Spain: Montjuic

To continue on the story of Spain, this post is Day 2.  We went to Montjuic, translated to "Mountain of the Jews."  It is a small hill where the Jews first were pushed to and then driven out.   The architecture was truly awing, and we went into a few museums to which I had the same reaction.  

The stadium

This is the Palau Nacional (National Palace) which was built for the International Exhibition in 1929.  It is now the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, or the MNAC.  

(Quite appropriote)

After walking up many beautiful stairs we were able to enter the MNAC.  We, two art historians, spent most of the early afternoon here, starting with Romanesque and working our way up to Modern (which we ran through very quickly because one of us was getting bored... (not me!))

There are about to be a lot of photos of artwork, be warned. 

Ceraphim

John - "patron saint of cellphones"

Zurbaran

Dante

(I love the reflection)

After taking our sweet time we refueled with coffee and wandered outside to admire the wonderful view.  

The Gaudi Cathedral

We then saw the Museum of Miro (where we were not permitted to take photographs).  Again, Mom wanted to move quickly through it.  We had a discussion about the elitism that formed with abstract art - and how partly became something that was not meant to be for the common man, it was something to be studied, or to be on the inside to know what the purpose of the artist was.  That was Mom's argument.  I don't think I completely agree with that.  So much of non-representational art has to do with the process of making it for the artist.  And there is always beauty in one's own interpretation.  She did begin to appreciate certain works.  Miro uses words in his paintings, that is one thing I was able to use to pull her in to liking it. 

The next thing we saw was the Glass Pavilion - It is also from the International Exhibition in 1929, built by Mies van der Rohe, however this not the original.  

Mom did seem to enjoy this, even though it was 'modern'. 

Spain: Feast of Our Lady of Randsom

A few months ago, my mom and I went on a wild pilgrimage to Spain.  The pilgrimage was not that wild, but that I was able to go on it was the wild part - and that it was in Spain.  It was very last minute that I found out I was going - my parents planned to go together now that the kids are all out of the house, but because of work etc, my dad couldn't go, and I happened to have a very lenient boss (my sister-in-law) who gave me some time off to take his place.  

So the plan was that we were going to fly to Barcelona, and have a few days there before meeting up with the pilgrimage from Chicago to follow in the footsteps of St. Josemaria Escriva.  

perfect sunlight through the curtains

And this is the view through our window

Coffee on the veranda

Breakfast at 4 pm after getting settled.  Cutie Mama

We arrived on the Feast of Our Lady of Randsom, which was providential.  When we were there last, we had tried to go to mass at this church but it was closed.  So this time we came and saw it in all its glory, bursting at the seams with light and people.  There is a chapel to St. Josemaria there as well, which was a special  treat. 

And when we left, there was a wonderful parade outside. 

We continued to walk around, getting sea legs.

Beautiful facade 

I think this is the only photo of me I have for the entire trip.

And this is the only one I took of the very cool market.

It was a great day for getting acclimated to the time difference, taking our sweet time wandering around and seeing the city without rushing from site to site.  We knew we were about to embark on a very busy journey.  With the added blessing we stumbled upon! 

You Hated Spain

You Hated Spain    Ted Hughes

 Spain frightened you.

Spain.

Where I felt at home.
The blood-raw light,
The oiled anchovy faces, the African              
Black edges to everything, frightened you.
Your schooling had somehow neglected Spain.
The wrought-iron grille, death and the Arab drum.
You did not know the language, your soul was empty
Of the signs, and the welding light              
Made your blood shrivel.
Bosch Held out a spidery hand and you took it
Timidly, a bobby-sox American.
You saw right down to the Goya funeral grin
And recognized it, and recoiled                  
As your poems winced into chill, as your panic
Clutched back towards college America.
So we sat as tourists at the bullfight
Watching bewildered bulls awkwardly butchered,
Seeing the grey-faced matador, at the barrier          
Just below us, straightening his bent sword
And vomiting with fear. And the horn
That hid itself inside the blowfly belly
Of the toppled picador punctured
What was waiting for you. Spain              
Was the land of your dreams: the dust-red cadaver
You dared not wake with, the puckering amputations
No literature course had glamorized.
The juju land behind your African lips.
Spain was what you tried to wake up from          
And could not. I see you, in moonlight,
Walking the empty wharf at Alicante
Like a soul waiting for the ferry,
A new soul, still not understanding,
Thinking it is still your honeymoon              
In the happy world, with your whole life waiting,
Happy, and all your poems still to be found.