Wednesday, March 1 ---
--- Today took us to that legendary pile of rocks, Stonehenge, which literally means “hanging stones.” It’s actually a series of three unfinished monuments, the first dating back to 3100BC. It involved a circular ditch 2m deep surrounded by a bank 1.5m high. The circle itself was 115m across and had a series of 56 holes around its edge (called Aubrey holes after their 17th century discoverer John)
Phase II of the temple was done by the Beaker people, so titled because they were among the first on the island to use pottery, which just happened to look like those high school science class relics. Along with adding a ceremonial avenue to the entrance, they began adding the mysterious upright stones in the middle, all of this being done around 2000BC.
The stones in the middle were bluestones from the Preseli Mountains in SW Wales (no one is quite sure why) which weigh up to four tons each and were brought there via a nearby river (the River Avon, but not the same one as by Billy the Bard’s house -- there are seven River Avons in England, which simply means “the River River” (“Hello, Department of Redundancy Department? I’d like to report a sighting...”))
None of the stones from this era remain in the middle today -- most have been moved to the Phase III area or gone missing over time (Damn those rocks! Can’t take your eyes off of ‘em for one minute or they’re off getting into trouble...)
Speaking of Phase III, this is the portion everyone knows as it is all that is still highly visible (only three stones remain from Phase II). They contain the giant sarsens, stones which weigh up to fifty tons and were dragged to the area on land, presumably by a combination of man and ox. These are arranged into a series of three concentric circles: the outermost of large sarsen stones -- originally consisting of thirty stones -- then the bluestone circle -- originally of sixty -- and then five of the big sarsen trilithons, the famous horseshoe shapes we all know (horseshoes with right angles, that is. They’re just the shapes with two vertical stones with a horizontal one atop them.)
Today, only 51 sarsens and 19 bluestones remain, but this is still a rather impressive sight. I was a little surprised at its size -- as with everything you only read about, your imagination has a tendency over time to inflate all proportions to giant size -- because I was expecting something big enough to block out the sun, almost skyscraper like in stature. Nonetheless, it is still impressive, especially since the sun was shining on them and casting their long shadows across the grass. (Interesting random fact: sarsen stones, the huge ones I’ve been talking about, don’t just rest on each other like we all think. Actually, they have woodwork joints up at the top, and they’re packed in chalk on the bottom to hold them still. Nifty, huh?) (Random fact #2: the whole henge, which means circular or ovular arrangement of objects, took roughly two million man hours to create, so this means it was a part of well-established communities that could spare these supplies and this amount of time. If they were hurting for food or the necessities, an experiment like this could never have been undertaken. Lucky us, huh?)
After snapping some key pics of the stones, it’s off to Bath, a town due west of London. According to legend, it was founded by King Bladud in 863BC. Bladud was exiled from his kingdom due to his leprosy and forced to become a pig herder. One day, he saw the pigs with great sores on them rolling in the warm mud. A week later, he noticed that the sores were gone. So, he tries it, and sure enough, it cures his leprosy. He returns to his kingdom and builds the Roman baths over the sight, decorating the buildings with acorns, then the favorite food of his savior swines.
The sacred water comes from Mendips, a nearby set of hills, which filters down to the carboniferous limestone 3500m down after first falling as rain. The heat from the core of the Earth raises the temperature to 90 degrees Celsius, and then internal pressure forces it back up through a fault in the surface, one which happens to lie just below Bath. 250,000 gallons of water come up from the core each day, and it is around 115 degrees Celsius when it arrives. It has 43 minerals in it, smells like wet metal, and is 10,000 years old by the time it reaches the top. (And yes, I did try a glass. It’s really warm, smelly, and tastes like you’re sucking on a mouthful of old nails. But, it’s supposed to be good for you. (I think this is the flip side of that mindset that “anything that tastes good can’t be good for you.” This stuff is atrocious -- like drinking liquefied pennies -- so it has to be good for you, otherwise it’s the cruelest trick life could play on you -- “Here, drink this. It tastes like shit and is absolutely horrible for you. You just might die...”)
Despite the romantic legend of Bladud, many believe the Romans to have discovered the hot spring in 54AD. They invented baths then, not only for their mystical curative powers, but also as a social center for the well-to-do.
After walking around the museum some more, we learn that the combination goddess Sulis Minerva, a hybrid of Celtic and Roman lore, respectively, was the primary object of devotion for the sight. People would offer tokens to appease her by throwing them in one of the various pools (among the 13,000 coins and hundreds of jewels that were found, there were also curses written on tiny lead tablets that were found. People would curse those who stole or tampered with their things, and then leave the goddess to sort it all out.)
