I forget who it was in the cabinet that infamously sent an email out on the day of the Hatfield train crash, suggesting that it would be a rather opportune moment to bury bad news, but you have to feel at the moment that a few people might just be thinking the same thing. Obviously the circumstances are considerably different, and the burial of bad news today wouldn’t be quite as reprehensible as on the same day as a fatal train crash of course, but if I had some bad news….
…so I had a little look through the stories not quite making the headlines today (for those of you not in the know the main story today is the impending implosion of the capital markets and all that the west holds dear – more on which at a later date no doubt).
The first thing I came across was the now almost forgotten plea by the government to pass a law allowing the police to detain suspected terrorists without charge for a maximum of 42 days. This is a 14 day increase from the current limit of 28 days. Now, before you get all fired up and start shouting “guantanamo” at the computer screen, don’t worry I am now here to argue in favour of such a law. Indeed, the man I heard on the radio today arguing in favour of the change gave me all the ammo I need to argue against it. He was asked, and I wish I could remember his name so I could send him a letter of thanks, whether the change was a reaction to the current deadline of 28 days not being long enough, and specifically whether that deadline had indeed been broken regularly to prompt such a move.
His reply was straight out of the Tory Guide to Blustering and Bumbling, except of course he was a New Labour MP (again, more on that subject later too I promise). He said, while no doubt turning red and removing his monocle, “oh, ah, but yes that’s not the point now is it, yes ok 28 days has been fine until now, but what about tomorrow?” you could almost here his pipe fall out of his mouth as he became more animated. The point here of course is that the House of Lords, whose job it is to decide on such matters, have rejected the proposal my a rather crushing majority. Unfortunately they do not move in the same intelligence circles as the chap from the radio, who is aware of the impending doom that will befall us all tomorrow. Again, forgive the rambling, but I can’t help but feel that on any other day this would be somewhat newsworthy, particularly given who Gordon Brown fought for this bill to even pass the House of Commons. Indeed I will go as far as to say that on any other day, such a crushing defeat for old Gordon may have lead to renewed calls for a leadership election within New Labour.
I admit that this isn’t necessarily a concrete case of burying bad news, given that the debate in the Lords had been planned for today, but you cant help but feel that Gordon will be breathing a sigh of relief into his cocoa tonight.
The second story that caught my eye today was the interview in The Times with the interim Iraqi Prime Minister/Interim US puppet Nouri al-Maliki. The highlight of his interview was his assertion that British Troops should leave the south of the country, and Basra in particular, where they are no longer needed. I will refrain from rehashing the old War arguments here, but if the guy in charge of the country, who our boys are supposed to be helping, tells us it is time to bring our troops home, then maybe we should listen? Of course, the cynics among you will suggest that bringing home a few thousand troops into a recession-dogged economic climate might not be the best thing to do economically speaking, as a certain percentage would immediately leave the forces to seek alternative employment, far better to leave them where they are in full employment.
It will be interesting to see what is made of this in the press over the next few days, but again I feel that at any other time this would be headline news…
Of course, what is hogging the headlines at the moment is the ongoing credit crisis, the impending collapse of numerous financial institutions, the nationalisation of countless more, the complete lack of accountability/blame in the whole mess, the reactions of the governments of the world and essentially the potential death by a thousand cuts of capitalism…but I shall save that for my next post!
Bye for now
Monday, 13 October 2008
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
"insert comedy title about Barcelona".....
When I was going through all the little things I like about France way back when, I forgot to mention one aspect of French life that I find particularly appealing. The French like a drink. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m by no means an alcoholic, in fact I’m not even a regular drinker. However, every now and then like most people I like to indulge. The difference, however, between the drinking culture in France and the drinking culture in, say, the UK for example, is that the latter has entirely negative connotations, with the associated mental images of football hooligans, stag parties and girls asleep on the pavement with their boob tubes around their ankles. Whereas in France you think of a nice bottle of Château Lafite, a family meal, a game of Pétanque in Marseille on a Sunday morning or an interview to become a Gendarme.
It is just not the same is it? Somehow, like with their understated elegance when it comes to clothing, the French seem to be able to pull off being drunk with a faint air of sophistication. I don’t mean they all stagger around waving cigarette holders and eating foie gras instead of kebabs, but even when blind drunk a French person can still explain fairly clearly the failings of the French Communist Party in the late Seventies and their resulting decline throughout the Eighties. And the thing is, whereas the Brits, and to a certain degree the Germans and Austrians, save their drinking for a Friday night, the French are at it at all hours. A beer before lunch in a street café, a couple of glasses of red to go with the Magret de Canard at lunchtime, a Martini or glass of Rosé for the aperitif before eating, then maybe glass of white or two with dinner. Obviously this isn’t what everyone does, and certainly not daily, but it isn’t as much of an exaggeration as you might think. In fact I once went for a meal in France where instead of being confused by the cutlery, as is the norm, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of glasses placed before me – champagne as the aperitif, rosé to go with my salade de crevettes, a nice drop of red for the steak, a desert wine to accompany the pineapple carpaccio and a glass of wonderful Finnish vodka to ease the digestive process before going back to the office. I’m joking of course; it was a Friday evening, but still.
