1
Barcelona
Posted by JSYL
on
Saturday, May 10, 2008
in
Barcelona,
Only in Barcelona Moments,
The Secret Life of Journalists,
Travels
When I told two of my friends I was going to Barcelona, the same expression lit up both their faces. It was a mix between nostalgia and excitement. They both told me how great it would be, and how lucky I was to be going there. But neither could explain why. Well, I've been there and back and, when meeting said friends again to debrief, I talked at a faster rate than usual, even for me. They both nodded eagerly in response, and then, the unthinkable- I found my face lighting up with the same look I'd seen on theirs. Sitting there in silence with them, speechless, I realised I too was at a loss, no more able to articulate the appeal of the city than they had been. Someone once said that "we don't remember days, we remember moments". So here are a few. Maybe this will help a little.
Sipping on sweet sangria with a stranger before a crisp white tablecloth. To my left a courtyard teeming with tourists, to my right, a balconied courtyard. Feeling a soft breeze on my cheeks, talking about everything: the futility of love, the impermanent lifestyle of the traveller, the misunderstood beauty of religion. And it feels like I have all the time in the world, and anything is possible.
Craning my neck as far as it will go, the sun melting the cheese off the pizza in my hands. Staring up at 80 years of devotion to a dead architect's vision on the drawing board. A church spanning a whole block without being at all ostentatious, so much man-made effort taken to seem organic. Pockets scattered all over its face to shelter detailled scenes from different stages in Christ's life.
Emerging from the dark cavern held up by heavy wooden beams that cradles Picasso's earliest works. Sun filtering through the entrance in the distance. Portugese jazz (or Spanish, I couldn't tell) echoing off the stone-covered walls of the alleyway. An old man strumming his guitar to a steady staccato rhythm. A stranger staring, mesmerised. Taking a moment to see- for the first time, really see- the busker lost in his own element, as crowds of others walk past him with only a half-hearted sideways glance.
A little girl tug on her father's hand as a signal to stop mid-walk, while her head follows the path of a tiny puppy waddling past her nonchalantly. The whole world is stopping for this dog. The girl's wide-eyed expression, so filled with amazement and so beautifully unassuming.
|
Sipping on sweet sangria with a stranger before a crisp white tablecloth. To my left a courtyard teeming with tourists, to my right, a balconied courtyard. Feeling a soft breeze on my cheeks, talking about everything: the futility of love, the impermanent lifestyle of the traveller, the misunderstood beauty of religion. And it feels like I have all the time in the world, and anything is possible.
Craning my neck as far as it will go, the sun melting the cheese off the pizza in my hands. Staring up at 80 years of devotion to a dead architect's vision on the drawing board. A church spanning a whole block without being at all ostentatious, so much man-made effort taken to seem organic. Pockets scattered all over its face to shelter detailled scenes from different stages in Christ's life.
Emerging from the dark cavern held up by heavy wooden beams that cradles Picasso's earliest works. Sun filtering through the entrance in the distance. Portugese jazz (or Spanish, I couldn't tell) echoing off the stone-covered walls of the alleyway. An old man strumming his guitar to a steady staccato rhythm. A stranger staring, mesmerised. Taking a moment to see- for the first time, really see- the busker lost in his own element, as crowds of others walk past him with only a half-hearted sideways glance.
A little girl tug on her father's hand as a signal to stop mid-walk, while her head follows the path of a tiny puppy waddling past her nonchalantly. The whole world is stopping for this dog. The girl's wide-eyed expression, so filled with amazement and so beautifully unassuming.
|
Posts
