Tarragona, Spain!!!

Climbing the stairs to the Balcony of the Mediterranean, one can see the coast below, spread for miles. The train station is across the rails from the beach. A warm breeze blows over our face and toward the Rambla Nova, which extends at our back into the city.
 
We are in the port city of Tarragona, known in the days of Augustus as Tarraco. With the exception of Mérida, it has more Roman remains than any other city on the Iberian Peninsula. Kaitlyn and I enjoy the view, stopping to take a photo. We are on a day-trip from Barcelona, having caught the regional train.
 
A short walk leads to a large Roman amphitheater, also overlooking the sea. It is possible to wander around the perimeter and enjoy the view for free. Although for a small fee you can gain an up-close experience and learn more about the history. We pay 3,70€ to enter the site.
 

Amphitheater of Tarragona.

A basilica and cemetery were built in the center of the amphitheater several centuries after the Romans.

The amphitheater was built near the end of the first century. Below the arena are two underground galleries, over which large beams used to support a wooden floor, keeping them hidden from the spectators. A series of trap-doors could open allowing gladiators and animals to be raised into the arena for a triumphant entry. At its peak the amphitheater could seat 15,000 spectators.
 
The amphitheater was also used for public executions. In 259 A.D. Bishop Fructuosus and his two deacons were burned alive. After falling into disuse, a Visigoth basilica was built in the arena in memory of the martyrs, using stones from the amphitheater. In the 6th century a cemetery grew up around the basilica. In subsequent years it was used as a monastery, and then as a prison for prisoners who were helping build the port in 1780. Again the site fell into disuse. It wasn't until the 20th century that the glory of the old Roman amphitheater was rediscovered and restoration began.
 

Old street in the medieval quarter of Tarragona.

By this time it is becoming hot and we are getting hungry so we climb another set of stairs and enter the old medieval labyrinth of Tarragona. Here the streets are narrow and many are devoid of any shops.
 
We find a small café on a corner and sit at a table on the cobblestone street. Our meal comes in two courses. I order a plate of melon and thin slices of jamón, each arranged separately, but meant to be eaten together. Kaitlyn chooses calamares a la romana, which are calamari rings, deep-fried like onion rings. For my second course I order morcilla con cebolla, which is blood sausage with onions. It tastes surprisingly good.
 

Cathedral of Tarragona, Spain.

Detail of Cathedral.

We wander a little longer in the old part of town, up a flight of stone stairs to the cathedral. The old section of Tarragona is complete with city walls and a Jewish quarter. There is so much more to explore, but being pressed for time we return to the Rambla Nova to find the bus stop. Along the way we run into the sister missionaries and talk with them for a few minutes.
 
On the Rambla Nova there is a tall statue of a human tower, which is a popular pastime in Catalunya. Known locally as Castellers, these towers are created as participants climb to stand on each others' shoulders to a height of six or seven levels, and sometimes higher. A child of 8 or 10 years old will climb to the pinnacle and raise his or her arm to signal that the tower is complete. The tradition originated in the town of Valls, which is near Tarragona. The statue on the Rambla Nova is life-size and the human replicas are stacked several levels high.
 

Statue of Castellers on the Rambla Nova.

On Avinguda Prat de la Riba we find the stop for bus number five and pay 1,50€ each. The bus takes us on a roundabout and to the outskirts of town where we are now on the autopista. Just a couple miles out of town, we are dropped off on the side of the motorway, which at first glance appears to be nowhere.
 
We walk up a hill to a car-park and find several paths that take off in different directions. They all lead to different parts of The Ferreres Aqueduct, also known as Pont del Diable, or "Devil's Bridge."  This Roman aqueduct has stood the test of time for nearly 2,000 years. Twenty-five arches span the canyon and at one time brought water to the populace of Tarraco.
 
Now days the visitor can walk across the top where water once flowed. The aqueduct was a major architectural feat, consisting of hundreds of large stones, built into arches, perfectly fitted together to create a massive bridge.
 
We walk across the top and then scamper down the hill along a trail through the brush until we are directly below the gigantic structure. It is amazing to think of the labor that must have went into such a project.
 

Pont del Diable, a Roman aqueduct that brought water into the city of Tarraco.

Distorted image of aqueduct.

After exploring all that we can of the old Roman aqueduct, it is time to catch the bus again. At this point, I am not exactly sure of the best way to return to Tarragona. Our bus stop is located next to the busy highway and is only for north-bound buses, which is the opposite direction we want to travel. We wait for twenty minutes without seeing a bus, with the exception of one or two whizzing by in the opposite direction. We are the only people at the stop and are worried about being stranded, as it is a two-mile walk back to town.
 