Then of course, in the south of France, where I spent a year at University, more or less every meal, appointment, conversation or hour of sunlight is accompanied by a glass of Pastis, the local aniseed based tipple. All of which, in the most round about way possible of course, brings me to my next topic: Barcelona.
Towards the end of my year in Aix en Provence I did a little bit of translation work and managed to get a little bit of money together, enough in fact to see me through the summer. So rather than head back to Blighty to what I imagined would be a miserable summer of rained off games of cricket and poverty, I enrolled on a 6-week Spanish course in Barcelona. Anyone with a little bit about them would of course have realised that in Barcelona the language of choice is Catalan not Castellan Spanish. However, my budget wouldn’t have got me much further, and there is a direct bus from Marseille, so decision made.
I left Aix in early July if memory serves, slap bang in the middle of what would become the hottest summer in Europe for thousands of years or something ridiculous. Had I known that at the time I probably would have booked the first flight north, but instead I carried on south. After taking the train to Marseille I boarded a coach to Barcelona with all my worldly possessions in a rucksack. I was joined on the coach by a woman in her early twenties, and a group of about 8 pensioners. We spread out on the bus in a most un-Austrian fashion and I set to reading my book, ironically “Toujours Provence” by Peter Mayle.
However, and this is where it all becomes relevant I promise, I got no further than the bottom of the first page before I realised that one of the pensioners was talking to me. He was dressed in the way that only men of a certain age can pull off convincingly: white tennis trainers, socks, a pair of well ironed military looking shorts, pale blue shirt, sports jacket and a white flat cap that looked distinctly as though it would be waterproof – think the kind of hat that cricket umpires wear. Men of a certain age in the south of France also have another distinguishing factor, they speak a different language to everyone else, which with its nasal “ing” “eng” “ong” and “ang” sounds is something like a hybrid between French and Cantonese. Fortunately, the word for beer is the same, so I accepted with a grateful nod and smile and watched, bemused, as he retreated to his fellow oldies.
I opened my can of Kronenbourg and turned my page, taking a big gulp and smacking my lips like a peasant in a Stella Artois advert. Then I realised what was wrong. It was just after 9 am, and let me tell you that beer mixed with the aftertaste of Colgate is not great. Somehow, after my year of living France, leaving the country on a coach with drunken pensioners seemed a fitting end. But, if you have to leave France, there are worse places to arrive than Barcelona. Although, within Barcelona there is no worse place to arrive than the bus station, unless you are a crack dealer, in which case you have hit the jackpot.
Fortunately, I had booked a hotel room someway from the station, at Placa de Catalunya to be precise. Through a friend of a friend of the guy who ran the pub football team in Aix I had managed to get a room in an unbelievably posh hotel in the centre of town for 38€. To be honest, to this day I am reluctant to ever go back in case they sting me for the full charge, because I am at a loss as to explain how it was so cheap, even with the help of someone who worked in the travel agency. And for the same reason there is absolutely no chance of me mentioning the hotel’s name within these pages! In a similar fashion to my rather irrational dislike of Italian food, I am not a great fan of hotels. I find the prices most places charge simply beyond comprehension, especially when 90% of the time I spend in a hotel I am asleep. But, there is little I can do to change that unfortunately. However, when you know that in financial terms you have the upper hand, staying in a posh hotel is really quite enjoyable. In total I think I probably spent about 14 hours in the place, but at less than 3€ per hour that is a bargain. I particularly enjoyed the breakfast, with the availability of wine causing particular amusement. I assume the French pensioners must have been staying there too. When my time was up I checked out and caught a taxi to the language school I was due to study at, in order to pick up the keys to my flat, which would become my home for 6 weeks of the summer.
* * *
My trip in 2003 was the third time that I have had the pleasure of spending some time in Spain’s second city, although my previous trips had been for one day and three days respectively, but even on my first visit (on another school trip) at the age of 15 there was something about the city that I liked immediately, and I remember talking to my best mate about it at the time and telling him that one day I would like to come back.
That first trip was interesting to say the least for a number of reasons. Firstly, like I said it was a school trip, but no ordinary trip. It was essentially a trip for members of the orchestra and choir, and it may surprise you to know that I was neither a singer nor a musician. Instead, my best mate Wheels, a girl called Hannah and I managed to blag our way onto the trip by claiming it would have two major benefits. Namely, we could all practice our Spanish (we were in our GCSE year and all studying it) and secondly we would do all the translating. The head of music was a very pleasant and slightly bumbling man by the name of Mr Payne, and he agreed to let us tag along much to our surprise, and so it was that we found ourselves on the coach from the school car park to Barcelona. A journey you would have to pay me a lot of money to repeat might I add, given that it took nigh on thirty hours.
