Clean, Old-Fashioned Hate

Many, many years ago (shortly after dinosaurs roamed the earth), I enrolled in and completed a degree (or two) at the Georgia Institute of Technology (informally Georgia Tech or just Tech for those who think or feel that GT is the only engineering-focused school worth recognizing).  I had left a Tree behind and instead was looked forward to embracing a Yellowjacket named Buzz -- GT's adorable mascot.  

It didn't take long after I arrived on campus to become aware of how intense the rivalry was between (engineering focused) Georgia Tech and (liberal arts focused) University of Georgia (aka Georgia for those that think or feel that the land grant institution represents the entire state's higher education system).  For starters, I had a roommate from Athens, Georgia (where the University of Georgia is located) and it appeared that I was disliked from the moment I moved my furniture in the door -- presumably due to my "lifestyle" but likely more to do with the fact that I had just moved from Silicon Valley and was immersing myself in more tech culture by pursuing a graduate degree in electrical and computer engineering.  I was one of those urban, tech people -- which seemed to automatically place me in enemy ranks.  

Not surprisingly, the roommate situation didn't last very long and after six months, I moved on to rooming with fellow software and electrical engineers and engineering students-- urban techies.   My new housing situation allowed me a much needed escape from my previous situation where walking in the door seemed so often to be greeted by animosity.   On campus though, there was no such insulation from the UGA-GT rivalry.  Even in the bowels of the cleanroom, the rivalry simmered, gradually building during yet another frustrating football season (at the time, GT's football team specialized in roller coastering from brilliant to dismal and back again) to the annual late autumn rivalry game.   

The prelude to the annual football rivalry game was more than just talk about football and chances of wining -- it was an opportunity to hear a wide range of sarcastic remarks and jokes about the relative inferiority of UGA compared to GT.  Many of my fellow engineers and techies had a less than respectful view of liberal arts programs, often to the point that they didn't understand the point of liberal arts majors at all. Their attitudes toward liberal arts were compounded by the rural (UGA) vs. urban (GT) campuses that pitted those living near farms against those living next to skyscrapers (and horrendous Atlanta traffic which successfully dampened the charm of the city on a regular basis).  

During the annual rivalry game itself, the animosity between the students from each college in the stands would reach its peak.   It was intense enough that many of us made sure that we walked on the opposite side of the street to students from the opposing team and steered well clear of those who had a tad too much alcohol and were indulging in feeding the fray.   

Oddly, it wasn't until many years after I graduated that I became aware that the bitter and intense rivalry between UGA and GT had been coined "Clean, Old Fashioned Hate" by author Bill Cromartie in the 1970's to the tune of 611 pages in a book exploring, describing, and embracing the rivalry.  "Clean, Old Fashioned Hate" implied that two teams that hated each other could still be sportsmanlike as they competed on the football field. And that they could continue being nice to each other after the game no matter what the winners said, no matter what the losers felt, and no matter what the referees had done.   

A little unrealistic, eh?

Having moved to Washington state a few years after graduating from Georgia Tech, I ran into similar animosity between urban (and wealthy) Western Washington and rural (and not as wealthy) Eastern Washington.  The rivalry between the University of Washington and Washington State University never rose to anywhere near the level of what I had experienced in Georgia -- likely because it's impossible to "hate" a rivalry game called "The Apple Cup".  I was content with a rivalry game where I could cheer, yell, and scream for my team without ever dipping a toe into anything remotely resembling hate.  

It wasn't until 2024 that the term "Clean, Old Fashioned Hate" started to really rock my boat.   In an era where hate could be manufactured from almost nowhere and lead to mass shootings in schools, multiple casualty hit and runs in the cities, and a political climate that made healthy, functioning government a pipe dream -- I just couldn't stomach the word "hate" applied to a football game.

How about Clean, Old Fashioned Fans? Clean, Old Fashioned Football?  Clean Old Fashioned Branding that doesn't include Hate?

Can we please dispense with the word hate and come up with branding that allows the rivalry to stand while also hinting at bringing people together rather than pushing them further apart?

I know.  That's just sooooo unrealistic and idealistic.  

protecting the vulnerable

Last night, my husband and I had a friend over for dinner.  The conversation among the three of us lasted long past Taco Tuesday fare and a somewhat strange choice of dessert.  In fact, I don't think I've ever had tacos and chocolate mousse together in one meal, and I blame myself for not choosing a more suitable combination of foods. Fortunately, I don't think the odd mixture troubled anyone at the table except for me.   

But, I digress (as usual). 

