Inaction Stations

I was adamant that we would not write a travel blog. Who needs more mediocre travel writing? Travel writing requires drama to make it interesting. Our holiday was planned with precision; there was no room for drama, let alone interest.

I underestimated two things: first, the need to document for the sake of my own failing memory; second, the French capacity for industrial action.

And so it is that we arrive at Barcelona’s Sants train station for our connection to Dijon, only to discover French rail workers are on strike and that our train is cancelled. At last, the drama our blog has been craving.

A train, not moving

There is one train to France; it’s going to Paris and it leaves in eight hours. Oh, and the only available tickets are in first class.

We really need to be in France. We have precisely planned bookings. We take a deep breath, and the tickets. Once we’re in Paris, we’ll go to the place that has rented us a car, explain the situation, and pick up a rental, which we will then drive to Burgundy. They must deal with this sort of thing all the time. And hey, a first-class, cross-border train trip – it’ll be a luxurious adventure.

Our first class carriage turns out to be no flasher than the other carriages, just a whole lot more expensive. We’re not fussed, we made it to France. Just not the part of France we’re supposed to be. Still, we’re in Paris – Paris! – and we’ll sort it out in the morning.

In the morning we get more French disdain than is strictly necessary. Our car rental agency in Dijon has cancelled our booking and given our car away, because they didn’t hear from us. It wasn’t for lack of effort. We tried calling the previous day, but it turns out the number we were given – in fact the number on the website – works only from within France. We were ringing from Barcelona. We also tried emailing, except that the website doesn’t give the email addresses of individual branches. The chap at the rental agency in the Barcelona branch gave us Dijon’s email address (and with it a shake of the head and a regretful sigh of, “I’m sorry, your problem is with the French”) but no one received a thing. Allegedly. So they didn’t hear from us and gave our booking away.

To compound the problem, the car rental person on the end of the line doesn’t speak English. This is fair enough. She’s French, she’s in France, we should speak her language. Melanya does, very well, but explaining our situation is complex. Even so, “I understand what you’re saying,” the person from the rental company says, encouragingly. Then, less encouragingly, “So?”

So we are now in Paris, in an eye-wateringly expensive hotel. We’re supposed to be in Dijon, several hundred kilometres away. Even if we can get to Dijon, no car is awaiting us. That’s moot, because the train strike means that almost every rental car in Paris is accounted for anyway. Tears are shed.

We start going through all the rental agencies. We’re not having much luck.

Eventually, we meet Antoine. Antoine is a trainee at Avis/Budget in Paris Gare du Lyon railway station, and he is a marvel. He is friendly. He speaks English. And, crucially, he has a car, even though it’s a 4WD and we (we being Melanya) have to drive it out of Paris (if you think that’s no big deal, you’ve never been in a car in Paris).

Antoine, if you ever come to New Zealand, I will buy you a beer. You can stay in our spare room. You can stay in our room. If I had a daughter or son, I would promise them to you. I will adopt a daughter or son, and promise them to you.

Lacking the requisite offspring, on our return to Gare du Lyon some three weeks later, we instead leave Antoine a bottle of good Burgundy. We hope he enjoyed it. He saved our holiday.
RICHARD

STRAY OBSERVATIONS

• Everyone – everyone – in Barcelona speaks perfect English. Everyone, that is, except for the people working at Barcelona train station
• Spanish SIM cards stop working exactly at the border
• Even when you’re under stress, it’s amazing how much Paris looks like Paris

This blog entry is dedicated to my cousin Tracey, who died while the events outlined above were unfolding, and whose passing puts everything into perspective.

The Perils and Pleasures of Barcelona

We’re going to be mugged. Everyone says so. Everyone has a second-hand horror story about Barcelona, which is, according to these alarming reports, the most crime-riddled city in Europe, maybe the world.

Either that or we’ll absolutely love it. Everyone who doesn’t have a second-hand horror story about Barcelona says so. It is, according to these sun-kissed reports, the best city in Europe, maybe the world.

For us, Barcelona turns out to be neither the worst nor the best city in the world, or indeed in Spain. We see no crime at all, but the pre-trip warnings colour our whole visit. We spend so much time clutching our bags and scanning the crowds to spot our knife-wielding attackers that we sometimes miss what a cool city Barcelona is.

Barcelona’s a party town, the first great world city on our trip, and a shock to the system after the more reserved and stately experiences of Andalusia, with its sultry nights and friendly, promenading citizens.

When we get there, Barcelona is packed with 20-something Brits on stag and hen weekends but even so, and unlike the broadly homogeneous Seville, Barcelona is incredibly diverse, which is hardly surprising for a city of 4 million people, and which spans a wide geographical area. So there is no single Barcelona, there are many Barcelonas.

We’re staying in the funky Born district. With its narrow winding streets it’s not dissimilar to Seville. Elsewhere there are wide, straight boulevards that cross the city from one side to the other (the Diagonal, for example, runs in a straightish line for about 11km). There’s also a long boardwalk where the Mediterranean washes upon Barcelona’s shore.

