, the most difficult and complicated tasks are invariably those surrounding transportation arrangements. Today, I spent the morning riding the Madrid Metro trying to find the correct train station (Madrid has several) from which I will depart tomorrow morning, bound for Barcelona.

Madrid Metro map

First, at the suggestion of the barista who served me café con leche at the bistro near Moncloa, I went to Chamartín, where there was, in fact, a train station. The staff there were surly and unhelpful and it took me a good 45 minutes of standing in line and asking diffident questions before I learned that, no, this was not the train station from which to buy a reservation for the train to Barcelona. That  station was in Atocha, halfway across the city.

So, I got back on the Metro  (which, I'm afraid, has a pervading smell of human shit in many of the train cars) and rode to Atocha where I stood in line for another half hour or so. Eventually, I learned that, since I had a Eurail pass, I didn't need to purchase a reservation at all. There are many daily trains that make the Madrid-Barcelona journey. They leave nearly every hour. I need only show up at the train station on the morrow, pass in hand.

Sigh.

Turtle pond in the Madrid train station

I was flustered and frustrated and immediately beset by those familiar dispiriting questions. Why did you think, Dade, that traveling by yourself through Europe was such a grand idea? Wouldn't you rather be at home with Maty?

I needed a break, so I sat down and ordered a coffee from a cafe with wifi.  My mood brightened when I learned, via Google maps, that my sightseeing objective for the day, Museo del Ejercito (Army Museum, recommended by JR Tracy) was less than a kilometer from the train station. That put some spring back into my step. I finished my coffee and found the museum with minimal effort.  

Only to learn that it was closed.

A disappointing end to a rather frustrating morning.

Casas en la calle

I decided I'd just spend the rest of the day walking around the city. Near the Plaza de España, an elderly couple approached me. Septuagenarians, by the look of them. They were well-dressed, but obviously tourists, probably German. The woman was elegant and polite. "Señor, lo siento," she said, in tentative Spanish. Her husband stood close behind her. They seemed at a loss.

"Sí, señora," I replied.  

"Esta calle es Calle Ferraz?" she asked. They were looking for a particular street. But the street she indicated was, in fact, Calle del Pez. I've learned my way around the central part of Madrid by now, and the street they were looking for was further south, along the Plaza de España. 

This is going to be difficult, I thought. I don't speak a lick of German, so I'll have to give them directions in Spanish. 

I spent a moment or two trying to construct a comprehensible answer. But then I heard the old gentleman mutter to his wife, "I don't think he knows, dear."

Relief flooded over me. "You speak English?" I asked, with a chuckle.

"We're from England," she said. They both laughed.

"Hell," I said, "I'm from the States." I got them pointed in the right direction and felt much better.

Problem solved and the last vestiges of doubt and anxiety were dispelled. My better angels chimed encouragement: Come on, Dade! Is it really so bad to just spend the day roaming around beautiful Madrid? You're not in a hurry. Your time is your own. Enjoy!

Loving life in La Plaza España

It's been very good, Madrid. Hasta la proxima.

El Escorial and Valle de los Caídos

Monastery at El Escorial

Today, I caught a bus out of Madrid for a day trip in the nearby mountains. Specifically, I went to the village of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, or El Escorial, for short. This village was the historical residence of the King of Spain in the latter half of the 16th century, serving a similar function, I suppose, as did Versailles for French royalty. It was removed from the common masses in Madrid, just as Versailles was removed from Paris, allowing its blue-blooded inhabitants to maintain a discreet distance from the rabble over which they ruled.

Monastery facade

Today, El Escorial is a popular tourist destination, its principle features being the eponymous monastery, where rest many Spanish regents, and the nearby Valle de los Caídos (Valley of the Fallen) which is a memorial for those killed in Spain's guerra civil.

A tour through these two attractions reinforces the very obvious fact that Spain and the Catholic Church are forever entwined. Even though most Spaniards today do not actively practice their religion, Spanish culture is entirely inculcated with Catholic culture and morals. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic is what I say, although I have several "recovering Catholic" friends who vociferously disagree.

Tombs within the monastery

Both the monastery and the Valle de los Caídos have Catholic basilicas and are holy places. It is not uncommon to see visitors genuflect and kneel at the pews, heads bowed in prayer.

Chapel ceiling in the monastery

I enjoyed touring the monastery, but the real treat for me was the Valle de los Caídos. It rests nestled in the high wooded slopes above and to the north of the town. It is a solemn place of stone and silence.

Entrance to the basilica at Valle de los Caídos

Valle de los Caídos, as I said before, was dedicated as a war memorial for those who were killed in the Spanish Civil War; both Nationalists and Republicans. The monument was conceived by Francisco Franco who, of course, led the Nationalists to victory after 4 bloody years of war. Well, say what you want about Franco, and I'm no fan of fascists, but the memorial itself is a beautiful and moving experience for visitors.

Tiled mosaic on the ceiling of the basilica in Valle de los Caídos

(If you want to know more about the Spanish civil war, with all its tragedy, heroics, and romance, I recommend two works: For Whom the Bell Tolls, by Ernest Hemingway (of course), and a little known film by Ken Loach called "Land and Freedom.")

On a personal note, my father, Ross Cariaga, Junior, has been in my thoughts a lot on this trip. His deathbed wish was that I convert to Catholicism, so I suppose it's only natural that touring all these Catholic holy sights would summon his ghost. But I don't want to ruminate on it over much. Instead, I'll end with a few more (very Catholic) photos, including some from yesterday's visit to Catedrál Almudena in Madrid.

Holy family on the road (inside El Escorial monastery)

In the town of El Escorial

Crucifix above the Valle de los Caídos

Artwork in the monastery

Mary and Jesus in the Catedrál Almudena

Schoolgirls in Madrid

Crypts beneath Catedrál Almudena

Stained glass in Catedrál Almudena

Spanish schoolboys

A Station of the Cross in Catedrál Almudena