Our last day in Barcelona was one of those days that serve as a showcase for all the ups and downs of traveling. We decided on Montserrat for our last outing, because we hadn't been to the hills or mountains much. We started out late, as has become our norm, and took a series of buses and trains up to Montserrat.
In my head, the train trip would be a lovely breather from the city, a chance to see some gorgeous Spanish countryside. In reality, it involved a lot of waiting, even more sweating, an epiphany about why the Southern US has no mass transit systems, losing five euros in the drinks machines, listening to traveling college kids holding entire conversations based entirely on the word "like," and so on. The scenery consisted mostly of factories and their surrounding towns, which ran the gamut between bleak and depressing, with occasional glimpses of comfort. I had envisioned a place where people lived in actual houses, rather than apartments, but there were not many areas like that. People here seem to live in apartments, apartments or apartments. I amused myself by trying to calculate the exact time when "abandoned buildings in an exurban hellscape" can transition to "ruins."
Finally, we got past some of the uglies and hopped to another (better air-conditioned) train, called the Cremallera, which took us the rest of the way to the monastery area. The mountains and valley views were unreal. Remember when we were kids at the beach, and we would take wet sand to drizzle on top of our sand castles for drippy effect? The mountains reminded me of that. And standing at the top, you could see all the layers where a body of water had once been, and the way it had drained out of the valley, just like a toilet flushing. How could anyone who had been to such places think that the earth has only been here for a few thousand years!?? Utterly ridiculous.
It was blissfully cool and breezy, and a perfectly clear day. We ran into a few of Greg's students who had spent the whole day up there, which would be easy to do. There were walkways, pathways, a few shops, a cafeteria that actually served decent food, a hotel or two, and street carts selling cheeses, honey, fig cakes, almonds and such. The vendors would cut little pieces of cheese and hand them out, and I swear there is no better foodie experience than walking around a mountainside where they make their own cheese, nibbling and enjoying the view. I never need restaurants if I can get that. The whole place was built to blend with the monastery, which has been there for literally a thousand years (though it had to be rebuilt a couple hundred years back).
"Do you want to see the basilica?" we asked each other. We had been told the last train left fairly soon, and Cassie world-wearily said, "I don't think I'm gonna be impressed by a basilica after the ones we have seen." I kind of agreed...and then someone told us there was another train a couple of hours later, which opened up some free time. So we got some gelato, and wandered toward the basilica. While we walked, the bells started tolling, and they echoed off all the mountains around us. What an awesome sound. I can imagine a world up there in the mountains, where everyone for miles and miles relies on the sound of the bells to divide time.
We didn't have time to take the funiculars up the mountain, but Cassie says she will take Gwendolyn and Uncle Butch up there next week, so at least someone will get to see it.
It took Cassie about a nanosecond to admit that she had been wrong about being basilica-jaded. This basilica was jaw-dropping. The feel of it was totally different than Rome, Paris or Barcelona. It felt far more medieval, though not in the cruel way I think of medieval churches. With a few modifications, I can see how the place would be an Inquisition stronghold, but now it is just a stunningly beautiful building. There was some glorious, faint monk-song audible while we sat in the church, but I couldn't tell exactly what was going on. No one was at the altar, but something was happening in another language, and it seemed like another time.
There was much more to do up in the monastery complex, but another person told us that last train left soon. I swear, the train schedule was a giant prank played by the monks, who probably changed last-minute changes during those mysterious hymns. We jumped back on the Cremallera, looking forward to the air conditioning that unfortunately didn't exist. The next train wasn't much better, and was supremely crowded as well. Everyone from the exurbs seemed to be heading into Barcelona for a night on the town, and the train got more and more crowded as we got closer. There were twenty-some stops to make, all of which were completely nauseating as we stopped, packed in more people, lurched to a start again...
..and this is why, in part, I think we don't have good train systems south of DC. Trains suck for those of us with motion sickness, and the stifling heat of the train cars makes it much worse. Even if the cars are air-conditioned, opening the doors in 90-degree heat twenty times will result in misery. We were hot and sweaty to start the trip. An hour later, we were hot, sweaty, irritated, motion-sick, and grumpy. My chief source of comfort was knowing that the Scouting Masters who had three dozen young cub scouts were probably even less comfortable.
When we popped out of the train in Placa Espanya, we found ourselves at the Pride parade-rally-party. It looked like fun, particularly when the guy pushing an empty rainbow-colored stroller was trailed by his toddler, pushing his own baby stroller at full speed, yelling like a banshee. It always cracks me up when exhausted parents push empty strollers while their kids zoom around like party animals.
But alas, the party blocked off the Placa, which meant hauling our asses halfway home before we found a bus that was running. But every second of it was worth it, because we had such a phenomenal experience on the mountain.
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