There are further ways that Barcelona differs from the other parts of Spain we’ve visited. Most notable is the sense of Catalan nationalism. Barcelona may be in Spain but it hardly feels like it. Catalunyan flags hang draped from apartment windows, while the art gallery is quite pointedly the national (ie, not regional) art gallery of Catalunya. The language seems, at least when written, to be as close to French as Spanish, and everyone speaks Catalan. My carefully learnt Spanish for, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” draws stares that seem to say, “Me neither, mate, not if I can help it.”

One of Catalunya’s favourite sons is the architect Antoni Gaudi, and we anticipated falling in love with his work. We’re both fans of Art Nouveau and thought its marriage with Arabic design influences and the bright colours of Barcelona would charm the socks off us.

Sometimes it did; Gaudi’s undulating lines and Mad Hatter facades can be hard to resist. Casa Batllo and parts of Park Guell were delightful.

Park Guell: part genius, part Mad Hatter’s tea party

However, Gaudi’s most famous work, the still unfinished Sagrada Familia church, is awful. For a place of worship, it is remarkably profane. Partly that’s because it crawls with tourists, all ticking off their ‘must see’ lists, and we were equally culpable on that count. But Sagrada Familia was noisy and busy and flashes were firing and skill saws were buzzing and the interior was more gaudy than Gaudi.

Much more spiritual is Barcelona Cathedral. Flash photography is banned, silence is requested and people are turned away if they dress inappropriately for church. I’m not a believer but if you go to church I think you should respect those who are, and Barcelona Cathedral, unlike Sagrada Familia, feels like a place of worship.

Outside the cathedral we experience one of those special moments you sometimes get when you travel. In the square at the front of the cathedral, a man is playing guitar and singing Catalan folk tunes. The yearning music sounds more Cuban than Spanish, and completely different to the Andalusian flamenco we’ve been hearing. Out of the growing crowd, a couple of 70-somethings clasp hands and begin to dance, swaying gently to the rhythm, eyes locked. Lost in the moment, lost in each other, lost in their own form of worship.
RICHARD and MELANYA

STRAY OBSERVATIONS

• We have become invisible to wait staff. They are not rude, unfriendly or incompetent. Rather, they practice a form of benign neglect. A shame, because the food is so good you want to order more of it. Good luck with that
• Across the alleyway, hearing the TV screen Spain 1-5 Holland and the viewers become increasingly subdued as their tragedy unfolds
• As well as speaking Catalan, everyone can speak fluent Spanish and English
• Sculptures on the roof of the Gaudi-designed La Pedrera gave George Lucas inspiration for the Storm Troopers in Star Wars

Recuerdos de la Alhambra

As a prelude to Spain’s greatest treasure, it’s quite the scene setter.

We wait at the edge of a rose garden, blanketed in twilight and a not-quite-cloying floral scent. Across the valley we can see the Albayzin district, where our apartment lies and itself a UNESCO world heritage site. All the while, swifts fly and call overhead.

Finally, at 10pm, we are ushered in to a dream world: the Alhambra’s Nasrid Palaces.

We’ve been waiting for hours and we are primed, yet neither words nor photos (or postcards – we checked) do justice to how these palaces look at night.

They are artfully and subtly lit, all the better to emphasise the intricacy, artistry and delicacy which make you feel you have stepped into the Tales of the Arabian Nights.

Barely a surface is left unornamented. The walls, the ceilings, the floors, all pay tribute Spain’s Arabic heritage with an artistry that is staggering. And despite the level of detail, there is no sense of fussiness, just beauty. Just perfection.

This sort of detail adorns almost every surface of the Nasrid Palaces

The moon plays its part, its path traced in reflecting pools as bats and the ever-present swifts skim the water. All you can do – the only appropriate response – is to sit and absorb the magic, in awe that now and again, maybe once every few hundred years, humans manage to get their shit together in a way that leaves you humbled and speechless.

But the city of Granada is a paradox. On one hand is the Alhambra, with its otherworldliness and enchantment. On the other are the graffiti, the dreadlocked hippies selling unremarkable trinkets from blankets spread out on the streets, and a callousness towards tourists that is in stark contrast to our other Spanish experiences. This Granada is more than a little frayed around the edges.

We do have one other special moment in Granada, though. The Capilla Real, in the town centre, houses a tomb that contains the bodies of Ferdinand and Isabella. These are the monarchs who unified the country, and you again get that sense of bearing witness to historical and cultural crossroads. Spain begins here.

The coffins of Ferdinand and Isabella. Image source: Wikipedia

In a simple display area above the crypt are personal items owned and used by the king and queen. Here, among these bits and bobs, you find real people: a battered crown, clothing – their actual robes, last worn 500 years ago – Isabella’s rosary beads, Ferdinand’s sword.

The weapon’s hilt is tiny; Ferdinand must have been a little man by today’s standards. You are reminded of the words of ee cummings: “nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.”

And for a few seconds you are no longer seeing history, you are hearing poetry.

MELANYA & RICHARD

STRAY OBSERVATIONS

• Tiny buses on tiny, winding streets
• Walking around the Alhambra’s Generalife garden and realising I’m humming Joaquin Rodrigo’s guitar work ‘In the Generalife’
• It’s 30 degrees celcius and you can still see snow