Photos: Plaza Reial, protest signs at George Orwell Square,
and Sculpture
in honor of George Orwell
in honor of George OrwellSunday, May 02, 2010
I understand that some people want to know more about what happened with John… The poor man was under some impression that this was not just a blind date, but some kind of arranged marriage?! While touring Barcelona with him, little things started to add up to a big deal. When I left my hostel to explore without calling him up first, he was upset. “You should have called me! I would have come over and gone out with you!” Red flag.
The fatal day, he wanted to show me the beach of Barcelona. He had become increasingly romantic, which was making me nervous. Pink plastic flowers?! Painting supplies? And he was making more and more comments with sexual overtones…had I seen the local pornographic comics yet? Did I bring a bikini? I yelled ‘no’ when he got us (on the motorcycle) too close to a car, and his comment was he liked it when I squeezed my knees in. I asked if he thought it was funny to endanger me, and he just shrugged. Last red flag.
The beach seemed a dismal place, dirty sand, lots of concrete, and nude men parading up and down or striking yoga poses, watching sideways to see if anyone was impressed. Another surrealistic scene!
Sitting on a concrete walk way, I told John that I was letting him go find another travel companion who could appreciate him better. “What do you mean? What did I do?” He tried to convince me I was wrong, we just needed to get up on the Camino, he said, and I would feel better, and any misperceptions and wrong expectations were all my doing, as hadn’t he mentioned in an email, that he was a normal man? Did I expect him to be celibate the rest of his life?
Whew, more than surreal. He alternated between anger and hurt, then fell silent. I admit to a cold, dispassionate state of mind. I was done; I walked.
Two more days in a hostel would give me time to find a new plan. On the internet, trusty helpx again, I wrote to a few places in the vicinity. Ken from Casa Paz wrote back immediately, saying that his expected help had been waylaid by the volcano. The place was a bus ride down the coast, near Denia. He said he could meet me at the bus station.
Meanwhile, A little more about the stories from that great walking tour, and the cooking class.
The pictures sent earlier, of the church in a little square, with shot up walls, was some of the horrible stuff that happened in the Civil war. The guide talked about Picasso liking to drink absinthe in a bar called the Four Stars, where he overheard someone talking about how wonderful Miro’s work was, and proceeded to demonstrate his own superior skills on a table cloth. A replication of the scribblings makes up the façade of the art institute building in the Plaza Nova. The art building is the one and only ugly building in this big square, but the decorated façade helps a little.
Another story was about the Plaza Reial, originally homes for the people who had become wealthy by pillaging the Americas. During the civil war, they were driven out and the place was used as a hospital. Then, for the Olympics in 1992, palm trees were imported from Hawaii, on a rental agreement which is still being paid on.
The coast line was also changed for the Olympics, including two highrise buildings standing separate from the rest of the city, built for the athletes. And a plaza, called George Orwell square, is actually a triangle. There is a sculpture there, also done for the Olympics, in honor of Orwell because of his support during the civil war. At the unveiling, people were puzzled as to the meaning- and the artist explained that it represented a TB germ, because Orwell died of TB. The people were still puzzled. Very few people liked the sculpture, but there it still stands. Meanwhile the plaza has become a place where dealers sell cheap beer to attract crowds, and drug deals. The apartments around the square have protest signs hanging from the windows, asking for dignity.
Cooking Class:
For 18 euros, I joined a group of about 20, all students from several different places, studying for a semester in Europe. It was hands on for making Sangria , tapas and panella.
Sangria- Mash cut-up fruit (any) in a pitcher, add sugar and Brandy, fill half full with cheap red wine, add orange and lemon juice and ice.
tapas- panchetta and sheep cheese slices on toast spread with a garlic and tomato paste, for example.
Panella- in a large hot pan, cook chopped garlic in olive oil, add muscles and calamari, add chopped onions and green and red peppers (less red than green), tomato puree, white wine. Add salt, pepper, paprika, turmeric, sassafras, and bay leaves, add short white rice, more wine as needed. When almost done add shrimps and muscles.
Good luck. I know there is something missing, but this is the general idea, all in one pan, like a wok.
We helped make this in a huge pan, and then helped eat it in between practicing making the sangrias.
