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.
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