As a little aside I have just realised that my old school seemed to have a bit of a monopoly on interesting names among the staff. We had the aforementioned Mr Akse and Miss Fox, and together with the recently mentioned Mr Payne we also had a history teacher named Mr Bland, a geography teacher called Ms Trotsky, an economics teacher called Mr Hazard, maths was taught by Mr Moon, while Mr Bird taught Biology but Mr Starling taught design, as did Mr Daft, and all of them carried out their duties under the watchful gaze of the deputy head, Mr Sheriff. To be honest it is a wonder I passed any exams at all with all the comedic possibilities on offer
Back to Barcelona, the first thing we noticed when we arrived was that we weren’t actually in Barcelona, but rather a place just along the coast called Castelldefells. This was in 1997, so it was before the days of Ryan Air, but I often wonder if Mr Payne isn’t in charge of route planning over in Dublin these days, planning flights to Vienna (Bratislava) and the like.
The second thing that struck me was that Castelldefells was more or less a one street town, and to put it mildly it seemed fairly quietly, even for April. This was confirmed when we entered the Hotel Bel Air to discover that there was not a single person in the building that spoke English to anything like the level of Manuel in Faulty Towers. Cue the Spanish speakers. It was at about this point that I think Mr Payne realised the error of his ways.
By this stage I had had just about enough revelatory moments for one evening, particularly given how tired I was from the journey, but I soon learnt something else of value. Namely blagging your way onto a school trip under false pretences is one thing, but doing so on an orchestra trip is just plain foolish. As soon as Mr Payne realised that our Spanish was sketchy at best he put us to good use carrying the instruments from the bus into the hotel, and when you have been on a coach for over a day there are more amusing things to do, believe me.
Things soon picked up however, as we redeemed ourselves in the eyes of the other members of staff (who shall remain nameless but feel free to take your pick from the list above) when we found a shop selling booze round the corner from the hotel. This was the kind of Spanish we were good at, and soon half the group were walking back and forth with clinking school bags full of beer. Again, had Mr Payne realised he may have severely regretted letting us come, or at least asked us if he could borrow the bottle opener.
The aim of the trip was for the orchestra and choir to perform at various churches, town squares and museums around the area that we shall politely term “Greater Barcelona”. I am assuming looking back after about 10 years that this was all pre-planned, and the venues had been contacted in advance, but given some of the translation we had to do I have my doubts. I am all for steep learning curves, as my family holiday in Majorca probably confirms, but at the age of 15 with only a passable knowledge of Spanish I think trying to talk my way into a church with 30 expectant, instrument wielding classmates behind me was a little bit too much. In the end we set up shop, or whatever the technical term is, outside the church in a small square, much to Mr Payne’s delight. He was less happy when he realised that Wheels and myself were working the crowd with a collection tin. Anyway the upside of not being in the orchestra or choir was that we had a lot of time to kill during the days, and although most of the places we went to were fairly small and lacking in distractions, at least on the day we finally did make it to Barcelona we were free to roam and explore.
The rest of the group were busily entertaining a handful of bemused museum workers outside the Contemporary art museum, so we made our way over to the centre of town, beginning with the Placa de Catalunya. The square itself is firmly dominated on one side by the rather imposing Corte Ingles shopping centre, which looks a little bit like a slightly out of place Ocean Liner. Incidentally, the name means “The English Cut” which although it sounds like the kind of pub you would find near the docks in Glasgow, actually refers to the cut of our clothes rather than anything sinister. The other sides are home to various department stores, hotels and banks, while in the middle is a square which seems to be the new home to all the pigeons that caused Ken Livingstone so much offence in London. Placa de Catalunya is also the central hub for the underground and busses, as well as being the bus stop for the airport shuttle.
At the time, walking around with my two classmates, I probably didn’t take much of this in to be honest. We were too busy wandering around in wide eyed wonder, gazing up at the towering buildings, fighting our way through crowds of people and generally feeling a little bit lost and out of place. This is not to say that Barcelona is overcrowded, or that the centre is overrun with high rise buildings, the main issue is that until the day we stepped off the bus in Barcelona with a handful of pesetas in our pocket and strict orders to be back on the bus by 4pm, I had never been to a proper city before. And by proper I mean a place with over a million people, a place with an underground system, a place with huge cathedrals and sweeping boulevards, in short, I had never before been anywhere like Barcelona.
I come from a small village about 6 miles from Bradford originally, so my first trip to a big city was always likely to leave an impression. Of course I had been into Bradford and Leeds before, but when I was growing up “going into town” was a bit of an event. Not quite in the same league as going to the airport, but almost. One of the reasons was that back then, and yes I realise that makes me sound old and nostalgic, the only reason to go into Bradford or Leeds was to buy something big. Most things could be bought locally, especially food and household items. But a trip to town usually meant a new appliance of some kind, or a carpet, or sofa or something equally exciting – I was young at the time remember. It is also fair to say that despite having many of the characteristics of a big city, Bradford just doesn’t quite match up to most places I have been to since unfortunately. So, Barcelona was a bit of a shock to the system to be honest, but in a positive way of course.
