Lands of the Setting Sun: The View from Montjuïc

The Literal View

The Metaphorical View

Author’s Note: This entry was originally intended to be part of the previous one, but it ended up being too long. As these articles have got some attention, I’m curious to know if readers would be okay with longer entries. Let me know in the comments.

Though we had already seen most of Barcelona, it was Montjuïc that took it right out of us.

Before we could do that, I returned in the wee hours to the Boquería. This time I was alone, and on my way up the Rambla I was accosted by three dubious-looking women who reached out to nearly grab me. At first I thought they were pickpockets. Then I notice they alone were wearing makeup and realized they were prostitutes, scampering away as if that weren’t unusual. Barcelona is full of prostitutes.

Montjuïc allegedly means “mountain of the Jews,” though that may be a folk etymology and the name may be corrupted from something else altogether. It is a mountain overlooking the center of Barcelona atop which is built an old fortress and most of the city’s Olympic Park, left over from the 1992 games.

To get there, we had to walk down the Nou de Rambla into a nondescript neighbourhood that resembles nothing so much as Shepherd’s Bush, although in reality we took the Subway. Allegedly the L3 station connected to a funicular railway running up the mountain, though to our great misfortune we went out the wrong way and ended up in a residential area a stone’s throw from the mountain top, but unreachable nonetheless. It was here we saw Spain’s only cat: massive and golden, like a cheetah but bulkier. He sat idly on the tiny balcony as I sat and figured out how to get up the hill.

I don’t know what made Montjuïc so appealing except that we had another day to burn off, but the main attraction is the view. Barcelona’s skyline isn’t very vertical, but you do get some enjoyment from the novelty of seeing every building you’ve visited, even if, like me at the time, you need glasses but don’t have them. We rounded a corner to catch a lift across the harbour. This part of the mountain was marked by a very Louis XIV-esque rose garden; sitting alone there was a woman taking in the sun and I saw her hairy armpits.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem whatsoever with hairy armpits on women, but I’d never seen any before in person, and that more than anything else it was a sign that yes, I was in Europe, and yes, overzealous body grooming had never caught on south of the Alps. Doubting I could express this to my own mother without sounding like a complete pervert, I kept this to myself, feeling very smug, if a bit uneasy as we rode the very tall, very old, very rickety lift off of Montjuïc.

We were deposited then in La Barceloneta. Previously a compact village for fishermen, La Barceloneta has become not unlike a Catalan Venice Beach, full of skaters and weekenders in cafés.

“I’m sorry,” said my Mom. “I can’t walk anymore.” Strangely, neither could I, so we took a bus back to the subway, and after briefly getting lost made our way back to Liceu and the Gaudí Hotel.

As Catalonia is in the throes of a nationalist movement, I impulsively decided to buy my own Estelada, the Catalan independence flag. On the off chance that independence would be ratified in 2014, I thought it would be cool to have evidence that I had visited the country before it existed. In fact, I thought, It would be pretty cool to get the flags of every country we go through. So as my mom rested, unable to stay awake to eat dinner, I returned to the Rambla to find a suitable vendor. It cost €14, a reasonable price for a flag, though I did find some difficulty explaining myself to the vendor. Nearly every vendor on the Rambla is a South Asian immigrant, and some speak neither English nor Spanish. In such situations I find it’s best not to say anything at all.

2012 Catalan Independence Rally

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