Saturday, October 3, 2015 - Salvador Dalί

Rising late, we realize that we’ve missed our 9:23 train to Figueres. Oh well. Vacationers do sleep in. We have a leisurely breakfast and then descend to the Metro at Clot. We must take the purple line to Sagrada Familia and transfer to the blue line which will take us to Sants Estació. But luck deserts us. A broken ascensor at Sagrada Familia forces us back onto the purple line for one more station. We disembark, ride an elevator up, walk across the bridge over tracks, ride another ascensor down and take the purple line back to Sagrada Familia, this time exiting on the other side, which has a working ascensor. Elevators govern more of our life than we care to admit.

The blue line indeed takes us to Sants Estació. We walk up to the ticket purchase window to discover when the next train leaves. The RENFE employees take one look at the wheelchair and explain that I must always be half an hour early so that they can load me onto the train. Had we jumped up and run this morning, we still would have missed the early train! We buy tickets for the 1 o’clock train, contact the disability people and wait. Sants Estació seems huge to me. Keith reminds me that France has far larger stations, especially in Paris, but as I could walk then, Gare du Nord seemed smaller and far less intimidating. Keith, ever the content bear, buys some gross train quasi-food, which he eats happily while we wait.

Later we see the helpful disability people in every train station. Using keys and secret lifts, they push me to the correct platform. Every platform has a boxed lift. Most trains require ascending three steep steps to board. When our train arrives, the RENFE people unlock the secret lift, attach a battery to it and push the lift to the train door of whichever car our tickets specify. They set one end of the machine on top of the steps. They wheel me on to the lift, push a button and up I go. Once on the train, I work with Keith to very slowly and haltingly march to our seats. If fortune smiles upon us, we sit near the door; if not, we walk.

On the way out of town, we see every available surface splayed with graffiti, much of it in English. I find this very odd. Why would you go to all of this effort to say something in a foreign language? Maybe the Brazilian women we met at the airport were right and perhaps everyone secretly really does speak English.

All RENFE seats lean back, some looney tune’s idea of comfort. Since I always want to sit up straight, I do, so that I can read my book. But the train moves from side to side as it travels the tracks to Figueres. I feel like I’m on Kenda’s (my Physical Therapist’s) Proprio machine, doing my best to balance as the seat moves side to side and back and forth. Am I in Spain or merely engaging in one endless PT exercise?

An hour later, the bullet train delivers us to the Figueres station. The train continues to France, but without us. We follow signs, walk for 15 minutes and enter the Dalί Museum. Due to a lack of accessibility, we enter gratis as a cripple and her pusher. Not everything is more accessible in Spain! Old buildings remain old buildings. And we get a discount, something I never encounter in the States. As I’ve said before, the Europeans think about how all will see the sights.

Nonetheless, we carry on. We begin with the courtyard which holds Dalί’s 1941 Cadillac with a larger than life sculpture of his muse/girlfriend/wife Gala on the car’s hood. Each high alcove in the courtyard contains sculptures resembling life-size Oscar statues. The courtyard also holds a strange ship dripping with blue glass bottles. Behind the ship, up higher on the walls, Dalί affixed dozens of sinks.

Using the sole ramp, we enter the theatre museum proper just as rain begins to fall. Spain’s civil war destroyed the original theatre, the first place to show Dalί’s work. Unlike everyone else, Dalί got along with Franco. Dalί rebuilt the theatre, saying he would put Figueres on the tourist map. Dalί proved correct; numerous people visit the museum taking the train from Barcelona.

I can only easily access the main theatre room, but what a room it is! Dalί painted his version of the Sistine Chapel on the ceiling, portraying him and Gala creating the world. Dalί put stuff everywhere! Every place I look I see something new. One alcove contains a statue of Neptune with an octopus swimming above.

Keith, like our son Bloodroot, doesn’t believe in handicap inaccessibility. Keith wheels me up a short flight of stairs into a room filled with Dalί’s paintings. Dalί mastered a million different styles, but spent most of his time in surrealism.

