Nightglow Window

Barri Gothic

Is it still today or yesterday?

I’m up at 2:30 a.m. and the separation is too thin to call.

Not enough sleep, already worried that we’d miss our connection and what that would do to our plans.

A long, hot shower helps get the blood moving, but when we opened up the curtains and saw that it was already getting light, it no longer seemed so terribly early. The cab was on time and—after a few minutes bombing down the empty Stockholm streets—we were soon in front of the train station with the rest of a ragtag bunch of travelers, waiting for the doors to open at 3:30 a.m.

I stay awake this time on the long bus ride out to the Skavsta airport, and I’m glad I did. It was nearly dawn; the light low, gold, and soft. As we left Stockholm behind, the country opened up into broad fields of mustard. Mist hung low over the fields. We spotted a deer.

A mockingbird flew into the windshield with a loud splat and an explosion of feathers.

Oh well, it mostly peaceful.

The airport was jammed—even though it was just a few minutes after five.

We checked in and headed to the airport restaurant, which was incredible. For 90 crowns you could get a vast spread of eggs and beans, toast, and much more. People were piling it in. We opted for a croissant and muffin. Christy had juice; I, my normal coffee.

Now we’re flying over a crazy patchwork of fields somewhere over Germany (Or is it Denmark or even Sweden? No clue really.) We’re once again packed like sardines in “The Low Fares Airline.” I’m trying to keep sane with my Bose headphones and iPod. Christy is playing Solitaire on her iPod, and my other seating companion is hogging the armrest. He's a big fucking bloke, too.

Crap, two more hours.

--Later—

Crazy, earthy, wild, dirty Barcelona. I had forgotten just how chaotic this city seems—especially after the peace of Stockholm.

A long bus ride into the city deposited us at the central bus stop. It was hot and overcast. Humid. A short walk led us to Barri Gothic. I had been worried that finding our hotel among the maze of small streets was going to be impossible, but we walked right to it.

Barcelona is rife with monuments, plazas, and ramblas where pedestrians rule. Old men in blue button-down shirts playing bocce ball, well-dressed women walking dogs, the de rigueur college-aged tourist with backpack and Birkenstocks—all of them frame the picture of this lively town.

We are dead on our feet. Christy is quiet—usually a bad sign. Fortunately the Hotel Gotico is nice (super call Brian!), the lobby is air conditioned, and our room relatively quiet and beautiful with a balcony looking down on the streets below. We’re exhausted, so I take a shower, and then it’s down for the count. Eurosport is showing the Tour de France—narrated in English—but even that isn’t enough to keep the eyelids open. We fall blissfully into a four-hour nap.

We awake slowly, groggily. It’s still early afternoon and hot. Barcelona doesn’t wake up until after dark, and doesn’t hit its full stride until midnight. But we head out anyway to loosen the cobwebs and grab a snack.

We wander aimlessly down the tall narrow streets, sweating, aiming generally toward the harbor. In the middle of the harbor is a modern shopping mall, and we stop in for a beer and omelet (Weird one, I know. Blame the language barrier). Then we rambled down Las Ramblas, ducked into the Plaza Real, and came out on the street where our hotel is—even spotting a Starbucks with Wi-Fi a few hundred yards away. The night is still young. I’ll post this and then we’re heading for dinner.

I’m still really hungry and some nice Sangria would do nicely right now…

That’s all for now.













--Later --

I like Sangria.

Just around sunset we walked through Barri Gotic and out onto the wide boulevard of Passeig de Gracia. We were searching for a particular tapas bar, Txapela Euskal Taberna, that christy’s parents, JP and Suze, went to just a few weeks ago when they were touring through Spain. Crazy to think that they were just here, walking these same streets and sitting in these restaurants.

Passeig de Gracia is vaguely familiar to me as well. It was where I stayed the last time I was here, when I drove with Pascal Joubert across from Biarritz to tour the Rossignol ski factory in nearby Artes. I was treated like royalty that trip. That was in 1998, but the street hasn’t changed much since then. It’s still crowded will people and slightly dirty like much of Barcelona. Nice, but in need of a scrubbing; graffiti spreading like mold from building to building, and just one or two trashmen short of being able to keep the street entirely clean.

The restaurant is crowded but we get a table upstairs in the “no smoking” area, which is slightly ironic because it’s directly above the smoking section and all the smoke rises. But the food looks good. We order a pitcher of Sangria, red wine laced with sugar and oranges and lemons.

The menu is like a sushi bar, with a photo next to each of the 51 different tapas. We choose eight for our first round—Ous Estrellat (egg), Igueldo (the tomato and cheese), and the Iberic (ham) are my favorites—and then another round when that one quickly disappears, then a final one as the pitcher of wine empties and the buzz takes hold. Ended up eating about 22 tapas. The bill was about 35€ and we didn’t leave hungry.

Now feeling fine, we stroll up the street under the night sky, most of the buildings lit and showy in the darkness. But one building above all others stands out, Gaudi’s Casa Battlo. Like some organic sea castle raised from Atlantis, its fluted shapes and organic curves are mesmerizing and whimsical, a treasure for the city and Spain—even the world.

Lacking a tripod, I prop my camera up into the correct angle using my wallet. I use the time release setting for stability and shoot a series of long exposures, and I’m generally happy with the result. We stop for gelato as we head back to the hotel and finally we’re back around midnight, only to have the streets explode in sound. Italy has just beaten Germany in the World Cup semi finals.

“Ooo lay ooo lay oh lay oh lay, Italia!”

The ruckas keeps up for twenty minutes and never quite settles down; the sound of a drunk Italian women waking me at 4:00 a.m. with her slurred song of celebration.