My Barcelona '92

View of Barcelona from Montjuïc.

I can't imagine another combination that would ignite a passion for foreign travel like the one I experienced during my first journey abroad in August of 1992. This wasn't just a trip abroad—I was going there to live!

Upon arrival at the airport in Barcelona, excitement prevailed the second we departed the airplane. The Chinese women's volleyball team and the Italian rowing team arrived at the same time as us. It was all a fog and unexpected, but I remember them wearing their national colors and being tall. When we descended the escalators, I looked out the giant glass windows and saw palm trees. Humidity flowed across my face, and for the first time, I considered that Spain could have a tropical climate. At the bottom of the escalators, a television crew pointed their cameras straight at us. We smiled as we walked past them, noticing that they were really pointed at the Olympic team right behind us.

Oh! Did I mention that we landed in Barcelona, Spain, just three days before the Summer Olympics?

Armed guards during the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona.

I should back up and briefly explain why I had even more reason to be thrilled to be here. I am a wrestler. In Junior High, I "knew" that I would become an Olympic wrestler someday. I was that good. I had it all planned out. I also knew that I would serve a mission for my church when I turned nineteen, but if I were to delay that mission just a few months, then I could wrestle in the Olympics (in 1992). At that time, the location of the games were unknown.

Years passed, and I became aware that I was not Olympic material. During the early part of 1992 the hype of Barcelona began, and so did the anticipation of receiving my mission call. In hopeful fashion, I made a prediction of where I would be called: Barcelona, Spain. When I opened up the letter and read those exact words, elation filled my soul, and a sense of destiny came echoing within. 

Now, here I was, half a world away, in a city of nearly two million, swarming with motorcycles and mopeds. The Barcelona that I first witnessed was not the true Barcelona. The blend of faces that I saw were not the Catalan, the Castillian and a sprinkle of South American. It was also the German, the Russian, the British, the American.

Our apartment (with windows wide open) on the seventeenth story in Cornellà.

I will admit that not everything was centered around the Olympics during those three weeks. I met my new companion and we hauled my luggage onto the blue line of the subway and were whisked forty-five minutes away to Cornellà, a suburb of Barcelona. There life was normal, at a slower pace than the bigger city, and perhaps slower than normal due to the fact that half the town was gone on summer vacation.

Those days in Cornellà were filled with learning. We lived atop the highest building in town, on the 17^th story. We faced away from downtown Barcelona, but after an exceptional rainstorm, the smog cleared, and I learned that we could see the Mediterranean Sea from our window!

Our opportunities to preach the gospel proved difficult. We knocked on doors and also contacted people on the street. Occasionally, we would get invited inside an apartment. I remember my first attempt to teach. We sat in the living room of Juan, a Peruvian, and I trembled as I delivered a memorized lesson in Spanish. I don't know if he understood me, and I know that I didn't understand him.

Olympic Stadium.

Olympic diving pool overlooks the city.

We took any available opportunity to take the metro back to Barcelona and partake of the excitement. We ascended Montjuïc, the crowning hill of Olympic festivities. We walked past Olympic Stadium, not going inside, but still able to see the burning caldron. On the television a few nights earlier, we had watched the opening ceremonies and witnessed an archer who flung a burning arrow from the stadium floor, high into the air, arching and dropping perfectly into the center of the caldron, igniting it and officially commencing the games. 

We also strolled passed the diving pool, uniquely outdoors and open-faced so as to look upon the entire city. After dark, a large fountain of water danced with movement and color to the song Barcelona, by Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé. The choreographed show attracted hundreds of spectators and went off every half hour or so.

Olympic Village.

On another day, we slipped into Barcelona again, this time with the excuse that we were going to hand out pamphlets on the Rambla, the most famous pedestrian street in the city. I remember the Rambla being very busy. People were there from everywhere. Suddenly, we noticed a gathering of an unusually large group of people along a side-street. Curiously, we moved to where they were. They waited alongside a large bus with tinted windows. The bus sat outside an old hotel in the city center.

