I understand Barcelona better than I did a few hours ago -- and that one can learn important new things about a city that had become so comfortable is just plain awesome.
Here's what happened:
I had spent most of the day in front of the computer writing, doing editing tasks, preparing PhD exam questions, etc. so I was eager to head out to watch the Barça game at a cheap watering hole in Gràcia with Fran's sister Marga and her partner, Robert. Because I was running a bit late, I grabbed the train two stations down and started to walk across the neighbourhood. Now, I don't know how it happened -- maybe I just kind of spaced out or something -- but I somehow ended up staring into a set of lights on the train. The problem was that the afterimage was so strong that I began to have trouble focusing, especially since the persistent line of lights was tracking down when I looked at things (like the scar on my retina does). Looking at other lights only made it worse -- thinking about it now, I think that it was simply eye strain but at the time it was kind of freaking me out and I couldn't just sit down and just close my eyes to rest them or anything because I would be late for the kick-off..
As I walked through Gràcia the effect kept getting worse and I started to get a little worried about the whole thing until I remembered the reading on "dazzling" from the course I taught on World's Fairs and material culture last year. A 19th century phenomenon, dazzling was the name given to the effect of being overwhelmed by artificial light... I reasoned that I was having a total throwback experience, that it happened to a lot of people and would eventually go away... Thus, feeling like I had properly rationalised the fact that my vision was impaired ["I cannot see" to quote the Daleks], I popped into the Celler de la Ribera wine shop on c/Cigne to briefly check out their wares (there's always time for wine...). That detour done, I was off again and almost to the rendez-vous point, when I checked my phone and saw that I had a message from Robert: watching the match at the bar was off; we were going to the stadium... : )
I hurried along and met him as he was coming out of the flat, the extra motorcycle helmet in his hand... (yay! shades of riding around and bribing Mexican cops with Clark, or getting rides home in Ithaca with Fran...hmm, when I learned how to drive the Morrisons' bike a few summers ago, I should have got my licence, alas...) Regarding the change of plans, it turns out that a friend of Robert's had 4 season ticket holders' seats with 2 left over. On account of her Catalan classes, Marga, unfortunately, could not make it -- which allowed me to take her place... moltes gràcies, Marga!
Now, the trip from the corner of c/Sant Lluis and Torrent de les Flors in Gràcia across town to the Camp Nou has to have been one of the most exciting half hours I've ever spent outside... [Mum, if you happen to ever read this, skip down a bit now to save yourself some worrying-stress]. I suppose that the first thing one must know is that Robert is VERY serious about FC Barcelona. So he was always going to get us there promptly. The fact that our benefactors who were, in effect, giving us gold star tickets for free, were waiting for us so that they themselves could go in meant that Robert was going to get us across town with extreme prejudice. I literally stopped counting the liberal interpretations of Spain's already liberal approach to the driving code after about 2 mins and concentrated instead on hanging on and keeping my knees tight to the moto, while trying not to burn a hole in my Campers on the manifold. We dodged, we weaved, we sped, we drafted behind buses, we, uh, forced others to yield to us... the blaugrana express would not be denied!
In retrospect, as someone who has dedicated a good chunk of his professional (and not-so-professional) life to studying Barcelona, I am absolutely thrilled to be able to say that I learned something incredibly basic tonight: that you simply cannot truly know this city until you have been in its traffic, until you have formed part of that smog-producing peloton of motos that scream up and down the streets, make you jump back, entice you with its visions of gorgeous women in heels and helmets, men in Armani suits on BMWs so big they must be compensating for something, and above all, produces a goddawful racket that keeps tired tourists up all night and sends them home saying "not only does Barcelona smell bad, it's SO LOUD..."
As I write this, I can still smell the exhaust fumes on my clothes-- I'm imagining Marinetti after he rolled that car and wrote the Futurist manifesto -- and I can feel a headache coming on... but what a way to see the city...
The closer we made it to the Camp Nou, the denser the traffic got and the more ingenious Robert became. We slalomed around some raised barriers and then, along with a group of others, we decided that the oncoming traffic didn't really need two lanes -- why were they driving away from the stadium anyway? Who were they? Madrid fans?? We finally made it, both of us exhilarated by the ride. The moto was left amongst thousands of others (Robert told me that he had never seen so many there before) and we met up with his friends and entered the stadium just in time for kick-off. It was at that point that I realised that my eyesight was back to normal... thank god.
The Camp Nou is one of the cathedrals of football. I had been once before and it was great but the team was not as good as the one that they have now. Barça was playing Sporting Lisbon in a group match of the Champion's League. The stadium wasn't full but there was quite a crowd, nonetheless. Barcelona played very, very well and won 3-1. A couple of times during the game, i would just turn and observe the crowd as it watched. With the exception of a few tourists, there weren't many people of colour there -- but that's the reality of the section I was sitting in. What struck me, though, was how the looks on soccer fans' faces are so timeless. Hairstyles and sideburn length may come and go, but the image of someone deeply concentrated--yet ready to explode in joy or frustration at any moment--their visage framed by a scarf tied around their neck, is something that does not change... even if the players that they are egging on have become richer and more coddled as the decades have passed, the utter investment in those men chasing a ball is intense and scary. During the Francoist dictatorship, the Camp Nou was one of the only places where Catalan culture was permitted to be displayed. The team's slogan: Més que un club [More than a club] refers not only to their philanthropic endeavours but to the role of the team in Catalonia's modern history. Bobby Robson, a former coach, hit the nail on the head when he once said: "Catalonia is a nation and Barça is its army."
One last thing that I learned tonight, less sociological and more purely ludic in nature, is that Lionel Messi is indescribably good at playing football... I won't even try... suffice it to say that a couple of times I (and probably thousands of others) got goosebumps watching him dribble through 3 or 4 defenders. On one ocasion, I would even swear that he passed the ball to himself off the shins of an opposing player some 3 metres away... simply incredible.
Walking out of the stadium into the cool fall air, overwhelmed by it all, I couldn't help but wonder (for the umpteenth time) how a kid from Caledon Village ended up here...
The ride back to Via Augusta was less frantic but still engaging -- the mass of motos forced its way in spurts through the mass of cars and people on foot... a glimpse of space was pursued by dozens, the engines gunning and the exhaust billowing out...
When Robert dropped me off, I thanked him profusely -- come to Toronto, we'll go see TFC, anything you want! Once in the flat, I cracked open a beer and sat down to think and then started to write. It's not everyday that you get to see one of your cities in a new way. (And I definitely want a moto now...)
NOT Robert's bike, but the only pic I have on file...
2 comments:
so am i correct in assuming that you no longer fear death? if anything will cure you of that, it's weaving through spanish traffic.
Wow! What a rush that must have been! Not only were you weaving through Spanish traffic...but you were weaving through spanish traffic half blind! good Bob, good.
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