Making our way further along, passing the three pool rooms -- they would have a hot one where you would sit and soak up the heat, almost like a sauna, and then a warm one where a servant would scrape all the oil and dirt that had collected on your skin off, plopping it on a pile on the floor along with everyone else’s (pleasant.) Finally, you would jump into the cold plunge room, a pool filled with cold water, which would stop your sweating and close you now clean pores. You’ve just taken a Roman bath! (A cool thing was how they heated the water and the rooms: the floors people walked on weren’t on terra firma -- they were perched on short, two or three foot high columns of bricks that lay below the surface. This created a lot of space between the actual Earth and the “floor” above, and it was filled with hot air from a great fire they had going in the corner. This hot air would warm the columns of bricks and the underside of the “floor” while also traveling up the spaces in the walls they had built and then out little vents into the actual rooms. This is central heating, Roman style, and these clever spaces below the floors were called hypocausts.)
Continuing our journey, we pass the main altar at the center of what once was a great open courtyard. It lies at the junction of a statue of the moon and one of the sun on the opposite side of the courtyard, and also with the main doorway (this, if you can picture it, formed a Roman cross -- the sun and moon on the short arm, the doorway on the long, and the altar at the center). This united the portions of the day, the visitor, and the universe, all in one fell swoop. (Another interesting sight in the area is a big arrangement of carvings on the wall which depict the four seasons of the year symbolically: spring = flowers, summer = corn, autumn = fruit, and winter = a billhook used to cut firewood (it looks a little more substantial width-wise than what Captain Hook has on his hand, but about the same size))(One final interesting item -- the first wheelchairs were used for this place in Georgian times. They were pulled by someone else, sort of like a rickshaw, with a crippled or ill person inside, to the baths so they could be healed. Cool, huh?)
Having seen enough of the great baths, I wander around town some more, stopping in the Bath Abbey, a big cathedral just like the rest, with two interesting exceptions -- the fan shaped vaulted ceilings (the columns on the side crested with these curved fan shapes on the ceiling) and the front facade which has angels climbing up ladders towards the tops of the towers and the heavens above. Kind of cool.
Not much else to do, we make a quick romp through the circus (a circle of buildings) and then the Royal Crescent (just a big crescent shaped building, which when shot from the air with the closely neighboring circus, looks just like a question mark of buildings. Very cool.) and I eat a Bath bar (a little roll covered with salt, marmalade, and black currants -- very good) and a lardy square (don’t know quite what this is -- some combo of bread pudding and sultanas (their type of raisin) -- but it’s quite nice) before hopping on the bus and heading back to London.
Friday, March 3 ---
--- Woke up in the friendly (but definitely not clean) confines of Hostel Palermo in the sunny city of Barcelona. This, after a blissfully uneventful flight -- good food, no turbulence, and the chairs were like chaise lounges -- big enough to fit Fat Albert and a friend. (British Airways is now my new favorite airline.) Got in late last night, wandered around Las Ramblas, a main strip of shops in the heart of Barcelona, trying to find a hostel. Most were full, same for the hotels, but we find one that had vacancies -- too bad they were $50 a night (this may sound reasonable to those of you with regular income, but to the college student -- the college traveling student, no less -- this is a ton.) Leave it to Tim to save the day, as I find the Hostel Palermo, a place which will charge each of us only 17 bucks a night. Nice.
We pile into the room, I claim the floor (big fight there) and view our temporary palace. It’s bigger than expected, but definitely not cleaner. Since I claimed the floor, I scope out this territory -- dirty tile floors (they look like the last time they saw a mop was when Washington was playing in Pampers), hairs strewn everywhere, and even a nice, used Q-Tip lying around. (Ah, Luxury, how I love your lap...) I make do, though -- no use crying over spilt ear wax and hairy remains -- and fall asleep rather exhausted.
So back to today: I wake up, say goodbye to the still sleeping girls, and head off to give Barcelona a proper greeting. The first stop is the Cathedral de Santa Eulalia, a giant Gothic thing conspicuously crammed between two rather non-descript buildings. Its two large towers, its central, oddly shaped window, its high, arching doorway -- they all seem a little lost in the strange surroundings. You walk inside, though, and you’re confronted with undeniable beauty. There’s a slew of mini chapels, all filled with paintings, statues, sculptures, etc., but all fronted with great black iron grates, blocking off the insides from the public. It’s like the zoo of the religious world; people come from miles around to see these caged beings. You hear people saying things like, “Look, Mommy, a St. Stephen! I haven’t seen one of those for years...” while passing the occasional sign reading, “Please do not feed the caged deities.”
