Park Guell

 

     There is nothing like a park bench to contemplate life upon. It has seen, felt, and heard the plans of men and women, old and young. Everything from a first kiss to a lonely tear drop of a widow feeding pigeons, life occurs on a park bench. I suppose that is why I am so fond of them. Of all the tourist spots in Barcelona, none did I visit as frequently as Park Guell. 

 

     A wonderland of mosaic tile and shapes from a dream sequence which can only be appropriately designated as the result of some form of excessive intake. Be it wine or clams, a dream sequence born of excessiveness. They say, though, that Gaudi was eccentric. In that, I found a certain amount of humor in the design of the park and yet, a certain amount of charm as well. 

 

     The park bench on the upper tier of the park seemed to run for at least two to three hundred yards. It weaved around the edge of the upper tier letting those who attempted to find respite in it, overlook Gaudi’s barrage of columns below and catch a bird’s eye view of everyone perusing the top tier.

 

     You could always find several vendors up there. The ice cream vendors were a given, the woman in black selling silk scarves, a treat. Her lips wrinkled inward, her ankles pudgy and stuffed into uncomfortable, but practical, shoes. There was nothing spectacular about her except the way she displayed her scarves. I can not think of too many occasions were a scarf is necessary in the Mediterranean, even if it is silk. But she had a way of waving them just so, it was truly captivating. Held out with her right hand and then flicked upwards to catch the breeze. The breeze pulled it out and splayed it in the sun. The sun caught the gold and silver threads and flashed brilliance. The brilliance was such that an old and plain woman made her wares the most drop dead sexy and titillating accessory known to anyone with a pulse. I own a few of her scarves. 

 

     But, back to the bench. I always liked to consider Gaudi’s tiled bench the epitome of narcissistic art. It really is a beautiful bench and quite comfortable for being made out of cement and plaster. You feel overpowered to just sit for hours. And yet, as time ticks on, you really start to think that passersby’s are looking at you, not the bench. Hence, the narcissism. 

 

     Artists would paint from the bench, writers would write from the bench, and musicians would compose from the bench. All art forms were represented. I was attempting to write the great American novel from this bench. The writing was rubbish, the memories were fond. 

 

     I was stuck on a paragraph about love one afternoon when I heard a commotion below me on the bottom level. I leaned over and saw a wedding party. A sun kissed Spanish bride with soft brown hair. Both hair and skin accentuated by the high afternoon sun and a white woven and beaded silk gown. Princess style, of course. The browns of her eyes held a fervor only a perfectionist bride could know. Something had gone wrong. She was upset at her photographer. Her groom stood a foot away with his hands in his pockets. 

 

     She saw me staring down at her and smiled at me as if she was a goddess of light and beauty; she shouted to me in Spanish, “Take my picture!” I had not even realized I held my camera in my hand as it dangled over the terrace. I did. She then turned to the photographer, “See, that’s what I want. Go up there and take my picture.” She and her groom played peek-a-boo with the roman columns, racing between shadows and light, and the photographer took several pictures. She was happy and I finished my paragraph about love. How it was fleeting and imperfect, darting between shadows and light. 

    

     Even now, the memory makes me yearn for a park bench. To see life again from a bird’s eye. To sit down while the world goes by, contemplating the perfect moment to get back up and rejoin the masses. Or, I could just go play with my scarves.