Keith begins the day by
working on Bird the wheelchair. I have finally named her. I like the name Bird as
she helps me fly about, with Keith’s assistance, of course. I am concerned,
while I watch Keith working on her, that I may have finally named her at what
could be the end of her life. Keith says, “No Way!” Bird began making strange
noises in her left wheel yesterday. Keith takes her apart and reassembles her.
She seems as good as new. He claims she’s had a hard time squeezing in to the
stupid small elevator here and deems his slamming her up each and every stair
at Montjuic irrelevant. I disagree, but why be married unless you can argue
about completely silly things?
Keith, ever an industrious
bear, decides to do laundry. He experiments first on the towels. Naturally we
have yet another washing machine we don’t understand. This European contraption
lacks instructions in Catalan or Spanish. We fail to even decipher “off” and
“on”. Perhaps we must seek divine intervention, praying to St. James (Santiago)
of Compestela (of the stars) then twitching about ere he grants us laundry
revelation. Soldiering on, without guidance, Bear loads the washer with towels,
then pushes some buttons randomly inducing spin and water. Success!
We eat a leisurely but hearty
breakfast of ham, eggs and bread. We roll over to Sagrada Familia, Gaudί’s church,
which we have seen nightly from our terrace. Brandishing our 10AM tickets, we
enter the massive edifice. The grandeur inside stills even my waggling beaver
tongue. I feel as though I am entering a stone sacred forest. Like the Dalί
Museum, everywhere I look I see something new. Keith takes lots of pictures. We
roll all through the building and also all around the construction.
Gaudί, a master of light and
color, used stained glass to turn the interior of his creation different hues as
the sun proceeds on her daily ethereal cycle. When we arrive, still somewhat
early, the clear morning sky suffuses light blue throughout the sanctuary. Set
against the creamy white of towers and arches we gaze past the tints into a
giant seashell. Somehow, as opposed to an everyday cathedral, the Sagrada
Familia appears more organic: bivalve inspiration, light bouncing into a
thousand pleasing places, crowned by a central stone copse stretching up to a
ridiculous yet natural height. The proportions please the human mind in a way
other cathedrals, despite their mathematical precision, simply can’t. Privileged
to enter a heavenly world full of dazzling glory, we watch the slowly shifting
sunshine illuminate various parts of the church, dancing to Gaudί’s artistry.
The overwhelming monolith,
not constructed on a human scale, intends instead to guide one’s contemplation
of a deity. Everything is monumental, incredibly beautiful, strong and moving.
Like God? Any religious meaning is naturally lost on us. But if this is how
heaven looks, we want to go!
Gaudί, unwaveringly Catholic,
believed he would finish the cathedral in his lifetime. Unfortunately, trusting
too much in God and not paying sufficient attention to his surroundings, he
didn’t see the street tram that hit him. Dying shortly thereafter in 1926, he
left his masterpiece unfinished. Locals attempting beatification pass out
flyers; we accept one.
Today, three giant mechanical
cranes surround the structure, each used in completing a different tower. The
cranes feature prominently in every exterior photo you take of Sagrada Familia.
Although the Catholic Church posits a completion date of 2026, we doubt that this
cathedral will be finished in our lifetimes (and we plan to live past 2026)!
After touring the church, we visit
the museum downstairs dedicated to the building’s history. A 1936 fire damaged
or destroyed much of Gaudί’s original models and work. I wonder about the time
meshing with the Spanish Civil War. Construction ceased on the edifice in 1956,
resuming in 1976, shortly after Franco’s death, coincidence? All I only know
with certainty is that Franco abhorred the Catalans. I spend a good deal of
time researching my theories on the internet. I find no support for my ideas so
I will just toss them out there as conjectures.
We rush out to catch La
Pedrera, Gaudί’s apartment building. We haven’t time for lunch before our 2PM
timeslot arrives. We join the short line outside this construction a wee bit
early. The workers allow us entry since they have not yet exceeded capacity.
Due to our arrival in Bird the wheelchair, we enter through the huge front gates
not unlocked for much of anyone. Entering this way deposits us in the
courtyard. Bear thinks that at one time, the apartment dwellers may have driven
their cars in through this gate or been deposited by their chauffeurs in this
very same patio. In the square, we look up to the sky, seeing apartments as
they rise six stories. (Regular tourists enter through the gift shop on the
right.)
At the height of his artistic
and architectural power, Gaudί designed a house and apartment building for the
Mila family, La Pedrera. The family would live in splendor while collecting
rents from the other tenants of the apartment building. Famously creative and curvy,
the building initially attracted few tenants. People expressed irritation that
their pricey angular wardrobes and desks didn’t fit snugly against the sinuous
walls. Slowly, La Pedrera became the place to live and a smashing success. Observing
and reading into later history, we surmise that something went wrong somewhere.
