The Fight for Independence in Catalonia

My first experience with the movement for Catalan Independence came in early 1993 as I was serving as a missionary in the town of Reus, just 109 kilometers southwest of Barcelona. A man approached us on the street and invited us inside his apartment. I remember his dwelling as being dark and bizarre, with partitions made out of beads, dim red lights and no windows. We quickly learned that he had no interest in what we had to share, but rather, he insisted on us translating a drafted letter into English to the newly-elected president, Bill Clinton. The letter would petition help from the United States in assisting Catalonia to secede from Spain. I don't recall all the details from that encounter, but somehow we managed to wiggle out of it.
 
One year later I found myself living in Girona, which lies just an hour from the French border, and deep within the cultural boundaries of Catalonia. Thinking nothing of it, the first day I showed up to church wearing a pin of the Spanish flag on the lapel of my suit. A well-intentioned member of the congregation came to me afterward, and spoke in a low, unassuming voice, pointing to the flag I was wearing: “If I were you, I wouldn't wear that around here.”—Enough had been said. I took it off and never wore it again. This brief conversation instilled in me the deep rift between the Catalan people and the Spanish government.
 

Catalonia has a unique language and culture.

The region of Catalonia in the northeast corner of Spain has a long and complicated history, of which I don't claim to be an expert. Over the past several hundred years, their culture has gradually diverged from the rest of the Iberian Peninsula, in a similar manner as that of Portugal. They speak their own language and have a form of government that gives them much more autonomy that other regions of Spain.
 
Still fresh in the memory of many of the older generation is the reign of General Francisco Franco, a dictator who ruled Spain with an iron fist for 40 years until the 1970's, prohibiting the use of the Catalan language and executing many who fought against him. Since his death, the culture of Catalonia has made a huge comeback, and Catalan nationalism is at an all-time high.
 

Banners in Girona support Catalan independence and freeing of political prisoners.

Recently I had the opportunity to return to this part of Spain for the first time in seventeen years. I knew that tension was high. Staying abreast of local news, I watched many videos of protests and demonstrations. On October 1, 2017, the Catalan government held a referendum on whether or not to secede from Spain. Previously, the Catalan parliament had passed legislation authorizing the referendum. In spite of efforts by national police, which included violence to stop the vote, the overwhelming majority of Catalan people supported secession. The Spanish government would not tolerate this and put a stop to it by arresting several key political figures who had promoted the illegal vote. The Catalan Parliament was dissolved and article 155 of the constitution was invoked, which imposes direct rule over Catalonia. The President of Catalonia, Carles Puigdemont, has since fled the country and is living in exile in Belgium. He is charged with sedition, rebellion and misuse of public funds. To say the least, the situation in Catalonia is very tense.
 
On the third day of our trip, we arrived at my beloved city of Girona. A medieval city that was founded by the Romans, Girona is picture-perfect, with a labyrinth of narrow streets and a massive cathedral that overlooks from a hill. It is located one hour north of Barcelona, in the heart of Catalonia.
 
One of the first things I noticed was the yellow and red-striped Catalan flag was hung everywhere—most from balconies. Some of the striped flags had a blue triangle at the side, with a white star. These represent Catalan independence. There were also many yellow ribbons hung about, some on buildings and others on lapels. These represent the political prisoners.
 

Girona is a beautiful medieval city in the heart of Catalonia.

During our first full day visiting the city, we came across what appeared to be a rally of some sort. The gathering was on a residential street, down the hill from the Monastery of Sant Pere. In spite of its proximity to the touristic area, it was far enough off the path that the only people there were of local flavor.
 
A platform with a microphone and speakers was set up in the middle of the road. Although nothing had begun yet, we could tell that something was soon to unfold. In the meantime, people visited in the street, a child kicked a soccer ball around, friends hugged and welcomed old acquaintances, and music played in the background. The atmosphere was very relaxed and jovial.
 