While unfortunately my recollections of the Placa Catalunya come from a later visit, one thing I do remember from my school trip is the single most striking building I have ever seen. We had made our way back to the bus on time, and thought we would be heading straight back to the Hotel before the entrance was blocked with tumbleweeds, but evidently one of the teachers had a little bit of personal sight seeing in mind, as the bus began to head into town, rather than out towards the coast.
We drove around for maybe half an hour or so, evidently lost in the grid like street layout of the city. Then something magical happened, we turned a corner, heard a yelp of delight from the front of the bus, and gawped out of the windows and the sight before us: La Sagrada Familia.
The Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Familia, to use its Sunday name, is by far and away the most famous building in Barcelona, if not Spain. Each year millions of tourists visit the city with the Sagrada Familia at the top of their “to do” lists, making it the most visited tourist attraction in Spain, and each time I have been back to Barcelona since it is the first place I go. I admit that for someone who is fairly sceptical of all things religious that may sound strange, and indeed I seem to have spent a large part of my travels visiting religious buildings and monuments. For the most part, these visits are more through obligation than choice; spend a day in Cologne, Vienna or Milan and I promise you will see the cathedral whether you want to or not. But La Sagrada Familia is a little bit different, and although I promised not to harp on about churches and cathedrals please indulge me for a few minutes.
The first difference is rather obvious when you arrive, and indeed, is one of the reasons why it is so famous in the first place. You see, and I believe I mentioned this earlier, la Sagrada Familia is very much “under construction”. To a certain degree the exterior is more or less complete, in that two of the three external façades are now in place, with work underway on the third. However, inside, at least when I last went in 2003, is simply a collection of wooden planks, scaffolding and workers on a tea break.
The second difference is that unlike in Milan or Florence, La Sagrada Familia is not in the centre of town in the middle of a grand square, but rather a little bit out of town in the l’Eixample district (The Extension in English), and aside from a small square in front of the main entrance, the rest of the building is surrounded by roads, banks, shops and flats. I am sure that every property owner in the district is waiting patiently for completion date when the house prices in the area will probably explode. The cramped nature of the area adds something to the attraction for me, it really makes you look at the cathedral, and also gives a sense of perspective that is lacking in Cologne or Milan, where the backdrop is endless, and the impact reduced. Similarly it also adds to the feeling that the building is somehow growing out of the ground, which I will come back to shortly.
The third major difference of course is the style of the building. Most cathedrals in Europe owe a heavy debt to gothic influences, as most were begun in the Middle Ages and completed in the 18th and 19th centuries, when the Catholic Church was particularly strong. La Sagrada Familia on the other hand is one of the most striking buildings in the world, religious or otherwise, and the reason for this is a certain man by the name of Antoni Plàcid Guillem Gaudí i Cornet, who thankfully is more commonly known as Antonio Gaudi. Gaudi was a fully committed and paid up member of the Modernist-Art Nouveau movement, and there is some speculation that the English term “gaudy” stems from his name. Don’t let that put you off though, even if Modernism is not your thing, a visit to see Gaudi’s masterpiece is a must. I realise I sound like a tourist guide there, so let me explain a bit more about old Antonio and why I could visit the Sagrada Familia each and every year for the rest of my life without wanting it to ever be completed.
Gaudi was, according to the man who awarded him his diploma as an architect, either “a nut or a genius, only time will tell”. When you first see some of his work it is hard to disagree. In all walks of life there is a fine line between genius and insanity, but when it comes to architecture, and creating buildings that are intended to last for centuries it is difficult to know where the line is. Tastes and styles change, and architecture like all forms of art is very subjective, but whether Gaudi is remembered as a nutter or genius is entirely irrelevant. I don’t like all of his work, and find some of it frankly ludicrous, but like it or loathe it La Sagrada Familia, with its contrasting façades and unique style, is a remarkable building.
As part of his rejection of classical styles and techniques Gaudi took great inspiration from nature, and the way animals and plants grew and supported their weight, and rejected more tradition geometric designs and structures. This is immediately evident when standing in front of the “nativity” façade, which gives the impression of a building stretching and straining to reach the skies, with its uneven lines and curves almost suggesting that the building is growing skywards. Of course almost all churches and cathedrals aim this way, with towers and spires mimicking proximity to the heavens, but Gaudi was nicknamed “God’s Architect” for a reason. Again the effect is helped by the location, it is difficult to view the building in full from more than about 50 metres in most places.