At last, a red and white number five bus slows down and comes to a halt in front of us. The conductor assures us that the bus will eventually loop around and head back into town. In the meantime, we enjoy the view as we drive through the small suburb of Sant Salvador, before coming back around to the highway and then into Tarragona proper, dropping us off on Avinguda Prat de la Riba.
 

Looking down Carrer Major from the cathedral.

At this point, Kaitlyn has two priorities that she seeks to accomplish. We find a men's clothing store with neck ties displayed in the front window. We step inside and peruse the collection. After several minutes, Kaitlyn finds a purple tie that satisfies her requirements as a gift for her boyfriend, and stays within budget. Priority number one—checked off.
 
We walk further down the street and find a pastry shop selling all sorts of confectioneries: napolitanas de chocolate, croissants, cañas. What a delight and olfactory pleasure it is to walk inside a Spanish bakery! But when it comes to cakes, or tortas as they call them, they come up short. We find a few single servings that appear to be soaked in rum, but that's not what she's looking for. At last she finds (as close as we will get) the perfect slice of cake. We purchase the pastry for 3,75€, and the lady packages it for us inside a cute brown box. Priority number two—half checked off.
 

Roman Forum.

Juxtaposition of the old and new.

On the Carrer (street) del Cardenal Cervantes, surrounded by urban apartment buildings on two separate blocks connected by a bridge, is the Roman Forum. A couple thousand years ago, this was the center of activity in Tarraco and site of several government buildings. Today, all that remains are four roman columns, two arched niches, and several low-walled ruins that were once complete structures.
 
I pay 3,50€ to enter the fenced enclosure, while Kaitlyn decides to wait for me on a bench near the street. I spend twenty minutes wandering around the ruined buildings. There are a few interpretive signs, but most goes unexplained. I can only imagine how many homes and other structures existed during the prime of Tarraco that are now lost to time, or buried beneath the sea of apartment buildings.
 
As the sun moves toward the western horizon, we have one more item of business to take care of. We walk toward the formidable line of railroad tracks that separate us from the sea. Certain that there is a passageway to the other side, but not certain where that might be, I decide to ask a lady walking down the street. She motions down the road and to and underground staircase on the other side of a park. We thank her and follow directions.
 

Sea-side promenade.

After another twenty minutes of walking to arrive at a point that could have taken five had we been able to move in a straight line, we find ourselves at the water's edge. We descend a short flight of steps, remove our shoes, roll up our pants, and feel the smooth sand as it forms around our feet. This is nice! The sun is low in the sky and the gentle waves lap across the beach. We lay our belongings over a towel and enjoy wading in the water. Kaitlyn takes a stick and writes in the sand before a destroying roller comes in and obliterates her message.
 
Then comes time to complete priority number two. Kaitlyn unwraps the cake from the cute brown box and she holds it up and poses for an eyewitness photograph. Then she eats and enjoys. It is a tradition of hers to eat a slice of cake at every beach she visits.
 
Although we could stay much, much longer, it is time for us to leave. We brush the sand from our toes and replace our socks and shoes, shake off the towel and roll it back up, and slip it into the pack that I pull over my shoulders. We walk back toward the port and then down the stairs that go beneath the tracks, and then back to the station. When the train comes, we get a seat next to the window that faces the sea. As the sun goes down and the hues of the sky turn pink and sight of the sea and turns dim, I sit and watch and wish I could stay longer. ♠ 

El Raval

El Raval once had the reputation as the rough part of town—the area you wanted to avoid when in Barcelona. It was riddled with petty crime, drug trafficking and prostitution.
 
All this supposedly changed around the time of the Barcelona Olympics in 1992 when the area was cleaned up.
 
I thought I was in the clear when I booked a hotel for four nights in the Raval District with my 17-year old daughter. But then, just before arriving, I read an article in a Spanish newspaper about a street fight in Raval, with the two combatants wielding knives. The dispute was over drugs. Upon further investigation, I learned that drugs and violence were on the rise. Unwilling to change my plans, I was anxious to see what kind of experience I was in for.
 

The view from our hotel window.

El Gat de Botero.

We arrived in early afternoon and found our hotel on the corner of two narrow streets. The window of our seventh-story room opened to a sea of rooftops, satellite dishes, and T.V. antennas. Not a street could be seen. In the distance—a good view of Montjuïc.
 
We didn't waste time in our hotel room. I was anxious to get out and explore. We soon found ourselves back on the street, walking through passageways just wide enough to fit a car. The apartment buildings were stacked high and packed tight, making this area dense in population. A small grocery store fronted a narrow street. We saw a used clothing store and the occasional bar.
 

Back side of the Church of Santa Maria of Montalegre.

Front side of the Church of Santa Maria of Montalegre with kids playing basketball.