The rest is rather standard, but one thing does stick out -- there’s a chapel underneath the main altar, and the stairs that lead to it descend right in front of the main altar. It’s rather strange. You seem to be walking towards the front of the church, and then it’s slowly disappearing above your head.
The other oddity, and by far the most beautiful aspect of the church, is its cloister. This is like a mini Garden of Eden. There are palm trees, moss covered fountains, and orange trees, all open to the sky above since no roof covers your head, and thus fathoms of fresh air filter down towards you and the white geese that wander the area. It’s absolutely stunning -- I’ve never seen anything like it.
Next, it’s off to the Picasso Museum. Rather than take the Metro, I decide to walk since it’s such a beautiful day (sunny and in the sixties, I’m walking around in a T-shirt). I make my way towards it on the map, but since I’m not really paying any attention (I’m on vacation, and I’m so mesmerized by the sun -- it’s only been out a handful of times while I’ve been in London) I end up at the Arc de Triumph. Now I know what you’re thinking -- “Tim! That’s one hell of a wrong turn, buddy. Getting from Spain to France requires some serious lack of consciousness,” but here’s the scoop: Spain has one, too. A great big red one that’s every bit as stunning and imposing as France’s, maybe bit more so since it’s surrounded by a huge park rather than a ring of streets.
I ogle this some more, and then head off for the museum, this time paying a bit more attention and finding it rather easily. The museum is pretty cool in its setup -- it takes you from Pablo’s early days when he was first dabbling with art, to his time spend at art school painting live models and scenery, to the end of his career when he was a dirty, crazy old man doing drawings of distorted naked chicks and guys, each one looking like the other (the sad thing is he did over 100 of these and they’re really quite ridiculous and redundant.) There are some high points, though -- you get to see a bunch of paintings from his blue period (which coincided with the death of a friend), even a couple from his lesser known rose period, along with several others of rather remarkable value. The best offering is his series of abstract takes on Velazquez’s famous Las Meninas. He has a dozen of smaller details of the bigger one where he was trying to find the representation he liked best for the final painting, and then five or six of the big ones that put it all together. There’s a monochrome one, and several of increasingly bright colors and detail. Highly interesting.
On the whole, the museum is worth it. There are a number of quality paintings, plus you get to see his progression in style -- from text book to timeless. (One thought I had while walking through -- he paints virtually the same subject several times, each time subtly changing certain things. I thought to myself as I saw these, especially the series of The Pigeons (containing at least eight works), which just shows a deck covered with plants and pigeons, “To be able to see such beauty in something so simple and to be so captivated by it to paint it over and over must be quite a sensation.”) (One other thing that I found interesting -- Pablo was into ceramics -- quite a bit as he got older -- and there are several on display here, the quality mirroring that of his other works -- some good, some bad.)
I leave Pablo and his perverted passions behind and head off for a walk in the park -- literally. The Park of the City is right back by the Arc, and I decide to have a leisurely walk around to soak up some rays. It’s a beautiful park -- lots of palm trees, dirt paths, fountains, even a huge greenhouse that’s off to the side and open to the public. It’s full of healthy doses of shade and silence, and I pass through to share in the relaxing vibes.
I wander around some more, eventually stumbling onto a giant fountain in the corner of the park. It’s covered with white stone statues, has a huge pool in front of it that is filled with ducks and the requisite white geese, and even though it’s not turned on yet, I’m still a little flabbergasted by its exquisite nature.
After ogling this for a few moments more, enjoying both the view and the blissfully refreshing shade, I head off to see some Gaudi, the famous Barcelonian architect who, until today, I was unaware of, but not for long. The first stop is his most famous work, the emblem of the city, the Sagrada Familia Cathedral (the Cathedral of the Sacred Family). This thing is massive -- it has eight giant steeples, a slew of statues lying on the face of the building, telling various religious tales -- and it isn’t even finished yet. Construction wasn’t complete when Guadi died (he was hit by a tram and died in 1926) and continues today, albeit at a snail’s pace. What remains today, though, is still spectacular and almost impossible to describe -- it’s that unorthodox. (To me, part of it looks like it’s melting with all the curves and waves that seem to defy logic and gravity.)
I walk up inside one of the sets of towers, slowly making my way up the relentlessly winding staircases, until you reach the top and are confronted with a shot of the whole city, a sprawling mass of buildings and streets that stretch out to the sea. From this vantage point, it reminds me of Hollywood, carefully set in the base of those sprawling, tree covered hills. Gorgeous.