A banner near the platform suggested “Spanish injustice.” Other signs and t-shirts read: “La Forja, Jovent Revolucionari.” My best efforts of translation conclude that “La Forja” to be rendered as the forging ( to found, cast, mold, construct, create, establish), and “Jovent Revolucionari” as youth revolution. Wikipedia describes La Forja as a “left-wing Catalan independentist youth organization” that carries the ideology of Catalan Independence, socialism, feminism, anti-capitalism, and ecologism.
 
During our time there, two people spoke to the crowd. Both spoke in Catalan, so my understanding was a little spotty. The first man seemed more to take care of business, and talked of some of the efforts of the group. The second man, although more brief, gave a rally cry. He urged the continued support for Catalan Independence, adding, “Long-live the republic! Long-live the youth! Long-live the land!” He added that they would also fight for democracy, for socialism, against capitalism, for feminism and equality. “We will fight in defense of our land and our territory!”
 
The rally ended with loud music blaring over the speakers, people waving banners and torches, and smoke being released into the air. Those in the street danced to the music. I noticed a poster hanging from the balcony that read: “The combat continues.”
 

Rally in support of independence, held by an organization called La Forja.

The next day, I had the privilege of reuniting with some old friends who had lived in Girona their entire lives. Teo, Enric and Marta are very much Catalan, speaking the language in their home. (Teo was actually born in Andalusia, but moved to Girona after she married Enric.) We spent the entire day with them and they took us in their car to the beach at Palafrugell. We ended the day at their home in Girona, where they fed us a dinner of jamón, pork loin, tuna, roasted red peppers, cheese and olives.
 
The subject of Catalan Independence came up several times. Teo pulled out her phone and showed us pictures from the October referendum when the Spanish National Police used violence to prevent the Catalan people from voting. They were images of bloody and battered people.
 
Marta explained that one of the key issues is that Catalonia pays more in taxes than the rest of the country, yet receives fewer services considering the amount they pay. The people here are fed up. Now, the Spanish government has arrested several people connected with the rebellion. The Catalan consider them as political prisoners. Both Marta and Enric emphasized that the Catalan are peaceful people and wish to resolve this by non-violent means.
 

A few days later, our travels brought us back to Barcelona. It is interesting to note that although Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia, and the center of the independence-movement, it was much less Catalan than Girona. I attribute this to the massive amount of immigration over the past several decades, especially from South America and Africa. There are still flags and signs that display local patriotism, but not nearly in the quantity that we saw in Girona. Also, at least in the area we visited, I didn't hear the Catalan language spoken as much as I did further north. In Girona, it was everywhere.
 
One morning we visited Montjuïc Cemetery, a massive, yet beautiful burial ground located on a prominent hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Very much off the tourist radar, it is replete with elaborate headstones, mausoleums and statues—well worth a visit, especially if you're like me and are fascinated with cemeteries.
 
Hidden in the northwest corner of the cemetery along a road that can be difficult to find is Fossar de la Pedrera, or Cemetery of the Quarry, as it is translated from Catalan. During medieval days of Barcelona this site was used as a quarry for some of the major buildings.
 
The stone cliffs that were once chiseled away are still visible, but now there is vegetation growing over the surface. The large niche in the hillside is isolated and peaceful. A vast portion of ground is covered with grass and there are memorials and a statue.
 

During the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, Fossar de la Pedrera was used as a burial ground for those who were executed. It is estimated that between 1939 and 1952, nearly 1,717 people were killed, most of them by firing squad at Camp de la Bota on the northeast side of Barcelona.
 
It is no wonder that the Catalan harbor such a resentment toward the Spanish government. Today there are many people who were alive when these atrocities took place, or whose family was affected. Although not as drastic, I can imagine that what is happening now is reminiscent of the political prisoners from seventy years ago, who were ultimately executed.
 
On the perimeter of the fossar is the grave of Lluís Companys. It's not your typical burial spot. It is covered by a low arch and surrounded by a pond with floating lilies.
 
Lluís Companys was President of Catalonia and was executed in 1940, not far away at Montjuïc Castle by the Franco regime. He is the only incumbent democratically elected official in European history to have been executed.
 

Statue at Fossar de la Pedrera, in the Monjuic Cemetery.

