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

Working with the Magic of Natural Light

Antoni Gaudi (1852-1926) was a highly unusual artist.  Among other things, he never met a right angle that he liked (most everything he constructed was done in curves, waves, or other elements that bore no relationship to a sharp corner or square).  Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, Spain is largely regarded as his best work -- also known as the largest unfinished Catholic church in the world.  In 1926, Mr. Gaudi was struck by a tram and killed while trying to cross the street en route to his church for prayer and confession. He was assumed to be a beggar (and not worth the effort of immediate treatment), leading to deterioration as a result of his injuries and his death a day later.  

With only a quarter of the basilica done at the time of his death, the work to finish Gaudi's creation  continued and to this day, the  designs for the basilica that Gaudi left behind at the time of his death are still not fully implemented.  The man used small bags of birdshot hanging from strings to model columns, arches, and other key elements of his designs.  He then took photographs of these models, painted over them, and these became the his vision and the basis for construction.  Even more interesting, Gaudi did not start with designs on paper but designed his models as he went... giving a whole new reputation and credibility to "winging it".   

When complete, Sagrada Familia will have a total of eighteen spires.  The shortest will be of the twelve apostles of Christ, and the tallest will be of Jesus Christ.  As of 2023, 13 of the 18 have been completed.  The spire of Jesus Christ is still under construction.  While the exterior of the Sagrada Familia is in itself mind boggling and awe inspiring, the interior is what caused me enough pause that I wandered around in the church in a daze for hours... awestruck and speechless.

What immediately struck me about Sagrada Familia was the awesome, delicate, and complex use of natural light to illuminate  the interior of the church. As the sun moves across the sky (OK to be technically correct... as the earth moves relative to the sun), light streams through a myriad of different colored stained glass windows in a dynamic, ethereal landscape that looks and feels magical. Words can't do it justice, so I'll just leave it to the pictures to tell the story:

  Intrigued?  Here is a slideshow of more...

A Reliable Happy Place

I have never walked a beach that I didn't like.  Cold, hot, warm, rainy, windy, calm, balmy, rocky, sandy -- it doesn't matter.  The keyword is simply beach.  If it's a beach, I'm in a happy place.   

So, it's no surprise that rather than stay in the heart of the Gothic quarter in Barcelona proper during a week long vacation to the city, I chose instead to find lodging on of all places... the beach.  Out of the way, a 40 minute train ride from downtown Barcelona, and a kilometer walk from the subway station.  None of that mattered. Every day, I was going to return from doing hours and hours of tourist like things to my happy place (as a side note, I am very grateful that my traveling companion Linda was patient and unruffled by my odd choices).

When I arrived in Barcelona at 7:30 a.m. on a Thursday morning after a transatlantic flight , not a cloud was to be found in the sky. The sun shone bright and warm -- more like it was mid-summer than the end of winter. 

All the icky feelings that came with sitting for hours on end at 30,000+ feet, eating airline food, accumulating jet lag, and trying to pretend that turbulence over a vast, deep ocean was no big deal started to fade away when my feet hit the sand.  My ears and auditory nerves, rattled by fourteen hours of nonstop noise from airport to airplane and then again ...  rested in the rhythmic sounds of the waves coming off the Balearic sea -- the body of water between the Mediterranean Sea and the Balearic Islands off the northeastern coast of Spain.  Ahhh... this was better than any spa anywhere.   

Even after returning to the hotel room and realizing how tired I really was, I couldn't help but stand at the floor to ceiling windows on the thirteenth floor, enjoying the view.  For me -- so much better than watching masses of tourists swarm about in the streets below from a downtown hotel.   

No matter how beautiful Barcelona was going to be, this was the perfect place to start a vacation in Spain.  

During my walk on the beach, I also encountered this  monkey who appeared to agree with my opinion. He sits overlooking the sea and apparently contemplating his flask of anise-flavored liqueur.  Just across the street from the monkey and the beach, the Anis del Mono factory has been making anisette liqueur for over 150 years. I wonder if it turns all monkeys to bronze... or just this one.   