Gaudi was a very devout catholic by all accounts, and devoted the last 15 years of his life entirely to this project, and although it is easy to see that he rejected classical designs and traditions in building La Sagrada Familia, the building itself has lost none of the religious symbolism as a result. Indeed, the three principal façades, The Nativity, The Passion and The Glory, each tell the story of a different phase of the life of Jesus through intricate carvings and statues, in the same way that traditionally this was done on stained glass windows or through interior artwork. The façades also represent various virtues associated with Catholicism, again underlining the architect’s beliefs. A total of 18 towers are also planned, with four atop each façade representing the 12 apostles, and a further six across the span of the roof.
Work on the building began in 1882, Gaudi was 30 at the time, and already involved in various other projects throughout the city. Over the next 25 years or so work progressed gradually on the building, but various events in Gaudi’s life led him to stop working on what he saw as “secular” architecture and concentrate instead on what he saw as his most valuable work. Cathedrals, given their size and intricate detailing, take a while to build. In fact, that is a little bit of an understatement, Cologne cathedral took 650 years for example. La Sagrada Familia is scheduled to be completed in 2026, the 100th anniversary of Gaudi’s death, but as with all such projects that date is likely to change. It is particularly hard to imagine that this deadline will be met when you see the building as it is today, and I always used to believe that it would be never be finished in my lifetime, and this used to make me feel slightly annoyed that I would never see the completed work. But now part of me doesn’t want the builders to ever finish, for each time I see it something has changed, something has been added, or the plans have been altered slightly, and this just adds to the feeling that the building is growing under its own volition, which suits me just fine. Gaudi was once asked if he was worried about the length of construction (in total he worked on it for 40 years before his death), to which he replied “my client is in no hurry”. Well, in that case, neither am I.
There is a lot more to Barcelona than the works of Antonio Gaudi, but his imprint can be seen throughout the city, be it the buildings he designed or the park he built overlooking the city – the view is the worth the journey alone. All of his work is worth a visit, if only to try to gain some kind of overview of his work and style. But for now I will leave Gaudi behind and get back to talking about other things, in fact, suggestions are welcome at tdjcblog@gmail.com
Adios
It is just not the same is it? Somehow, like with their understated elegance when it comes to clothing, the French seem to be able to pull off being drunk with a faint air of sophistication. I don’t mean they all stagger around waving cigarette holders and eating foie gras instead of kebabs, but even when blind drunk a French person can still explain fairly clearly the failings of the French Communist Party in the late Seventies and their resulting decline throughout the Eighties. And the thing is, whereas the Brits, and to a certain degree the Germans and Austrians, save their drinking for a Friday night, the French are at it at all hours. A beer before lunch in a street café, a couple of glasses of red to go with the Magret de Canard at lunchtime, a Martini or glass of Rosé for the aperitif before eating, then maybe glass of white or two with dinner. Obviously this isn’t what everyone does, and certainly not daily, but it isn’t as much of an exaggeration as you might think. In fact I once went for a meal in France where instead of being confused by the cutlery, as is the norm, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of glasses placed before me – champagne as the aperitif, rosé to go with my salade de crevettes, a nice drop of red for the steak, a desert wine to accompany the pineapple carpaccio and a glass of wonderful Finnish vodka to ease the digestive process before going back to the office. I’m joking of course; it was a Friday evening, but still.
Then of course, in the south of France, where I spent a year at University, more or less every meal, appointment, conversation or hour of sunlight is accompanied by a glass of Pastis, the local aniseed based tipple. All of which, in the most round about way possible of course, brings me to my next topic: Barcelona.
Towards the end of my year in Aix en Provence I did a little bit of translation work and managed to get a little bit of money together, enough in fact to see me through the summer. So rather than head back to Blighty to what I imagined would be a miserable summer of rained off games of cricket and poverty, I enrolled on a 6-week Spanish course in Barcelona. Anyone with a little bit about them would of course have realised that in Barcelona the language of choice is Catalan not Castellan Spanish. However, my budget wouldn’t have got me much further, and there is a direct bus from Marseille, so decision made.
I left Aix in early July if memory serves, slap bang in the middle of what would become the hottest summer in Europe for thousands of years or something ridiculous. Had I known that at the time I probably would have booked the first flight north, but instead I carried on south. After taking the train to Marseille I boarded a coach to Barcelona with all my worldly possessions in a rucksack. I was joined on the coach by a woman in her early twenties, and a group of about 8 pensioners. We spread out on the bus in a most un-Austrian fashion and I set to reading my book, ironically “Toujours Provence” by Peter Mayle.
However, and this is where it all becomes relevant I promise, I got no further than the bottom of the first page before I realised that one of the pensioners was talking to me. He was dressed in the way that only men of a certain age can pull off convincingly: white tennis trainers, socks, a pair of well ironed military looking shorts, pale blue shirt, sports jacket and a white flat cap that looked distinctly as though it would be waterproof – think the kind of hat that cricket umpires wear. Men of a certain age in the south of France also have another distinguishing factor, they speak a different language to everyone else, which with its nasal “ing” “eng” “ong” and “ang” sounds is something like a hybrid between French and Cantonese. Fortunately, the word for beer is the same, so I accepted with a grateful nod and smile and watched, bemused, as he retreated to his fellow oldies.