During almost four hours together, we covered a substantial amount of food and a broad range of topics. The evening felt both refreshingly normal and strangely unusual. To be able to talk about so many things freely without judgement or anger making it impossible to consider how others see and process the world-- seems to have become an unfortunate rarity at the American dinner table. 

At one point, our freely meandering conversation wandered into the "luck" that both men at the table had enjoyed in their careers in terms of both financial and professional success.  Before I could stop it, the words "white male privilege" jumped out of my mouth, unimpeded by any level of censorship that I might have imposed on my words if I had stopped to think about what I was saying. 

To my surprise, there was no angry or hostile response.  Instead, I had the pleasure of hearing a clear acknowledgment of that privilege. Even further to my surprise, our friend/guest expressed a sense of responsibility for caring for and protecting those who lacked such privilege, particularly women.  My husband often speaks to how much he would like to protect me and see me protected from the perils that accompany being a woman in engineering.  To be in the presence of two men who thought that way -- temporarily left me speechless.  

It made me wonder why I was so shocked by the lack of anger and hostility in the room and left me doing a deep dive into thinking about Who is actually responsible for protecting the vulnerable in our society and What they should be doing and Why it has become offensive to talk about Who and What.  

I am often distressed as to why so many Americans seem to have lost sight of our collective, community obligation to speak up for and protect the vulnerable.  Although the United States still rates highly in terms of generosity in terms of both time and money (#6 in 2024, according to the World Giving Index), it seems like we have an increasingly narrow idea of who our vulnerable populations are.  

Somewhere along the line, we have forgotten that vulnerable populations are everywhere -- even in the affluent United States.  And, by extension, we are all vulnerable in some way, shape, or form -- although some are much more so than others.  Instead, we seem to have created sharp, dividing lines between the vulnerable and the privileged or powerful -- and have acquired the habit of withdrawing our compassion for those who are vulnerable once they speak out in their defense.  So many now make quick judgements about which side (privileged or vulnerable) a person is living on -- before even listening to their story and understanding their experience.

These stark lines of division vary from person to person, from community to community -- so much so that we can't seem to talk about it anymore, much less work toward broader protection of and compassion for anyone who is in need, regardless of their race, ethnicity, immigration status, sexuality, gender, etc.  Protecting the vulnerable is not a monthly check donated to a food bank, a regular offering to the unhoused, a credible book on racism read and reflected, a training class taken -- even though these things are all important. Neither is protecting the vulnerable a task meant only for the privileged to undertake. Instead, it seems to me that knowing Who the vulnerable are, What do do about it, and understanding and seeking to overcome the Why it has become offensive to talk about such things -- has to be addressed at a more granular level:  Everyday Living.

I can benefit from and most certainly should adopt an everyday habit of paying more attention to vulnerability. I need to understand that just because I am part of a vulnerable group, I also enjoy immense privilege.  And I need to leverage both vulnerability and privilege to become a better citizen and a more caring friend.  

All too often, I get stuck in one corner and neglect the other.   Much as I would like to push all the responsibility of protection onto privileged white males, I shouldn't.  Much as I would like to ignore the vulnerable because I enjoy privilege, I most certainly shouldn't.   

So thank you -- friend and dinner guest.  I bet you had little idea that one comment could trigger someone to jump into such a long rabbit hole of reflection.   

But that is, after all, what introverts do.  

It's not just me.... I think there may be other, far more credible and knowledgeable authors who speak to protection of the vulnerable.  Such as: 

We "... must be vigilant in protecting and supporting all communities, including the most vulnerable among us.  We have a special obligation to protect children, whose victimization ripples through families, communities, and society at large.  Likewise, elder abuse, fraud, and neglect remain urgent problems in this country, particularly as the COVID-19 pandemic ushered in a new wave of exploitative practices targeted at seniors... Gender-based violence, including domestic violence, dating violence, sexual assault, and stalking, cuts across socioeconomic, racial, and geographic lines.  In addition, low-income communities, LGBTQI+ communities, communities of color, people with disabilities, non-citizens, and victims of human trafficking face disproportionately high rates of victimization." 

"People should speak out for the poor and vulnerable, and ensure justice for those who are being crushed."

"I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

As I wrote this, I felt an all too familiar sense of embarrassment and hypocrisy because I am not living up to my obligation to protect as well as I should, could, or can. My audience here is one. I am preaching to myself.  

