Day 3: Dalí Theatre-Museum
After La Sagrada Familia, my next priority destination was the Salvador Dalí museum. The museum is in Dalí's hometown, Figueres, 2 hours from Barcelona by train. After my espresso and croissant at Cafe de L'Opera, I headed from the train station. Barcelona has an excellent Metro system: clean, clear signage (all important instructions in Catalan, Castillian, and English), and quick. I learned from reading my Rick Steves book that I needed to get to the Passeig de Gràcia station to transfer from the Metro to the regional trains. At that station, I headed for one of the ticket machines. These always have multiple language options, so I found the round trip ticket option and made the purchase. I read the ticket, followed the signs, and hopped on the proper train.
I settled into my seat and pulled out my postcards-- I had two hours, so I might as well fill out the cards. At the second stop, the train didn't start again. I looked around and saw absolutely no one on the train. I looked outside-- beyond the platform, there were stopped trains or empty tracks on either side of me. When I pushed open the door, I saw that this wasn't just a stop: this was the end of the line.
Somehow, I had gotten on the wrong train. I had no idea quite where I was, though I could see I was still in the bustling city. I looked at the monitors-- none of them listed Figueres as a destination. (But they wouldn't, given that trains usually only list their terminal stop as the destination. In order to board the proper train, you need to know what the end-of-the-line stop is.) I didn't recognize any of the city names.
Fine. Find an information desk.
"Parla angles?"
"No."
Just that: no. No helpful pointing toward someone who could speak English. He was an older man, perhaps annoyed at yet another traveler who doesn't speak the language. How can you work at a major train station in a major city and not have enough English to point a traveler toward the right train?
But that's not fair. I didn't have as much of the local language as I should have. I'm planning another post on language, but I'll say this in my defense now: I had bits of Catalan, though I'm by no means conversant. I have more Castillian, enough to conduct only basic conversation. In that moment, though, I didn't have the words in either language to say "I'm lost, I'm panicking, where am I, how do I get to Figueres from here, please be nice to me, I'm feeling a little overwhelmed!"
So I wandered back to the tv screens, hoping to see something that looked familiar. I knew I wasn't far from where I started, so I just needed to get back there. But I didn't see Passeig de Gràcia anywhere, though of course I wouldn't, because it's not the end of the line stop. I wandered a little more. The place was relatively deserted. Also, and perhaps this bears a little personal reflection (though not now, some other time, of course), I hate asking anyone for help. I don't want to bother anyone. Also, I pride myself on being a capable, competent person. Asking for help seems to undermine that.
I did spot a different information desk, with a word that looked like "passenger" on it. I stepped in and-- joy of joys-- the woman working there did "parla angles." She told me which train to get on to get back to my starting point. That was simple. "Gracias, gracias. Muchas gracias."
I got back to Passeig de Gràcia, talked to another information desk worker, who told me which train I needed to board: the one bound for Portbou.
So I did. Settled in again. Wrote out my postcards. And arrived at Figueres two hours later.
After La Sagrada Familia, my next priority destination was the Salvador Dalí museum. The museum is in Dalí's hometown, Figueres, 2 hours from Barcelona by train. After my espresso and croissant at Cafe de L'Opera, I headed from the train station. Barcelona has an excellent Metro system: clean, clear signage (all important instructions in Catalan, Castillian, and English), and quick. I learned from reading my Rick Steves book that I needed to get to the Passeig de Gràcia station to transfer from the Metro to the regional trains. At that station, I headed for one of the ticket machines. These always have multiple language options, so I found the round trip ticket option and made the purchase. I read the ticket, followed the signs, and hopped on the proper train.
I settled into my seat and pulled out my postcards-- I had two hours, so I might as well fill out the cards. At the second stop, the train didn't start again. I looked around and saw absolutely no one on the train. I looked outside-- beyond the platform, there were stopped trains or empty tracks on either side of me. When I pushed open the door, I saw that this wasn't just a stop: this was the end of the line.
Somehow, I had gotten on the wrong train. I had no idea quite where I was, though I could see I was still in the bustling city. I looked at the monitors-- none of them listed Figueres as a destination. (But they wouldn't, given that trains usually only list their terminal stop as the destination. In order to board the proper train, you need to know what the end-of-the-line stop is.) I didn't recognize any of the city names.
Fine. Find an information desk.
"Parla angles?"
"No."
Just that: no. No helpful pointing toward someone who could speak English. He was an older man, perhaps annoyed at yet another traveler who doesn't speak the language. How can you work at a major train station in a major city and not have enough English to point a traveler toward the right train?
But that's not fair. I didn't have as much of the local language as I should have. I'm planning another post on language, but I'll say this in my defense now: I had bits of Catalan, though I'm by no means conversant. I have more Castillian, enough to conduct only basic conversation. In that moment, though, I didn't have the words in either language to say "I'm lost, I'm panicking, where am I, how do I get to Figueres from here, please be nice to me, I'm feeling a little overwhelmed!"
