EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALAugust
16, 1999
Barcelona
Make sure I have all my papers
Laying out my summer clothes
Search for traps in vain like scratching
So my suitcase I can close - Barcelona by Rufus Wainright
It’s Europe’s fastest-growing tourist city and I know why. And it’s like
nowhere else in Spain – it seems it is not Spain. Barcelona is the capitol of
the semi-autonomous region of Catalunya – once one of the Mediterranean’s
greatest sea powers, with its own regional government and language. It’s strange to
us, our last stop before ending eight months in Iberia, to be visiting the most-visited
place on this peninsula. It’s so unlike everywhere else. It’s the place I know
most visitors to Spain have seen and loved. There’s so much it’s overwhelming.
The gallery list alone is enough to keep me here for another winter and spring.
On the train a man interrupts us and says, in English, "Ah, it’s good to
hear, the American accent."
In unison, "We’re Canadian."
And he corrects himself, "Yes, of course, it’s much softer, less of the
nose."
After that he tells us about his wife who’s from Brampton, Ontario and how she
makes pancakes with maple syrup on the Canary Islands every Sunday. He and she live there,
in the Canary Islands, off the west coast of Africa – Columbus’ last stop before
his trans-Atlantic voyages, the volcanic ocean peaks thought to be Atlantis, the place
rated highest for the world’s most perfect climate (24 degrees Celsius all year
long). He’s a gym teacher and he likes to make his own wine. He’s visiting
relatives today. He shows me a scar on his leg from ankle to knee – a moto accident.
He tells us about his love of Judo. Barcelona, he says, is too hot, too speedy, too much,
but Seville’s worse. We can barely get a word out of him about that place.
And so it goes, he wants to talk about Algonquin, Mission, Vancouver, Victoria. We want
to hear about Barcelona, only a few minutes away, a mystery of tales wrought by friends
who have studied here as architects, James’ stolen handicam, a snatched purse, the
most famous promenade in Europe. It’s a culmination of modern culture – never
mind the rest of Europe, hiding behind the patina facades of centuries past, grand and
stagnant, or the blistering coasts of bathing beachgoers – this is the premiere
hangout of Picasso, Miro, Tapies, Scully. It’s the definition of that descriptive
adjective Gaudi. Our acquaintance, sweating, though not as much as we are, hops
from the train and we follow, no more enlightened but ready to discover for ourselves the
capitol of modern aesthetic play.
