Unaccounted days!

The fountains of Barcelona may be dry because of the incipient drought but we were provided by an impromptu aqueous display to compensate for this lack of sparkling plumes in the civic arena.

As we travelled by bus through Hospitalet we stopped at a set of traffic lights and to our astonishment observed a young man with wild eyes and waving hands liberally attempting, in a very personal way, to restore the water flow in public areas. As far as we bemused observers could tell the gushing appendage was a part of some obscure protest and, considering his complete lack of attention to his flow he was certainly adept at ensuring the water hit the pavement and road rather than his trousers.

Given that Emma had already observed an ancient lady looking sultry in a balcony overlooking the Ramblas clad only in a wizened smile, this latest piece of exhibitionism seemed an interesting part of the Catalan way of life.

It was only when the watery young man lurched towards the bus that the passengers flinched suddenly realising that what was an intriguing spectacle could actually impinge on actual lives. Luckily we were saved from the social and, indeed, hygienic consequences of proximity by the lights changing and the bus pulling away leaving our erstwhile companion gesturing in his very own puddle!

Perhaps not the most congenial way of preparing ourselves for the cultural feast which is MNAC and contains some of the most interesting and stimulating examples of Catalan art. In the event we needn’t have worried, as the culmination of our climb from the Plaça d’España to the gallery was reward by our finding out that the place was closed! Just on Mondays of course.

All was not lost. The reconstruction of the Barcelona Pavilion from the 1929 Barcelona International Exhibition was awaiting our inspection.

The only ‘function’ the building had to accommodate was the signing by the King and Queen of Spain of the equivalent of the visitors’ book. The building was the exhibit – and it still is an exquisite example of modernism at its best.
Sitting in a 'Barcelona Chair' seemed the most appropriate form of behaviour when one was in such an architectual signature piece as the pavilion and we duly sat. Until, of course, we were shooed off our chairs as we sitting on the originals and therefore arts objects!

This leads me to confess that I have now sat on three illegal chairs. All art objects. The catalogue of criminal activity starts with my sitting on one example of the Rietveld Chair, followed by a quick settle on a spectacular Mackintosh ladder back chair and finally the Barcelona Chair. I have to say that the last was the least comfortable - though it did look as though a fair number of rear ends had plonked themselves on that white leather before further indignity was stopped by curators guarding its artistic status!

Our cultural exhaustion at the end of this visit, especially as I attempted to take an artistic photograph by getting a submerged leaf in the water filled shallow ‘lake’ into the most appropriate position on the reflected anatomy of a nude statue, was such that we fled to Barcelonetta for lunch!

With Emma we have eaten to satiety and beyond. Not her fault, but it seemed like a good idea at the time!

We have visited books shops; world famous buildings from Modernism to Modernista; beaches in sunshine and testing breezes; cafés, restaurants and bars – with and without the cigarette smoke which is not yet banned in public places; art shops, shoe shops, stalls and shopping malls – with and without sufficient money to satisfy our whims; we have walked and talked and travelled: and had a good time!

It has been oddly unsettling to have such a close past colleague talk about a place in which I spent an inordinate percentage of my working life and for me to realise that the personnel of the institution is now changed beyond belief. Many of the remaining ‘Old guard’ have been ‘encouraged’ to retire early so the established faces have now gone.

But life, as they say, goes on. The new term in Britain approaches and here in Catalonia, the school that sacked me has now greeted (should that be ‘greeted’?) its new intake of teachers ahead of the start of the new year. I would imagine that the problems have already shown themselves and, in a purely personal, smug, self satisfied and pandering to my own self interest sort of way, I wish the school the very worst of luck – as long as it doesn’t affect the kids. The sooner the place closes or The Owner is forced to sell or turn her hand to something less humanly damaging the better.

There is always (well, might be) something better to replace it on the horizon!

“Expectation,” as I once announced to a bemused audience while dressed as an officer in the First World War, “tickling skittish spirits,” makes me feel a ghoulish sort of pleasurable expectation for the approaching term.

I only hope it’s productive!