During our final evening in Barcelona, we made the trek up the other side of Montjuïc to the Magic Fountain, an amazing display of water and lights, choreographed to music. The show only plays four days a week, and only in the evenings. The vantage point from this location is magnificent. One can see the towers of Plaça d'Espanya and the old bullring, as well as most of the city, all the way to the hills near Tibidabo.
 
And there were thousands of people. I wasn't expecting so many. I guess that's what happens when a city gets overrun by tourists. There were thousands the last time I watched the water display, but that was during the 1992 Olympics.
 
Shortly before the water show began, a group of a dozen-or-so silent protesters surrounded the fountain with large posters. Each one beheld a picture of a different person, each with the caption: “Freedom. Imprisoned since October 16, 2017.” The words were in English—an obvious attempt to educate the throng of visitors. They stood in silence for about five minutes, then left.
 

Silent protest in Barcelona.

It has now been seven months since my visit to Catalonia. Occasionally I will watch the Spanish news on RTVE and the issue of Catalan Independence is still at the forefront. There have been rallies held in the streets, and some have blocked major highways in protest.
 
As a personal opinion, I don't know how this will end. Spain will fight (and I believe rightly so) any move by Catalonia to secede. They would have nothing to gain. If it were to come down to violence, Catalonia would lose, as Spain has the advantage of a military. 

But it is impossible to quell the determined voice of the Catalan. This is a showdown that has been brewing for centuries. Most of their concerns are valid. And it seems to be the trend—all over the world—that the youth are rising and making their voice heard. They want change, for better or for worse.
 
No, there is no easy solution. ♠ 

"Free Political Prisoners" reads a banner in Tarragona, Spain.

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” 

A Tribute to Brother Scott

On the nightstand next to my bed sits an intricately carved wooden statue. It is ten inches tall, and of a man holding a book in his left hand, with his right arm raised and finger pointed to the air. The lecturer is standing, as if teaching a sermon, and speaking through a thick wooden beard. He wears a subtly etched tie on his chest. Over the nape of his neck and extending to the small of his back is a ponytail clasped together. There is no doubt that this wooden figurine is a portrait of the sculptor himself, Dave Scott.
 
In real life, Dave Scott wore a long unkempt gray beard and stood over 6 ½ feet tall. His imposing figure demanded attention anytime he entered a room. Some said he looked like Gandolf. It didn't take long, however, to learn that it wasn't his height that set him apart, but his giant heart. Dave always took a genuine interest in what you and your family were doing, not only toward me, but toward many in our community. Each Sunday at church he would find a seat near the back row of the congregation where he was affectionately known as Brother Scott.
 
Dave never married. I don't know that he ever had the opportunity, but I think it was something that bothered him. Especially to be around so many people that had happy families, he had no choice but to return to an empty home. As with many single people, he didn't know how to cook. He once tried cooking a ham, but burned it. But he loved to eat, and at church parties he would often be the first in line at the food table.
 
But he knew how to carve wood. I guess this isn't surprising considering that he looks like a mountain man. He spent several years living up on the mountain in Duck Creek Village where I'm sure he spent countless hours whittling branches of pine and aspen. There are many more figurines such as mine that Dave created throughout the years, including some that are life-size. Others are smaller and carved from a single block of wood, but in a way that seems impossible. One that I recall is a wooden ball inside of a double-layered cage. The two cages can move and so can the ball. There are no seams or any possible way to have placed the ball inside the cage, other than to carve it there. He had several other “puzzles” of similar ideas, and it is mind-boggling to imagine how he did it.
 
For me, my personal connection with Dave was that we both enjoyed running. Of course, he ran a lot more than I did. At one point I believe he was running seventeen miles a day. That was amazing for a 65-year old man. Often we each ran the Snow Canyon Half Marathon, and I remember warming up in the pre-dawn freezing staging area among 2,000 other runners, and happily coming upon Dave Scott, my neighbor down the street. I was proud to know him because it was kind of like knowing a celebrity at those race events. Dave would genuinely talk to me for a few minutes, but then, without fail, there would be someone else come along, anxious to talk to the tall man in the long gray beard.
 