I should remind the reader, if he hasn't already remembered, that 1992 was the year of the Dream Team. Not Dream Team II or Dream Team III. The original Dream Team! Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan. That Dream Team!

As we waited with the rest of the crowd, we learned that the Dream Team was about to enter the bus and drive away for their game against Spain. We waited and waited and soon, Chuck Daily walked down the steps of the hotel and onto the bus. The bus closed its doors and slowly began to drive away. Little did we know that the team was already inside the bus, but out of view because of the tinted windows. As it drove within feet of us, I was able to peer through the windows and catch a glance of three players: Larry Bird, John Stockton, and Scotty Pippen.

My "little friends" on a street in Cornellà.

Back in Cornellà, we continued our work. Slowly, but surely, I immersed myself in Spanish culture. I learned that Spaniards buy their milk in a box and that you will find cured pig legs hanging up in every meat shop. I learned that Ranch Dressing does not exist in Spain and that paella is a wonderful rice dish with seafood and chicken and whatever else you want on it.

As we knocked doors one afternoon, we unexpectedly had a somber, almost spiritual experience. As I remember, no one in that building was answering their door, although we knew that some were home because we could hear their televisions. We began at the top (probably five or seven stories high), and worked our way down. About half way through, we heard a familiar sweet tune waft from beyond the door. It was the Star Spangled Banner. An American had won gold. I don't know who, but I know they did. We sat on a step in the hallway, and quietly listened to that beautiful song until the very last note. We were happy to be where we were, but felt a twinge of homesickness, as well as pride.

Water polo game at the '92 Olympics.

We still hadn't watched any event in person. It was our goal to say we had. And I knew what I wanted to watch: wrestling. I was determined to watch my childhood heroes, John Smith and Kenny Monday, win gold. I was also convinced that destiny was to be played out on this day, fulfilling my Junior High premonition. It is true that I was not wrestling in the Olympics myself, but watching them in person had to be the next best thing. 

It was, however, not to be. The ticket office told us they were sold out. We decided to walk toward the venue to see if any scalpers were selling. As chance would have it, we passed scalpers who offered us tickets, but they were before we got to the wrestling venue and were water polo tickets. We gave in, deciding it was better to watch water polo, than to risk finding nothing at the wrestling venue and get stuck watching nothing at all.

So we watched two water polo games: Italy vs. Cuba and Germany vs. Czechoslovakia. We enjoyed them both. I remember being impressed at how well they could tread water and laughing at the German girl who flicked her hair at the exact moment I clicked my picture of the pool.

Three weeks after arriving in the city, our Olympic experience was about to end. We returned to our apartment after a long day of work. I don't remember if we had a radio, or if one of us missionaries had taken a very good guess of when the firework display would take place. It was the night of the closing ceremony and we were determined that in someway, we were going to watch a part of it. My companion (Elder Harpham) had found a way to unlock the door that led to the roof of our seventeen-story building. We brought a few snacks with us and dressed in sweats. Once on the roof, we admired the view. Below us people walked around like ants, and Peugeots and Volvos moved around like matchbox cars. The population of Barcelona with all its suburbs is six million. We could probably see most of that spread. Like a giant abyss, the city lights abruptly ended at the edge of the sea. Our focus was Montjuïc, the sight of the Olympic Stadium and firework display. We knew it would be big. We waited and watched, hoping at any time that the show would begin. Nothing. I don't know if we were too early, or too late, but we never did experience our firework display. Disappointed, we descended the steps back to our apartment.

We didn't allow the let-down from one evening destroy our memory of the rest of the three weeks. Like I wrote earlier, this is how I began my first “trip abroad.” I loved it! My passion for travel began during those days, and evolved into what it is now. Even though I have traveled to other cities with just as much charisma as Barcelona, I still hold this Mediterranean jewel my most beloved. ♠

P-Day excursion in Barcelona, with the Palau Nacional as background.