La Boqueria
Barcelona blows me a kiss … from a balcony overlooking Las
Ramblas. Her white dress flies up, just like Marilyn Monroe’s in The Seven Year Itch, but her
platinum-blonde wig doesn’t lift a hair.
“She’s a he,” says my quirky guide, Albert.
Of course she is. What better place for a female
impersonator to pose than perched on a balcony over the street that embodies
living theatre, a street so vast and crowded that each section has its own
distinct character—so many little “ramblas” that it became known as Las Ramblas
rather than the singular La Rambla.
Barcelona cries, “Eat me! Drink me! … How can I refuse the
invitation to enter La Boqueria, the market to end all markets? Fruits and
vegetables plump and gleaming, begging to be touched, rows of brilliant colored
fresh-squeezed juices and plastic cups heaped with fruits. Pyramids of
candies—chocolates, jellies, marzipan fruits, cocoa-dusted nuts—a cornucopia of
sweets bursting open. Vast slabs of meat sway over stands, fish and
unrecognizable sea creatures seem to wriggle on counters. Locals stride
directly to the stand they want while tourists wander in a dazzle of colors,
smells, textures gone wild.
So hard to choose …. How about a Torre—a traditional Catalan
sweet made of almonds and served in winter? Or a slice of moist date-nut bread?
A hunk of pale, sharp cheese? And then I see a cup crammed to the top with large
pieces of one fruit: the deep, rich yellow-orange of ripe mango.
I hold out my hand to buy it and manage to move two steps
away from the fruit stand before spearing the first mango triangle. Sweet and
ripe, the taste explodes on my tongue.
Barcelona calls to me in Catalan … that ancient tongue, from
storefronts and cafes, and walls and balconies, where her flag—the deep yellow
of ripe mango, with four red stripes that according to legend are four fingers
dipped in blood. At one end of the flag is a white star against a blue
background.
Albert, who was born and raised in Barcelona, and has the
fierce pride of his Catalan heritage, explains that the people who hang these
flags are signaling that on November 9th, they will fight for the
referendum that will determine the Catalan state’s right to vote. A human chain
of nearly two million people, from the Pyrenees to Valencia, formed an enormous
V for Vote.
Will it happen? The election is only a few days away. Locals
I spoke to were doubtful, but fervent about the need to try. One said, “Even
though Catalonia is the most economically successful state of Spain, the
government wants to retain control over us and bind us to ancient laws. The
question is: do we need them?”
“We Catalans were always the rebels,” says Albert with a wry
grin. “The thorn in the government’s side. We are not fighters, but we know how
to talk and write, and really, that’s why we are joining hands—to fight for our
voices to be heard.”
Barcelona whispers in my ear … orange-scented murmurs of the true Barcelona, rumors of hidden places known
only to its longtime inhabitants, secret places that may or may not exist in
daylight, but that are there all the same, if you only have the eyes to see
them, and if the light is just right. I listen to the wind and crooning voices
and learn about a walled garden behind a bookstore in Portal de l’Angel … a
flamenco bar near Placa Real, where at midnight dancers throughout the city
congregate to perform for each other, and woe to you if you applaud because the
performance is not meant for you … a speakeasy with no sign, where you knock on
a faded door and the bouncer looks out and decides if you are worthy to enter …
and a magic shop, the oldest in the city, with a multitude of tricks and
illusions, and a curtained backroom, where the true magic happens.
The directions are purposefully vague: turn left at the
second cobbled street behind the large café, walk until you see a stone wall,
then turn right down that alley. After a few steps, you’ll be there.
There? Where? I search, but see no sign of garden, bar or
shop hidden from the public eye. I decide there must be a secret password, an
Open Sesame that dissolves the gleaming contemporary facades of the usual
suspects—Hard Rock Café, H&M, Zara, and multiplying Desiguals, sometimes
four in a single block—to reveal the city’s pulsing heart.
Maybe I’m searching at the wrong time.
Maybe I don't have the eyes to see them.
Barcelona feeds me … and
teaches me to nibble. Tapas and montevidos—small meals of fried potatoes topped
with spicy Aoli sauce, cheese and meat sliced thin, and my favorite—the
simplest of all: a ripe tomato rubbed against the crust of a bread, then
drizzled with olive oil, sea salt, and a touch of garlic. All passed down with
cold golden beer. I bite into pinchos at the Basque restaurant, Euskal Etxca,
near the Picasso Museum —sublime tiny sandwiches pierced with toothpicks. When
you are ready to pay, the waiter counts the toothpicks. “The honor system,”
says Albert. And I drink orxata, a traditional drink made from roots, dense and chalky, yet surprisingly refreshing.
Barcelona paints my portrait … Picasso draws over my eyes—one jarringly
large, the other smaller—the better to
squint with, querida. Miro punctuates my mouth with dots and lines to turn
my smile playful. Dali curls a deliciously malicious mustache over my lips. The
three of them divide my face into cubes and sharp angles so it looks different
from every perspective.
I peer into the window of an H&M and squint.
“Do you recognize yourself, querida?”
Actually, I do. I’ve just never seen all these sides of me
at the same time.
Dali pulls me by the hand. “Now to Gaudi!”
With the others on our heels, we hurry to La Sagrada Familia
and enter the vast cathedral that is Gaudi’s unfinished masterpiece. Gaudi elongates
my neck a la Alice in Wonderland until I rise high enough to climb the tree-spiraling
columns and touch the ceiling leaves and brush my fingers against the filmy fairy
tale spires. I could swear I’m in a surreal airy forest surrounded by fresh
green, a carpet of leaves far below.
Gaudi presses his large hand on my head. “There is a
misunderstanding that an abundance of light is a positive element. That is not
so. The light should be just right—neither too much nor too little—since both
things blind, and the blind cannot see.”
He releases me suddenly, and I float like a sagging balloon
to the earth.
I leave the illuminated forest of La Sagrada Familia, and
feel someone watching me. I squint back over my shoulder.
There they are, in a circle of light: Picasso, Miro, Dali.
Soberly dressed in black, studying me—my cubes and lines, my playful dots and
crooked eyes, my improbable mustache.
“Well?” I ask.
Picasso and Miro look at their shoes. I am embarrassed.
“Thank you!” I call. “Gracias!” And add, “Gracies,” in Catalan, for good luck.
Dali twirls his mustache in farewell.
I twirl mine, too, and return to Las Ramblas, taking my time.
Soon it will be the Magic Hour. Twilight—between day and night, the hour when
sun and moon share the sky, and the light is just right.
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