“There’s another pit bull!” I cried out to Dusty as we arrived at the platform to catch the train. It was our Five Year Anniversary and we were headed to celebrate in the city of excitement, nightlife and love, Barcelona. So far, every time we’d taken the train in and out of the city to our campground on the coast there had been at least one pit bull whose owner would reluctantly tolerate me cooing and petting their widdle wuv muffin on the twenty minute train ride. The stigma that these sweet creatures carry in the United States left me happily stunned at their acceptance in Cataluña. But there were so many differences like that, unique pieces of Barcelona lifestyle and history that make it such an inimitable city separate from mainland Spain. That fact has left Catalonians protesting their independence from the Spanish government for centuries, their history they declare is so isolated from Spanish history that they deserve their own unattached countryhood. Even the language spoken in Catalonia, Catalan, proves the distinction from the Spanish spoken in mainland Spain. Knowing conversational Spanish, I attempted on the first day to speak the Spanish I knew to the people we met and was laughingly told that I’d be better off trying English. Message received.
We arrived in Barcelona and got a shuttle bus service outside the city limits to our campground along the teal blue Mediterranean. Like many European campgrounds we’d visited, we had a café, pool, clean bathrooms, store and bar at our disposal on site. It wasn’t so much camping as it was “glamping” but we did pitch out tent in the dusty ground under low trees and got sufficiently dirty. “Grab everything valuable,” Dusty warned and stuffed his wallet and phone in the bag we carried. I rolled my eyes; Dusty is a chronic worrier of thieves and, as such, never left anything in our tent whenever we left for the day. He was absolutely right to do so, anyone can rob a campsite and our fellow campgrounders all seemed to be under the age of twenty, but I am more of the “whatever happens, happens” mindset. Once Dusty felt like our tent (which he locked the door zipper to the tent and took the key with him) was secure and our bag (which had a carabineer attached to its zipper too, connecting it with a loop on the strap so it would be very hard for a pickpocketer to open) was secure, we took the train to the beach for the day.
It’s a cliché to say, but I discovered my favorite parts of anywhere in Europe is anything close to the Mediterranean. The aqua waves tipped with white like vanilla frosting allured me, reaching with their fingers crawling on the shore to tickle my feet and draw me in. When we arrived at the train platform overlooking one of the beaches of Barcelona, the entire coast stretched out to us. The golden sand was sprinkled with a rainbow of beach umbrellas, towels and the rosy brown tones of nude flesh. We took to the sidewalks leading down to a wooden hut on the beach, in between volley ball courts and brightly painted metal sculptures that served as children’s playgrounds. The hut was owned by the campground as well and served an assortment of food and drinks to the guests lounging on four poster, wooden beds scattered on the sand. “This is heaven, right?” I asked Dusty, looking around at the tranquil scene of pure beach enjoyment. He laughed and gave a satisfied sigh as he dropped our bag and flopped down on one of the beds.
We laid together and ordered tapas and drinks while we watched families try to unsuccessfully corral their naked, brown children in one direction or another and teenagers kissing passionately on their shared beach towel under an umbrella. True to custom, there was not a bikini top in sight but instead the rosy color of bare flesh absent of embarrassment or insecurity. A topless woman would be shamed beyond belief for her indecent exposure in much of the United States, but it was my bikini top that was shaming me on this Barcelona beach and I quickly shed the stringy piece in relief. When we wanted to dip in the chilled teal water, Dusty carried me down to the edge on one of the many wooden boardwalks set up in the city to allow anything with wheels to easily access the water’s edge. Such a convenience was a novelty to us and I was delighted with Barcelona’s consideration and welcoming gesture.
Later in the day, we dried off and took the train to the center of downtown Barcelona. We made our way to La Rambla, the main strip in Barcelona, and strolled for a good while, enjoying the street performers under the suspended shadows of the street lights. By day the buildings of Barcelona are loud walls of bright reds, yellows and teals, with beautiful stone carvings along the edges telling a different story from wall to wall. At night, these buildings take a back seat to the performances and festivities on the street. men with carts on either side demonstrating their wares for the crowd, which tonight was a plastic spinning toy that light up and shrieked when it was flown. Bustles of colorful flower arrangements were on display at other carts, selling bouquets of sweet smelling drooping purple petals I’d never seen. People milled around us, the musical Catalan language wove through the crowd and the bursts of French or English or Italian danced on the melody like notes on a sheet of music. Teenagers leaned against light poles kissing and kids banged on the tables of outdoor cafés waiting for their parents to finish their wine. Many of the girls wore cutoff shorts riding up high on their hips and cropped suggestive shirts hung loosely and unabashed. Smoke rose through the crowd from the innumerable cigarettes dangling in the corner of mouths or pinched between the two fingers of old, wrinkly men selling flowers and too young boys riding skateboards down the street. Barcelona seemed more alive in the shadows of night with glowing streetlights illuminating a scene of entertainment, taste and excitement. As the hour grew later, the fervor of La Rambla amplified into a megaphone of merriment and wine that reverberated like a pulse throughout the city.
