The Egyptian Obelisk. It sits at the end of the Jardin de Tullieres (behind the Louvre and leading to the Champs d'Elysees). It was one of the first things we saw on this trip, during a walking tour of the city, and it stands out for me as an emblem of my experience of Paris.
For one thing, it's pleasant to look at. It's gold leafed at the top, it's tall and well-constructed. And it's old--three thousand three hundred years old, to be more exact--the oldest edifice in the city. At the same time, it would be both more and less impressive in its original environment, in Egypt marking the entrance to the Luxor temple. But there it would not stand out as it does in La Place de La Concorde. It's one of thousands of pleasant and interesting things to look at here in Paris--and its splendor hides more than it shows.
It doesn't say anything about it being stolen by Napolean. It doesn't say that Egypt asked to have it back every year for over ninety years and was ignored. Nor does it say anything about what used to be in its place--the guillotine--or the streets that bled for ten years after the revolution. Like so much of Paris, its beautiful surface conceals more than a few layers of ugliness.
Parisians always seem friendly. They smile and act like they're listening with concern. I haven't witnessed any impatience with my inability to speak French, as I expected. No one has tried to rob or pick-pocket us (to my knowledge). There's a certain humility both in the sound of the language and the non-verbal gesturing. And of course it's liberal here--full of well-read, cultured, enemies of intolerance. As already noted, Paris is a beautiful city to look at, the people as well as the buildings and landmarks. On the surface.
But behind all that is something else--confusion, muck, and corruption. The shit and urine under some of the bridges, the gypsy camp grounds, the racism, the hypocrisy, the sometimes excessive French rudeness, the elitism.... At the quarterfinals of the European Cup, watching on an outdoor big screen next to the Eiffel Tower, a group of teenage boys decided they wanted to stand, even though there were rows of people sitting behind them. Another group decided to throw some fireworks, and the nearly always friendly police, rather than trying to protect the crowd from the potential hazards of the fireworks, decided to tear-gas the whole area. My eyes are still burning. It seems like the whole world cheats the Metro system, justifiably so considering the costs, and it seemed like the city did little to stop it until we saw a man dressed like a wanna-be James Dean, a plain-clothed patrol officer, handing out sixty dollar citations to tourists who had made honest mistakes and to immigrants trying to save whatever money they could. Behind the fashionable clothes, Parisians are ugly. Some of the ugliness, though, is in plain sight. Nobody talks about the commercialization of Paris, its cartoonish quality. But it's there. It's like a Disneyland for adults, only you're meant to know that Disneyland is a fantasy.The Champs d'Elysees is easily one of the least interesting streets I've ever seen. No character whatsoever. A big outdoor shopping mall for the rich. Big fucking deal. And the prices in the rest of Paris aren't that much better. The whole city is one big tourist trap, designed to make you feel like you're participating in something important when you're playing tourist, which the locals do as much as the out-of-towners. The Eiffel tower is a horror to look at. Sure, if you put enough colorful lights on something it looks nice--it's flashy and catches your attention, but it's still ugly. And if you want proof of how easily human tastes can be manufactured, look at the lines of people waiting to pay to go to the top of the tower. And the whole city is full of people with the same kinds of tacky tastes, tourist tastes, a taste for the ugly.
No doubt about it, Paris is an ugly city, its history as well as its present artificial reincarnation. But you've got to take a good look at the ugliness to really appreciate it. I could go on and on about the ugly side of Paris and tell you why I hate it so much, except for the fact that it would misrepresent my feelings if I did. Fact is, while I hate almost everything about Paris, I don't hate Paris. Yes, it's ugly. Yes, it's a big phony facade with no real charm whatsoever. But I still like it. I want to come back. It's like a beautiful woman that gets away with being the world's biggest bitch because she's so freaking hot. But there's another side to her, too. Once you look passed the hot body and the clever make-up application and so on--once you see her for the bitch that she really is, she starts to grow on you and reveals yet another side.
Our last night in Paris, we returned to the Jardin de Tullieres and saw again the obelisk we had seen on our first day there. I thought about how children years after the revolution used to push on the square cobblestones and squeeze up the blood from the still moist soil. I thought of all the violence and mis-guided over-zealous passions of the French Revolution. But I also thought about the glories of the French Commune, of Paul Eluard and Baudrillard and Christine de Pizan and Proust and Benjamin and Van Gogh and Picasso. The ugliness of Paris is hidden but it too hides something, yet another kind of ugliness at times and sometimes a failed expression pointing at something genuinely beautiful off on the horizon and sometimes something beautiful in its own right. But even then you're not seeing the real Paris, for beauty, like Rilke tells us, is the last veil that uncovers the horrible. And Paris is a city of veils.
Barcelona
We spent the first week at the apartment of a friend of Jesusa's, with a couple from Barranquilla Colombia, in a small quiet little town called St. Jean Despi. Unlike in Paris, though, being outside the city wasn't a problem. We had to walk one block to the train station and, twenty minutes later, were in the city center without having to change lines and for a price of about seventy five cents. The public transportation isn't just cheaper in Barcelona than in Paris or Istanbul, it's better. After a week, we moved to our own apartment, a spacious place on the outer margins of the city but equally accessible to the city center with the metro.
The first day, we took a tour of the old city, el barrio Gottico, and learned about the interesting Catalan history, which explains why many Barcelonans think of themselves, even today, as Catalans rather than Spaniards. The Iglesia de Maria del Mar, with its charred ceilings and echoes of classical music, was a special treat. Two days later, we took the Gaudi walking tour and visited La Pedrera, Casa Vicens, Casa Battlo, and the Sagrada Familia, the interior of which we saw the following day. It's pretty amazing, meant to strike you as if you were entering a grove of immense pine trees as you enter. The exterior, though, at least the side depicting Christ's birth, is even more impressive, especially the exquisite amount of detail. It made me think of the paintings of Casper David Friedrich.