Keith wanders about the museum thoroughly enjoying it, while I sit in the theatre room captivated by each new item I find.

Dalί was definitely insane. His muse Gala really kept him in line. Dalί was very into art in the theater of art. He grew his signature mustache to match Velasquez’s moustache, then went further, ever seeking the absurd.

We enter the gift shop. Keith, despite his the anti-souvenir Nazi bear stance (no more coffee cups or magnets!), succumbs to temptation. He buys a melting clock to take home. I finally understand his position; we can only buy expensive souvenirs.

The rain stops. Dalί has left us hungry so we catch a late lunch outside the museum. The restaurant features bad tourist food. Would it be any better in the States? No! When I’m away from home, oh how I miss the Sysco truck (sarcasm NOT!). Accompanying the horrible American-style food, we groan under the horror of even worse American-style music. As we eat, the shit hits of the 1970s assault our ears, including the likes of Journey, Queen, Billy Joel and Toto. I’m so glad I traveled to a different continent to hear the same atrocious Nuremburg-worthy music. I work very hard at singing other songs to myself so that none of the horrid songs will earworm their way into my brain. Despite serious trying, even this place fails to dampen our spirits or crush our souls.

Following a delightful day of Dalί, we return to Barcelona. We exit Sants Estació. Crossing the street, we walk over to the ascensor for the Metro and find it broken. I’ve learned the Spanish for this “El ascensor no va.” Despite speaking directly to others attempting to use the lift, no one listens to me proudly state this. We walk a few blocks to the next ascensor, finding it broken too. Puzzled, we walk to a third. Every elevator in the city appears to be shut down. We ask a local woman for help telling her all the ascensores are broken. “Then there’s no hope for it,” she says. “You must get a taxi. I will help you.” She walks a few feet out into the busy street, puts her arm up and shouts, “Taxi!” One stops immediately. I get into the front seat, while the driver and Keith disassemble Bird and put her in the trunk. The taxi drops us off in front of our flat.

We go out for tapas again. Although very tired of ham, we stop at ham store and buy some different varieties for breakfast. We watch the people cut up ham. Taking various pork legs down from the wall display, the employees clamp the pork legs securely into special wooden carving stands. With their sharp knives they cut paper thin meat slices. We buy 100 grams.

We feel like locals when we buy ham and bread and cheese. We throw in a tomato now and again, and other vegetables. We often eat at the same tapas place, Gent del Barri.

Wine is quite inexpensive in Spain, one or two euros a glass.  If you buy food and cook it’s amazing how cheap your vacation becomes.

Friday, October 2, 2015 Pablo Picasso, When He Was Young

Day one in Spain! Our first assignment, call and cancel the power chair rental. People advertising lodging fudge on wheelchair accessibility. We find them far too lazy to get up off their butts and measure their elevators, even if you send them the exact dimensions of your wheelchair in centimeters accompanied by a polite measurement request in Spanish. We have to collapse Bird’s front feet to get her in the elevator. So much for the power chair pipedream!

Our Airbnb host emails us, reaffirming that we don’t owe any money. With that settled, we can begin today’s adventures.

Today marks our first journey on the Barcelona Metro. The automated ticket machines only accept credit cards using the chip & pin system common everywhere except the States. The machine rejects my card. Fortunately, Keith, ever the prepared Bear, studied up on this and has his new Visa card with a chip, for which he’s even memorized the pin. He buys our tickets.

We have a wonderful map of Barcelona’s accessible Metro stops. The accessible ones have a little wheelchair next to them while the inaccessible ones have a skull and cross bones like a pirate flag. Elevators or in Spanish ascensores (which Keith quickly names ascenders) permit accessibility, while stops labelled with the skull and cross bones have “annoying stairs.”