Airline Shenanigans

Much as I don't like the phrase "the new normal",  it is an appropriate descriptor for the shenanigans that have become common place with "modern" airlines.   No post-COVID vacation for those who dare to fly economy (i.e., most of us common folk) seems to be complete without a good dose of innovative ways that the airlines will unapologetically inconvenience passengers or steal their money. My recent trip to Spain was no exception. 

It all started with planning a trip to Athens (Greece, not Georgia) that went amuck last year.  In May of 2023, after spending countless hours finding a balance between a reasonable fare and a reasonable route, I purchased two roundtrip tickets from Seattle to Athens for a trip that I thought I would surely (a) enjoy and (b) use as scheduled in September of 2023 when the long crazy summer travel season was over.  But COVID19 had other ideas and after struggling with a bad bout of the disease in April of 2023, the virus decided to take up residence in my thyroid gland. By September, I was in full scale hyperthyroidism complete with a not insignificant chance that my leaking thyroid would dump enough hormone in my body in too short a time and thereby end my life. But, it didn't -- that was good news. The rest was pretty much bad news.

As I spent week after week sick and miserable, it made me even more miserable to think of Air Canada running off with a few thousand dollars of airfare and seat reservations.  Like most other airlines, Air Canada could care less how sick I was and how genuinely unable to travel I had become. When I reluctantly cancelled our flights and learned that Air Canada was only going to charge $199 in change fees per ticket, I was thrilled. I succumbed to the optimistic thought that I might have a vacation out of the whole mess after all.

Alas, when I went to use my "airline credits" in early 2024 to book another flight to Europe, I tried flight after flight, reservation after reservation, only to run into the "You cannot use airline credits to book this flight" error.  An hour on the phone with Expedia and the agent reassured me that indeed I could use airline credits to book a new flight. Another half an hour later and the agent was "surprised" that I could not. An hour later, a new Expedia agent assured me I could in fact use the airline credits. Another thirty minutes later, the new agent was surprised once again that I could not and referred me to Air Canada. Three hours later on the phone with Air Canada, an agent in Newfoundland had found no reason why my airline credits were unusable and found some magical way to rebook the flights.  Apparently, the agent's magic touch cost another $200 on top of the $199 change fee (per ticket) and also involved routes that, if I had any choice, I wouldn't choose.   So, I didn't. 

Athens was out of the question.  But a trip to Barcelona in late winter didn't sound bad at all. Surprisingly, Air Canada agreed.  And resigned, I once again paid over $150 to secure seats on the longest leg of the flight -- from Canada to Europe and back.  $79 a person for an ordinary economy seat that wasn't right next to the bathroom or in a middle seat.  Sigh. 

After so many hours on the phone though, I was worn down and with so many different and unanticipated fees, I thought that surely the airline shenanigans were over. 

I boarded my flight to Montreal from Tampa (the first leg in a two leg flight to Barcelona) and all seemed to be well until we hit what the flight attendant continued to label "moderate" turbulence an hour into a three hour flight.  I've learned that "moderate" turbulence is enough to make you want to toss your breakfast into one of those little bags that the airlines used to provide in the seat in front of you.  Not to mention the not insignificant panic that goes along with a jet bouncing all over the place at 30,000 feet. 

All the while during this impressive battle between the weather and the airplane, the flight attendant continued to apologize, over and again, for the turbulence.  More than once, I mused that (a) turbulence is not your fault and (b)  I would prefer an apology for all those who had been price gouged and exploited in economy class (and I have no doubt that would amount to most of us).   