I opened my can of Kronenbourg and turned my page, taking a big gulp and smacking my lips like a peasant in a Stella Artois advert. Then I realised what was wrong. It was just after 9 am, and let me tell you that beer mixed with the aftertaste of Colgate is not great. Somehow, after my year of living France, leaving the country on a coach with drunken pensioners seemed a fitting end. But, if you have to leave France, there are worse places to arrive than Barcelona. Although, within Barcelona there is no worse place to arrive than the bus station, unless you are a crack dealer, in which case you have hit the jackpot.
Fortunately, I had booked a hotel room someway from the station, at Placa de Catalunya to be precise. Through a friend of a friend of the guy who ran the pub football team in Aix I had managed to get a room in an unbelievably posh hotel in the centre of town for 38€. To be honest, to this day I am reluctant to ever go back in case they sting me for the full charge, because I am at a loss as to explain how it was so cheap, even with the help of someone who worked in the travel agency. And for the same reason there is absolutely no chance of me mentioning the hotel’s name within these pages! In a similar fashion to my rather irrational dislike of Italian food, I am not a great fan of hotels. I find the prices most places charge simply beyond comprehension, especially when 90% of the time I spend in a hotel I am asleep. But, there is little I can do to change that unfortunately. However, when you know that in financial terms you have the upper hand, staying in a posh hotel is really quite enjoyable. In total I think I probably spent about 14 hours in the place, but at less than 3€ per hour that is a bargain. I particularly enjoyed the breakfast, with the availability of wine causing particular amusement. I assume the French pensioners must have been staying there too. When my time was up I checked out and caught a taxi to the language school I was due to study at, in order to pick up the keys to my flat, which would become my home for 6 weeks of the summer.
* * *
My trip in 2003 was the third time that I have had the pleasure of spending some time in Spain’s second city, although my previous trips had been for one day and three days respectively, but even on my first visit (on another school trip) at the age of 15 there was something about the city that I liked immediately, and I remember talking to my best mate about it at the time and telling him that one day I would like to come back.
That first trip was interesting to say the least for a number of reasons. Firstly, like I said it was a school trip, but no ordinary trip. It was essentially a trip for members of the orchestra and choir, and it may surprise you to know that I was neither a singer nor a musician. Instead, my best mate Wheels, a girl called Hannah and I managed to blag our way onto the trip by claiming it would have two major benefits. Namely, we could all practice our Spanish (we were in our GCSE year and all studying it) and secondly we would do all the translating. The head of music was a very pleasant and slightly bumbling man by the name of Mr Payne, and he agreed to let us tag along much to our surprise, and so it was that we found ourselves on the coach from the school car park to Barcelona. A journey you would have to pay me a lot of money to repeat might I add, given that it took nigh on thirty hours.
As a little aside I have just realised that my old school seemed to have a bit of a monopoly on interesting names among the staff. We had the aforementioned Mr Akse and Miss Fox, and together with the recently mentioned Mr Payne we also had a history teacher named Mr Bland, a geography teacher called Ms Trotsky, an economics teacher called Mr Hazard, maths was taught by Mr Moon, while Mr Bird taught Biology but Mr Starling taught design, as did Mr Daft, and all of them carried out their duties under the watchful gaze of the deputy head, Mr Sheriff. To be honest it is a wonder I passed any exams at all with all the comedic possibilities on offer
Back to Barcelona, the first thing we noticed when we arrived was that we weren’t actually in Barcelona, but rather a place just along the coast called Castelldefells. This was in 1997, so it was before the days of Ryan Air, but I often wonder if Mr Payne isn’t in charge of route planning over in Dublin these days, planning flights to Vienna (Bratislava) and the like.
The second thing that struck me was that Castelldefells was more or less a one street town, and to put it mildly it seemed fairly quietly, even for April. This was confirmed when we entered the Hotel Bel Air to discover that there was not a single person in the building that spoke English to anything like the level of Manuel in Faulty Towers. Cue the Spanish speakers. It was at about this point that I think Mr Payne realised the error of his ways.
By this stage I had had just about enough revelatory moments for one evening, particularly given how tired I was from the journey, but I soon learnt something else of value. Namely blagging your way onto a school trip under false pretences is one thing, but doing so on an orchestra trip is just plain foolish. As soon as Mr Payne realised that our Spanish was sketchy at best he put us to good use carrying the instruments from the bus into the hotel, and when you have been on a coach for over a day there are more amusing things to do, believe me.
