Last night was the keynote address for USAO's annual Giles Symposium.  The speaker was Ayaan Hirsi Ali, who speaks about Islam, politics, and human rights.  Her address last night was fascinating and provocative.  She takes a hard line against Islam, arguing that it has not adapted to modernity in the ways that Judaism and Christianity have.  This lack of adaptation manifests itself in Islamic government regimes that are oppressive.  Hirsi Ali advocates international support for secular groups within Islamic countries, with the goal of a separation of church and state. 

Because Hirsi Ali grew up within Islam and now speaks out against it, she is labeled an "infidel."  There's a death threat out on her-- she travels with her own security, and there was a police presence at the event last night. 

As a member of the committee that organizes this event, I had a job last night.  During Q&A, I was in charge of standing by the stationary mic-- limit one question per person, cut things off when we ran out of time.  There were several people still in line when Hirsi Ali said she'd take one more question.  I turned back to make sure that everyone was headed back to their seats. 

One man didn't.  He was hefty, middle-aged, and a little agitated. 

"Sir, I'm sorry.  She's not taking any more questions."

He looked straight at me, shrugged, and stayed in place. 

"Sir, there's no more time for questions."

"But I have something to say that everyone needs to hear." 

I wasn't having it.  "This isn't your forum, sir."

"But did you hear her?!  Talking about what we should be funding?  Do you think that's ok?  I'm not gonna do anything-- people know me-- firefighters..."

At this point, a campus security officer and a state highway patrolman eased their way up and escorted the angry man out of the auditorium.  I turned back to watch Hirsi Ali finish answering the final question.  My heart was pounding. 

I kept thinking about that confrontation on the way home.  He was a big man, trying to use his size and the force of his anger to intimidate me.  I'm not a physically small woman, but this man was bigger and very likely stronger than me.  I didn't consciously see any direct threat to my safety, but such confrontation is not common for me.  I do just about everything I can in my life to circumvent, preempt, and otherwise avoid confrontations.  I couldn't avoid that one, and I felt uncomfortable.  But I remained firm, and ultimately he wasn't successful. 


One of the pitfalls (there are many) of being a very reflective and self-aware person is that I spend a lot of time replaying events in my head-- I analyze them.  Why do other do as they do?  Why did I act as I did?  Why didn't I cower during that confrontation?  I can think of two things:  First, long before I was comfortable calling myself a feminist, I was one.  Both my mother and father instilled in me-- through actions and words, that women are not inferior to men.  I was never taught that I must obey a man because I am a woman.  I am not intimidated by a man just because he is a man. 

Second, I think I was inspired by Hirsi Ali.  There she was on our stage in tiny Chickasha, Oklahoma.  Sure, she had security and there were 6-8 other police officers around.  But she's 8 months pregnant, has a standing death threat out on her, and she still travels and talks about issues that are important to her.  A person only takes that risk if she's strong.  I admire strong women. 

Interested in open source composition texts?  I wrote a review of Writing Spaces (volume 1).

School starts tomorrow, so it's a natural moment to look back and take stock of my summer. 

For the first time in eight years, my summer was my own.  I was responsible to no one but myself.  Last summer, I taught.  For the six summers before that, I was in grad school, either working on my dissertation or cobbling together a living from the kinds of summer teaching opportunities that crop up on college campuses (thank you Upward Bound and McNair!). 

It wouldn't be accurate to say I had the summer off, though.  I did some writing and sent out an article for publication and sowed the seeds for the next article. 

What I really did this summer, though, was recharge.  How?  Mostly, by going to Barcelona.  Almost as soon as I turned in my spring grades, I was on a plane to Europe.  Why Barcelona?  Several people have asked me that question, and I have cobbled together an answer that works, though it's not entirely satisfying to me.  I knew I wanted to go to Europe.  I knew I wanted to be near a beach.  I think my first glimpse of Barcelona came from the Woody Allen film Vicky, Christina, Barcelona which features an unfortunate amount of narration and some absolutely striking scenery, particularly of Park Guell.  I think I've been learning about the city in bits and pieces ever since then. I talked to a few friends who'd been there for short visits-- they all raved about the city and said it was very English-friendly. 

Before I went, I knew this was important because I don't speak Spanish (Castillian).  Once I got there, I realized the English-friendliness was important because I don't speak Catalan either. 

I spent eight days walking, watching, eating, and breathing.  There was nothing else I needed to do.  I went alone.  There's a great deal of freedom in being by yourself-- I think our culture-- so caught up in our Hollywood coupling narratives-- ignores the joy that comes from being completely free and independent.  At times I get caught in those narratives, too, but in Barcelona, I was on my own.  It was wonderful.  If you ever get the chance to travel on your own, DO IT. 