Next on the tour is his other masterpiece, the one the souvenir books call his true triumph, his Utopia, the Park Guell. (It takes me a while to get here, though as the people keep giving me bad directions. I’m halfway to Topeka before I finally find the blooming thing.) This is a sprawling park that is just amazing -- everything you pass warrants careful examination and is a special sight. Be it the craggy rock archways, the spiral columns, the giant wavy bench (said to be the world’s longest), the gingerbread-like houses guarding the entrance, the lopsided passages, or the ornate mosaic figures (including the abstract dragon / fountain on the main staircase), your senses will be suffering from a severe case of overload, but of the nicest kind.
I sit and cool down for a while, drinking my water, eating a popsicle, and being pestered by one of the dozens of cats that aimlessly (and ownerlessly) wander the streets, I realize something thanks to the 1000th senior citizen crossing my field of vision -- this town is chock full of the fogeys. Seriously, this place must be the St. Petersburg of Spain. There are more canes here than at the actor of the same last name, Michael’s, family reunion.
While this though enters my head, I continue sitting and watching a rather raucous band of (what else?) old men playing their drums and horns in the great plaza of the park. It’s the first day of Carnival, the country’s month long celebration, and all the kids (and a fair share of the adults) are dressed up like Halloween (best costume I see are two tan ten-year-olds dressed up like Laurel and Hardy. They looked great.) The kids are dancing around, holding hands in a great circle, swirling like a cyclone and kicking up dust, the music pointing out behind them. It’s a fantastic sight.
After bumping into the girls on my way out (they finally got up) I go to my final Gaudi destination of the day, the apartment building Casa Mila, otherwise known as La Pedrera (The Stone Quarry). He used to live in two apartments here, so the bonus is being able to see the exterior he built -- a wavy (surprise) bunch of white stone -- along with the insides he lived in. The exterior is phenomenal as always -- besides the front, the roof is a veritable playground of sculptures and stairs. The chimneys are disguised to look like knights or twisting blobs which resemble soft serve ice cream, and there are stairs everywhere. Walking around it is hilarious -- up, down, up, down, up, down. It’s quite comical.
The inside is also remarkable -- he has filled the floor just below the roof with a maze of golden brown brick arches, and the apartments he lived in have ore subtle, yet still spectacular touches -- dripping ceilings, curved window frames, twisting stairs. This guy is just amazing -- he makes the seemingly impossible possible, and leaves you with a vision of pure originality and beauty, one culled from the acid laden hallucinations of a druggie or the Candyland pinings of a child -- take your pick.
Thoroughly exhausted after having walked over the entire city, I break down and ride the Metro back to the hostel. I’m rather pleased I did -- it’s by far the nicest one I’ve ridden in my travels thus far. The signs light up to tell you which station you’re approaching so you don’t need to crane around trying to find a sign when it stops, thus forcing you to jump off as it pulls away from the platform. The cars also have arrows on them that light up and point to which side of the car the doors will open on so you can sidle over there to save time, again saving you from having to leap off the car as it drives away. The platforms play relaxing music while you wait, a countdown clock ticks off the seconds on the time telling you exactly when the next train will arrive. In other words, it’s damned nice; it makes London’s system look like a dirty, ineffectual pile of nuts and bolts (oh wait -- that’s true...)
After a much delayed siesta (the Spanish tradition is to nip off for a nap daily anytime between one and four in the afternoon), I clean up, rendezvous with the girls, and the head off for a big meal. We pick a place right on the water and proceed to have a whopper of a meal -- a traditional Spanish one that will leave me full for only the second or third time this trip (this time I’m so full I have trouble breathing -- it feels like Thanksgiving except I can’t take my pants off afterwards...)
We eat authentic paella -- a dish with saffron flavored rice (simply the best tasting stuff ever), chicken, fish, and mussels (the latter of which I don’t usually like, but they taste great and I end up eating half the Mediterranean’s supply of them) -- gazpacho -- a refreshing, cold soup of tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers -- and sangria -- the fruity drink of wine, orange juice, lemon juice, and cinnamon that will absolutely floor you. All this, plus a dessert of three scoops of ice cream, mangos, and I’m set to explode.
Instead of doing that, though, we head off for the jumping Barcelona nightlife for a bit of dancing. These places are just as hopping as I had heard and hold quite the infectious party vibe. (An interesting observation is that the people here don’t tap you on the arm or shoulder and then wait for you to move aside so they can pass. They seem to be staunch advocates of the phrase “If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself,” and so they do -- they just twist you or push you out of the way so they can pass. Crazy.)
By one o’clock I’m ready to collapse, but not from drinking, I’ll have you know -- I only had the sangria at dinner. I couldn’t’ fit anything more into me. Beat tired, I shuffle back to the hostel for some much deserved rest.