Standing on the shore of the Mediterranean, a weary traveller can look out over the water to the east towards the lovely island of Majorca. To the North about a three hours drive is the French border and upon looking away from the sparkling dark blue waters, one turns to face all of Barcelona in her stunning beauty, draped like a pagan goddess on her alter. To the south sits the Olympic Mountain, centerpiece of the 1992 Summer Olympics.(Montjuic..which in Catalan means Jewish Mountain, was once home to Barcelona’s Jewish population.) Montjuic is now home to the Joan Miro foundation and the Magic Fountain (Font Magica)which times a water show playfully to classical music.
A short walk from the shores of the Mediterranean to the North is the Gothic district, full to bursting with beautiful ornate buildings and churches hundreds of years old. And directly in front of the water, lies the entrance to La Rambla, a walkway that bisects Barcelona. While walking La Rambla Northwest, deeper into the heart of Barcelona, a traveller passes the Teatro Principal de Barcelona, (where I saw a fantastic version of Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor in which the heroine sang what seemed an earsplitting hour long aria before finally dying.) On La Rambla, one passes stalls filled with fresh fruit and flowers along with the entrance to the Mercat de Sant Josep de la Boqueria which is a brightly colored market dating back to the early 1200s. One also passes convincing, outrageously costumed and magnificently creative human statues...statues who will loudly chase after hapless tourists who snap pictures without dropping coins in return.
Upon reaching the very heart of Barcelona, a traveller finds the perfect place to rest weary feet in the Placa de Catalunya. Years ago, I sat quietly on the edge of a gray fountain with stone fish spitting water and I quietly observed the large square (approx 50,000 square meters) as vendors sold tiny baggies of birdseed to families out with their young children. As each baggie was torn open, the pigeons(las palomas,)would hungrily descend, causing each child to excitedly emit piercing shrieks of joy. One little boy patiently waited as a crowd of pigeons surrounded the ground near his feet. He purposefully and fearlessly leaned down, placing his tiny hand, full with birdseed, under the pecking beaks of the ravenous pigeons. He watched with a bright happy light in his eyes as the pigeons made short work of his offering.
There is a man in the Chicago neighborhood of Uptown who occasionally feeds the pigeons. The hard life he has led is made apparent in the shabby lines of his clothing and the gray tangled mess of his hair, His face is deeply creased and his hands look rough. But, despite whatever difficult path has led him to the corner of Wilson and Broadway, his eyes fill with an impish childlike light as his arm sweeps to feed the birds; his movements imitating those of a happy little boy nearly four thousand miles away.