Things soon picked up however, as we redeemed ourselves in the eyes of the other members of staff (who shall remain nameless but feel free to take your pick from the list above) when we found a shop selling booze round the corner from the hotel. This was the kind of Spanish we were good at, and soon half the group were walking back and forth with clinking school bags full of beer. Again, had Mr Payne realised he may have severely regretted letting us come, or at least asked us if he could borrow the bottle opener.
The aim of the trip was for the orchestra and choir to perform at various churches, town squares and museums around the area that we shall politely term “Greater Barcelona”. I am assuming looking back after about 10 years that this was all pre-planned, and the venues had been contacted in advance, but given some of the translation we had to do I have my doubts. I am all for steep learning curves, as my family holiday in Majorca probably confirms, but at the age of 15 with only a passable knowledge of Spanish I think trying to talk my way into a church with 30 expectant, instrument wielding classmates behind me was a little bit too much. In the end we set up shop, or whatever the technical term is, outside the church in a small square, much to Mr Payne’s delight. He was less happy when he realised that Wheels and myself were working the crowd with a collection tin. Anyway the upside of not being in the orchestra or choir was that we had a lot of time to kill during the days, and although most of the places we went to were fairly small and lacking in distractions, at least on the day we finally did make it to Barcelona we were free to roam and explore.
The rest of the group were busily entertaining a handful of bemused museum workers outside the Contemporary art museum, so we made our way over to the centre of town, beginning with the Placa de Catalunya. The square itself is firmly dominated on one side by the rather imposing Corte Ingles shopping centre, which looks a little bit like a slightly out of place Ocean Liner. Incidentally, the name means “The English Cut” which although it sounds like the kind of pub you would find near the docks in Glasgow, actually refers to the cut of our clothes rather than anything sinister. The other sides are home to various department stores, hotels and banks, while in the middle is a square which seems to be the new home to all the pigeons that caused Ken Livingstone so much offence in London. Placa de Catalunya is also the central hub for the underground and busses, as well as being the bus stop for the airport shuttle.
At the time, walking around with my two classmates, I probably didn’t take much of this in to be honest. We were too busy wandering around in wide eyed wonder, gazing up at the towering buildings, fighting our way through crowds of people and generally feeling a little bit lost and out of place. This is not to say that Barcelona is overcrowded, or that the centre is overrun with high rise buildings, the main issue is that until the day we stepped off the bus in Barcelona with a handful of pesetas in our pocket and strict orders to be back on the bus by 4pm, I had never been to a proper city before. And by proper I mean a place with over a million people, a place with an underground system, a place with huge cathedrals and sweeping boulevards, in short, I had never before been anywhere like Barcelona.
I come from a small village about 6 miles from Bradford originally, so my first trip to a big city was always likely to leave an impression. Of course I had been into Bradford and Leeds before, but when I was growing up “going into town” was a bit of an event. Not quite in the same league as going to the airport, but almost. One of the reasons was that back then, and yes I realise that makes me sound old and nostalgic, the only reason to go into Bradford or Leeds was to buy something big. Most things could be bought locally, especially food and household items. But a trip to town usually meant a new appliance of some kind, or a carpet, or sofa or something equally exciting – I was young at the time remember. It is also fair to say that despite having many of the characteristics of a big city, Bradford just doesn’t quite match up to most places I have been to since unfortunately. So, Barcelona was a bit of a shock to the system to be honest, but in a positive way of course.
While unfortunately my recollections of the Placa Catalunya come from a later visit, one thing I do remember from my school trip is the single most striking building I have ever seen. We had made our way back to the bus on time, and thought we would be heading straight back to the Hotel before the entrance was blocked with tumbleweeds, but evidently one of the teachers had a little bit of personal sight seeing in mind, as the bus began to head into town, rather than out towards the coast.
We drove around for maybe half an hour or so, evidently lost in the grid like street layout of the city. Then something magical happened, we turned a corner, heard a yelp of delight from the front of the bus, and gawped out of the windows and the sight before us: La Sagrada Familia.
The Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Familia, to use its Sunday name, is by far and away the most famous building in Barcelona, if not Spain. Each year millions of tourists visit the city with the Sagrada Familia at the top of their “to do” lists, making it the most visited tourist attraction in Spain, and each time I have been back to Barcelona since it is the first place I go. I admit that for someone who is fairly sceptical of all things religious that may sound strange, and indeed I seem to have spent a large part of my travels visiting religious buildings and monuments. For the most part, these visits are more through obligation than choice; spend a day in Cologne, Vienna or Milan and I promise you will see the cathedral whether you want to or not. But La Sagrada Familia is a little bit different, and although I promised not to harp on about churches and cathedrals please indulge me for a few minutes.
The first difference is rather obvious when you arrive, and indeed, is one of the reasons why it is so famous in the first place. You see, and I believe I mentioned this earlier, la Sagrada Familia is very much “under construction”. To a certain degree the exterior is more or less complete, in that two of the three external façades are now in place, with work underway on the third. However, inside, at least when I last went in 2003, is simply a collection of wooden planks, scaffolding and workers on a tea break.
