Photos: Traveling IV

A final set of photos from this trip. One of my last planned visits was to see the famous Casa Batlló's, Antoni Gaudí's lavish house, designed for Josep Maria Jujol in 1877 and redesigned in 1904-6, that (in)famously appears to have no straight lines in its face. It spectacularly droops like candle wax, or creeps like the stone efflorescences in a Max Ernst painting, dominating the already grandiose architecture of the grand Passeig de Gràcia's most over-the-top block, the Illa de la Discòrdia (or "Block of Discord"), so labeled because the neighboring manses, by Barcelona's most famous Modernist architects Lluís Domènech i Montaner, Antoni Gaudí, Josep Puig i Cadafalch and Enric Sagnier), visually and visibly strive to outstrip each other, though Gaudí easily wins the prize. In local parlance, the house is known as the Casa dels ossos (House of Bones, in Castilian: Casa de los huesos), and if you stare at it long enough, it does start to appear to be growing new excrescences. (Like the Sagrada Familia, but in reduced form.) Just as with the Temple, so here, mobs of tourists, and a pricey entry fee, so I snapped (not so great) photos and got back on the Metro.

It was the highlight of a tour through L'Eixample, the neighborhood surrounding and north of the University of Barcelona; also in this area is Barcelona's main gay district, though I learned that to see it at full flower, it was probably best to visit after 6 pm. Many a shop, though none of the restaurants, shuttered for la siesta, which I'd completely forgotten about. Though thoroughly worn out, I definitely enjoyed seeing Barcelona again, and hope to get back soon. I was even able to have a complete conversation in Spanish, from pickup to drop off, with my cabbie, and on the first leg of my return flight read a couple of the books I bought, one by a young Spanish poet named Juan Vico, which received a prize in 2011, and one by the Argentinian author Carlos Skliar. I'll post translations of excerpts as soon as I can. My cabdriver--I am not becoming Tom Friedman!--stated what I'd observed, that the city had grown in infrastructure and racial and ethnic diversity, and Catalan cultural consciousness since 1990. The days of Franco's ban of this distinctive Romance language, or the absence of black and brown faces, was long gone. What the future promises, especially given the Eurozone crisis and Catalonia's own economic problems, remains to be seen, but the city is and will probably continue to be a jewel.

I concluded part of my return by staying in a relatively inexpensive, Japanese-style pod-hotel, Yotel, in Amsterdam's airport. It took a few minutes to figure out how to turn on the lights and connect to the Internet to Skype home, but I would recommend it for non-claustrophobics and non-acrophobics. It's like sleeping in a chamber of the spaceship in 2001, though without Hal threatening to wreak havoc. Reserve in advance though; I thankfully had so I wasn't denied a room but there was a line of people looking for an affordable option, their computer system was down, and the beleaguered young attendant seemed almost ready to bolt if he was asked another question.... On the second leg of the flight home, I finally read Julian Barnes's Man Booker Prize-winning novella The Sense of an Ending, after having recommended it, based on a number of strong reviews, to a student who enthusiastically polished it off and then came to my office hours to ask: "Professor, what happened at the end?" He wasn't testing me, I realized, but actually confused. I read the book and now what happened, so he'll receive an email, if he did not subsequently reckon it or consult Wikipedia. As tight as a Swiss watch's gears, that plot of Barnes's, yet also perhaps a bit melodramatic too.

OBAMA British Africa gin & rum, ales and stouts

PELIGRO

VOTA

Mary Astor Cafeteria, L'Eixample

FOCUS

Street scene, near Blanquerna

Carrer Moncada

Umbriacle, in the Parc de La Ciutadella

Door art

Casa Batlló

Casa Batlló

Casa Batlló

Museu Antoni Tàpies (with the wire cloud on its roof)

La Mulata, in L'Eixample

Street scene, L'Eixample

Galeria de arte, L'Eixample

Pub Fiction, L'Eixample

Yotel Hallway, pods on either side

The Yotel pod, straight on

Photos: Traveling II

It's mid-afternoon here, early morning on the US East Coast. Our panel, at 9 am today, went well, each of the papers harmonizing with each other in fruitful ways. I realized last night as I was making changes that I had written two papers instead of one. Separating and then developing and polishing both will be something to look forward to. Now, after a bit of Skyping with C, I hope to catch a few panels, and walk a bit more around the city.  One energizing mental exercise involves trying to make out as much Catalan as I can, and I can. Mash French and Spanish together it really makes sense; fortunately it doesn't impede my Spanish, which now arrives at my lips without even the slightest tinge of Portuguese. I cannot help but speak it slowly, though, and with a Caribbean accent. Eso sí que es. In a Catalan bookstore today I saw sections for every type of book except "literature." I didn't ask where they'd hidden it. On the other I think I did read on Twitter that Andrew Zawacki posted on Harriet that "grafitti" is the "secret language" of Paris. Not just Paris: there is so much inventive street literature and art here that it's clear it's one chief response, as it was once upon a time in the US, to the misrule of the overlords. Maybe that's where all the most vibrant poets and fiction writers here are publishing. On walls. ¡Siempre la lucha, pa'lante, arriba! (¿Escriba?)

Update: I did find some work by very interesting Spanish and Hispanophone English--in a bookstore that featured both the US and British English-language versions of Jonathan Franzen's new volume of essays. Why?

Facultat de Comunicació Blanquerna
Universitat Ramon Llull (HQ for the conference)



Where our panel was held this AM

Photos: Traveling

I'm traveling for a conference, so blogging will be intermittent. In place of words, a few images. I hadn't been to Barcelona, Spain, in 22 years (1990), when C and I were fortuitously able to acquire courier flight-priced tickets to Europe, hop on a train, and travel from Paris to Lisbon for almost nothing. Back then France still had francs, which compared favorably to dollars (5/6=$1), Spain had pesetas (22=$1US), which compared even more favorably to dollars, and Portugal had escudos (33-35=$1US), which compared most favorably to the little bit of greenback we had in our pockets. Today, however, all three countries are on the euro, and Spain is very expensive. It also is teetering on the brink of a financial collapse, as is Catalonia, Barcelona's home province. Unemployment is 25% nationally, 50% among the young.  The little of Barcelona I've seen thus far, from the airport to the Sant Gervasi/Eixample neighborhoods I've passed through, still glitter despite the worry and wear, and much of the changes that came with the Olympic Games in 1992 have led to further sprucing up. The sleepy big town where people stared in fascination at us on the subway and which felt like a curious way-station between France's capital and Portugal's square-thronged biggest city has changed quite a bit. Here are just a few photos. I hope to post more soon.