As confused yet hopeful old people, maps can be a bit of a challenge! The closest subway stop to our apartment, Clot, has both a wheelchair and a skull & crossbones. Huh? WTF? We find the street-level ascensor and descend. We soon learn that the purple line is indeed accessible via Clot, but the red line, the one we need, correctly bears the non-accessible skull and crossbones. A kindly Metro employee shows us that the purple and red lines cross again at University. Thus educated, we ride the purple line six stops west to University, transfer onto the red line and ride three stops back east to Arc de Triomphe.

Exiting in El Born, we walk to the Pablo Picasso Museum. Reserving online, ahead of time, I purchased something called an Articket BCN. Paying ahead gives you discounted admissions to three of the museums we wish to see. We turn in our vouchers and receive something that very much resembles a red Canadian passport. Good for a year, each museum you visit you stamp, just like a passport. Naturally, we discover a burning desire to visit all six museums listed.

We enter the Picasso Museum, stamping our tickets. This museum holds a lot of Picasso’s early work. We start with his self-portraits featuring a young very intense Spaniard staring out at you. Picasso paints realistic portraits with just a touch of impressionistic flair, allowing us to appreciate his mastery of all forms. We see a painting of his sister at her first communion. She’s incredible, a veritable bride of Christ at seven. Despite the religious trappings, the entire portrait revolves around her, radiating her young beauty, innocence and transcendence.

Next, we see paintings from Picasso’s blue period, spent penniless in Paris after his best friend commits suicide. He paints not only what he sees ─ whores, misfits, beggars, street people ─ but what he feels, filling his paintings with blue, the coldest color. Depressing subjects and depressing colors; I shiver.

Fortunately, Picasso finds a girlfriend and moves into his rose period. Otherwise, I think that he would have killed himself too. He now paints numerous harlequins in cheerier oranges and pinks.

In the early 1900s Picasso decamps permanently for Paris, the city that calls all artists. As an aside I wonder, must all true artists spend time penniless in Paris as a necessary homage to their seriousness about art and the city of light?

Later Picasso refuses to return to Spain until Franco departs. Unfortunately, Franco outlives him, so Picasso never returns home. In his old age, examining his roots, he paints fifty impressions of Velasquez’s Las Meninas. We see many of these, but would have appreciated them more had we visited the Prado (in Madrid) first and seen the original Las Meninas.

After enjoying the museum, around three, we find another tapas place for lunch. We hear two women at a neighboring table having a very rapid spirited discussion in Spanish. Naturally, I don’t understand a word they say.

We pull out our subway map since we know that we have to find the Sants train station tomorrow to go to Dali’s Museum in Figueres. Keith has found a metro station named Sant Antonio that he is sure is the place. However, Sant means saint in Catalonian. I see at least five stations named Sant on the Metro map. Despite traveling with the ever confident Bear, I have my doubts.

I haltingly query the women at the neighboring table, proffering our map. They quickly point out that we want Sants Estació. They love our Metro map with the handicap signs and the skull and cross bones, which they interpret to mean “ugh! fucking steps!”. We learn that they hail from Argentina and believe solely Patagonia makes Argentina shine. We disagree, pointing out that the Pope comes from Argentina and therefore everyone from Argentina must be going to heaven. They laugh.

To intelligently use Barcelona’s Metro, you need to know the final stop each way. This tells you your direction. Eventually we learn this. Keith fondly enlarges words both foreign and English with extra letters. He adds a lot of R’s and S’s to things. So the red line terminus Metro stop Fondo becomes “Frondo” and finally “Frodo.” The stop Clot becomes “Clots”, and the train people RENFE become “RENFRE.” Add that to my Spanish, and no one understands a word we say. We find we can avoid the Clot inaccessibility mess and get on the red line by walking a couple of blocks farther from the flat then descending to the station Navas. Keith calls this “Narvaras” which upsets a local gentleman so much that the man shakes his finger Keith while repeating the word Navas, Navas, Navas.

