Eponymous

As I am still in the process of finding a suitable site to host all of my glorious photos where I don't have to worry about them being stolen and claimed by the unwashed masses, I've decided to post some of my favorites here. The photos are really random pictures of nothing in particular (see how that works?) that I've taken and I really like. They're from Tampa, Knoxville, the Smokies, Barcelona, all over. I'll caption them as the mood suits me. Kick back and enjoy! And don't forget to leave your comments; I would love to know what you think of my pictures.

First up are a few selections from Barcelona.











This is the Arc de Triomf in Barcelona. On the left, I have used my favorite in-camera effect, lens flare. Eat your heart out, J. J. Abrams. Better yet, hire me as your Director of Photography for Star Trek 2.









On the left, sunset over the beach in Barcelona. On the right, Christopher Columbus keeps watch over Barcelona's harbor which is where he returned to Spain after his first voyage to the Americas.









From Tibidabo, on the left, you get a really wicked view of the city of Barcelona some 550 meters below you, as well as the Mediterranean Sea and, if you look real closely at the horizon, Italy. From our first apartment over here, Viladecans, El Prat de Llobregat and Barcelona look beautiful at night on the right.

I think that's enough for today, folks. But I'll keep putting some more pictures up and telling you about all the neat stuff there is to see and do here.

Correfoc

As the last echoes of the thrum of the batucadas rattled off the buildings ancient and new, Sarah and I wended down a number of ancient narrow alleyways and found ourselves soon in front of city hall in Plaça de Sant Jaume—in the middle of a concert of traditional Catalan music. The concert would have been interesting enough in and of itself, but many members of the assembled crowd had gathered together and joined hands, doing
traditional dances in rings all over the square! It was quite enthralling to watch people of all ages holding hands and slowly perform their circular dance well enough that it looked quite coordinated. If I have the pleasure of being here next year during La Mercè, I may have to join them.

As we were standing, taking pictures and enjoying the scene playing out before us, an old man came up and started speaking to us. At first he was using Catalan; once it became obvious that neither of us was following in Catalan (Sarah and I were both just nodding politely), he switched to Spanish. Sarah understood this part, but he quickly perceived that I did not. So, this septuagenarian who'd been born and raised in Catalonia switched to English! I was jealous. I only speak English and bad English and I understand about 5 percent of what's said to me in Spanish on a good day and here this guy was telling us about this festival in English despite having been born and raised here. If I'm ever in any position of power within a school system in the United States, I am going to do everything I can to make sure children are educated bilingually.

With the sun sinking low, we headed to a café for a bit of refreshment and had just enough time to sit down before Sarah’s phone was buzzing again: If we were to make it to see the correfoc, we had better hurry to Via Laietana, cried Sarah’s mates. Sans libation but anxious to see this after-dark spectacle, Sarah and I beat a hasty path to the appointed street to connect with the larger group. Our efforts to follow her classmates quickly were abandoned, though, as we began passing float after ornate float along the street. Feeling a bit crotchety and trying to keep sight of the group and my fiancé simultaneously, I did not snap a single picture, although she was able to capture several spectacular images of dragons and horses and demons and the like. The correfoc, or “fire-run” in English, “is the great festival of fire which starts with the opening of the gates of Hell, from which all kinds of male and female devils and fire beasts pour out…As there will be dragons, flames and explosions, it’s best to remain on the sidelines as spectators,” cautions the booklet. Spectators we remained, though I suspect Sarah had other aims as she came close to folding space and time attempting to position us among the crush of people gathered there.

My initial irritation at being squeezed through the mass of humanity there to watch the proceedings evaporated as soon as the first of the fireworks went off. I would love to tell you what the next half hour was like, watching costumed men and women walk down a street waving a vast array of pyrotechnic delights surrounded by people covered in clothes to protect against burns, but it’s probably just best if I show you. Scroll down and you will see some of the sights that I got to see. It was incredible. And don’t forget to click on the images to open them up in all their glory.

La Merce

Barçelona, as it turns out, has an annual festival to commemorate its patron saint, Our Lady of Mercy, or La Mare de Déu de La Mercè if you prefer the Catalan. (For those of you unaware, Catalan is the official language of Catalonia, the autonomous region in which Barçelona is situated. It’s the co-official language along with Spanish. If you’re keeping score at home, I speak neither although I am understanding more and more of the latter.) I have no idea why this festival is not more well-known around the world, but it isn’t and it should be. I just happened to arrive the weekend the festival commenced and while I only saw a tiny fraction of the festivities myself, they were INCREDIBLE! You can view an entire list of the events here.

