Bullfight

My only previous experience with bullfighting has been one Hemmingway novel (The Sun Also Rises?) which definately romanticized the whole affair. I had visions of a spectacle deserving of the adoration of (most of) a nation. I had read of danger and intrigue, of masterful technique and a respect for the beast involved. Hemmingway wrote of master who could place themselves in real danger only to twist and finess and glide out of way; of imposters who never placed themselves in danger but tried to appear so.
What I witnessed on television was an embarassment. Granted I am sure that the experience is much different in person. I saw rodeo clowns in spannish garb distracting an tiring a majestic beast. I saw a matador (killer, in spannish; at least they make no false claims) throw small frilly spears at the bull until the bull was sufficiently injured to be approached. The bloody beast has at this point lost a couple steps and can be avoided easily by the matador. A few minutes of show and pomp and ceremony ends in a half dead bull lunging into the sword of the matador. Where, exactly, is the honor?

Tail Lamps Chasing Headlights

the following was written sunday night (palm sunday) around midnight across from and next to the Arc de Triomf, the site of my architecture project:



The site is asleep. So is most of Barcelona. Palm Sunday has put a calm over this mostly secular culture. The only noise of any consequence comes from passing cars. The occasional pedestrians tap their shoes past. A bicycle or two squeek by. Most of the apartments are dark. They must either be asleep or avoiding windows. Dull yellow lights illuminate the small and empty park a block over. Past trips through the park revealed benches with old tattered blankets on them, proclaiming to the world that those beds have already been claimed and would soon be occupied. The other major source of light comes from the empty gas station (in the states an empty gas station would be a rare sight, here any gas station is a rare sight). The arc is light. There are still a few tourists snapping flash photography. Most of the foot traffic is headed to the metro before it closes. The temporary entrance is intruding on the park while the new entrance is being build in front of me. The empty construction pit reveals parts of the neighboring building that were never intended to see the light of day. I wonder if any transit center or metro entrance could stretch out high enough to cover the nakid sides of its neighbors. Distant church bells proclaim the begining of a new day but the rest of the world seems not to notice.

Approaching the arc reveals completely different scenery. The same tempered activity has spread to a huge scale. Service trucks pass on their way to tend to the various neighborhoods in the area. There is activity here but not enough to fill the space. The Arc de Triomf, gateway to the worlds fair of 120 years ago, stands between a wide tree lined avenue headed to the mountians and a tree lined plaza headed to the Citadel Park. The headquarters for the local gas company sits in the distance, just on top of the trees of the park. Pearly white lamps hung from posts, that look inspired by cranes at a sea port, point to the entrance of the park. They point to the dark mass of trees. The only other light comes from the road just before the park. A steady stream of bright red tail lamps chase dull yellow headlights.

Hacky Sackin Through Fes

The Land of 1001 Scents

I just returned from Morocco tuesday night, after a 6 day stay there. Stepping off the plane, two things struck me. First was the humidity, as it had just rained. Second, related to the recent rains, was the smell, the smell of palm trees or freshness that could never be bottled or sold as "Calvin Klein." It was a smell that reminded me, probably falsly, of the previous trips to the middle east I´ve had.

The trip would be full of smells and aromas, both good and bad, that defined the trip. There was the food, be it couscous or tajine or coffee or mint tea. The streets were full of smells: spices and leathers and fresh feces curtesy of passing donkeys. The tannery was full of the oppressive leather odor. The apothacary shop had plenty of smells, whether it was from powders, lotions, inscence or oil.

Fes was beautiful, and the medina seemed to last forever. Streets curved and crawled and crashed together, be it a market in the street or the open area of a collapsed house. The main stops included two madrasas, a hotel and an arts school. There are three types of housing in the medina: riyadhs (houses opening out to a garden), dhars (houses surrounding a courtyard), or dhweeras (small dhars). I think my favorite part had nothing to do with the architecture. I finally got a haircut by an algerian right near the hotel. I trust my french a helluva lot more than my spanish when it comes to gesturing instructions. It was nice to meet an algerian there but unfortunately I had no idea where his hometown was.