The second difference is that unlike in Milan or Florence, La Sagrada Familia is not in the centre of town in the middle of a grand square, but rather a little bit out of town in the l’Eixample district (The Extension in English), and aside from a small square in front of the main entrance, the rest of the building is surrounded by roads, banks, shops and flats. I am sure that every property owner in the district is waiting patiently for completion date when the house prices in the area will probably explode. The cramped nature of the area adds something to the attraction for me, it really makes you look at the cathedral, and also gives a sense of perspective that is lacking in Cologne or Milan, where the backdrop is endless, and the impact reduced. Similarly it also adds to the feeling that the building is somehow growing out of the ground, which I will come back to shortly.
The third major difference of course is the style of the building. Most cathedrals in Europe owe a heavy debt to gothic influences, as most were begun in the Middle Ages and completed in the 18th and 19th centuries, when the Catholic Church was particularly strong. La Sagrada Familia on the other hand is one of the most striking buildings in the world, religious or otherwise, and the reason for this is a certain man by the name of Antoni Plàcid Guillem Gaudí i Cornet, who thankfully is more commonly known as Antonio Gaudi. Gaudi was a fully committed and paid up member of the Modernist-Art Nouveau movement, and there is some speculation that the English term “gaudy” stems from his name. Don’t let that put you off though, even if Modernism is not your thing, a visit to see Gaudi’s masterpiece is a must. I realise I sound like a tourist guide there, so let me explain a bit more about old Antonio and why I could visit the Sagrada Familia each and every year for the rest of my life without wanting it to ever be completed.
Gaudi was, according to the man who awarded him his diploma as an architect, either “a nut or a genius, only time will tell”. When you first see some of his work it is hard to disagree. In all walks of life there is a fine line between genius and insanity, but when it comes to architecture, and creating buildings that are intended to last for centuries it is difficult to know where the line is. Tastes and styles change, and architecture like all forms of art is very subjective, but whether Gaudi is remembered as a nutter or genius is entirely irrelevant. I don’t like all of his work, and find some of it frankly ludicrous, but like it or loathe it La Sagrada Familia, with its contrasting façades and unique style, is a remarkable building.
As part of his rejection of classical styles and techniques Gaudi took great inspiration from nature, and the way animals and plants grew and supported their weight, and rejected more tradition geometric designs and structures. This is immediately evident when standing in front of the “nativity” façade, which gives the impression of a building stretching and straining to reach the skies, with its uneven lines and curves almost suggesting that the building is growing skywards. Of course almost all churches and cathedrals aim this way, with towers and spires mimicking proximity to the heavens, but Gaudi was nicknamed “God’s Architect” for a reason. Again the effect is helped by the location, it is difficult to view the building in full from more than about 50 metres in most places.
Gaudi was a very devout catholic by all accounts, and devoted the last 15 years of his life entirely to this project, and although it is easy to see that he rejected classical designs and traditions in building La Sagrada Familia, the building itself has lost none of the religious symbolism as a result. Indeed, the three principal façades, The Nativity, The Passion and The Glory, each tell the story of a different phase of the life of Jesus through intricate carvings and statues, in the same way that traditionally this was done on stained glass windows or through interior artwork. The façades also represent various virtues associated with Catholicism, again underlining the architect’s beliefs. A total of 18 towers are also planned, with four atop each façade representing the 12 apostles, and a further six across the span of the roof.
Work on the building began in 1882, Gaudi was 30 at the time, and already involved in various other projects throughout the city. Over the next 25 years or so work progressed gradually on the building, but various events in Gaudi’s life led him to stop working on what he saw as “secular” architecture and concentrate instead on what he saw as his most valuable work. Cathedrals, given their size and intricate detailing, take a while to build. In fact, that is a little bit of an understatement, Cologne cathedral took 650 years for example. La Sagrada Familia is scheduled to be completed in 2026, the 100th anniversary of Gaudi’s death, but as with all such projects that date is likely to change. It is particularly hard to imagine that this deadline will be met when you see the building as it is today, and I always used to believe that it would be never be finished in my lifetime, and this used to make me feel slightly annoyed that I would never see the completed work. But now part of me doesn’t want the builders to ever finish, for each time I see it something has changed, something has been added, or the plans have been altered slightly, and this just adds to the feeling that the building is growing under its own volition, which suits me just fine. Gaudi was once asked if he was worried about the length of construction (in total he worked on it for 40 years before his death), to which he replied “my client is in no hurry”. Well, in that case, neither am I.
There is a lot more to Barcelona than the works of Antonio Gaudi, but his imprint can be seen throughout the city, be it the buildings he designed or the park he built overlooking the city – the view is the worth the journey alone. All of his work is worth a visit, if only to try to gain some kind of overview of his work and style. But for now I will leave Gaudi behind and get back to talking about other things, in fact, suggestions are welcome at tdjcblog@gmail.com
Adios
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