Tomorrow I expect to describe my new digs, and 'job'.
I understand that some people want to know more about what happened with John… The poor man was under some impression that this was not just a blind date, but some kind of arranged marriage?! While touring Barcelona with him, little things started to add up to a big deal. When I left my hostel to explore without calling him up first, he was upset. “You should have called me! I would have come over and gone out with you!” Red flag.
The fatal day, he wanted to show me the beach of Barcelona. He had become increasingly romantic, which was making me nervous. Pink plastic flowers?! Painting supplies? And he was making more and more comments with sexual overtones…had I seen the local pornographic comics yet? Did I bring a bikini? I yelled ‘no’ when he got us (on the motorcycle) too close to a car, and his comment was he liked it when I squeezed my knees in. I asked if he thought it was funny to endanger me, and he just shrugged. Last red flag.
The beach seemed a dismal place, dirty sand, lots of concrete, and nude men parading up and down or striking yoga poses, watching sideways to see if anyone was impressed. Another surrealistic scene!
Sitting on a concrete walk way, I told John that I was letting him go find another travel companion who could appreciate him better. “What do you mean? What did I do?” He tried to convince me I was wrong, we just needed to get up on the Camino, he said, and I would feel better, and any misperceptions and wrong expectations were all my doing, as hadn’t he mentioned in an email, that he was a normal man? Did I expect him to be celibate the rest of his life?
Whew, more than surreal. He alternated between anger and hurt, then fell silent. I admit to a cold, dispassionate state of mind. I was done; I walked.
Two more days in a hostel would give me time to find a new plan. On the internet, trusty helpx again, I wrote to a few places in the vicinity. Ken from Casa Paz wrote back immediately, saying that his expected help had been waylaid by the volcano. The place was a bus ride down the coast, near Denia. He said he could meet me at the bus station.
Meanwhile, A little more about the stories from that great walking tour, and the cooking class.
The pictures sent earlier, of the church in a little square, with shot up walls, was some of the horrible stuff that happened in the Civil war. The guide talked about Picasso liking to drink absinthe in a bar called the Four Stars, where he overheard someone talking about how wonderful Miro’s work was, and proceeded to demonstrate his own superior skills on a table cloth. A replication of the scribblings makes up the façade of the art institute building in the Plaza Nova. The art building is the one and only ugly building in this big square, but the decorated façade helps a little.
Another story was about the Plaza Reial, originally homes for the people who had become wealthy by pillaging the Americas. During the civil war, they were driven out and the place was used as a hospital. Then, for the Olympics in 1992, palm trees were imported from Hawaii, on a rental agreement which is still being paid on.
The coast line was also changed for the Olympics, including two highrise buildings standing separate from the rest of the city, built for the athletes. And a plaza, called George Orwell square, is actually a triangle. There is a sculpture there, also done for the Olympics, in honor of Orwell because of his support during the civil war. At the unveiling, people were puzzled as to the meaning- and the artist explained that it represented a TB germ, because Orwell died of TB. The people were still puzzled. Very few people liked the sculpture, but there it still stands. Meanwhile the plaza has become a place where dealers sell cheap beer to attract crowds, and drug deals. The apartments around the square have protest signs hanging from the windows, asking for dignity.
Cooking Class:
For 18 euros, I joined a group of about 20, all students from several different places, studying for a semester in Europe. It was hands on for making Sangria , tapas and panella.
Sangria- Mash cut-up fruit (any) in a pitcher, add sugar and Brandy, fill half full with cheap red wine, add orange and lemon juice and ice.
tapas- panchetta and sheep cheese slices on toast spread with a garlic and tomato paste, for example.
Panella- in a large hot pan, cook chopped garlic in olive oil, add muscles and calamari, add chopped onions and green and red peppers (less red than green), tomato puree, white wine. Add salt, pepper, paprika, turmeric, sassafras, and bay leaves, add short white rice, more wine as needed. When almost done add shrimps and muscles.
Good luck. I know there is something missing, but this is the general idea, all in one pan, like a wok.
We helped make this in a huge pan, and then helped eat it in between practicing making the sangrias.
Tomorrow I expect to describe my new digs, and 'job'.
No comments:
Post a Comment