When Dave ran a race, the bathroom situation was always important. As he got older, he developed health problems, including a shortened intestine. He had to stop at every porta potty along the route, in addition to having to make an escape or two into the bushes. Eventually his health issues put him more on the sidelines than on the race route.
 
There was one year that I registered to run the “Huff to Bluff,” a marathon in Bluff, Utah, but I got injured. Mindful as always, in every year that followed, Dave Scott never failed to ask me if I was going to run the Huff to Bluff, and he even knew the date it would be held. He also had a knack of memorizing every finishing time of many of my half-marathons. I later learned that mine weren't the only times he memorized.
 
One day at church he handed me a page torn out from a running magazine that showed how to treat plantar fasciitis. I had some running pains, and obviously he spent as much time as I did trying to find a solution. I still have the folded page in my suit jacket.
 
Dave was also very conscientious in other areas. After my daughter passed away, he knew that she loved apples. He said, “Don't be surprised if one day you get a knock at the door and find a box of apples on your front porch.”
 
As I mentioned, Dave developed health issues that kept him from racing as often as he'd like. Often he served as a volunteer. The last time I saw him alive was near mile 12 at the Parowan City Half-marathon. As usual, he became the tallest, loudest and most masculine cheerleader I ever had. No matter how fatigued or worn out I may have been, to see Dave Scott's gesticulations and to hear his voice was a breath of fresh air.
 
He died suddenly and unexpectedly a month later. He had been experiencing some severe pains in his stomach and drove himself to the hospital. They discovered he had advanced liver cancer. Dave's aversion to doctors had cost him his life this time as the sickness had grown undetected.
 

David Scott's headstone in the Bountiful City Cemetery in Bountiful, Utah.

Dave's unique signature is etched on the backside of his parent's headstone.

Thirty-eight people showed up at his funeral, most of them from our church. Not only had Dave been unmarried, but he had no siblings, nor any known living family. That is, except his aunt, Marjorie Webb, who was 93 years old and on oxygen. She wasn't able to make it.
 
I knew every person in the room, except for one man, Phil Simonson. He was a High School friend of Dave.  Phil spoke to the congregation and shed valuable light on the early years of Dave's life, an era that none of the rest of us knew much about.
 
The two were neighbors in Bountiful, Utah. In 1966, they found a job working at Lagoon (an amusement park) for 90¢ an hour. He graduated in 1967 and studied mathematics at Weber College in Ogden, where he graduated cum laude. After his father died, he took care of his mother. After his mother's death, he chose to move out of the area. He was an admirer of John Moses Browning, the famous designer of firearms. He used to run past his grave at the cemetery in Ogden.
 
Even though Dave didn't have any next-of-kin or blood relatives, I couldn't help but think during the funeral that those in that room were his family. His aunt Marjorie said that he was never happier than when he had found the church. Not only does the church teach a gospel of peace, but it brings one into a closely-knit family. He visited with us in the chapel, the youth performed service at his home, the ladies brought warm dinners to his door, and the men made him one of their own. I can't imagine how lonely he would have been had it not been for the church.
 
Once in a while I will make the 6-mile run home from my work. As part of my route I cut through a field and onto a dirt road, then past Dave Scott's simple single-storied house. Without fail, I always expect him to be outside working in his yard and asking me if I've signed up for any races. Then, my heart always drops in sadness as I remember that he is no longer here.
 
It has been over two years now since Dave's been gone. I'm not sure if they ever found a will. With no next-of-kin, it has been a long process to figure out what to do with his meager possessions. I was surprised when, a month ago, I received a telephone call asking if I would like to have one of his sculptures. I was honored that they thought of me and gladly accepted the offer. As I described earlier, it is his self-portrait that sits on the nightstand next to my bed. Now, there is hardly an evening when I don't look at that figurine before I turn off the lamp and think of Brother Scott, even if just for a moment.
 
Dave is buried alongside his parents at the Bountiful City Cemetery. ♠