Finally, the turbulence ended as the plane touched down in Montreal, Canada.  Lucky me, I still had 3.5 hours remaining in my original 4 hour layover, I presumed that I had more than enough time to get something reasonable to eat and reach my gate for the next flight. After being routed around a maze of Disney-like lines, having my boarding pass checked five times, and my passport three times, I landed in a single security checkpoint for over a hundred passengers that, like me, were simply trying to not enter Canada but just connect to another flight. Never mind that we had already passed through security at our originating airport (TPA). By the time I was finally released from the clutches of airport security and arrived at my departure gate, it was 90 minutes before departure time and ironically, I had landed at the exact same gate I had disembarked from several hours earlier. 

The shenanigans continued. My traveling companion finally arrived at the gate less than half an hour before the flight to Spain closed for departure. Despite paying for seats together, Air Canada had moved her from the window seat located just one seat away from my aisle seat to a middle seat somewhere else on the airplane. And, of course, they had done this without refunding the seat reservation fee or informing my traveling companion of the change until she was en route.   

After confronting the gate agent on the seat shenanigans, she moved us to an exit row... still a middle seat for my traveling companion but a window seat for me.  We were reassured that both seats had extra leg room and reclining seats.  Knowing better than to argue any further with anyone who worked for the airlines, we mumbled a half-hearted thank you and boarded.  As for my reclining seat on an overnight flight over the Atlantic Ocean, I ran into this little piece of information immediately upon finding my seat:

Thank you Air Canada.    

Lessons in Chemistry

I am in the middle of reading Lessons in Chemistry, a novel about a female chemist who faced awful, inexcusable sexism in STEM in the 1950's and after being fired for no good reason, became a well-known cooking show host in the 1960's. The book is a well written novel with some interesting and creative twists that make it difficult to put down, even for such a difficult and painful subject.  

Lessons in Chemistry has been and continues to be a global best seller and was published after the author was rejected 98 times in her attempts to publish her previous novel. The author, Bonnie Garmus, began writing the novel after a hard day in the office where she gave a presentation and watched her ideas get rejected... only for those ideas to be re-introduced by a man a short time later (as his ideas) and applauded as brilliant. That same day at the office (or close variation thereof) continues to play out for many women working in tech, science, and engineering.  

I have to wonder how many women scientists and engineers have read this book and reacted like I did.  The colors may have changed but the overall picture is pretty much the same.  

To be honest, though, I didn't pick up the book anticipating a deep dive into sexism in STEM. Instead, I picked it up because some thirty some odd years after graduating from college, I still feel guilty that I dislike chemistry with a passion; after all, I'm an engineer, in academia no less. Shouldn't I love chemistry alongside all the other sciences?

Alas, I don't.  And, the book hasn't changed my mind.  One of the premises for the main character's success in a cooking show is that she uses chemistry as the basis for making skills in cooking transparent and reachable for all.  Which brings me back to my irrational dislike for chemistry. 

When I cook, I could care less how "this" and "that", when combined in the right amounts, become "something other than this or that" which ultimately amounts to something very tasty. I also have an annoying habit of not following recipes which leads to frequent utterances of the following statement at the dinner table:  "I'm glad you enjoy it because you'll never have it again."  

I could fix that by writing down what I actually did rather than what the recipe called me to do, but then it would be a recipe, and I wouldn't follow it, so what's the point?

This attitude of course has led to my failure as a baker. Winging it in baking leads to a level of failure that I'm not willing to tolerate, particularly in the kitchen, where I'm supposed to actually be enjoying the task(s) at hand.   

So, while I'm enjoying the novel, it has reminded me that I will never be either a chemist or a baker.  Or for that matter, a cooking show host.  

I guess I'll just stay in academia.  

The link between a drowning dog and engineering

I regularly head down to a small marina near my home where I can get a waterfront property experience without paying ridiculous property tax.  When it's chilly, I sit in the car. When it warms up, I opt for sitting on a bench or on the sand.  No matter where I settle, though, the time brings much needed quiet and a temporary break from the many distractions that are abundant at home, at work, and in life.   

While the golf carts come and go, I can sit for hours, working, reading, meditating, or otherwise enjoying the peace embodied by mild ocean breezes and calm waters. Except when the hurricanes roll in... but that's an entirely different set of stories.  