I also recharged in New Hampshire/Maine.  I went back for a wedding and stayed with dear friends.  After a good length of time-- maybe four of five years-- the best friendships become harbors where you can be absolutely at ease.  Many of my UNH friends are like that now.  At 18, I would never have guessed that I'd have many strong friendships with people I rarely see.  Back then, I thought I would always live in the same place with all the same friends.  I like this unanticipated turn. 

Lastly, I visited Ohio.  I'm lucky to have an extended family full of wonderful people who aren't just nice to me because they've always known me, but because they also like me.  There's nothing remarkable to say about my Ohio visit-- I did what I always do-- there are people and places I always visit.  My Ohio visits are always moments to remeasure the distance and time that has passed since my mom passed away.  I moved out of Ohio six months after her death, and I haven't lived there since.  I mourn what I cannot share with her-- she would have loved to hear about Barcelona. 

She would like to hear about my plans for the new school year.  And I do have some plans-- I'm excited for school to start again. 
 

La Sagrada Familia- interior

Dancing the Sardana-- a traditional Catalan dance.  Outside the Catedral de Barcelona.

As I was preparing the next entry, I discovered that I have already met the maxed out my bandwidth (?) or something.  I can't upload any more photos unless I shell out some more money for more space. 

I can't figure out how to simply use a link to summon images from flickr (where I'm already paying for the upload space), so I'm a little stuck at the moment. 

Until I figure out what I'm going to do, I'm pausing the travel narratives.  In the meantime, all of my photos are viewable (organized by location) here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/intenteffect/collections/72157626708449026/

I started the day at a tiny cafe recommended in my guidebook.  I tried the "very Catalan" meal of cheese with honey (though I don't know if this was a breakfast recommendation or not). 

I found it "very gross."  But the coffee was good. 

This day was devoted to Montjuïc-- on top stands an old fortress overlooking the sea. Getting up to the fortress required a train, a funicular (informal definition: hill train), and a cable car.  Once at the top, there are views of the harbor and the whole city. 

There are plan in motion right now to turn the fortress into an international peace center. 

Though I took transportation uphill, I walked my way down.  Shortly downhill from the fortress is Fundació Joan Miró  I don't know Miró's work as well as that of Gaudi and Dali, but Miró is definitely an artist that intrigues me. 

Unfortunately, photographs were not permitted in most of the museum.  I loved this visit, though.  Years ago, my BFA-bearing brother taught me how to appreciate abstract art.  I was always so worried about "getting it," and he told me it's not necessary, or even always possible, to "get" abstract art.  Just look at it, and right away, listen to your reaction. "I like it."  "I don't like it."  Either one is fine. 

It's certainly no way to pass an art history class, but it gave me the freedom to luxuriate in staring at something without trying to figure it out.  Experience the work aesthetically.  So I did a lot of that in the Miró museum.  I like it. 

The next downhill stop was the 1992 Olympic stadium and torch.  There's not much to see here, but there was a black cat wandering around on the stadium field. 

I'd already had a giant fill of art at Miró, but the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya was next on my trek back to sea level.  It was also covered by the Articket I purchased at the tourism office (Highly recommended--22 Euros, covers 7 major art sites in Barcelona-- I only visited 3 and I still saved money). 

I was most enchanted by the Catalan Art Nouveau.  The collection is the largest gathering of Art Nouveau I've ever seen.  It frustrates me that American museums seem to only hold one or two token Nouveau items.  MNAC held plenty of items, though. 

I also really love this lady (I forget the artist):

I skipped so much of MNAC.  I regret it a bit, but my feet and my brain were tired. 

This entry may seem short, but I spent a long day on Montjuïc.  I got to the fortress mid-morning, and I didn't finish at MNAC until 5 or 6.  I took my time.  That's a great feature of my trip.  I had enough time that I never had to rush.  I could stare at a Miró, sip a glass of wine in a cafe, or relax in a shaded spot. 

All Montjuïc pictures here.

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.

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. 

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. 

I spent the first 8 days of May in Barcelona, Spain.  I've wanted to travel there for a long time-- ever since I became aware of Gaudi and his expressions of Art Nouveau.  I saved up money, bought two guidebooks: Rick Steves' Spain and Lonely Planet Barcelona.  That was probably overkill; if I were to pick only one, I'd pick the city guide over the country one.  But I consulted both because they did have some different recommendations and information. 