We’ve now have had some time to observe the Spanish or more properly the Catalans. Like my dim memories of the States in the 1970s, everybody smokes. I’ve never seen so many people smoking. We dodge scooters everywhere. Both women and men drive them, careening like maniacs, weaving in and out of traffic. Everyone wears a helmet.

Nearly everyone seems to be wearing tennis shoes, often fairly brightly colored. We see bright orange, bright blue, and bright purple shoes. But I see no one in CFM (come fuck me) shoes aka heels. I sincerely hope the world has changed. High heels amongst all these cobbles would really be the height of stupidity.

Spain, a proud member of the EU (European Union), has handicap accessible bathrooms everywhere. I think that they always build three bathrooms, women, men and family (accessible). Intelligently, and unlike the US (especially DIA), they lock the family restrooms. You must find an employee and prove your worth before they will unlock the door.

We find Europe generally more handicap accessible than the States, save the size issues. America, huge and expansive, has big elevators, taxis and cars. Not so in Spain, where they build elevators in broom closets. This will frustrate us repeatedly.

We have a very sad tradition of relegating so many to being “Other” in the States. White, European descendants, especially the wealthier ones, hold massive privilege, privilege generally unacknowledged and unnoticed. Think about it. When was the last time you were personally harassed by the police?

In the States you will generally find yourself branded “Other” should you have any color and/or disability about you. Descending into a wheelchair, I lost what I never realized I had, as the crown of white privilege fell off of my head, rolling away. Crippled now, I couldn’t even reach down to pick it up.

Europe’s tourist draws tend to be old places, requiring careful thought about how everyone can visit, including people like me. How will people in chairs get about? As I’ve said before, Europeans still consider me foremost human, like themselves. In the States, I am “Other,” not quite human, not deserving.

Enough ruminating on Cripdom! Back to Barcelona… Most of the Metro stops have multiple lifts. One takes you from street level to ticket/turnstile level, and a second down to the platform where you board the subway train. Able-bodied Catalans have no compunctions about using the lifts themselves, no matter how little they need them. Every station has escalators; no one has to walk up stairs. Not just Americans harbor amazing laziness.

In Barcelona we thoroughly enjoy the small local shops where we buy bread, vegetables and ham. Ham or jamon, the national dish, rates its own stores. You enter, select a pork leg hanging from the ceiling and the employees will shave off 100 grams for you. At €100 a kilo, all we can afford is 100 grams. We also visit a wine store, finding wine from the Canary Islands, something Keith has sought for years.

Having eaten our larger meal at lunch, we only desire a snack. We seek a different tapas place tonight, looking for variety. We find one which has the exact same tapas as Gent del Barri but of massively inferior quality. They mistakenly bring me a plate of pickled anchovies, the only bright spot in the meal. In our adventure, I try anchovies three more times before reverting to my earlier belief ─ disgusting.

Pondering, we note that some tapas we like a lot, specifically the Petrone peppers, salted and sautéed. We try the various hams until Bear becomes very tired of them. We really burn out on ham. Enough navel-gazing over tapas! We go home and turn in for the night.

Thursday, October 1, 2015 Barcelona at Long Last

We land in Frankfurt around 11 AM. My hopeful recollection of being the first one on the plane fades, dashed by the realization that I will be the last one off. Once again, we watch all the people exiting the plane, marveling at just how many flew with us last night.

The internet gives various figures for number of passengers on a 747-400, depending upon seat configuration, but guesses 375. Save the seat neighboring us, this plane appears full.

The same airplane everyday flies from Frankfurt to Denver, arriving in Denver around 3:30PM. Lufthansa cleans the plane, fills it up again and two hours later sends a different group of people to Europe.

I’m always so excited when the plane lands and I’ve pulled off Europe again. “Yes!” I say to myself with a fist pump.

