Una Conquistadora

La Placa de Catalunya 2006

“This city is beautiful, so many streets and walkways bending around. I could wander forever, or at least five days more! The sounds are fantastic. I wandered through the Gothic district by the Picasso museum all while a clarinet filled the space, almost mournfully, echoing back and forth between the close old walls.” 

• November 25th 2006

I wanted to see the entire world and just by virtue of cost, Barcelona was my first adventure into a land not expressed in English. I buckled my seat belt with shaky hands and suppressed a tiny wisp of desperate fear as announcements filled the airplane’s cabin with melodic exotic Spanish. And as one thing tends to lead to another; Spain led to Peru, led to France, led to England, led to Mexico, led to Thailand, led back Spain, led to Italy and once again, led to Spain. Every step I have taken has connected me back to that first late night in Barcelona, jet lagged and confused, walking wide-eyed and without direction as ice cream dripped down from it’s cone perch over my knuckles.  

Despite many returns to Spain, I had not yet revisited Barcelona in particular. So as our group of singers descended from our Montserrat adventure, I had wondered if the same magic and artistic fascination, that I had felt years ago, would once again grab my heart and hold me close. After a short stop on a very windy Montjuic, hilltop home of the 1929 World Fair and the 1992 summer Olympics, (and site of countless executions before and during the Spanish Civil War, but we won’t dwell on that..) our bus weary bodies were only too happy to be dropped at the doorstep of our very lovely hotel.   Upon receiving the room key and a reminder of a group dinner in two hours time, I quickly abandoned my bag to an empty hotel room and slipped out into the embrace of a Barcelona evening. 

La Placa de Catalunya 2006

Our hotel, located just steps from La Placa de Catalunya, a square of about 50,000 meters with streets jutting off like the spokes of a bicycle, served as the perfect springboard for tiny unnoticed escapes from the group. As I rushed to meet the night, I savored in the cacophony of languages and footsteps, the scent of wet stones, perfume and sea, the blur of color streaking over a backdrop of the blue young night. I walked La Rambla, the pedestrian path that leads one through the heart of the city to the sea’s edge. The viewfinder of my camera remained within inches of my eye, street performers warred for attention with food and flower stalls. A flower could be had for a Euro, a scarf for 3 Euro, a smile from a human statue for an unknown clink of coins.  

When walking La Rambla towards the Mediterranean, The warm brown and gold facade of Casa Beethoven beckons on the left. In business since 1880 and full of the dusty scent of undisturbed reams of music, Casa Beethoven serendipitously gifted me with the sheet music of Spain’s own Manuel de Falla. Tucking the little package under my arm, I continued on, stopping only when the scent of fresh fruit, chocolate and saffron pulled me aside. Turning to the left again, I entered and wove my way through the tiny stalls of La Boqueria. Tracing it’s lineage to the 12th century, La Boqueria assaults the senses with vibrantly colored and crisply scented, proudly displayed produce, spices, meats, and confections. Packed in with hundreds of excited tourists, I quickly moved past the first few stalls and into the quieter depths of the market. Upon purchasing enough saffron to scent my luggage and elevate my food for a year, I emerged from the market, eager to touch the sea before racing back to our group dinner.  

I passed the 19th century Gran Teatre del Liceu, pausing only briefly to marvel over the current printed opera season, I circled the 200 foot monument to Columbus, winking up at him trapped on his pedestal above and I crossed quickly to the boardwalk, hearing the water gently lap against the wood and rock. I took a breath tasting salt, faced Rome, waved to Saint Peter and then turned around, the promise of food fueling my harried footsteps back to the hotel. 

Some people adore stately Madrid, others are for Valencia’s warmth, and still others are called to the resilience of the Basque Bilbao, But it is Barcelona who writes songs in my heart and presses flowers between the pages of my music.