Barcelona and Montserrat

Arriving in Barcelona after nightfall, I was overjoyed that it was warm enough to walk around in just a shirt — it was a balmy 20 degrees. So the locals were rugged up in jackets and scarves, but after the subzero temperatures I had become acclimatised to over the previous weeks this was a minor heatwave. I was not the only one to enjoy the weather so, fellow Australians Matt and Dom were only too happy to sit on the beach as day gave way to night, the three of us in shirts and knocking back cheap Spanish beer.

When I wrote about Český Krumlov, I mentioned that the hostel I stayed in was “the best hostel I have ever seen”. This statement still stands, but only barely — Mambo Tango Hostel in Barcelona is the second best hostel I have ever seen. If you’re ever in Barcelona, stick your head in the door and say hello to Toti and Marina, the amazingly friendly couple who run the hostel. And give Blau and Noir, their two boxers, a rub behind the ears. Several nights a week they generously cook a free meal for the people keen enough to sign up, and Toti’s dire warnings about his inability to cook dissuaded nobody from eating.

The mountain of Montjuïc is adjacent to the hostel and separates the city proper from the vast docks that make Barcelona the second-biggest port in Europe, and threatening to become the biggest in the near future. At the crest of Montjuïc is an old castle, which is the best place to enjoy the sunset in Barcelona. The fiercely strong winds that battered Barcelona for several days proved especially strong here at the summit, at one point forcing Matt to hide for shelter behind the castle wall. In the castle grounds I took what, at this late point in my journey, is still my favourite photo of the entire trip.

The following evening Toti led a large group of people from the hostel on a night walk around Monjuic, a most enjoyable evening that mixed wonderful views of the city with an insight into the history of Catalonia and its relationship to the rest of Spain. Of all the guided tours I have participated in, this night tour was especially entertaining. Toti contrived to humourously twist the English language (eg, “dictatorship” became “dictationshit”) and at the same time provided an interesting perspective into the history of this region of Spain, revealing a cultural conflict whose existence I had not been aware of. During the tour I learned that many Catalans were killed in the castle during Spain’s dictatorship. This grisly history is not easily forgotten by the Catalan people, especially as the Spanish government insists that the castle remain a military asset, refusing Catalan requests to use the castle for other purposes.

Barcelona trivia #1: Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia, a region distinct from the rest of Spain and home to a unique culture, a unique language (Catalan) and a fiercely-held identity. As I learned in Barcelona, Spain consists of several such cultural groups that long for independence, such as the Basques in the north and the Galicians in the north-west.

Apart from the night-time views from Montjuïc, the nicest views of Barcelona can be had from Park Guell, a refreshingly lush forest that sits atop one of the tallest hills in the city. From here there was a wonderful panoramic view of the city, and of the coast and mountains that guard it on either side. I was fortunate to visit the park on my first day in Barcelona, as strong winds prevailed over the next few days, leading to the closure of the park and to the unfortunate deaths of several people. There was much evidence on the streets of these fierce winds, from vast numbers of toppled scooters and dumpsters to uprooted trees that had even moved huge cement blocks as they fell.

Barcelona was an amazing city to explore even with my poor appreciation of architecture and my city-fatigue, there was such a variety of pretty buildings, many of which look nothing like any buildings I have ever seen before. The whole city is almost a tribute to the influential architect Gaudi, and you could be forgiven for thinking that he designed almost every single building. The famously incomplete Sagrada Familia will be the largest cathedral in the world, should it ever be completed. It’s only been under construction since 1882, so clearly there is no rush — apparently it is scheduled for completion in 2026. What has been built is really quite impressive, one end of the church appearing (to my untrained eye) to be traditionally Gothic in style, while the opposite end is much more modern and unique, adorned with a number of cubist statues. Barcelona is also home to the “Arc de Triomf”, a tall archway that stands at the head of a long stretch of garden, a much calmer and prettier location than the middle of an enormous roundabout (sorry Paris!).

As was the case in Český Krumlov, there was a fantastic group of people at Mambo Tango and again there was a sizable Australian contingent — there must be at least as many Aussies overseas as there are in Australia. I won’t give a roll call here, but the Argentinian forces, spearheaded by the charismatic Paolo, were a force to be reckoned with and their unabated enthusiasm and friendliness was a pleasure to behold. These brave boys from the Americas let nothing stop them from attending a Barcelona football game: the freezing cold of the night, the strong winds that had uprooted trees and killed several people, the precarious seats perched at the top of the immensely steep stadium; none of these deterred the Argentinians, while less hardy souls such as myself enjoyed the game from the comfort of the hostel lounge.

Without my consent or awareness, I was appropriated as a tour guide by a mischievous bunch of Aussie girls (Heloise, Rhi and Tara know who they are). This involved being asked a bewildering array of questions, not restricted to any particular topic or subject and generally followed by a prolonged outburst that prevented any answer from being proffered. I am still confused about the whole experience. Despite the odd exasperating or trying moment they were entertaining and welcome company (though they may not believe it themselves). Even their teasing banter was a reminder of the similar exchanges between my brothers and I, half a world away and seemingly an aeon ago. I take back any disparaging remarks I may have made about them.