Photos (from left to right): inside a refurbished Synagogue, part of the wall guarding the royal palace, dying stations for the tannery, cranes nesting atop roman ruins

Passeig de Mercat

I've given up the search for a cheap replacement wheel for my bicycle. The city seems a little bigger now as a pedestrian. Today I felt inspired (maybe just compelled to leave studio) to seek out a few of the old markets of Barcelona. I started in Placa Universitat and took Ronda Sant Antoni to Mercat Sant Antoni. This boulevard marks a segment of the old wall that was destroyed when the Eixample was created. Mercat de Sant Antoni is a large market covering an entire Eixample block, with four entrances at each chamfered corner. Apparently there is a book market on sunday mornings, but it was closed by the time I walked past.
From there I cut over to Avinguda Paral.lel west through Placa Espana. This plaza opens up to Montjuic and the site of the 1929 World's Fair. Further down Paral.lel on the left is Mercat Hostafrancs. Much smaller than Sant Antoni, the market is a simple three aisle layout with a modern supermarket taking up the west wing. Most of the front is covered in stainless steel vending stands. I hope the inside looks better, because the exterior was nothing special.
I cut up a couple blocks to Sants Estacio and the park just east of it. The huge station has a huge plaza in front of it and a huge park to the side. Felt about a mile wide. I crossed over to Avinguda Josep Tarradellas, which connects Sants to Diagonal. Some of the traffic patterns of the eixample made no sense, especially where four lane roads start without any traffic directed into it. Half of the streets were empty, used only for their parking spaces. Av Terradellas hits Diagonal with Travessera de Gracia, which extends into the heart of Gracia.
While Av Terradellas cuts throught the Eixample, with the grid continuing through it, Travessera mediates between the Eixample grid and the outskirts of Gracia. Mercat de Llibertat is getting renovated and, similar to the set up of Eastern Market in DC, a temporary market is set up a block away. The original building is set up similar to Hostafrancs, although modern CMU intervention looks a little out of place. There was one other market in Gracia but by this point I had forgetten its name and location. Time to head back to studio.

"It Was a Stolen Bicycle..."

Apparently the theft of his bicycle inspired a teenage Cassius Clay to start boxing training. I had the rear wheel of my bike stole but found no inspiration in the turn of events. I left my bike at the intersection of Diagonal and Passeig de Gracia to catch a bus up to Girona for a class trip. We returned to the city around 10pm that night and were dropped off about two miles away. The next day (wednesday) was full of studio deadlines and spannish studying (midterm on thursday). By the time I went to get my bike, the rear of the frame was resting peacefully on the ground.
In the states people worry about locking up bike wheels if the wheels are expensive. Mine weren't. You'd need a wrench to get it off. My wheel was stolen because rear wheels can run about 30 euros. The bike was a piece of crap. I bought it for 25 euros second hand (maybe even third or fourth hand). I spray painted it, which is something thieves do to disguise the merchandise. The spanish teacher thought I bought a stolen bike until I told her I was the one who painted it. The spraypaint was pealing off, so it was mostly blue but with specks of pink and white. Hell, the pedal arm fell off about a month after I got it.
Despite all of this buying that bicycle was the best decision I've made here. I didn't need a metro pass, I got to and from studio quicker, I got exercise, I had the freedom to cruise the streets (which went well except for the occasional close call with a car or pedestrian).

Belgique

Just got back from travels through Paris and Belgium. C'etait bien. J'ai passe beaucoup de temps avec une famille qui est amis avec mon. J'ai reste a Paris pour deux jour et j'ai pris le train á Lille Jeudi. C'etait un peu cher. J'ai eu besoin d'acheter le billet a la gare, et ça coutait 80 euro pour le voyage, aller et retour. Le voyage passait rapidement (le TGV a le vraiment nom), et j'ai rencontre avec Damien, un ami qui j'ai deja rencontre a Zaragoza en fevrier. Ce jour j'ai marche en tour de la ville avec lui, et nous avons visite le muse des beaux arts. J'aime les sculptures classique main pas les peintures.
Cette nuit nous avons pris le train a Tournai, un petit ville a l'autre cote en belgique. Damien a une copine lá, et nous nous avons rencontre a un bar avec quelques autre. Le biere en belgique est forte et interessante, et a un bon gout.
Le jour prochaine Damien et moi avons visite la cathedral de Tournai et le clocher. On ne peut pas voir beaucoup de la cathedral parce qu'il y a travaux de renovation.
A samedi je suis rentre a Paris. J'ai visite le grand mosque de paris et l'institute monde d'arab. je dois montre les photos ici tôt suite