barcelona

I tried to think of a catchy title for this blog about my weekend in Barcelona. Nothing worked. Alliteration, some Spanish words (thank you Google translation), even rhyming were tossed aside. Titles aren’t usually hard for me, so what’s going on here? To tell you the truth, I’ve also been putting off writing this particular piece, which is also new since I was getting a kick out of writing again, because, well, I don’t really know why.  

Maybe it’s the contrast to Paris. Barcelona was warm, warm enough that I didn’t have to wear socks to bed for the first time in three weeks (and growing up in Hawaii, that’s something to celebrate). Maybe it’s the food that while not Mexican (my students and I keep having Mexican food moments of silence in Paris) was familiar, and the gelato shop I went to twice in three days didn’t hurt. Maybe it was the slower pace and not having to take the metro, or the men that reminded me of my handsome uncles, or the harbor’s ocean smell, or the winding, narrow streets that led to a plethora of surprises. I don’t know. Too much to process? Maybe, but I do know that, for me, I’ll be back. 

The Barcelona harbor

Mucho great things occurred, but one of the highlights was a visit to the Basílica de la Sagrada Família, designed by Antoni Gaudí. This is one of the most beautiful and awe-inspiring structures I have ever seen. Yes, it’s a church, but unlike any place of worship in my experience. The inside was organic (I stole that word from Rebecca, a Gaudí fan), and the columns were designed to be reminiscent of a forest. There’s room for 1000 singers at the top of the basilica (that’s not a typo folks, one thousand), and the stain glass is not only beautiful in its own right, but the interplay with light throughout the day is impossible to describe. Soaring towers punctuate the outside structure, and Rebecca and I thought it would be fun to take the elevator up the 65 meters to the top. Alas, no one mentioned that it was elevator up, narrow spiral staircase with a hole in the middle that left nothing to the imagination down. After about three flights of tentative walking, the church bell clanged—loudly—and I froze, clinging to the wall, like a cockroach caught in the light (I know, another Hawaiian reference, but oh so apt). Only the crowds on the ground floor kept me from kissing the ground, but even this only added to the majesty of la Sagrada Família.

The pitcher of sangria sans paella with the servers packing up around us was another highlight, but that’s a story for another time.

Inside of Basílica de la Sagrada Família

Natural light show

beauty and dead people

I saw a lot of dead people this weekend. Of course, not exactly dead people, but a lot of graves (so technically they are dead). Montparnasse Cemetery and the Pantheon are the final resting places (why am I smiling as I write that phrase?) of such literary greats as Samuel Beckett, Susan Sontag, Simone de Beauvoir, Victor Hugo, Voltaire, as well as various artists and photographers that my colleague, Rebecca, swooned over as I did with these famed authors. 

In Montparnasse, it was like a treasure hunt looking for the graves. Luckily, Rebecca can read a map, and I’m pretty good at being anal and stubborn when faced with a challenge, so we found everyone we set out to discover. For someone who really doesn’t have a history of visiting gravesites—and for you cynics who are right now thinking, “Who does?” there are lots of movies and TV shows that have people doing this—I was ridiculously awed when coming upon Beckett’s site. Why?  It was pretty unassuming. There were other nicer graves, works of art really, but it was an interesting moment for me. I don’t know if it was the contrast of a priest singing among a small group of women at one gravesite, the silence of the cemetery, the coldness of the day, or the kisses on Beauvoir and Sartre’s headstone (they are buried together), but I did have a moment of beauty and thankfulness for, well, life really. Thank you, Rebecca, for taking me there.

Can you make out "Beckett"?



Works of art really.

The kisses got to me.

I also have to thank Rebecca for something I’ve never quite experienced: walking around with someone who always has her “head camera” turned on. My colleague is a professor of photography, and I can’t tell you how many times this past weekend (we walked a ton and also visited Notre Dame and Jardin du Luxembourg) she would stop in mid-sentence, strike her shooting stance, and click a number of pictures. Always cool images. Always something I hadn’t noticed before. I couldn’t help but pick up a few tips. I now know how to turn my camera flash off, and even once (pause for dramatic effect) took the same picture with the flash on AND off to see what the different effects would be. I’m such a word person that the visual stuff doesn’t get much of a workout in my head, but it’s impossible not to be more open to images around Rebecca (thanks again my friend).  

So even if my pictures are still terrible, at least I feel more artistic taking them, especially if I’m wearing my beret.

How cool is she.

Yup, Notre Dame in the background (couldn't resist posting this).



pictures and appliances

My daughters have been asking for pictures, but who are we kidding? I’m the worst photographer ever. Too much head space, a picture where a forehead is cut in half, blurry images, too much flash, can’t even make out the subject, you name it, I’ve taken it. So up until now I do what I do best: avoid the unpleasantness of failure. However, I can’t not take pictures while in Europe, so below are two of my neighborhood. Please note that I was trying to capture the snowfall on Sunday, but you have to do a Where’s Waldo to see it. All I can promise is that I’ll try.