Australia Day (January 26, for those who don’t know) was a delightfully warm day and perfectly suited to a day trip from Barcelona to the nearby monastery of Montserrat, perilously located in the lofty heights of an extremely steep mountain. And so it was that a small group from the hostel set out to see the monastery and to hike around the mountain, myself resigned to bearing the unwanted duties of tour guide. I was silly enough to mention my fear of heights as we neared the cable car that would carry us to the crest of the mountain, no sooner were the words out of my mouth and the good-natured taunting had begun. Despite my triumph over the cable car at Pilatus (Lucerne, Switzerland), I was nervous again and once more I hung on for dear life as the cable car seemingly took forever to reach the summit. With my feet again on steady ground I was much calmer and able to enjoy the tranquil surroundings.

Following a hiking track that headed further up the mountain, the geology and fauna were strongly reminiscent of the Grampians back home. In combination with the warm weather, it was not hard to believe that we were in fact spending Australia Day back in Australia and not in northern Spain. After hiking for several hours in the warm sun, following several paths that seemingly led to nowhere in particular and saying goodbye to Georg (who would spend several days hiking through the wilderness), we returned to the small complex of buildings at the top of the cable car, grabbing a bite to eat and visiting the monastery itself before once again taking to the fearsome tin box. As before in Pilatus, I was more relaxed on the descent than the ascent, although Rhi and Heloise excelled themselves in aggravating my paranoia and also scaring the daylights out of an elderly English lady with a similar affliction. Here I must remark that both girls were actually much nicer in general than has been portrayed here.

It would not have been a successful Australia Day without at least one or two beers, and so a large fraction of the hostel guests headed out with us to a Spanish restaurant for a very nice Spanish dinner, followed by some drinks on the street and visits to several bars. The English contingent of Andy, Nyall and Chetna deserve special mention here, for putting up with a relentless Australian presence for the duration of their stay and for helping celebrate Australia Day. They possibly showed more fervour than the Australians in the group, who were appalled to discover that the only Australian bar we could find was an absolute dive. We quickly left it behind for an Irish bar, which was also quickly abandoned when it became clear that anyone who failed to order a drink would be asked to leave. As we left this bar the waitress chased us out onto the street, demanding that we pay for some drinks that we had apparently ordered. We all eventually ended up in the much friendlier environment of the hostel, lounging around and basking in the glory of a day well spent.

As an introduction to Spanish nightlife, Barcelona was a callback to my time in Iceland — in both countries the locals begin to head out well after midnight, partying the dark hours away and making their ways home in the morning hours. The main street (La Rambla) and the surrounding streets have a reputation for being somewhat seedy at night, peopled by prostitutes and thieves, but the crowds I saw were predominantly people out to party and enterprising men selling individual cans for beer for one euro each. Estrella is not Spain’s finest beer, and only the truly desperate would purchase a 330ml can at such a price. I can happily say that I did not stoop to such a level.

Although the cheaper Spanish beers were nothing to write home about (Andy and I discovered a particularly terrible beer, so bad that we only remember it came in a yellow can) the Catalan food was a highlight of my days in Barcelona. Enjoying seemingly late lunches (the Spanish hold off until 2-3pm for the midday meal) in small but popular restaurants, I was a sucker for any dish that the waiter described as a “traditional Catalan dish”. Tasty pork sausages, seafood pasta with a spicy mayonnaise, even succulent pig trotters; anything that was specific to Catalan was ordered and eaten with gusto. The desserts were also spectacular (a Catalan version of creme brulee was particularly delicious) and in one restaurant where the waiter spoke almost no English, we asked him to bring us whichever dessert he would prefer — it turned out to be a fantastic idea, we were given cups of a glorious coffee and toffee flavoured icecream.

A distant church aroused my curiosity, it was barely noticeable during the days but brightly lit at night and appeared to look over the entire city from atop a distant hill. And so, on a warm and sunny morning I set off from the centre of Barcelona, determined to reach this mysterious church. A long, hot trek that followed several steep paths through thick forests ensued, I occasionally stumbled across large eruptions of cactus and eventually emerged at the summit of Tibidabo. Here I found two churches, one built on top of the second, located only metres away from a large amusement park. A towering statue of Jesus looked out from topmost church, surveying all of Barcelona across the tourists and locals, many enjoying the numerous rides on offer — an unusual juxtaposition that still strikes me as surprising, occurring as it did in a country noted for being highly Catholic.

Barcelona trivia #2: some legends claim Tibidabo was where the Devil tempted Jesus Christ, offering him the whole world in exchange for his worship.

My final day in this grand city was possibly my most “cultural”, the morning being spent at the Picasso museum where a vast array of Picasso’s works were displayed chronologically, giving an insight into his progression and departure from mainstream art. My art fatigue was briefly overcome as I strolled from room to room, although I remain adamantly baffled by his final works. From here, a small group of us sat on a sunny street and enjoyed a delicious paella, and despite our burning hunger it proved too great for our appetites. The afternoon was spent lying in the sun on the edge of the harbour, watching the seagulls swoop and scatter, before strolling along the beaches as the sun slowly set. Night fell and we began to part ways as people headed off for trains, buses and planes. After another delicious free meal provided by Toti and Marina, I boarded an overnight bus bound for the coastal town of San Sebastian, which sits in the Basque country on the northern coast of Spain, near the border with France.