 

Surprised. Not Surprised: Post-Mortem 2024

My memory about how and when the COVID-19 pandemic arrived in the United States is still as clear as if it happened yesterday. In late 2019 and early 2020, I had been reading about the virus in China, fretting about its potential migration to other countries and hopeful that migration to the U.S. was not inevitable.  But, on the eve of flying back to Washington in early 2020, the first COVID-19 case in the United States was announced on the national news.  Patient Zero was in Everett, Washington -- near SeaTac airport where I would land the following day.  

When I heard this, I felt everything in my life go still.  Still. Quiet.  Dark.  

As the United States reacted, as businesses and services of all kinds shut down, as people panicked, as face masks were optional, then required, then demonized -- I had no doubt in my mind that my fellow Christians would step up and do whatever was necessary to protect those around them from infection and the serious harm posed by COVID-19.  I assumed that I would return to church on Sunday after lockdowns were lifted and my fellow Christians would be gladly donning face masks without complaint.  I assumed that they would be more than happy to shine a light in a dark place and chose mask over freedom.  I assumed that wearing a face mask was a small inconvenience -- a minor irritation necessary  to protect the healthy from oppressive illness and the vulnerable from dying.   

The joke was on me, of course. Surprise!  Instead of observing my fellow churchgoers honoring the laws of the land (Romans 13:1-2), I saw pushback.  I saw hostility. I saw dismissiveness. I saw overt refusal to obey public health guidelines.  

Four years later, I am now shocked at myself rather than at my fellow Christians.  It is shocking to me that I was surprised by the results of the November 2024 election.  Really?  How could I possibly be surprised by the outcome?  How could I possibly think that things are different now, in 2024, compared to 2020 and 2016?

Many of my fellow Christians have dismissed or downplayed rape, felonies, assault, racism, xenophobia, and a vast array of hate-filled remarks to vote for the president-elect.  It's one thing to vote for that candidate's policies/positions on issues while admitting and admitting frequently that much of his behavior is anything but Christian. It's another thing entirely to gloat, boast, defend, or remain silent about the behaviors that have shocked America, and should be shocking Christians.  

Whether or not I am surprised or not surprised, I am sure to be dismissed as a demon-filled Democrat, even before anyone thinks to ask or care what my political party affiliation has been over my many decades of voting as an American citizen.   You might be Surprised.

​​​​​​​I so badly wish we could just choose love over anger, faith over frustration, humility over boasting, gratitude over greed, speaking out kindly over remaining silent -- and a myriad of other choices that could get us to a better place as a country without all this chaos, hostility, and divisiveness.      

Surprised. Not Surprised. 

Every day it's a Surprise to me which of the two will win out.

No Fruit, Minimal Fruit, Inconsistent Fruit, Spoiled Fruit = NO Vote

(This blog was written the day before Election Day 2024 and was edited several days after)

Except for my inner circle, I've kept largely quiet about the presidential campaign.   Too much anger. Too much chaos. Too much talking. Too many statements lacking facts and evidence. Too much bias. Too little listening.  And so on.   

I was relatively quiet until the day before the election when the extent of my speaking out ventured beyond my head but remained confined to this blog which should have made me feel a tad better, should have relieved some of my election angst (which as it turns out, was warranted), and be read by at most two persons who likely already know how I feel and what I'm thinking (still true).  

Oops! That was an impressive attempt at talking myself out of writing.  Unfortunately, without writing (and doing so abundantly), I will just succumb to the anger and divisiveness that the majority of voters appear to be indulging.  Trying again now...

My whole attitude can be summed up in two pictures.  While I expected a lot of fruit in the presidential campaign:

It appears a bunch of nuts emerged instead:

Some examples:

• Fruit:  "I strongly disagree with any criticism of people based on who they voted for."
• Nut: "Any African American or Hispanic ... that votes for [the opposing candidate], you've got to have your head examined. They are really screwing you."

• Fruit: "Well, I'm not -- but I'm not finished. I'm not finished. May I finish -- may I finish responding, please?”
• Nut: Interviewer chronically interrupting [the candidate]

• Fruit: The opposing candidate does not understand women’s “agency, their authority, their right and their ability to make decisions about their own lives..."
• Nut: "Well, I’m going to do it whether the women like it or not. I am going to protect them."

• Fruit: The opposing candidate  “is a fascist” because he has praised Adolf Hitler and put personal loyalty above the Constitution.
• Nut: The opposing candidate is “lazy as hell”, “slow”, a "stupid person", and has a “low IQ.” "Does she drink?  Is she on drugs?"

And last but not least, the closing comments of the two campaigns diverged about as much and as widely as I can imagine.   One candidate offered a democracy operating with grace, kindness, and on occasion, joy (her words, not mine).   The other candidate vowed to take revenge on anyone who defies him.  

