I Have to Laugh or I'll Cry
Parenting - Humor
A blog about Parenting and Family Life.
Real Name: Heather Ijames Member Since: April 11, 2008 Last Signed In: November 30, 2008 Profile Views: 507 Blog Views: 1515 He's Won Half the Battle Grasping at Metaphors Get Your Fangs Out, It's Fall Ball! Mom's Night Out First Day Funny It's Not a Dare The Barcelona Chronicles - Part III The Barcelona Chronicles - Part II The Barcelona Chronicles - Part I April 08 May 08 June 08 July 08 August 08 September 08 October 08 November 08 December 08 January 09 . 
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Here's a piece of newly found wisdom: The manufacturer's recommend age for fun stuff like Lego's, Lincoln Logs, and Transformers (and I'm sure the same will go for girly toys) is not a dare for you to prove to the toy company that your child is smart enough to play with older kid toys. No, it's a stern warning that if you are naive enough to buy it for your younger one, then you must be patient enough to put the toy together over and over and over and over again. On account of the younger one reveling in habitually taking it apart and not being sophisticated enough to read the thirty page instructions that accompany the toy. I've just discovered this today as I look at the 600+ pieces of Lego's on my living room floor (which used to consist of four separate sets) while my four year old waves phone book sized manuals in my face, asking me to build up the models again which were originally recommended for eleven year olds. When I told him he needs to follow the manuals himself, he just laughed at me and said, "Yeah right. That's what you're for. Mommy's are for reading and I'm for playing." Okay toy companies...lesson learned.
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.
Apartment in the Ghetto I found the place online and the price was right. Too right. The pictures showed a clean and quaint little studio apartment. The price could mean only one of two things. Either the landlords, in a cooperative effort with some fair housing for poor students initiative, kept the rent at a below average rate or, it was a clean and quaint apartment in a crummy area. I decided to take it anyway. How bad could the area be? Surely Barcelona could not have its Compton comparable area. I was sure I had seen worse in a line at Magic Mountain than anything I could find in Barcelona.
My new landlord insisted he pick me up at the airport; and although my suitcase was bigger than his car, I was grateful for the ride. The first time I caught a glimpse that something was afoul was when my landlord had wild and darting eyes once he told me we were only a block away from the apartment. For a fifty-five year old man, I was plumb shocked at how quickly he managed to unload my bags and lock us inside the apartment for my tour.
He gave me the run down of the apartment. “Bed here, fresh sheets there, TV doesn’t work but you wouldn’t understand it anyway, bathroom, kitchen, and this is your washer/dryer/dishwasher.”
It was a small machine that only looked like a washing machine. “No!” I said in disbelief.
“Yes.” He reiterated.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Nah….” Still in disbelief.
“Yes, okay.” He said firmly.
I still don’t know if it actually did all three. I was not going to try. I washed my clothes in it, hung them dry and did my dishes by hand.
He stood by the doorway and prepared himself to leave. “There is one more thing. Ah, first…thank you for paying in full up front. I really appreciate that. Ah, second, try not to go out after sunset. It’s a bad area and bad things could happen to you. So vulnerable, so young, so alone. I would feel horrible if something happened to you. Ah, so make sure you have lots of fun in Barcelona but make sure you are home before dusk. And if you are out after dark, then make sure you don’t walk home. Take a taxi. Most won’t come out here, but take one anyway. Thank you, good-bye.”
I spent my first evening double latching the front door, pushing the armoire in front of the porch door and curling up reconnecting my communication line with God. My landlord was right though, no taxi would come that way. For fear of being robbed. The few times I stayed out after dark, I was dropped off at the barrier of the ghetto by my taxi driver and was forced to make the one mile trek to my front door alone. One time, I even resorted to barking while walking. I was willing to try anything. But, for the most part, I did all my sightseeing in the daylight and rediscovered why it is important to be comfortable with oneself when all one has until dawn is…oneself.
The potential for a mugging in that neighborhood was no joke. I, luckily, survived unscathed. Although, as alluded to earlier, I could not even count on one hand the times I was walking home after dusk. A fellow student in my building, however, was not so lucky. Despite the fact I warned my building co-occupier we should forego the end of the Sangria party to arrive home in safety, he told me that I should lighten up and enjoy myself. The next morning when I came knocking on his door to walk to the subway together, he finally opened the door with a swollen and red face, wearing the same clothes he had on the night prior. His left back pocket was ripped off and dangled by a few threads from his pants. He had been jumped, mugged, and punched by seven men when he finally came home at three in the morning. They had taken his wallet and, regrettably, his sense of security. He moved out the next day.
The next chapter is Park Guell. A world famous park designed by Barcelona’s beloved artist, Antonio Gaudi. A place where I habitually watched the world go by.
The Barcelona Chronicles
Part I
I am at the point in my life where I neither feel young nor old. I know have opponents in the field who say I should still very much consider myself young. But enough whipper snappers have referred to me as ma’am, and thus, I have accepted my fate as being older than the young even if I’m not older than the old. At any rate, it recently occurred to me my mind feels quite like a rubber band. Sometimes it stretches to great lengths, and other times it contracts and I ask complete strangers what the date is several times over in the course of a single day. Today it is stretching. Stretching back to a time which seems so very long ago, yet it has not even been ten years. However, it was before marriage and before children. So as you can see, it was a very, very long time ago.
I was preparing to sign up for the summer semester following my second year of law school when I had come across a flyer in the library. It advertised a semester abroad in one of several countries over the summer break. My attention was truly peaked because I had already done a semester abroad in Florence, Italy during my sophomore year in college. Oh, to go to Europe again. I had to at least make an inquiry. It turned out that taking two summer classes at the University of San Diego during the summer would cost double the amount of taking three summer classes abroad. That cost included my tuition, renting an apartment, the flight over there, spending money, and still paying the rent on my apartment in La Jolla since I did not want to lose it for the next school year. Half the cost and an experience of a lifetime? It was a fortuitous thing I already had a passport.
I chose Barcelona, Spain for reasons I am still not sure of. I suppose I cannot escape the fact that the Mediterranean calls out for me…it is in my bloodline. I remember telling my father, both while I was there and once I arrived back home, I did not care for Barcelona. My reasons were juvenile. I suppose I wanted to see something quaint, a picture which had manifested itself from a young girl’s expectations. Barcelona was big, bustling, and dirty. That is what I told him.
But now I can see that those opinions were formed in the journey, not the destination. The journey from my apartment to the cathedral was dismal but I adored the cathedral. The journey from the university to the park was frightening but I adored the park. Maybe it is collective blocking, but I hardly remember the journeying anymore. I simply see the destinations. And oh, what destinations they were.
To feel the pulse of Barcelona is to taste it with your eyes. I can hardly envision standing on the gold and course sand of the Costa Brava without tasting the salty air of the Mediterranean in my mouth. I can’t remember an outdoor café without tasting olive oil and freshly crushed tomatoes making a natural symphony of flavor in my mouth. And sangria, sangria is the heart of the city. Every time I make it in the comfort of my own home I remember the dark pit of a tavern where my lips where first introduced to its amazing flavor; how I still taste the wet wood my hand carved goblet was made from as it held the dark and sweet substance I am still so fond of.
Humor me as I retell my experiences of Barcelona in these chronicles. Part one was my introduction. Part two will be my apartment in the ghetto.
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