We made our way down La Rambla towards a small dinner theatre restaurant that people from Dusty’s unit had told me has the greatest display of Flamenco dancing in an intimidate setting in Barcelona. Later, I reflected that any notions I had about passion in dancing were redefined for me in Barcelona. The Flamenco is a dance that captures the soul of the dancer and speaks in the proud swish of the dress or the stomp of heels on wood. We were seated by escorts in tuxedos in a cramped, multilevel dining room of tables with silk tablecloths and bright red roses on the table. We hadn’t come in time for the dinner, but our empty hands were soon filled with glasses of sangria. The lights in the room suddenly darkened and a single light blinked on to illuminate the wooden stage in the front of the room. The musicians of the show walked out to line the stage, dressed in the signature Flamenco black pants and loose white shirts bleeding accents of red. The Spanish guitar began slowly as the musicians took their places, a sad melody of love and complication that escalated as a singer stepped forward. I didn’t need to translate the words of the singer to feel his passion, gesticulating with outstretched arms and his rich, high throaty voice rose alongside the guitar. And then the dancers emerged.
One solo at a time, a dancer would move forward into the spotlight and stomp, swish, twirl and sway to the singer and guitars. There were two female dancers and two male dancers, each with their own personality of Flamenco dance. Their dresses and costume were dark, with stark white tops or a bright rainbow of threading. Dark hair was oiled to shine in the light whether pulled tight into a bun or loosely bouncing in curls. A dark-haired woman wore a dark blue, richly red detailed Flamenco dress that stopped close to her neck and had thick white layers that she would lift and swish with every fast turn. A blond dancer with large, bouncing curls danced to slower, romantic songs of intricate guitar melodies and layers of skirts lifted high. Her red and black dress dipped at her bare shoulders and gave the effect of her dress melting off her in a syrup of carnal energy. Both dancers would suddenly smack their heels and fiercely tap their boots on the wooden stage while they spun and twirled. The Flamenco showed itself to be a dance of love and passion, shown by both the fierce beauty of the steps and the enticing, expressive splendor of the costumes and dancers.
The song would change after the crescendo of the coda and a new singer would begin soloing a high, throaty verse of the next song. When one of the male dancers came to the center stage, dark and seductively dressed with an open chest peeking through his shirt, his entrance would be aloud series of complicated taps and stopes that were met with cheering from the other dancers. The show was as social of an activity for the dancers as it was for the audience. The men danced as aggressively as the female dancers, their arms outstretched or risen above their heads and their legs stomping the stage in a fervor of heat and sound. Their complicated foot work and dizzying spins were accompanied by colorful accents of scarves and dark hats and, for some song, decorated by short waist vests.
A few times in between songs, we were graced with the presence of the matriarch of the dance. This older woman had her long, dark hair pulled so tightly into a long pony-tail braid that it pulled on her eyes, which were heavily painted like the other female dancers against bright red cheeks and dark lips. She would come to the front of the stage, arms spread, singing the loudest of the troupe and dancing as complicated of steps with the same passion as her younger dance cohorts. She gestured to either side as she sang and the dancers swayed and clapped to her song. And then, as suddenly as she would appear, she would stomp her heels and spin offstage. The dance and guitar and song came to a dazzling crescendo when the dancers reappeared together in brightly colored, bedazzled dressed, vest and hats, twirling each other and dipping and stomping to the harmonizing singers. The guitarist, sitting on a bench off to the side of the stage, suddenly came into view as the dancers stepped aside to showcase his talent. This musicians’ fingers became a blur as he whipped up and down the neck of the guitar to bring the dance to it’s passionate, complicated end.
We had never before heard a guitar sing so complicated a song or a dance that could stomp, sway and spin so many different sides of passion. The Cataluña Flamenco redefined the way I see the art of dancing; I know now how many sides of a soul can be shown just through sparkling cloth, mesmerizing rhythm and steps so passionate the leave the wooden stage forever dented with its steps. I was breathless as the this dancer’s song came to an end. My heart pounded loudly in my chest, feeling the music melt into my veins and course through my body. It was as if the dancers moving on stage were speaking the language of love to their partners and to all of us in the audience.