As we made our journey, we passed by the old and new. The Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art is a sleek white building with glass windows. The Church of Santa Maria de Montalegre is over 100 years old and has its origins from a monastery built in the 14th century.
 
During our walk we came across three different plazas or courts, each hidden in their own little nook. The three nearly touched each other, only separated by a passageway. One of the plazas served as a neighborhood playground. School boys shot baskets on a paved basketball court surrounded by apartment buildings. Grown men sat on chairs and shot the breeze.
 

Parish of Sant Pere Nolasc Mercedaris.

The Monastery Sant Pau del Camp dates back to the 12th century.

As we arrived at the Carrer dels Tallers, the congestion of foot-traffic increased. This is one of the main corridors between the University area and The Rambla. The street was dotted with music stores and tattoo shops. I took a moment to make sure my backpack was securely locked up.
 
I will admit, there weren't really any “attractions” in the Raval that we sought to visit. Most of our exploration came from wandering indirect routes to and from our hotel. There were times we could have taken the Metro to get us “home” for the night, but instead we chose a new path through El Raval.
 

Graffiti in the Raval District of Barcelona.

Fruit shop on Carrer de Sant Antoni Abat.

You never knew what you would find. Sprinkled throughout the Raval are churches and monasteries from the medieval period and later. More modern is the sculpture of a giant cat on the Rambla del Raval called El Gat de Botero. Much of the intrigue is that you don't know what you will find around the next corner: ancient, modern, Catholic, Muslim, Catalán, Turkish. El Raval was once known as Barri Xino, or Chinese Neighborhood. It is not, nor ever has been, a typical Chinatown like those in other cities. Instead, the name was given (probably pejoratively) to denote the large foreign population that lived there.
 
One day we ate lunch at a bar in the Plaça del Pedró. I watched through the window as pedestrians passed by. They wore shawls, tunics, and were certainly not of Spanish descent. Kebab shops in that neighborhood were plentiful, as well as fruit stands. Even the owners of restaurants that sold tapas and paella were of foreign lineage.
 

Plaça de Pedró

Saturday evening we were in our hotel room when I could hear pyrotechnic blasts coming from somewhere on the street. The view from our hotel window was a sea of rooftops and I couldn't see a thing. I felt like I could judge the direction of the din, but this was difficult to discern considering the way sound can echo off buildings. The noise persisted and at last I could make out a faint wisp of smoke. I told Kaitlyn that we had to go down immediately to investigate.
 
I followed the street in front of our hotel and crossed to Sant Antoni. There, in front of the market, was the center of attention.
 
It appeared as if we were in the middle of a battle zone—explosives going off all around us! It was 9:30 at night and becoming dark. Dozens of people dressed in orange (probably fire-proof) over-shirts with hoods, with the words “Diables de Sant Antoni” on the back. A giant pig-on-wheels stood in the middle of the cordoned street. These people held torches with a fountain of “sparklers” shooting from the tips. They ran up and down the street and even onto the sidewalks, whisking the torches into the spectators, causing us to crouch for cover. Meanwhile it sounded like a constant stream of missiles going off, creating a squealing that was so high-pitched it was deafening. We couldn't hear ourselves talk.
 

Unexpected fiesta on Carrer Comte d'Urgell.

Amidst all the noise a band of at least ten people pounded on drums and blew their horns. They swayed to the music and wore uniformed shirts.
 
Then they lit off fireworks. For the next ten minutes explosive colors streaked into the sky and popped over the rooftops, their booms echoing off the buildings. Then, the giant pig became attached with swirling arms that shot sparks as it raced down the street.
 
For about thirty minutes (after we got there) all around was chaos. Then, suddenly, it came to an end. Before it ended, the sweepers in yellow jackets used their brooms to brush the empty casings into piles in the middle of the street.—This is an example of what I love about Spain. It is possible to bump into a local celebration at any time and any place.
 

One of my favorite places to stroll at night was El Raval. All streets were well lit and many were full of people, mostly youth, heading to the bar for a night of drinking. There was an aura of danger. I always made sure my backpack was locked and that I was not carrying my camera around my neck. Most of the storefronts were closed, but the bars and restaurants were alive, as well as most of the small grocery stores. All the streets were narrow and I enjoyed wandering and “getting lost” at a whim. A couple of times we had to sit down and pull out a map to figure out where we were in relation to our hotel. While some of the streets were alive with people, others were empty, but still well lit. On these streets the only noise came from the balconies and through the windows where we could hear people talking and the sound of television.
 
In addition to the party-goers, I found kids in the streets and shop owners sitting in front of their store on a stool, shooting the breeze and smoking cigarettes. I saw couples pushing a stroller near midnight, and two older ladies slowly walking arm-in-arm, chatting with each other.
 