In subsequent days, we visitied Parque Guell, the beach (four different ones), La Sagrada Corazon, a roman church (the name of which I've forgotten), the Picasso Museum, the Archeological Museum, etc. On the day we visited the cathedral, we got to see a Sardana dance presentation put on by the locals, part of which is erecting human towers as high as six or seven stories.
My favorite thing about Barcelona, about travel in general for that matter, is meeting the locals: Jesusa's friends, the parents of the woman whose apartment we rented, the friends of Jesusa's friends, and various waiters and other strangers. Nothing like a night of conversation with good company and a few pints of wine or Sangria.
Silent Cinema
Saw a Buster Keaton silent film with live musical accompaniment. It was shown on a big screen outside the walls of the Mondruit Castle.
Begur
A beach town about three hours from Barcelona. We stayed in a hotel on the Sa Riera beach, but we spent a lot of time on the next beach to the North, Raco (I think). We had to pass through the nude beach to get there. Beautiful place, especially at night (Begur, I mean. The nude beach is better by day).
Montserrat
It's a monastery at the top of a mountain, where, as legend has it, music was heard from the nearby Sacred Cave and, when the locals went to investigate, they discovered the statue of the Black Virgin. We waited in line with the other pilgrims to see the statue, which wasn't at all worth the long wait. The Basilica, though, is nice. New Roman outside and Baroque inside. What really made the trip worthwhile, though, was the natural scenery, the giant rocks that overlook the monastery and the terrific views. We took a short hike and saw a mountain goat along the way. Afterwards, we went back to the Basilica and listened to the men's choir for awhile. Then we met up with a friend of Jesusa's at a nearby pueblo for dinner and drinks. Nice day.
Bilbao
We saw the famous Frank Gehry designed Guggenheim and visited three other museums. The history and culture here is a bit mysterious. Though Franco tried hard to wipe out the indigenous language, it lives on, at least as a second language, for many of the Basque people. It's the oldest living European language and has roots that date back possibly to the pre-neolithic. The culture here is somewhat unique, as well. Due to the mountainous geography (easy to defend and isolated), none of the major European or Arabian empires ever gained firm control here and the native Voscan culture has been somewhat preserved. The people are as friendly here as in other parts of Spain, but less Westernized, a bit rougher. The women don't dress as fashionably or as femininely, and the working class seems both more respected and less idealized than in other places. The food is every bit as good as advertised, but not as expensive as we thought it would be. Definitely worth a return trip!
Thoughts on indigenous Spanish culture, etc.
We hate what we fear, but what we fear most, we disdain. Knowing we can't bear the terror, we expel it completely from our minds and bodies and even beyond, where we can't come into contact with it. Afraid to believe ourselves capable or murder, we put the murderer out of sight, prohibit cameras from filming his execution, and hide the corpse from public view. Trying not to remember those two or three homoerotic dreams, we turn our heads in disgust at the sight of two men kissing.
Following dictator protocol, Franco tried to convince the world and his subjects that there was only one Spain. No Catalan culture, no Moorish influence, no Basques. In Ecuador, where one of every three persons is indigenous, many try to forget their native language, they buy products to lighten their skin, trying to disappear the way the other two thirds of the country desires. In the US no group hates the Native Americans. But more than a few wish they would stop whining about the past, would just stay on their ever-shrinking reservations and be happy or lose their heritage and become part of the modern world. No group in the world is more ignored, more hidden and thereby more despised, than the indigenous, in whatever country. And perhaps there is no more frightening idea than that the indigenous know something the rest of the world doesn't, that, in the end, the world belongs to them.
Granada
Great place, but not in August, not with the heat. The Alhambra was amazing, and I loved the fact that here they do Tapas the way it was meant to be done: you order a drink, you get a tapa; you don't pay twice. And the tapas are both delicious and substantial here, often a plate-full. Saw a really nice Flamenco show here in a club resembling a cave.
Poetry
Traveling, especially when I'm near a beach or natural scenery, always inspires me to write poetry. I've written several poems. Here's one:
What if I still had
every vestige of the past
both clear and deep within me
that still there were room
for each leaf of last year's bloom
and all the sights and sounds my life's brought in
and now I have forgotten?
Oh, how easily my soul would rend and scatter in today's morning breeze.
Lisbon
Not a lot to see for toursim, necessarily, but a really nice city to visit (and perhaps for living). The people here are much more Latin than Spaniards, in the sense of being humbler and more traditional in their tastes, but they're also heavily European, almost Parisian with their downcast, serious faces and their love of high culture. They're especially fond of their writers here, which suits me well. Like in Paris, there is a ton of racial diversity, but inter-racial mixing seems to be more common and better accepted here. They're also, like Parisians, fond of sitting for hours in their favorite cafe, only it isn't a cafe; here it's a pasteleria, similar to a Parisian cafe in almost every sense except that it's a lot cheaper and the people dress and behave more casually, with less posing, and interact more. They also love their sweets here, which is great but not so good for my health or will-power. The climate isn't bad, either. It's hot, but not Granada hot. And the beaches aren't too hard to get to and they're clean. To be honest, I haven't found anything I dislike about this city.
We saw an old monastery, the main cathedral, and an old tower by the sea. The have some different and delicious traditional drinks here: something called ginjinha, a liquor made from cherry-like ginja berries fermented in brandy; a green wine named because it's made from new grapes (not because it's green); and of course lots of port wine. I had a fair sampling of all of the above.
Heading back to Madrid to unwind for a few days before heading back to Denver to end the summer travels. Don't know if I'm ready for real life yet.
