“Not another museum!” my boys chimed in together.
“It’s not a museum. It’s a modern-day cathedral, still being constructed. A masterpiece in the making,” I pleaded.
It was a beautiful warm, sunny day in Barcelona.
“Can’t we go to a beach or park instead?”
Our four-week tour of Spain was nearing its end. Like dutiful parents, we had crammed each day with sightseeing. Three days here, three days there across the country, absorbing every sight we could.
Imogen, our guide today stood bemused. “Okaaay, how about if I take you to a park instead?” her Australian accent coming out in full.
I blenched. This was to be a visit to the Sagrada Familia, the grandest piece of architecture in Europe, if not the world. Now, this expensive expert was taking us to a park. Sheesh.
Observing the smiles on my boys, I couldn’t argue.
“To accustom you to how the locals live, we’ll travel by subway and buses.”
The train was chock-a-block with tourists. There was no place to sit and no space to breathe.
On finally exiting, I was bitterly disappointed. A run-of-the-mill street rolled out in front of us—some townhouses, a couple of not-so-tall apartment buildings, a convenience store. Where was the park?
Imogen directed us up some stone steps, then through a black, wrought-iron gate. A narrow, winding path led us steadily downhill. A concrete wall, six-feet high, skirted the path. The boys’ eyes lit up. Brightly coloured shards of ceramics were embedded into the concrete. It was if children had been asked to create artwork using broken, highly glazed crockery, marbles, and stained glass. Laura smiled, fishing out her iPhone.
“The technique is called trencadis—Catalan for broken up.” Imogen pointed at a corner. “They even used buttons and seashells.”
Running ahead, the boys were lost to us. I heard a whoop, not understanding why, until I turned the curve.
A fantasy village greeted us. It was a cross between One Thousand and One Nights and Grimms’ Fairy Tales. Buildings sprang up in front of us, shapeless or lopsided. They appeared to be composed of fresh, still-drying mud, as though children had been given giant buckets of Playdoh to create whatever pleased them. The roofs and walls were so misshapen, the mud appeared to be in motion, not quite solidified into static form. Some buildings boasted minarets, others grand, curving staircases to their door. Giant ceramic lizards with scaly textures appeared to slither out of their cave below ground. I observed all of this as a child would on his first visit to Disneyland. Laura’s reaction mirrored my own.
“This is Park Güell, created by Antoni Gaudi,” Imogen declared. Her eyes lit up with mischief at the effect on her guests.
Once again, Laura seized her camera. She didn’t know where and when to stop.
From my reading, I learned that, on graduating, Gaudi’s professor had remarked, “We have unleashed either a madman or a genius. Only time will tell.”
Imogen continued, “Gaudi had many wealthy patrons who generously indulged his passion—Art Nouveau Catalan architecture. As a boy, Gaudi was sickly. He was forever taken to the countryside bordering Barcelona to recover. There, he fell in love with nature, later constructing mansions whose facades resembled a forest of trees, with animals peering between them. Gaudi was read fairy tales, which included A Thousand and One Nights, which introduced a Moorish influence to his work. This was reinforced by the actual architecture created by the Arabs when they ruled half of Spain, including Barcelona, for over four hundred years.” Imogen glanced at us to make sure we were listening.
I marvelled at Gaudi’s determination to introduce fantasy and Moorish culture. How was he, in 1900, able to convince orthodox businessmen to accept his creations? And pay him well for them?
Our guide pressed on. “One of Gaudi’s patrons, Eusebi Güell tasked him to create this park. It took fourteen years to complete. The Park won a UNESCO designation as a World Heritage Site.”
How could Gaudi persuade a client to wait for fourteen years? My accountant’s mind churned calculating the prohibitive cost of such a project. What magic did Gaudi possess to gain such licence?
“Seven of Gaudi’s buildings, all in Barcelona, were awarded the same UNESCO status. Gaudi never left Barcelona, refusing any assignments out of town. He was a true patriot.”
The boys returned in time to be whisked through the exit to a regular bus stop—from the sublime to the mundane.
I sat beside the driver of the red double-decker bus, identical to those in London, entranced by what I had seen, my mind teetering under the immense pull of Park Güell.