How can I not take a picture of this?

Street down the hill from my apartment, Rue des Abbesses.

I’ve also included here a picture of my kitchen. Small but oh so logically organized in a way that I consider to be very French. My latest snafu involved the stovetop. I’ve been slowly trying out my appliances and decided to boil water for tea. My burners are those flat ones that are really easy to clean. Chic, naturellement, and easy to use; just push the button. I ended up pushing the button until a callus began forming on my finger. The burner would go on, and then after a few moments, the burner would go off. I’d press again with the same result. And again. And again. (What is the definition of insanity?) Finally, accidentally, I put the pot on the burner and then pressed the button. It worked. Of course. 

You don’t even want to know about the trouble I had with the toaster.

My kitchen.

cop shows

While I’m not exactly lonely, I am alone a lot of the time, so I do what I do at home: watch TV. Of course, the difference is that everything is in French—no English-speaking channels for moi—and my hope of being able to watch the Super Bowl has been dashed. C’est la vie (that’s the last pseudo-French phrase I’ll do in this blog, I promise).

Mostly the TV is on for friendly noise, but last night after a wonderful dinner at my colleague Rebecca’s fabulous apartment, sans view of la Tour Eiffel (okay, I lied about using French phrases), I couldn’t sleep, so I actually sat on my couch and watched some TV. Lots of cop shows. It could be the channels that I get, but I noticed the police dramas even the night before. My favorite so far is Alerte Cobra, which originated in Germany (I watched two episodes of this back-to-back). The main characters are a shortish, slim, grizzled, keep-his-wits-about-him older officer and the Ashton-Kutcher look alike whose height only adds to the contrast. The only thing I understood was Ashton continually yelling, “Quoi?” and the occasional ici or mais non, but I got the gist of the story. It is super interesting comparing Alerte Cobra with American buddy cop shows, but last night on my way home, my experience gave me a probably-not-accurate reason for the seeming prevalence of police dramas.

Pickpockets and scam artists galore. On the metro ride back to my apartment (and it was a major victory that I did not get lost once on the metro yesterday), I was approached three times for money. It could have been the suitcase I was dragging behind me or the fact that despite my boots, scarf, and gloves, I’m guessing I scream “American,” but three times in thirty minutes seems excessive even for a big city. The most memorable scam artist was the supposed English woman who began the conversation with, “Do you speak English?” and proceeded to explain to me—in halting English—that she, too, was from America and needed just a bit to get by.

I’m a nice person, or so I’ve been told. But all three times, requests were met with a steely glare (my inspiration came from my coaching days). Add to that the two times earlier in the day when I was approached—once was by four teenage girls who wanted me to sign something; a loud “No” and hand gesture (not the one you are thinking) had them doing a Red Sea impression—and I was a regular meanie. Maybe that explains the cop shows on French TV; at least for me they serve as a toughen-up primer.

I just turned on the TV…Law and Order in French.
http://www.alertecobra.info/

the first day

I'm sitting in my apartment, looking at a lit-up Eiffel Tower (the view through my living room window), and listening to Miss Congeniality in French. The end of my first day.

I was right. Hunger and a premonition that I should make a trial run to find the metro (meeting at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow) drove me from my apartment. My first adventure was getting out of the darn building. Ten minutes to figure out how to open and lock my front door, another five minutes to discover that I had to push a button to get out of the glass door in the lobby, only to be stumped by the door to the street for another five minutes (it probably took longer, but this is getting embarrassing).

Once on the street, I took a wrong turn and ended up climbing a bunch of stairs to find myself at the foot of Sacre Coeur. I still have a bunch of even more stairs to go to actually enter the basilica, but that's for another day. Retracing my steps, not unlike the u-turns I normally do whenever I have to drive somewhere new, I went in another direction, all the while keeping a lookout for a grocery story where I could pick up something to eat with no talking (throw things in the basket and blindly hand over money). Of course, not a grocery store in sight, but there was a boulangerie that I passed twice before making yet another u-turn and going in (it was the quiche in the display case that changed my mind). Not only did I get a slice of quiche lorraine and piece of gateau au chocolat, but I encountered my first irritated Parisian. Young girl, and I kind of don't blame her for being peeved. She asked me something in French, duh, simply trying to verify my quiche order. I finally figured it out and replied exactly like this, "Ja, yes, si, I mean oui." I'd be irritated too.

It's midnight and the Eiffel Tower just went all sparkly like a Christmas tree on steroids. I'm definitely in Paris.