The Catalan Heartbeat

Ah Barcelona! What a beautiful city. Not necessarily because of its colorful, dramatic, and untraditional Gaudi architecture, nor its breezy mediterranean coastline--the beauty of Barcelona may be best described as intangible. The passion of the Catalan culture blows through the narrow streets that, although filled with tourists, maintain a very authentic ambiance. At every turn, a street musician is playing classical music on a cello or a violin. Impoverished locals engage the people around them and speak a language that is foreign even to the Spanish.

Bullet holes litter the sides of buildings from a time when Catalan culture was oppressed by Francisco Franco, the fascist dictator who ruled Spain from the 1930s until the 1970s. For the Catalunyans, his dictatiorship represents a tragic time in their history, a time when, despite their best efforts, their intense, passionate, and distinct way of life was threatened with extinction. The holes on the bulidings' walls remain to remind the Catalan people of the resistance leaders who were peppered with bullets for fighting to keep their culutre alive. In 1975, Franco died, and Catalan culture rose--bringing us the very distinct Catalan capital city: Barcelona. Today, children of Barcelona play in squares with bullet-chipped walls, but it is said that their laughter, happiness, and freedom to live as Catalunyans show that the Catalan leaders did not die in vain.

After Franco's death, King Juan Carlos liberated the Catalan people. In celebration of this monumental time in Catalan history, Barcelona submitted a bid for the 1992 Olympics and won. Much of the city's charm comes from vast renovations that were initiated in order to present the best Barcelonian face to the world after such a long, painful part of their history. Palm trees were shipped from Hawaii and began to fill the city's squares, sidewalks, and beaches. Buildings and monuments were erected, and a beautiful Olympic park still stands as a symbol of Barcelona's rise to the status of an internationally significant city--as well as the Catalan people's ability to overcome.

Tonight, we had the privilege of eating tapas and enjoying a Flamenco show. Tapas is a very general term that could mean sauteed chicken livers to potato wedges with garlic fry sauce--luckily, they saw us coming and turned on the deep-fryer. Our first dish was a plate of meats, cheeses, olives, and "tortilla," which is a potato omlette in Spain, and was by far the tastiest part of that dish. Next came the potato wedges, and it was to our pleasant surprise that the sauce was pungent with garlic and made the dish seem slightly more sophisticated than it was. Finally, the most authentic Catalan tapas were served. In one dish, we had a whole baby octopus, which was terrible and felt like rubber. The second was a set of two sausage meatballs covered in a sweet and mildly spicy sauce. The third: two flame-grilled peppers with a hint of spice, a deep smoky flavor, and lightly covered in olive oil. And finally, paella. Paella is a dish whose name comes from the Spanish phrase "para ella" or "for her." It is said that one evening, a gentleman was supposed to serve his lady a meal, but hadn't prepared. The moment of truth arrived, and as a last resort, he pulled together everything he had on-hand, and created the most famous Barcelonian dish: paella. It was served as yellow rice with various chopped and grilled vegetables, tossed with various shellfish and shrimp. It was pretty underwhelming. The shrimp had its legs and three-inch tentacles, and the mussel shells were cracked into the undercooked rice. This platter of four dishes was distinct because the food was unpolished--and thus, probably most authentic. The shellfish still had barnacles, and no one bothered to pick out the tentacles. It was very different, and we tried it all, but sometimes you can't be as cultured as you would like to be.

But that wasn't our last opportunity to take in Catalan culture for the evening. After the four other people at our table finished the second pitcher of Sangria, we were led down the streets of Barcelona at sunset until we arrived at the Flamenco club.

Deep red lights filled the otherwise dark space with a romantic, sexy air. People had filled the seats in front of the stage, and there was just enough space between the hypnotized audience that stood around the bar that we felt like intimate strangers maintaining a mysterious distance in the shadows. A band of five men filled the chairs on stage and began to play, and the red lights went down. Their soulful, emotional voices silenced the whispering crowd. Spanish men began to lightly clap their hands to the rapid beat of the music, surrounding us with a rich sense of their connection to the music.

As we celebrated their performance, a large, sensual woman came out from behind a black curtain, silouetted by the red light from backstage. She was followed by a man whose presence just couldn't compete with her. She filled the stage. Her face sharp and deep with emotion, she began to tap her heels against the floor; leading with her wrists, she slowly drew her arms toward the ceiling. Then, she began to swing them, pulling the rest of her body around with them--now, clapping her heels. Her expression intensified, and she began to throw her large frame around the stage until it was all she could do to keep herself upright, all the while stomping her feet with fierce precision.

When the man performed, it seemed to only serve as a moment's rest for the star performer. After he finished his short, skilled, yet relatively unimpressive performance, the woman took her position at center-stage. She began to move again, this time with more intricate foot work. The tapping, clapping, and stomping created a rhythmic beat that ebbed and flowed with the emotion that contorted her ethnic face. Finally, after touring the stage, craning the curves of her hips and thighs, and powerfully capturing the audience with demanding armwork, she slammed to a stop. Her chest heaved while she proudly breathed through her nose. Her chin was pointed at the audience in an indignant expression that we couldn't help but admire. The crowd got to their feet and praised her wildly; the men around us said, under their breath, "estupendo!" As the red lights came up again, Collin and I agreed that we couldn't have spent a better evening in Barcelona and cherished the exquisitely authentic experience we were so lucky to have.

After the show, we went back out to the Plaza Reial.

Although every European city we've been to has numerous squares, it seems that each of Barcelona's is buzzing with life. Although most people are smoking, sitting, and enjoying conversation, the deep Catalan heartbeat feels electric. As night falls, the beat becomes stronger, faster, and almost audible. While we were walking around the plaza, I could hardly move my feet. Our business was done there, and we weren't interested in the bars or clubs, nor the trinkets being sold by street vendors, but there was a magnetism that drew me into the center of the square. We sat at the fountain in the middle that is surrounded by imported palms, and just felt the life eminate from the cafes, bars, clubs, restaurants, and most of all, the people, humming around the square like slow, yet sharp bumblebees. That's it. The pace is slow, the people mellow, but simmering beneath the surface is always that pounding Catalan heartbeat that shakes and awakens the spirits.

When we finally began to make our way home, we crossed the familiar Ramblas. Las Ramblas is a large boulevard that is lined with street vendors and performers day and night. The feeling down this enormous street was the same as those in the squares. All of the people move slowly, but have never been more alert. Although we've all seen a "tin-man" and portrait artists, something about Barcelona slows you down and lets you soak in the electricity flowing through the streets. At the end of Las Ramblas, when we came to the monument to Christopher Columbus, we reluctantly turned around and headed back toward our hostel.

After feeling like a slug in Nice, I thought that I was done traveling, that I was exhausted with Europe, that I was burnt out. I was wrong. All I needed was a dose of Barcelona to reawaken my spirits, enliven my interest in different cultures and foreign histories, and sharpen my desire for more. More time, more knowlege, more flavor, more Barcelona.