In all these comments/statements and many, many more that I have heard over and over again in 2024, I've come to the conclusion that although I try to consider all the complex issues on the table without introducing my own bias, I am, after all, a simple-minded voter. Perhaps I also have a low IQ.  Perhaps not.  But with whatever IQ points I have to work with, I can confirm, without reservation, that any candidate who cannot at least try to exhibit the fruits of the spirit (kindness, patience, self-control, joy, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, peace, and love) and do so frequently and sincerely  -- can not have my vote, no matter how much I agree with that individual's stand on any issue. No fruit, no vote.

And, please don't misunderstand me.  I don't mean the use of the word "nut" to say or imply that one candidate is necessarily crazy, but the behavior often seems that way.  My amateur, untrained opinion is simply that something is amiss with one of our candidates (now President-elect). And no matter how much I might agree or disagree with his policies, goals, or strategies, I can't imagine that he will rise above what is fundamentally and essentially "amiss" to enact policy and provide leadership that is consistent with what any country truly needs from a President.  I want to be wrong on this.   

In the closing days of the election, the candidate (now President-elect) accused anyone voting for the opposing party or registered in that party of being possessed by demons.  I am indeed obsessed with and possessed by nine demons, all fruitful.   But to be sure that I am not truly possessed by demons of a more sinister nature, I have turned to prayer and scripture.   If I am wrong, I have fervently asked for eyes to see and ears to hear.   I ask God daily to redirect my mind and my heart if I have it let it run astray.  But, my mind and heart just keep coming back to the same point -- I just can't get away from those crazy fruits (Galatians 5: 22-23).  

Fruits are an essential part of the leadership diet.   Nuts are not.   

Vegetables?... well, that's another blog altogether.  

A Metaphor for Anger in America: Paint Pots at Yellowstone

As any visitor to Yellowstone National Park will tell you, it's nearly impossible not to marvel at the variety and beauty of the hydrothermal features the park offers. The variety extends from Old Faithful who erupts with almost two hundred feet of steaming water and grandeur every 35 to 120 minutes to the relatively water-starved and subdued mud pots which provide endless entertainment with their random symphony of burps and gurgles.  

Watching these features and getting lost in my own little world as any self-respecting introvert would do, I couldn't help but think that many of these hydrothermals speak metaphorically to the problems that we have with anger and frustration in America today.  Many people have heated opinions about politics, policies, rising costs, housing, overwork, underpay, and a myriad of other issues, some so much so that their true colors are largely masked by their anger:

Like the mud pots, others seem pretty mellow and even keeled, but their persistent, low-key, rumbling suggest that they could go sideways at any moment:

Still others, while still heated and passionate in their views, somehow manage to keep their true colors shining bright and beautiful through their negative emotions:

A select few manage to transform all that heated energy into something stunning and lasting -- a legacy:

Given the selection of paint pots, I prefer to strive toward these later models.  Stay invested, remain engaged, feel passionate, experience anger... but do it without it getting in the way of loving and caring about people, no matter what their paint pot may be.

Because I am definitely one prone to steaming over things to the extent that my true colors disappear underneath my anger and frustration, this is easier said than done.   Sigh.

And now back to admiring the geysers and hydrothermal bouquet without overthinking them... that's a piece of advice that Old Faithful was kind enough to give me:   

Simple Pleasures

 

Yesterday morning (12 October), I slipped (or partially collapsed, depending on your perspective) into the driver's seat of our 2015 Toyota Sienna and began the long drive to Clearwater, Florida from Whidbey Island in Western Washington State.  

While I have made this drive many times in a minivan loaded with (too?) much stuff and (too?) many animals, it never ceases to amaze me that the endless to-do list that accompanies closing up one house and departing for another actually comes to an end.  And here I was.  The October 2024 departure had begun. We were headed to Pinellas County, Florida, so recently traumatized by Hurricanes Helene and Milton (technically Milton was a Him-icane, but I don’t think these storms care much about pronouns).   

Accompanied by a bout of unseasonably warm and beautiful weather, my sister and I drove down the road and meandered onto the Whidbey Island ferry, headed to the mainland.  After a plethora of traffic lights, we merged onto one of the crowded commuter routes toward Seattle and headed eastward onto Interstate 90 away from Seattle and over the Cascade Mountains via Snoqualmie Pass.  The weather begged us to make a stop to gawk at 268-foot Snoqualmie Falls so we obliged, not feeling particularly hurried on the first day of the drive. 