Barcelona is well awake after midnight.

Typical street in El Raval.

On our final night in Barcelona, Kaitlyn and I had to make one final pass through El Raval. Even though it was approaching midnight, the streets were alive as ever. The nocturnal nature of Spain never ceases to amaze me.
 
Although we aimed for the purpose of soaking up Raval's atmosphere one last time, our secondary goal came of an epicurean nature—to find churros y chocoloate. It wasn't hard to find. We found a bar with a table next to the window. The setting felt cozy. Wine bottles stacked the shelves behind the bar. A leg of ham sat on the counter, ready to be sliced. Stone walls along the backside made our chamber feel centuries old.
 
When our order finally came—a cup of thick hot chocolate and a piping-hot churro in the shape of a bow-knot—we savored every bite. Through the fatigue of a late evening, we inhaled every scent, listened to every sound, took in the jumble of sights. This was our last night in Spain and we wanted to remember every second of it! ♠ 

The Rambla of Barcelona

My favorite street in the world used to be the Rambla of Barcelona. Don't get me wrong. I still love the street and it still comes near the top of the list. But I will admit that on this last visit I was a little disappointed.
 
The Rambla that I grew to love was the most fascinating street I had ever seen. Stretching from Plaça Catalunya to the Columbus statue on the harbor, this pedestrian thoroughfare was full of kiosks, bird vendors, artists, and street performers. It was the street performers I liked best.  A typical act was a man dressed as a Roman soldier and painted bronze.  He would stand on a pedestal and hold stock-still until someone put a coin in his bucket. Then he would move to another position. They were good. You had to look closely to see that they were real.
 

Street performer on the Rambla in 1994.

I remember a soccer player who spent dozens of minutes bouncing a ball on his knees, shoulders, head, and foot without ever letting it touch the ground. I swear he had a flat head. And then there was the quartet of college kids in their street clothes playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons. This is just a sampling. The Rambla was a smorgasbord of unique talent and pleasure.
 
After an absence of 17 years, I was anxious to show my daughter, Kaitlyn, what the Rambla was all about. I was shocked when our first passage down the infamous street found no street performers. Maybe we came too late. Again we tried, but earlier in the day. Still nothing. We walked up and down on four or five separate occasions, and only once did we see a performer.
 

Outdoor tapas restaurant, like this one, seem to be the new trend on the Rambla.

I don't know what has changed, or if we had really bad luck. I didn't see any bird vendors either. There were still a ton of people and a lot to entertain the eye. But it wasn't the same.
 

Street artist on the Rambla in 2000.

Ariel view of the Rambla, snaking its way to the port, from our airplane window.

The word “rambla” comes from Arabic meaning a dry riverbed or sandy tract. In the olden days of Barcelona, this is literally what it was. Just outside the city walls there was a stream bed that collected sewage and was an important drainage. In medieval times it was decided to extend the city walls to include El Raval and the riverbed was diverted. Gradually it turned into a street.
 
Technically, the stretch from Plaça Catalunya to the Columbus statue has several names: Rambla de Canaletes, Rambla dels Estudis, Rambla de Sant Josep, Rambla dels Caputxins, and Rambla de Santa Mònica. There are other Ramblas in Barcelona such as Rambla de Catalunya and Rambla del Raval, but none of them have enough notoriety to be known simply as “La Rambla.”
 

The Font de Canaletes.  Legend says that if you drink from this fountain you will fall in love with Barcelona and always return.

Today the Rambla is a wide promenade with plane trees growing on the sides for shade. One lane of traffic flanks each side. There are many landmarks along the three-quarter mile stretch, including La Boqueria food market, the oldest and largest in the city. The Liceu Theater, an opera house is little further down.
 
Our daily strolls also came with a somber note. It was on this street less than a year ago that an act of terror horrified the city of Barcelona. Beginning near Plaça Catalunyua, a man in a white van jumped onto the Rambla and zig-zagged for nearly half a mile, destroying anything in his path. The vehicle finally became disabled on the Joan Miró mosaic that lies near the center of the promenade. The killing spree left 13 dead and 130 injured.
 

Joan Miró mosaic that lies in the center of the Rambla.

On one of our final walks along the Rambla, Kaitlyn and I tried to take it all in. We inhaled the smells of the sidewalk cafes, listened to the jumble of languages, and even sat down and watched people walk by. Then we came to a tree, one of the many plane trees that gives shade to the walkway. On the mottled white bark were many notes, written in Spanish, Catalán, and English.  They all paid tribute to the victims of the terrorist attack.  One of them read:
 
“Once again an act of terrorism . . . This time in my beloved city. You have left a hole in our heart and in our many families. Forever Barcelona ♥ No more victims”