In the 1980s, a real estate conglomerate owned La Pedrera, generally making a big
mess of things. But in 1984, (intriguingly at the time of the savings and loan
implosion), the real estate firm apparently collapsed too. More internet research
reveals no support for any inclusion of the real estate firm in the S&L debacle,
but I still like my speculations. Currently a preservation trust owns the
property and has returned it to its original glory.
We take the elevator up to
the roof. The roof waves, undulating, aesthetically matching the building
beneath. Gaudί considered a building’s attic to be its hat and the roof its
umbrella, both vital to health. The roof, sunny and hot, provides little accessibility
and thus little I can see. Keith disappears after parking me in the sun where I
slowly begin to broil. Left alone, I ask a kindly guard to move me into the
shade, which she does.
Keith explores the roof,
which he finds to be the most interesting part of the building. Believing that
things should be both functional and beautiful, Gaudi cemented broken shards of
pottery and broken champagne bottles into everything sprouting from the roof. They
glow and shine different colors in the sunshine. Using this technique, he
created ventilation shafts, stairwells, chimneys looking almost like men on a
chessboard, each unique. One chimney has an arch on the side. Peering through
the arch you see Sagrada Familia framed perfectly. Gaudί succeeded in creating a
beautiful yet functional rooftop.
I am reminded of the earth-ships
we saw in New Mexico ─ eco-friendly dome houses made of clay and employing the
same bottle shards as windows technique. I now realize that the hippies copied
Gaudί. I wonder whom amongst the New
Mexico hippies had the money to visit Spain. Perhaps trust-fund babies amusing
themselves with architecture? I shouldn’t be so snarky yet I doubt the hippies
developed the same ideas independently. Gaudί, of course, came first.
The Bear explores the entire
roof but finds no berries. He returns, grappling with life’s futility. We ride the
elevator down to the attic, the building’s hat. Gaudί originally intended the
attic to serve as a communal spot for laundry. During its tenure, the
aforementioned evil real estate consortium cut the attic up into apartments. Could
anything ever outweigh the importance of ephemeral profits? When the preservation
trust took over, they dismantled the bogus apartments, returning the attic to its
original state, sans laundry. We dally, wandering, enjoying a museum set up in
this massive space. Halfway through our explorations workers arrive,
surrounding us in great agitation. Claiming the need for immediate evacuation,
they throw us all out of the building. “You can come back tomorrow!” they say. English
language skills disappear when we ask why. (We discover the reason tomorrow.
You’ll have to keep reading to learn the answer.)
We go to lunch or an early
dinner. We find a delightful small restaurant in the neighborhood. We are not cooking much. Translation: Keith is
not cooking much. We make our breakfast every day as we find going out for
breakfast such a colossal a waste of time. We have been eating lunch and dinner
out, giving Keith a well-deserved break. The tapas have become pretty
repetitive. All eateries seem to have the exact same tapas, although better
restaurants have better tasting tapas. At this restaurant, savoring variety, Keith
orders some pasta he loves. We walk home, not needing the Metro, arriving in
perfect time, right before the skies open and the rain pours down.
We watch it rain for a few
hours. The weather prophets declared absolutely no possibility of rain today. I‘m
jealous as I’ve never been able to find a job where you can always be wrong and
yet remain employed. (Should I change my name to Trump and run for president?) The
depressed Bear wants to go out again. Keith runs to the door again and again
declaring that the rain has stopped, but the sky defeats him each time. He
claims he endorses optimism. Earlier today he saw some shoes he wanted. (We
rushed by them to see Gaudί’s marvels.) Thus his insistence that the rain has
stopped despite reality descending, clouding his hopes, whenever we open the
patio door.
The washing machine is still
running.
I climb into Bird so Keith can
roll me out onto the terrace of our Airbnb. In the distance, we see Sagrada
Familia lit up at night. We recall the sacred space we entered earlier today but
now see only a beautiful building shimmering in the wet night. Perhaps if we
lacked electricity, the church would retain its magic throughout the hours of
darkness.
Returning to the here and
now, Keith insists that the precipitation has ceased. He tells me I hallucinate
the cold rain hitting my feet when I stick them out beyond the terrace roof.
Keith desperately wants to go
out again. Finally, around eight or so, the rain does stop. Keith runs out to
buy his prize shoes. I make a meal of the ham and bread from the fridge and
Skype Bloodroot. Unfortunately, by this time the store has closed, dashing
Bear’s sartorial dreams. The poor dude never gets his shoes.
No comments:
Post a Comment