Unfortunately, in a fit of weather-induced optimism, I had the misguided thought that I could take Willow (our rescue dog) through a weekend throng of tourists to see the Falls and all would turn out OK.  My (misplaced) optimism didn't last long as Willow became increasingly nervous with one car after another, one person after another, and one dog after another.   Not surprisingly, the “stroll” ended when she completely freaked out and made an almost successful attempt to slip out of her collar and disappear into the wilderness, never to be seen again.  

With the simple pleasure of viewing the Falls at length successfully submarined, we returned to Interstate 90 and headed east once again. Crowds of many living beings and a reactive dog -- bad combination.   Lesson learned.  

Moving east brought us across the desert-like landscape of Eastern Washington and just over the state line to Post Falls, Idaho for our first night on the road.  The very friendly desk clerk informed us that an entire marching band was joining us for the evening at the Post Falls Sleep Inn and that commotion and chaos were to be expected.  

Whew. The simple pleasure of a peaceful evening had been successfully averted.  Who needs peace and quiet anyway?

After a decent but short night’s sleep, I reluctantly rolled out of a strange but warm and comfortable bed, put a collar and leash on Willow, and headed out for a morning walk.  I was delighted to see that in front of the Inn was an abandoned railroad track that had been converted into a long, wide, comfortable trail for walking. The possibility of peace and quiet loomed in front of me. I looked both ways on the trail, saw no one, and struck out to the east in search of the simple pleasures abounding in the beautiful Sunday morning.  

It was chilly enough to wear a heavy jacket, but not so much that my exposed hands, eyes, or ears had anything to say in protest.  The gentle chill allowed me to wake up and return to the land of the living slowly without any of the (many) things that annoyed night owls in the early morning.  

On both sides of the trail, two-foot tall grass had gone dormant and straw-like in the drought conditions of the Western summer.  The swatches swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze as there were no cares in the world. It’s a good thing that grass can’t read a news feed, lest their bliss be interrupted with the grim realities of the modern world. 

In the distance, the mountains and their many resident conifers rested, seeming to take a deep breath in their last meditation before the snows arrived and smothered them with blankets of winter white.  

As I gradually returned to the land of the living while breathing the crisp chilly air, I relished these moments of being along and relaxed. Not only because they had been largely lacking over the past month in the chaos of getting ready, but also because the simplicity of the moment pushed the complexities of the world away for just a little while.  

Usually a bundle of spirited and zig-zagging energy, Willow also seemed to sense the simple pleasures of the quiet morning.  She seemed to have little to no interest in pulling my shoulder out of its socket.  I thought for certain that our peace would be broken when she spotted two horses in a nearby pasture.  But no manic bark fest ensued (presumably because she couldn’t figure out what to do with these large, never-before seen creatures). We continued in our walk, uninterrupted.   

For almost a half an hour, the morning embraced us as we walked easily down the trail.  I reluctantly turned back only when I spotted a deer in the distance before Willow and her eagle eyes did the same.  We would have pulled off an equally enjoyable return trip if it had not been for the two pit bulls gone crazy over the sight of Willow.  This included one of the two dogs pulling out of its collar in an effort to have a close encounter of undetermined consequence with Willow.  Fortunately, the brain cells in Willow's head over-rode her crazy dog self (an infrequent occurrence), and we escaped the pit bulls (and their angry owner) without any bites, blood, or unexpected visits to the vet.   

Nevertheless,

Just thirty minutes.  Just a basic urban trail. Just an ordinary day.   

Just simple pleasures.  

Just exactly what I needed.   

The Childless Dog Lady

After a long day away from home, I open the front door, weary and weighted down.  It is so very easy for the world outside my home to have that effect on me, and I am always grateful for the blessing of closing both the  garage door at the end of the day and closing the metaphorical door of another long day in the crazy, chaotic world out there. 

Today, as with many other previous days, I am greeted at the front door by two rather large mixed breed coonhounds and a flurry of activity topped off by eagerly wagging tails. Whether the tail was wagging the dog or the dog was wagging the tail is totally irrelevant. All I can see in front of me is a happiness so full and innocent that I can't help but smile and feel the hard day behind me start to melt away into the past.   

As I bend down to pet the two happy heads, I ask both of them whether they are happy to see me... the  childless dog lady.  While I see a brief quizzical look pass across their faces, their expressions quickly return to the wildly enthusiastic "She's home, She's home" mode.  Their unbridled happiness tells its own story.  They could care less if I am childless not by choice or childless by choice. I am their cat's meow. Pure and simple.   

