Globe Corner Blogs

If I didn’t know better, I would have said that we were in an entirely different country.  Had the train ride been just a little bit longer and the Catalan spoken here a little bit less distinctive, it would have been easy to make that mistake.  Two days ago, when I went into the train station, I was surrounded by hay fields and barnyard animals (consisting of chickens, ducks, peacocks, and a horse).  When I got out of the train an hour later I found that the hay fields had turned into skyscrapers and the animals into a population of nearly two million people.

Two days ago we took the train from the small town of Flaça into Barcelona.  The common link between the two, more than anything else, seems to be their language.  Everything else–size, shape, lifestyle, food, pace, density, you name it–could not be more different.  But despite all of their differences, it is quite clear even to the tourist that the two places are linked.  This unity, I learned, dates back to the earlier parts of the 20th century, when Franco was the ruling dictator of Spain.  Wishing to crush any Catalonian sense of independence he officially abolished their unique language and enforced his ruling with marked brutality.  Naturally, his strict laws had the exact opposite that he intended.  The Catalan language became a way to show regional pride and rebuke the harsh dictator.  Following Franco’s demise, Catalan became the required language of everything–from schools to politics to cereal boxes.  Spanish was not allowed to be spoken for more than two hours a week in schools.

Although the regional independence isn’t expressed in such an extreme fashion today, the unity formed during the Franco years still remains.  People from this region (which occupies the northeast corner of the country) seem to consider themselves Catalonians first and Spanish second.  During our stay in Teredelles we happened to meet the director of the main Catalan public TV station, which is the most popular channel in all of Catalonia.  She told us that the movement for Catalan independence remained stubbornly strong even today.  During our time in Barcelona we witnessed one pro-Catalonia protest first-hand, with hundreds of ralliers thronging the streets, banging drums, waving signs, and chanting.

We arrived in Barcelona in the afternoon, having spent the morning of that day visiting some friends at their house in coastal Begur.  A short drive away from the farm house where we had been staying, Begur is a beautiful town built upon the steep hills that line the coast.  After having lunch on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean we went for an afternoon swim in the salty sea.  Although the sun was hidden behind clouds and the water was more than a little chilly, I still had a lot of fun.  Reading the local Spanish newspaper and listening to the calls of the coconut and pineapple vendors, it was hard not to have a good time.

On our way back to the train station we made a quick stop at Pals, a town that was once the site of a 9th century Roman fort.  Abandoned for hundreds of years, the old Roman fortress is now inhabited by a few people who discovered that the old stone walls provided a great source of building material.  By now most of the fort has now been restored, and today it is a really cool village/fortress that I would highly recommend anyone explore.

From there, we went directly to the train station and a few short hours later we emerged in the heart of Barcelona.

Now, ironic as it may seem, up to now I generally haven’t been a big fan of guidebooks.  When I travel I like to do things, to be engaged–not read books or go to museums.  At least, that’s what I thought when I set out on this trip.  In the past, it always seemed as though every exceptionally boring activity accomplished during a trip was prescribed directly from the guidebook.  I remember this happening once when we were in the countryside in France.  I was ten years old at the time.  We were in the car, and my mom was in the front, hunched over the guidebook.  “Well, it says here that this park has six different types of wild grasses,” she announced, fascinated.  “We should go see it!”

A groan would come from the three kids crammed in the backseat, because we knew that once again we would be in for a long car ride that would, inevitably, end with us being hopelessly lost.  In such situations my dad would reach a rotary, and, having no idea which exit to take, continue to circle it as my mom distractedly shouted contradictory directions from the passenger’s seat while frantically fumbling with the map.  Around and around we would go.  We circled more rotaries on that vacation than most people do in a lifetime.

The alternative, however, was hardly better, if at all.  If we got lucky and actually made it to our destination, we children would have no choice but to stand by, bored out of our minds, as our parents examined the rare vegetation.  Usually there was even a waiting line, consisting of the many other tourists who were following similar guidebook instructions.  When I think of the best parts of our family vacation to France I think of swimming in the pool and playing ping-pong, chasing the other kids around and munching on chocolate croissant every morning for breakfast.  Those parts were a lot of fun.  They were also, I now realize, hardly French–with the exception of the croissant, of course, although I’m pretty sure that I was far more excited to have chocolate for breakfast than I was actually interested in the native food.  Of the many guidebook-directed tours of parks, vineyards, museums, wineries, and chateaus that I endured on that vacation, most have faded together in my memory and lost their cultural significance.

Perhaps it was because of that experience that I had learned to associate guide books with uninteresting, touristy travel.  But upon arrival in Barcelona, as I attempted to adjust to the urban environment, I found that the three guidebooks we had brought with us could not have been more useful.  They told us where to go and what to do–and although a fair portion of our time was spent in museums, I found they were actually interesting this time.  Who knew that Pablo Picasso used to be known as Ruiz Blasco, before changing his name?  Or that he could create perfectly realistic paintings as a nine-year-old, before growing up and making the famously bizarre, artsy works that made him so renowned?  Call me artistically ignorant, but I didn’t, and I found it all very interesting.  I guess that being a little older has its benefits.  If I were ten years old, as I was in France, I probably would have preferred to have gotten lost instead.

We also spent a good amount of time exploring the city from other points of view.  We wandered the streets, gawked at Gaudi architecture, ate the “best ham and cheese sandwich in the world” (according to a New York Times food review), walked around Camp Nou (the famous Barcelona FC stadium), and watched the Tour de France as it came through the city.  Actually, one doesn’t “watch” the Tour de France–one participates in it.  The 90 second portion of the race that we saw was preceded by 3-plus hours of festivities.  Giant sponsorship cars and buses came down the street, throwing T-shirts, hats, balloons, noise-makers, and other plastic-wrapped freebies into the crowd (I ended up with a hat and a key chain).  Helicopters circled overhead.  Camera crews rolled past us.  The crowd loved it, and even the steady rain couldn’t dampen the electric atmosphere.  It was good note to end on.

Read more: Barcelona, Spain, Touring with the Parents, Travel, Western Europe


Adam

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