Yesterday, I rolled into my little marina on an overcast and chilly day. I was the only car in the small parking lot, save for an oversized pick-up truck that had managed to consume three entire parking spots by parking perpendicular to the diagonals.  That's also an entirely different set of comments and stories. 

Parked and warm, I settled into writing while the rhythmic sounds of the bay and the lack of distractions settled my mind and kept me focused.  My concentration was broken by an elderly gentleman rapping on the driver's side window.  I cautiously opened the window to see what the commotion was and learned that the man's dog had fallen off the edge of the seawall. He had turned to me for help because I was the only person around (the large pick-up had since departed).  

Not sure what to expect and unfortunately suspicious of the man's intentions, I left the car, locked it, and headed over to the seawall.  There was no dog to be seen in the water anywhere. I asked a few questions and then set out with the gentleman to find the dog.  After a few minutes, he returned to his boat, calling out for his dog, understandably panicked. I roamed further along the seawall and finally heard splashing -- a sound coming from far enough away that I wondered how the dog had gotten so far so fast. 

Locating the dog, I called out to his owner, and lay down, stomach first, on a narrow walkway/pier to reach out to the dog. He was a big guy, about 80 pounds, and had only a bandana on and no harness or collar, creating a tricky situation to keep him afloat and generally in the same location until we could figure out how to pull him out of the water.  By the time his owner found us, the dog had scratched my face in panic and narrowly missed my eye.  I was also a wet, chilly mess.  The gentleman who owned the dog left again almost immediately to retrieve a leash and collar.  The poor dog continued to thrash and rip his pads bloody on oyster shells adhered to the pilings in the water.  There was no easy way to lead the dog to the end of the seawall, a considerable distance away, so my mind started wondering how, when I jumped into the water,  I was going to man-handle the dog well enough to swim him over to safety.  While I was an experienced swimmer, I also had enough experience with dogs in the water to know that it was a risky situation that wasn't necessarily going to turn out well.

In the meantime, the dog's owner was unsuccessful in trying to hoist the dog out of the water by threading the leash under the dog's torso. Both dog and owner were getting more and more panicked as the minutes flew by.  I will never forget the absolutely terrified look on the poor dog's face as it struggled to avoid drowning in its precarious situation.

Indecisive for what seemed like way too long, I finally made a decision and ran back to the car to call 911. The woman at the other end of the phone line had the police en route in less than 30 seconds, but then insisted that I stay on the phone and answer more questions even after I repeated several times that I needed both hands and arms to help the dog's owner keeps he dog alive while we waited for the police to arrive. In a bizarre act of bureaucracy, she insisted I stay on the line.

A police car arrived quickly. I waved the officer over to where owner and dog were still struggling. The officer and owner managed to get the collar on the dog and slowly (and painfully) pull him out of the water.  Poor doggie....dripping blood from his paws and water everywhere. 

While I felt badly that I wasn't strong enough to pull the 80 pound, wildly  panicked canine out of the water, I was grateful for this police officer who showed up so quickly and was strong enough to pull him out of the water.  Such a relief to see the dog shake and to watch as the look of terror and fear disappeared from his furry black face.

Then, as if the situation weren't bizarre or surreal enough, I noticed that officer and owner were having a follow-up, chatty dialogue that included much gratitude for each other.  In that dialogue, I had become completely invisible.  Standing there, with an ugly red scratch on my face, shivering with hair still soggy and wet from the episode of panicked splashing, I just watched them, both surprised and not surprised. 

In that moment, I returned to all those many times in my career in engineering where I had stood in a meeting, a social, or other event, waiting for two men to acknowledge my presence.  To perhaps even include me in the conversation as would be polite professional protocol.  But instead, both now and then, after being ignored for minutes and pondering the awkwardness of the situation, I would finally walk away.  

As I walked away, climbed into my car, turned the heat up as high as it would go, and drove away .... I just kept thinking ... well, it's not just engineering, now is it?