As the internet continues to churn on J.D. Vance's negative views of childless women, I've had plenty of opportunity to reflect on my own childlessness.  While it wasn't my choice to come home to two delightful coonhounds and the pitter patter of four paws rather than two feet, I have found peace in my alternative life.   While some seem to think that the childless among us bring home dogs to try (pathetically, unsuccessfully, or otherwise) to fill the hole left by the absence of children, I can confidently say that Willow and Lazer are not caulk on the seams of my broken heart.  

I didn't bring them home to serve me, but for me to serve them. Adopting rescue dogs most of my life has come from a sincere desire to make a  small dent in the immense population of  homeless and unwanted dogs in the U.S., a result of over-breeding, accidental breeding, and a culture that seems to think that custom-made pets should be a thing.   

Mixed breeds are always an adventure, a mystery bag that unfolds year over year into a combination of challenges, chuckles, and cheer that no one could have ever custom-designed from scratch.  So, in our home where the inhabitants make up a group of hearts, minds, and souls that seem far away from the mainstream nuclear family, we have nevertheless found the warmth, safety, and closeness of family.  Stitched together, one paw at at time.  

On days that I can shut out the voices of what I should be doing and should have done with my life, I am content and happy.  Due in no small part to those crazy coonhounds running around the house. 

 

Barcelona-- a Summary

I am grateful for the opportunity to spend time in this lovely city.  The photos are worth a thousand words or more, so I'll let them do the talking:

https://youtu.be/C70fXeSAV9E

Ending in a Happy Place

While I was tempted to spend our last full day in Barcelona traveling to the Montserrat Monastery northwest of the city that was justifiably reputed to be beautiful, stunning, and therefore not to be missed, the long journey by bus, train, and some other mode of public transportation was too daunting for me, my traveling companion, and my multitude of blooming bedbug bites.  

Instead, I opted to be a horrible tourist and forgo Montserrat for something as ridiculous and unnecessary as rest and sleep.  And it therefore came to pass that we ended our vacation in Barcelona the same way we started it... with excellent food and a walk along the Iberian sea:

Castelldelfels ("castle of the sea") gave us a stunningly beautiful day, devoid of any white or wet stuff in the sky, replaced with a long, long stretch of sunshine and almost deserted beach.  The weather was sufficiently warm and comfortable and the beach sand smooth enough for me to exit reality and enter la-la land for quite a while. I stopped to pick up some beach glass and shells along the way, feeling a wee bit as if I were in a Spanish version of Florida.  Albeit without obnoxious seagulls to disrupt my peace.  

It was hard not to think of the weeks ahead -- the long flight back, the scramble to pack up, the long drive back to Washington, and the grind that spring quarter would inevitably become at work.

But, for the moment, there was no grind, no exhaustion, no frustration... just my reliable happy place, merrily at work, filling my spirit with all the good stuff that it would need as I travelled back to reality in the U.S.  

Adiós Barcelona. Hope to see you again!

Parc Guell in Barcelona Remix

My first visit to Parc Güell in Barcelona was short. The day was cloudy and chilly. There was stress in the air because some very rude person had just stolen my friend's wallet out of her backpack while we hiked up the hill to the Parc.  After an hour plus of wrangling with the credit card companies to ensure that the damage was limited to some cash and the more important emotional hit of being robbed and violated, there wasn't much emotion left to appreciate Parc Güell.  Hence my first impression of another of Gaudi's masterpieces was more along the lines of Willy Wonka's vacation factory in Barcelona than a true appreciation of the masterful skill, vision, and determination that went into crafting the park. 

All those curves and lack of right angles still make me think of Disney, Willy, Pixar, and all their cousins.  But, I didn't see Mickey or Minnie anywhere on the grounds, so I suspect that there is more to it than that.   And if I had managed to take an art class or two in college and paid attention, I likely would have had more intelligent and informed things to say about the lovely Parc Güell.   

The fact that I could visit the Parc, sit on a rock bench, and feel that I was alone among thousands of visitors, most of whom were making tourist noises, was impressive. The way the benches were designed provided silence in the middle of a crowd, an opportunity to be still and absorb the sun, the trees, and of course, the aesthetic of it all. 

The combination of art and skillful architecture at an expanse and level that is the Parc was enough to make me ponder it long after I had left and long after I had forgotten the throng of tourists that accompanied our visit. 

674 Steps

After visiting the National Museum in Barcelona, I was eager to be outdoors again, despite the wind and chill that permeated the late winter day.  

