BULLFIGHTING IN BARCELONA
Sylvie does not want to go to Sagrada Familia. She also does not want to go to Park Guell. Or Casa Batlló or Casa Calvet. Sylvie is my daughter; she is nine years old and she is not particularly interested in Antoni Gaudí, despite the fact that his architectural legacies are the top tourist attractions in Barcelona. I dislike crowds but since we are in Barcelona for a few days, we cannot – indeed we should not – forgo paying our touristic respects to Gaudí.
“How about Casa Milà?” I suggest, despite the astronomical cost ($25 for adults; $12.50 for kids). “It’s Barcelona’s second most popular tourist attraction!
She agrees, reluctantly. “I just think it’s a bit strange that we’re visiting some apartments and we don’t even know anyone who lives there,” she says.
Fair enough.
We head north along the wide, graceful Passeig de Gracia; it’s mid-morning on a sunny Sunday and quite peaceful. It’s also incredibly beautiful; on the short walk from our hotel we’ve already seen several dozen spectacularly beautiful apartment buildings in a variety of styles: Belle Époque aside Catalan Gothic nudging up next to Art Nouveau. We pass Casa Batlló (the one with the balconies that look like the mask from The Phantom of the Opera) and soon arrive at Casa Milà. It’s an elegant Art Nouveau building with a tilted, undulating façade and black wrought iron balconies which must be amazing to stand on and think, “I live here.” We make our way along Carrer de Provença past a row of idling tour buses disgorging multitudes, enter the building, strap on some guided-tour headphones and prepare ourselves for some extreme Gaudí.
The voice in the headphones belongs to an Irish-accented man. He tells us that when it was completed in 1912 the building was derisively nicknamed La Pedrera (the Quarry) because its façade was thought to resemble a stone quarry. The locals despised it: they also called it called it a rat’s nest, a crocodile’s den, a hangar for Zeppelins and a Mona de Pascua, which is a Spanish cake eaten at Easter. They certainly were inventive, if not particularly vicious, with insults back then.
We pass through the foyer, then take an elevator up to “the most famous rooftop in the world”, where we admire the iconic chimneys that look like surreal knights’ helmets, and the arch-framed view of La Sagrada Familia a couple of kilometers to the north-east. After we’ve admired the stairways, and twisted stone ventilation towers of the rooftop we’re invited to “take in a last bit of air and light before you go down into the heart of La Pedrera.”
The heart of La Pedrera is the attic, where the voice urges us to look up at the catenary arches of the ceiling “which bring to mind the ribcage of a huge whale”. Sylvie dutifully looks up and nods agreement.
The attic may be the heart but the highlight is one floor below. A gently curving hallway with large, elaborately-framed windows on either side takes visitors through the apartment. It’s been been recreated as the home of a 1920s bourgeois family, completely re-fitted and decorated with the original period furniture, artworks, ornaments, fabrics and household accessories that made up a typical Casa Milà apartment from the time. All the rooms are large and light-filled, even the scullery and the maid’s quarters. The bourgeois boudoir is positively palatial. This so-called sagging Easter cake would have been a pretty sweet place to live.
Next, I drag Sylvie to La Sagrada Familia, insisting that at some point in her life she will thank me “because It’s like being able to visit Notre Dame while it was being built
“That doesn’t really mean anything to me, Dad.”
“Well what about the fact that it’s Barcelona’s number one tourist attraction?”
Also nothing.
It’s all moot anyway; when we arrive at Barcelona’s number one tourist attraction and see the oppressively heavy security presence, the fencing that prevents visitors from getting anywhere close to the exterior, the insanely long queues, and the crazy prices (entry starts at $20 and goes to up to $37 if you desire tower access) I explain that actually there can be such a thing as too much Gaudi and that it might be best for us not to overdose so why don’t we go back to the hotel and rest our feet and wallets?
Our stunning hotel is Cotton House, the former headquarters of the city’s cotton guild. It’s a 19th century neo-classical building that combines the grace of the original structure with modern artworks and bold colours. One of the highlights is a gorgeous spiral steel staircase from the 1950s, which reaches right up to the top floor and is suspended from the ceiling rather than anchored to the floor. (Warning: it wobbles just a little as you go up and down.) The property’s inviting communal areas include a small library, several grand lounges to relax in and a salon with displays of original cotton bolts where guests can order made-to-measure shirts, in a quirky nod
to the hotel’s history. I feel that the bourgeois guy who lived in Casa Mil would have definitely come here to do just that.
There’s comfortable balcony in our small but luxurious room overlooking the hotel’s lush wooden courtyard, five stories below. There are palm trees, potted plants, canvas umbrellas, covered banquettes and my wife stretched out on a padded bench, reading a magazine. We’re in the heart of the city here, but an overwhelming sense of tranquillity pervades.
Breakfast is held in a of bright, airy rooms anchored by the beautiful hotel bar at its centre. White tiles, wicker chairs and palms create an appealing colonial vibe. After some pan con tomate, fresh fruit and too many tiny pastries, we head out in search of more Spanishness.
I’m not a big fan of bullfighting, and neither is my daughter. (“Why do they kill them? Have the bulls done anything wrong?”) And in fact neither is Catalonia, where the practice has been banned since 2010. But you don’t really have to be a bullfighting enthusiast to appreciate La Monumental, the last bull ring to have operated in Barcelona and which is now home to one of Barcelona’s least popular yet most appealing – and best-priced – tourist attractions, the Museum of Bullfighting. Entry is $6.50 for adults, $5 for children under ten. Once tickets are purchased in an ‘office’ that’s a converted maintenance shed, a very old lady who speaks no English points at the magnificent Byzantine-influenced Art Nouveau façade of the building as if to say, “There it is. Go inside it”.
The entrance.
We enter the shadowed outer hallway that encircles the building, our footsteps echoing on the concrete. The place feels fantastically abandoned without being decrepit or forbidding. We climb a small set of stairs and enter the arena, straight into the crushed rock-covered centre of the amphitheatre. Surrounding us in tiered rows are almost 20,000 seats, not a single one occupied. It feels surreal to be standing here, in the centre of what was once a battlefield, where once there was the bloodthirsty roar of thousands, where now there is only stillness. I raise my purple jacket like a cape; Sylvie holds her index fingers up to her forehead and charges the jacket with a snort. It feels good to create dust and noise in here.
The ‘museum’ is located above the stables and contains a collection of historic matadors’ costumes from 1726 to the present day. Looking at their outfits you get a very vivid sense of how tiny many of these men were. It’s interesting to note that the sleeves of the jackets were laced, rather than sewn, on to allow freer movement of the toreadors’ arms. “Is that interesting, Dad? Really?”
There’s also a large collection of bullfighting paraphernalia, including matadors’ contracts and caps, vintage fight posters, and old photos, many of the legendary Manuel ‘Manolete’ Sanchez, who was gored to death at the age of 30 in 1947. There are dozens of bull’s heads mounted on the walls; even though they’re dusty and mouldering they still look intimidating in a sad sort of way. They, too, were celebrities in their day. One can only read about various matadors being awarded one ear or two ears for their kills before coming down on the side of the bulls.
It’s all very lo-fi: exhibits are housed in glass cabinets; photographs are pinned onto wooden room dividers. The accompanying cards offer a charmingly refreshing lack of information in multiple languages. My favourite exhibit is “The famous pillow ‘El Cordobes’ slept on the night he decided to resume bullfighting. Together with his signature are those of the leading Spanish managers.”
As we leave, Sylvie asks if we can visit the zoo. “I want to see some animals that are alive,” she says. “And no more crazy old buildings.”
Fair enough.
Sally and Sylvie in the ring.