Having never been to La Mercè, neither Sarah nor I were entirely sure what to expect. We decided to meet up with one of her classmates in Barçelona for a little lunch and to take a look around. The three of us ended up enjoying bocadillos (very basic sandwiches) near the Santa Maria del Mar, a church upon which construction began nearly 700 years ago. The massive cathedral is squeezed tightly into its location making it very difficult to photograph the outside without making it appear to penetrate the sky, but I did get a wonderful photo of a stained glass window from the inside. My fiancé was not thrilled at how I obtained the photo, but I believe the ends justified the means.

Sarah’s classmate took his leave as Sarah and I made our way through to a parade route where we encountered a lively precession of what would in the States be called drum corps. Each beat out their own tunes before a throng of spectators. I found it interesting that there was little attempt to separate the onlookers from the groups of drummers but for a couple of folks who would occasionally back us up whenever some of the larger percussion groups came through. Sarah was more adventurous than I in getting photos of the various bands; her philosophy on photography, “get in there and shoot until someone tells you to stop,” is a much bolder one than mine, although I think I shall have to adopt a similar attitude. I still got some decent shots, I think.




Those are a few of my favorites. I might post a couple of the videos Sarah took from the Batucadas a little later. It was quite exhilarating to behold. Little did I know that this was merely a prelude to something even more amazing: the Correfoc! I’ll have more on that, though, in my next post.

Whirlwind

After my 19-hour odyssey, I decided I needed to rethink my plan for defeating jet lag as it now appeared that staying awake until 11 or midnight Central European Summer Time was no longer a viable option. So, I decided instead to shower away my transatlantic journey and lay down for a bit. An hour and a half later, I awoke in dire need of sustenance and with a greater curiosity about my surroundings, so Sarah and I decided to head downstairs for lunch. Our apartment complex consists of a series of 13-storey towers connected at the bottom by a very American-looking mall, something that reminds me of downtown Chicago. Except that a much larger percentage of the population speaks Spanish.

I was delighted to learn that the denizens of Catalonia enjoy a good sausage as much as I do (also reminiscent of Chicago) as my fiancé and I sat down at a restaurant called “Frankfurts”. I ordered a Spanish sausage and Sarah and I split an order of what I am learning is one of her favorite dishes, patatas bravas or bravas, for short. Basically, they’re deep fried chunks of potatoes topped with just the right amount of a spicy mayonnaise concoction. I think these would go over extremely well in the states, perhaps in a fast-food-restaurant-style eatery. I recommend them highly should you ever see them on a menu somewhere.

We walked around a bit more and decided to meet up with Sarah’s classmates for dinner in Barcelona. Lunch and dinner are both taken a bit later here, so we boarded a train at 8:30pm (20h30 for those keeping score in the European system) to head into the city. Our suburb is a roughly 20-minute commuter train ride from the heart of Barcelona and the rail station is a five-minute walk from our building, making the commute relatively pain-free (or at least no more difficult than the one I was used to in Tampa Bay). The metro system, I could tell, was going to take a little time for me to grasp and the city at night looked like a bewildering maze. But we made it to the restaurant, where for a mere 12.50 € each Sarah and I enjoyed a veritable feast of tapas with toasted bread slathered in tomato, ham, chorizo, and a variety of other delectable menu items topped off with a flavorful sangria. I knew then that I could easily get fat living here for any length of time.

After dinner and conversation with Sarah’s new classmates, all parties decided to hop back on the metro and head out to a club. My betrothed lead me down a half dozen corridors into the commuter catacombs beneath the ancient city and it was all I could do to keep up. Even at 2am, the hallways were packed with travelers, most of whom looked to be college students shuttling to destinations unknown. We arrived at the last stop and walked to the club only to discover that it was somewhere neither of us wanted to be. Realizing that the regional train back to suburban Viladecans was no longer running, Sarah and I boarded one of the night buses that shuttles the rest of the populace around once the reasonable have gone to sleep.
I could quite probably write an entire post on the journey from Placa Catalunya back to our apartment complex, but I will leave much of it to your imagination and instead tell you that after an hour and a half, a change of buses and a phone call to our roommate we finally arrived home utterly exhausted. But I had a great big smile on my face.

My Apologies

My intention was to write quite a bit more once I got on the ground here, but as I am sure you can imagine, I've been quite busy. Exploring the city and looking for a new job is not easy anywhere, but I've been learning more and more about my environs and taking some great pictures all the while. So, if you'll just hang in there, I expect I'll have some more time to dedicate to writing coming up soon, especially once I've finished my TEFL certification. Although, hopefully not too much more time; I would like a regular paycheck, after all.

I shall leave all of you with a picture of the happy couple in Parc Guell, one of Gaudi's extravagant designs, and Barcelona in the background. Hasta pronto!