The panoramic view of the city just outside the doors of the museum was certainly breathtaking, but unfortunately, the lack of green space in the city irritated almost every one of my tree hugger nerves:

A little footnote from tree hugger land -- the World Health Organization recommends that in any city, every residence should be 300 meters or less from an urban park.  In Barcelona proper, only 33% of residences have such access to green spaces.  While it is easy to think that plentiful green space is a nicety for the outdoorsy types of the world (good for the mood but little else), green space is necessary to avoid the heat island effect that has cities warming much more rapidly than rural areas and bringing various miseries and climate instabilities with it.  

But, I digress.

The National Museum sits near the foot of Montjuic (meaning "Jewish mountain" because it houses the remains of a medieval Jewish cemetery) which Wikipedia tells me is "... a broad shallow hill with a relatively flat top overlooking the harbour, to the southwest of the city centre."  Buying into the idea that Montjuic was merely a hill and not a mountain of any sort, I ventured uphill and after a few twists and turns that left me little idea how to get back to where I started, I encountered stairs.  Curious to see the flat top and the Castle of Montjuic that stands upon it, I started climbing up stairs set into the shallow side of the hill.  I thought that surely a hill of a mere 184 meters could not host very many stairs. I would be at the summit in no time, enjoy the view of the harbour from the steep side of Montjuic and then amble back down, to reconnect with my traveling companion and friend.   Right?

Wrong.

As with all hikes headed toward a summit or a view, there comes a point when a paricularly stubborn form of  stubbornness sets in and no way would I give up and turn back before reaching the top. Those wicked stairs ...they just seemed to keep on going and going and going.  So much so, that when I finally caught my breath and descended along those very same steps (much to the dismay of my aging knees), I counted them to see if my breathlessness at the top was just about age or something else.   

By my total count, plus or minus a few steps here and there, I had ascended over 500 stair steps.  Just a few more and I would have simulated a visit to the Eiffel Tower with the 674 steps it allows tourists to climb according to their preference. 

The view at the top of Montjuic was breathtaking but also left little doubt about why this particular location was chosen to defend the city over countless centuries of the past:

By the time I reached the bottom of the hill again (which took far longer than I thought thanks to my talent for wandering and getting lost), my feet and knees were telling me that perhaps I should have opted for the cable car route up the hill.  

I ignored them, of course.  

Glorious Food!

I think the most difficult decision I will need to make about visiting Barcelona is deciding on my favorite food dish.  Even the mediocre food was good. Whatever shall I do? How can I make such an impossible choice? At least I am certain about what's at the bottom of the yummy list... that would definitely be airline food.  Blech. 

Apologies for sounding like a spoiled American there.

Prior to this trip, I had been doing a reasonable job of not overeating ... avoiding "pleasure eating" as it's now called.  I certainly blew that good habit right out of the water in just eight short days in Spain. Eating yummy food releases dopamine ... so I've rationalized eating way too much as a better choice for getting a dopamine fix compared to staring at my phone incessantly.

I choose food! Maybe it was the awesomely grilled octopus tapa that was the best:

Or maybe it was the sweet Sangria that offset the salty octopus ... yes, you guessed it. Just Right

Octopus won out over the calamari, but only because it was a little chilly while dining on the calamari:

And then there was every sweet known to humankind sold at La Boqueria market in the Gothic quarter:

La Boqueria put Pike Place market to shame.  And, much as I love the St. Petersburg farmer's market, the produce at La Boqueria looked so fresh and good that I almost violated U.S. customs regulation to bring a bag full back into the U.S.

I guess I could have eaten it all while being detained....

In retrospect, awesome food is not to be underestimated. It makes memories of the trip stick so much better. Taste and smell are the only senses linked to emotional memory in the brain.  I imagine that my brain is going to be recounting and reliving the many culinary pleasures of Barcelona for years to come.   

More food.. click here. But, be forewarned.  You may spontaneously board a flight to Spain as a result of your viewing.   

A Womans' Place (at the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, Barcelona)

When visiting the National Museum in Barcelona, it's very easy to realize that the art therein has significant value  -- just by the very nature of the National Palace in which it is housed.

I am not the ideal museum visitor by any stretch of the imagination.  My eye is untrained and my brain is even less trained in the intricacies of fully appreciating art. So, I tend to alternate between staring at a painting (or other art piece) for far too long and flitting through rooms within a museum once visually overloaded, until something else catches my eye.  At which time, I once again begin staring (relatively) dumbly at the painting or piece.  