Bird greets me on the jetway. Keith reassembles her. I transfer from the aisle chair into Bird. As well-behaved animals, we find our next gate for the flight to Barcelona. Waiting quietly for our flight, we sit next to two women from Brazil. They take one look at Keith, and begin speaking to him in rapid-fire Portuguese. Keith can be from Brazil now too. No one ever guesses Keith’s real nationality ─ American. Ever the helpful Bear, Keith looks at their tickets and tells them they’re on the right flight.

We converse with the Brazilians in pidgin Spanish. “So you speak English?” the women ask. “We’re meeting our family in Barcelona. They speak English. Everything is okay as long as you speak English!” Funny, English won’t really help us much in most of Spain.

In the American papers, we read that the Catalans have elected a separatist, pro-independence government. Threats fly back and forth between the Catalans and the Madrileños.  Rajoy, the conservative party prime minister down in Madrid, shrieks that independent Cataluña won’t have any euros. He will personally shut down their economy. We decide to use one of the ATMs in the Frankfurt terminal, just to be safe.

Our next plane arrives and boarding begins. With all save me on the plane, Lufthansa can’t find their aisle chair so I personally delay takeoff. Eventually they do find one, hustle me aboard and off we go. The two hour flight to Barcelona allows me to sleep again. Yeah!

We exit the plane in Barcelona, last off as always. We reunite with Bird again on the jetway. Downstairs, we collect our luggage and begin looking for a handicapped taxi. I call the correct taxi phone number, but my Spanish is so bad that no one can understand me. Acknowledging failure, Keith and I decide to wander farther down to taxiland. Keith pushes me the wrong way to the end of the line. Nope! Taxis leave in the order they entered, not to be changed for you, Mr. Greene. Following another futile phone call, we roll to the front of the line. The people directing the taxis find a bigger taxi for me, not handicap accessible. I learn that I can stand up and sit down in any car without much hassle really. Keith moves my legs into the cab after I sit on the seat.

The driver speaks English and takes us to our Airbnb rental. We’ve been instructed to call a Jordi who will come bearing keys and open the apartment. But Jordi never answers the phone! Our taxi driver approaches the cleaning lady, gets the correct phone number and calls for us. Turns out the phone number listed for Jordi hasn’t been his for two years.

We tip the driver heavily and heartily. He leaves. We sit next door to the apartment and have glass of wine. Jordi arrives with keys, lets us in and tries to collect the €150 deposit that we’ve already paid. We argue for a while before he leaves vowing to return tomorrow for the money. We do actually owe a €10 key deposit which Jordi doesn’t collect. I get on the Internet, contact the hosts, and ask them to call off Jordi.

Always good to have a place to call home if only for a week! We have the penthouse of a very small apartment. Squeezing really, really hard, rubbing Bird’s spokes, we get into the elevator. This trip will not be easy on poor Bird.

In our apartment, Keith puts some of our clothes away. From our terrace we can see Sagrada Familia, and the Agbar tower. Despite knowing its name, we never learn the purpose of the Agbar Tower. Keith notes that it looks like a large penis in the sky, often bathed with different colors of light. Perhaps this is a tribute to Spain’s machismo culture. Wait! We’re in Cataluña. Whatever.

We instantly fall in love with Barcelona. What a delightful city! And we sit in the middle of town, where everything remains open late into the night. We see greengrocers, ham places, places that sell meat, and shops with dairy products. Are we visiting in the real Europe with daily grocery shopping, choosing dinner on the way home from work?

We descend from our penthouse into the evening, shop at a small store buying milk, eggs and bacon for breakfast tomorrow. Bear takes our prizes upstairs and stashes them in the refrigerator. I await him on the street.

Hungry, we wander down the street and find a place selling tapas, called the Gent of Barri. We order some ham and fried peppers. A woman asks us if we want Catalan Bread. “Sure,” we say. “Why not?” we think to ourselves, primed for adventure. She takes a piece of toast, rubs it with garlic then tomato, creating a tasty treat which we greatly enjoy. We’ll be recreating Catalan bread in our kitchen in Denver.

Sated with tapas and wine, we return to our apartment to sleep for the night.