So I wandered back to the tv screens, hoping to see something that looked familiar. I knew I wasn't far from where I started, so I just needed to get back there. But I didn't see Passeig de Gràcia anywhere, though of course I wouldn't, because it's not the end of the line stop. I wandered a little more. The place was relatively deserted. Also, and perhaps this bears a little personal reflection (though not now, some other time, of course), I hate asking anyone for help. I don't want to bother anyone. Also, I pride myself on being a capable, competent person. Asking for help seems to undermine that.
I did spot a different information desk, with a word that looked like "passenger" on it. I stepped in and-- joy of joys-- the woman working there did "parla angles." She told me which train to get on to get back to my starting point. That was simple. "Gracias, gracias. Muchas gracias."
I got back to Passeig de Gràcia, talked to another information desk worker, who told me which train I needed to board: the one bound for Portbou.
So I did. Settled in again. Wrote out my postcards. And arrived at Figueres two hours later.
Dalí created his theater-museum while he was still alive. If you're familiar with Dalí, you know that his work is surrealist. The museum is definitely in keeping with that. By Dalí's design, the term theater is meant to invoke performance-- it's not called a theater-museum because there's an auditorium attached to the galleries. The museum is interactive. Many of the works have coin-op slots which spur something to happen within a work.
My favorite example of this interactivity is with this courtyard sculpture. It's an assemblage: the car was supposedly owned by Al Capone. The female figure was created by another artist (I forget whom). The pile of tires behind the car supports a boat, to which the female statue is chained.
At the front passenger wheel of the Cadillac is a coin slot. For one Euro, it will rain in the car.
The best way for me to communicate the strange fantastic-ness of the Dalí museum is to encourage you to look at my pictures. Photos were allowed in the museum, so I took plenty. The full collection of my Dalí Theatre-Museum photos is here. It was worth the daytrip.
When I got back to my hotel, I took a nap. Catalans don't even think about eating dinner til 9:00 (so says Rick Steves), so I was trying to join in that custom. Barcelona is heavy with tourists, though, so you'll see people eating, sipping espresso, and drinking wine at all times of the day.
I walked through the Barri Gòtic neighborhood-- mostly the northern part, which is a big shopping destination. It's not really tourist shopping--though there are plenty of tourists there. It's El Corte Ingles-- the major department store, Zara, DeSigual, H&M, tons of shoe stores, jewelry stores, etc. It's akin to "the mall," but the shops are all separate storefronts that line the streets. I didn't do a whole lot of shopping while I was there, but I enjoyed wandering through stores and getting an idea of culture through consumerism. Also, I was a little obsessed with a fabulous jacket in DeSigual. It was a trenchcoat with this bright floral embroidered design. It was also 176 Euros. (Exchange rate: 1 Euro equals approximately 1.40 Dollars.) I couldn't justify spending that much money on a coat, but oh, did I want to. Spanish fashion seems so much brighter and bolder than it is here. Maybe fashion is fabulous in Miami, but it's not in the places I've lived. I was enchanted by all the prints and colors.
That night, I found my way into a classy tapas bar. It was nicer than the ones that line La Ramblas, but nothing too stuffy. There, I ordered, ate, and enjoyed the weirdest thing I have ever eaten: cuttlefish.
When I got back to my hotel, I took a nap. Catalans don't even think about eating dinner til 9:00 (so says Rick Steves), so I was trying to join in that custom. Barcelona is heavy with tourists, though, so you'll see people eating, sipping espresso, and drinking wine at all times of the day.
I walked through the Barri Gòtic neighborhood-- mostly the northern part, which is a big shopping destination. It's not really tourist shopping--though there are plenty of tourists there. It's El Corte Ingles-- the major department store, Zara, DeSigual, H&M, tons of shoe stores, jewelry stores, etc. It's akin to "the mall," but the shops are all separate storefronts that line the streets. I didn't do a whole lot of shopping while I was there, but I enjoyed wandering through stores and getting an idea of culture through consumerism. Also, I was a little obsessed with a fabulous jacket in DeSigual. It was a trenchcoat with this bright floral embroidered design. It was also 176 Euros. (Exchange rate: 1 Euro equals approximately 1.40 Dollars.) I couldn't justify spending that much money on a coat, but oh, did I want to. Spanish fashion seems so much brighter and bolder than it is here. Maybe fashion is fabulous in Miami, but it's not in the places I've lived. I was enchanted by all the prints and colors.
That night, I found my way into a classy tapas bar. It was nicer than the ones that line La Ramblas, but nothing too stuffy. There, I ordered, ate, and enjoyed the weirdest thing I have ever eaten: cuttlefish.
As I said in the last entry, I decided that I would be more adventurous in my eating on this trip. So I ordered this weird fish. It was quite good-- grilled with a little olive oil. I would suggest that if you ever choose to eat cuttlefish, make sure you thoroughly chew the tentacles before swallowing. Otherwise, you might feel a little gaggy. But if that happens at the end of the meal, it's not the worst thing in the world. Also, sangria helps wash it all down.
More Barcelona food pics here.
More Barcelona food pics here.
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