In the end, only a few paintings or art pieces will stick in my memory and I need a camera and photographs to even achieve that milestone.  This one, by Roberto Fernández Balbuena painted in 1930 became one of my memorable memories for my visit to the National Museum.  It reminds me of how little is different across cultures and across history with regard to women's role in everyday life.

It's not so much the ironing that catches my attention (and the accompanying message about a woman's place being in the home) but the expression on this woman's face. The everyday toil, the endless chores, the fatigue -- all hallmarks of many adult women's lives, even with all the "modern conveniences" of the twenty first century. 

It just looks different now.  While new fabrics have all but eliminated the need to iron, over scheduling and the many additional "opportunities" offered by modern technology have taken its place.  Often, when I see a woman in public look up from her phone for a second or two, I see this same expression.  Rarely, do I see relaxed expressions or carefree smiles among all the people I pass by in my daily commute.   And, especially so for women.   

When I found this painting, my phone was buried in my backpack somewhere and I had a moment to relax and to ponder the powerful message embedded in the talent and technique it took for the artist to create it.  

I left my phone buried in its place for the rest of my visit.  

Parc Guell in Barcelona

While Sagrada Familia allowed for a combination of a Wowsy Artsy and Awestruck Spiritual moment, the Parc Guell, also designed by Antoni Gaudi, felt more like I was entering into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.  

In the early 1900's, Eusebio Guell commissioned Gaudi to design this place as a residential area for rich families, but only two of sixty plots of land were sold to said families, so the park and its Gaudi creations reverted back to land and park for the masses... which ironically, is now so popular that only a limited number of the public are allowed into the park on a daily basis.  There is a certain smug satisfaction in knowing that this odd but talented, fairy-tale-like architecture has reverted back to being accessible and enjoyed by ordinary folk. 

But, I really think that Barcelona should consider making chocolate inside the park's boundaries -- and inviting Willy over once in a while to optimize the manufacturing process.   

Or alternatively, the park could be integrated into any number of fairy tales... and then Disney could get a hold of it, turn Gaudi into an excessively cute and animated character, and make a movie using the Parc as a setting for a corny plot, and an additional plethora of way-too-cute characters.  

Which, most likely, would cause Gaudi to roll over in his crypt.  

The House of Bones

Otherwise known as Casa Batllo, this not so ordinary and not so humble home is located in downtown Barcelona. Remodeled by Antoni Gaudi in 1904 and renovated several times since then, it is nicknamed the "House of Bones" for the balconies that look like skeletons of something organic and once living.  The tour of the Casa gave me claustrophobia (think hundreds of people crammed into narrow stairways and hallways) and the audio tour not only told me how to interpret the Casa's many unusual features but also provided poetry instructing me how to "feel" about Gaudi's art and architecture.

I am not well trained in art history nor the interpretation of modernism, so I often try very hard to believe the "experts" on how to view, understand, and feel about the art I have the privilege of viewing, but in this case, I stopped listening to the audio tour about halfway through.  The poetry instructing me how to feel and what to see, in particular, was annoying.   

For example, I was told that the balconies here were the skulls of long lost turtles. 

And my uneducated, disbelieving response: "Really, where are the rest of these skeletons? Hidden in a basement somewhere, rattling around in the middle of the night, waiting to turn into one of Stephen King's novels?" It, the Sequel -- coming soon to bookstores near you.

I know Gaudi resisted right angles like the plague and was brilliant enough to get away with all kinds of oddball curves, but these windows, although beautiful, look like something designed during a cannabis episode: 

Am I the only one who thinks this cross is a wee bit too bulbous?

...or that the craftsmanship on this staircase is amazing, but who's going to do all the maintenance on it to keep it looking that amazing?:

And what's behind this door? Fodder for the next Harry Potter series?

The audio tour commented on this column as a mere means of structural support.  Hmm... wouldn't the House of Bones would be a House of Crumbles without it?

I envisioned the aliens straining to emerge from this chandelier and taking over Barcelona:

And appreciated the ingenuity in making the windows smaller as they get closer to the skylight to ensure that all rooms had equitable light:

The audio tour also informed me that turtles were going to emerge from these skylights (albeit without heads, because their skulls were already on reserve for the balconies):

And you just have to wonder if this wood stove is a fire hazard, vulnerable to flames, sparks, and ash getting stuck in the elegant curve of the stove pipe/chimney:

And using pure gold to make the walls appear cracked and aged whilst poverty raged and war raged in Spain over the course of the remodel ... is that a politically sensitive design choice?

Finally, many thanks to the sun for enhancing this photo and giving me that warm, fuzzy feeling that I missed out on with the audio tour:

More photos?  Here