In this post, I've summarized my trip and provided some links to my photos, all of which are uploaded to flickr- Barcelona collection.

Day 1: Arrival

Left Oklahoma City at 12:30pm local time, landed in Barcelona at 10:00am local time (7 hour time difference).  I didn't sleep much on the plane, but I did watch "How Do You Know?" (cute, love anything with Reese Witherspoon) and "Black Swan" (hated it, almost as much as I hated "The Wrestler"). 

Got to my hotel around 11:30, but couldn't check in until 1:30.  I was exhausted, but this forced me to stay awake as long as I could, which helped me adjust to local time pretty quickly. 

I headed back out to the central city destination: Las Ramblas.  This is a broad boulevard-- the center is wide, bricked, and full of cafes and vendors.  It's tourist central-- perhaps what Times Square is to New York. 

Las Ramblas begins at Plaça de Catalunya and ends at the harbor-- specifically, at a statue honoring Christopher Columbus.  The statue is located on the spot where Columbus presented hale and hearty "Indians" to Ferdinand and Isabel and said "hey, look at these choice slaves."  Or something like that. 

I stopped at a cafe and ordered tapas-- mussels and fried small fish.  (I had decided that I was going to be a more adventurous eater on this trip.  I've head mussels before, but I didn't know quite what the small fish would be like.)

Turns out they're WHOLE fried small fish.  I would never eat fish heads in my normal life, but, ADVENTURE!  So I jumped in.  They were not that good, in fact.  Chewy, not much flavor.  But the mussels were delicious.  So was the red wine (rioja) I had with lunch. 

I wandered a while longer-- Barcelona is an amazingly walkable city.  The streets are narrow and the sights are interesting.  I spent a lot of time on this trip just picking out different sections of the city and walking. 

Seafood paella for dinner.  Mussels, clams, and prawns cooked in a savory rice.  It was fantastic.  I don't know how you're supposed to eat prawns, though, so I might have muddled that a bit. 

Day 2: La Sagrada Familia

After a breakfast of cafe Americano and a croissant, I set out for La Sagrada Familia.  I could have taken the Metro (subway), but I wanted to see the city as I went.  It was a long walk-- my feet complained by the end of the day-- but walking enabled me to approach the church gradually, getting peeks as I got closer. 

Of all the sights I wanted to see, this was on the top of the list.  This is Gaudi's masterpiece.  Construction begin in the 1840s and continues today.  They expect to complete it in the next 15 years or so.  Thought I've always been a bit suspicious of Catholicism, there's no denying that they know how to build a worship space.  I still remember the visceral awe I felt when visiting Notre Dame (in Paris, not Indiana) 20 years ago. 

La Sagrada Familia (The Sacred Family) is an amazing combination of nature and structure.  Gaudi is part of the Catalan Art Nouveau, and Art Nouveau is known mostly for it's elaborate, nature-inspired decorative features.  In La Sagrada Familia, however, nature doesn't merely inspire flounces and flourishes-- the structures of trees inspire the structures of pillars.  When you walk in, you are immediately in a magical forest. 

The two existing facades are striking: the Nativity facade contains scenes from Jesus' birth.  It also contains animals and other decorative flourishes.  This facade was mostly completed by Gaudi.

The opposite side is called the Passion facade.  It contains 12 scenes from the end of Jesus' life.  This was conceived by Gaudi, but not completed during his lifetime.  Artist Josep Maria Subirachs created angular, weighty figures to act out Gaudi's plan.  According to the tourguide, Subirachs' work here is controversial.  It is clearly not in keeping with Gaudi's aesthetic. 

For reasons I don't understand, it is supposedly very cool that you can add up the numbers in the 4x4 box in any direction, and you'll end up with 33, Jesus' age when he was killed. 

If you go to the basilica (the Pope visited in November 2010 to officially christen it a basilica), you can pay a few extra Euros to ride up one of two elevators.  Do this, and pick the Nativity elevator (not the Passion one). 

The elevator takes you up 4 floors or so.  You walk across a small bridge behind the dove tree (you can make out a few heads to the left of the on the bridge in this pic). 

You wander down narrow spiral staircases that present view after view after view. 

All of my La Sagrada Familia pictures are here. 

Christopher Columbus monument pictures are here. 

Miscellaneous Barcelona photos, including Las Ramblas, are here. 


Edited to add:

I forgot to include my visit to La Pedrera-- one of Gaudi's buildings.  I stopped on the way back from La Sagrada Familia.  This building is mostly occupied by private tenants, but the roof and one apartment are open to tour. 