I learned in elementary school that bees communicate through dance, giving directions to each other where the good nectar is located by zigzagging patterns, turns and steps. They dance to connect with each other, their bodies creating the language. These dancers, with their beautiful dresses and vests of bright red, blue, yellow and green thread, were telling us about love in the passion of their steps. And it wasn’t the shy, slow affectionate love they expressed but the love of such enormity that its weight is painful. They were speaking of that moment when you angrily surrender to the fact that you love this person so much that life is nothing could never be anything but painful without them. They stomped the hunger for that other person, the ache for their arms and their fever that captures you completely. I knew that love, that anger that someone could imprison my heart so strongly and so completely yet I still ache for their attention. I never knew a dance of such beauty could so capture a depth of understanding of that love and commitment.
We left that night for our tent and sleeping bags carrying the message of the dance with us, sensitive to how gratifying it was to be holding each other hands, to kiss, to simply be married for five years. The modest gestures in a relationship, taking the bag, rubbing a back, were amplified by the passion of the flamenco and we slept that night unable to untangle from each other’s arms.
The next morning we left on a treasure hunt to find the sights of Barcelona and sample as many tapas as we could. There’s a famous architect of Barcelona that has shaped the atmosphere of the entire city with his inspired, colorful art. Antoni Gaudi’s houses are an attraction that cause many to walk the city just to see his work. The houses are astounding and truly look like recreations of the settings of many of my favorite childhood movies; it’s as if Willy Wonka came to Barcelona to make homes for his Oompa Loompas (but in normal sizes). It was the night of our anniversary and all I was told was that we were going to dinner. I pulled on my dress over my unshowered, still wet from an early morning dip in the Mediterranean hair and we got on the bus-to-train into the city.
When we arrived at a prominent Gaudi house, there was a crowd of onlookers taking selfies with the beautiful art behind them. There was a red velvet carpet, a gate and a giant bouncer who more resembled a tuxedoed Palm Tree at the entrance, daring the tourists to take a step closer into his domain. Dusty, in a very suave move, pulled out tickets hidden in his jacket and handed them to the bouncer whose demeanor changed to welcoming as he unlocked the gate to let us in.
We were escorted to a back elevator by the Palm Tree’s also giant friend, Mr. Cork Oak Tree .
“Mademoiselle, dis is a very especial way to, ah, see da art of Gaudi”, Cork Oak informed me when we got in a glass elevator. “You see, Gaudi wanted people to, ah, see da house as if dey are, how you say, going underwater,” he said as he pushed the button to the top floor. “Da higher you go in dis house, the deeper underwater you see”
I didn’t quite understand what he was trying to tell me until the elevator starting moving. The walls of Gaudi houses are not straight, but curved in ripples and scenes are painted on the curved and moving walls. The first floor was alive with yellow colors and smoother walls, but as the elevator began to ascend I saw the walls begin to ripple like water. The colors changed to from yellow to lighter turquoise to a deep ink blue. The glass strategically placed over different areas of the wall made it look like you were viewing the entire scene underwater. It was incredible.
When the doors opened to the penthouse, tuxedoed waiters ushered me inside and escorted me to where Dusty, who had taken the stairs, was waiting. The top floor of the apartment opened up to a large dining room bared to the street with large floor-to-ceiling windows and a kitchen turned into a bar for the night. The cream walls and dark wood floors were made amber by low lights, creating an ambience of mystery and glamour. They soon filled my empty glass with champagne to match Dusty and we were escorted out to the large balcony looking out over the back of the street behind the apartment. We could see over the tops of other buildings, the red tiled roofs lit in the moonlight turning to a dark maroon sea of Barcelona nightlife. The balcony seated two or three dozen people in white wicker chairs surrounded by tall, dark leafy plants and trestles woven with vines. A small stage had been set up at the front and a band in black suits played rumba catalana melodies on guitar and piano accompanied by a shiny brass saxophone and trumpet. A beautiful African woman swayed in the center of the stage and sang in a Cataluña accent while smiling at the crowd with bright red lips and a gap tooth that made her seem even more appealing.
I took Dusty’s hand as we sat near the back, listening to the sweet sounds of Cataluña and marveling that five years earlier we were just starting this life together. How far we’d come in such a little time, figuratively and as we sat thousands of miles away in Spain actually literally far. I looked over at my husband, his eyes closed listening to the music and his arm around my shoulders. How far we’ve come, how far we’ve come, indeed.