Most rooves in Barcelona are hideous: chimneys, air conditioners, storage shacks.  They are unseen places, for the most part.  Gaudi made them fantastical.  See my arty photo of some chimney tops? 

See all my La Pedrera photos here. 

I was in Atlanta last weekend for the annual CCCC.  I managed to find time Saturday morning to visit the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Historic Site.  An explanation as to why I made this visit hardly seems necessary-- any American-- likely, any citizen of the Western world-- recognizes King's significance.  The site includes King's childhood home, burial tomb, and several buildings holding exhibitions on King, Rosa Parks, Ghandi, and other civil rights information.  The Ebenezer Baptist Church is in the same block-- this is the church where King, Jr. grew up-- watching his father at the pulpit.  King, Jr. held the pulpit there too. 

The site is run by the National Park Service.  In the past, I've always been impressed by NPS sites and facilities.  This site, however, seems less well-kept. 

There's chipping paint along the border of the pool which surrounds the burial vault that holds King and his wife.  There's debris resting in the bottom of the pool.  Shouldn't this be better maintained?  Why isn't the site pristine?  This doesn't seem to do him justice.

 

Inside the exhibits, there are history lessons and artifacts.  Clothes, signs, letters, etc.  (See my full set of photos here.)  In a poorly-lit hallway was a modest showcase with a few items displayed. 

I saw this and I stopped.  I shivered.  Nobel. Peace. Prize. 

It's here.  Right here.  And I'm looking at it. 

I felt something larger than myself in that moment.  I felt humble.  I felt awe. 

But I also felt this display was inadequate.  Hallway, bad lighting, slightly crooked case.  This, I felt, deserves more.  This is how I envision the display:

You walk into a velvet-black room.  You see nothing except the medal, suspended from the ceiling at a height about a foot above eye level-- so you have to look up to see it.  Spotlights focus on it.  It rotates slowly.  It's a quiet room-- no King audio here.  It is a reflective space. 

As I pictured this, I thought about that medal.  How I want it to spin so everyone can see both sides.  Then I looked again at this display-- both sides of the medal are shown. 

Immediately, I became suspicious.  Is this a fake?  Does the Nobel committee issue each winner a handful of museum-appropriate replicas?  Where is the real one?  I reread the caption-- it doesn't actually say "The Nobel Peace Prize"-- in English, we're trained to closely read the text.  And this text isn't telling me what I want to hear. 

Is it fake?  I don't know.  I suspect it is.  I would have asked, but I wanted to protect the possibility that this medal is the one that King held in his hands.  I want to see the REAL thing-- not a replica. 

I left the exhibit, a little disappointed.  I picked up a book and a DVD in the gift shop and walked out, past the burial vault again.  Noticing the disrepair.  The anticlimactic medal display.  There seems a disparity.  I want the polish of the memorial to mimic-- at least aspire to mimic-- King's significance. 

In the days since Saturday, I've been reading The Autobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr.  This is a posthumously crafted, edited, and published work that traces King's political and religious life.  It contains some texts penned directly by King, but the bulk of it is a crafted first-person narrative (authorized by King's estate). 

Reading this has vastly expanded my understanding of the civil rights movement.  It has also reminded me that for King, his work was always about the movement, not himself.  He would not seek to be idolized, sanitized, or put on a pedestal.  He would not, I think, want to simply be a day off work. 

I think he would also resist being remembered as anything but a fallible human.  We don't talk about it as much, but King was unfaithful to his wife.  He was also found to have failed to give proper credit to source material in his doctoral dissertation.  (More on both here.)

Clearly, King was not perfect.  He never claimed to be.  And I would argue that none of his foibles undermine his strengths. 

In his death, though, he became a martyr.  We forget or ignore the flaws in our martyrs.  They become figures that we use for our own ends.  I think, in the case of MLK, we use him to feel good about the progress our country has made since the days when a white man could own-- OWN-- a black person. 

King would not want this feel-good veneer to obscure the persisting problems of poverty and war.  King would want-- did want-- us to serve:

President Obama called attention to this when he called for MLK Day to be a day of service. 

As I finish the autobiography-- perhaps tonight-- I'm left with enduring questions-- what can I do?  About inequality?  About poverty?  Give a dollar to the homeless vet-- they're always homeless vets-- standing at the edge of the road?  Buy some Kraft Mac & Cheese and donate it to the food bank?  Any of these might be a little helpful, but none of these address the problems that lead to unemployment, hunger, and poverty. 

I wonder where our champions are now-- our fallible but intelligent and committed leaders.  I want to draw on the well of inspiration, but I can't help feeling a little hopeless at the same time.