19 Nov

Barcelona’s Museums – So Much Culture!

My taller half and I are on a two week trip to Spain and while he is at a Very Important Conference I am getting cultured. Like a yogurt. A yogurt that is visiting many of Barcelona’s Museums.

My first stop was the Museu Maritim de Barcelona, which was a triple dose of history. First, it’s a museum. Second, the building complex in which it is located became a museum in 1941 but had previously been used as a shipyard since the 13th century. Finally, archeology on the site also indicates the presence of a Roman necropolis, because Europe.

eclvvAs an American, when faced with this sort of epochal historical context certain parts of my brain overload and I can only burble in internet memespeak.

But I kept going and looked at the pretty boats and great exhibits which were nicely labeled in Catalan, Castillian Spanish, and English.

I learned that Barcelona’s port contributes 24% of shipping through Spain, including  .8 million cars per year. When we passed through here on our 2011 bike tour we arrived on a boat which brought a large number of cars (and two bikes) from Italy and we wondered about it at the time. Now I know that the Barcelonans are aggressively expanding to be the European entry port for Asian goods (via Suez Canal).

Replica of the flagship in the European fleet that trounced the Turks in 1571

Replica of the flagship in the European fleet that trounced the Turks in 1571 in the Battle of Lepanto. That’s a very important battle in the history of Christianity, so look it up!

In addition to port industry and historical boats, they had exhibits on the history of underwater photography and on travel by boat. The travel section included an ~8 ft long drawing showing the cross section of a late 19th century passenger liner which I seriously coveted and unsuccessfully tried to get a panoramic photo of.  Alas! Instead, I give you this Zen koan from MMB: The port is the first and last thing seen by those traveling by sea.

An international variety of chocolate sculpture

An international variety of chocolate sculpture

From there I went to the Museu Xocolata, where your ticket is also a chocolate bar with a wrapper appropriate to your country of origin. The museum was notable mostly for the bizarre chocolate sculptures made with varying levels of artistry, presumably by students of the patisserie school in the same building, but I learned a few new facts: Chocolate (as a drink) apparently was acceptable nourishment for monks on fasting days and Catholic nuns in Mexico were the first to think of adding sugar to chocolate.

There was also the local aspect. Barcelona was a pretty big port of entry for goods from the New World, including chocolate, so it ended up with chocolate warehouses and factories, making it the site of the first mechanical production of chocolate in 1777.

Lips.

Lips. Second from right, bottom row.

I stopped in at the municipal photo archive (upstairs from the chocolate museum) where there was a very small exhibit on early photography techniques which made a good companion to early underwater photo exhibit at MMB. I watched a video showing the whole process of making a daguerrotype and learned that when adding color to photos at the time, “lips” was one of the included hues.

The following day I went to the Monestir de Pedrables, which, like the shipyards of the MMB is so old I can barely fathom it. It was founded in 1326 by/for a Queen Elisenda, the fourth wife of King Jaume II. He died the next year and she, being only in her thirties, lived out the remaining 35 years of her life at the monastery. It continued as an active convent, save for a few brief war-induced interruptions, until the 1970s when the nuns moved to a new facility next door and the place became a public museum. The exhibits include, most impressively, the entire grounds, as well as the expected collection of religious art. Having visited a number of cathedrals on our last European sojourn, the notable thing about the Pedrables religious art is that they mixed and matched to make altar pieces with art by different artists and from different eras, including Catalan paintings next to Flemish visions of the various saints.

Where does sacramental wine come from? Question answered!

Where does sacramental wine come from? Question answered!

Generally, I  find that Catholic art leaves me with a lot of questions, like “what is an ostensory?” Or “How come this is the holy family of the fly?” Or “what’s the story behind a painting labeled ‘St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins and a Donor’?” Sometimes I feel smart, though, when I see a lady carrying her boobs on a silver platter and I know she’s the patron saint of breast cancer.

Even when you’ve seen all many cathedrals that they all blend together, you still want to check out Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, which was today’s cultural pilgrimage.

I found it amazing that something made of stone and glass (and light) can seem so soft. In the overhead words of a nearby Canadian tourist, “This is so inspiring, I would come here even if I was an atheist and enjoy it.” The basement has many many iterative models in plaster, both to show the evolution of the cathedral’s design, and to guide them as they work to complete it. Yes, they started in 1883 and, funded by the tickets of several million visitors each year they are hoping to finish in 2026, on the centenary anniversary of Gaudi’s death.  Seeing so many plaster casts made me wish that Gaudi were around today so he could have access to CAD & a 3D printer. It would be like Mozart in the mall with Bill & Ted.

08 Nov

Seattle to Portland 2006

It’s November again and I am Nanowrimoing my little heart out, so I’ll be reposting a few things from way back when, and concentrating on the new novel climbing out of my head. Specifically, right now, I’m concerned with how my protagonist will react when a child under her care just gulped down a little fish they found while tide pooling. 
While I work that out, here’s an acount from summer 2006, when I hopped on my bike, along with 8999 other people, and rode from Seattle to Portland. STP happens every year, put on by Seattle’s own Cascade Bicycle Club. If it sounds exciting to you, you can sign up for 2013 in January.

It’s a long road to Portland from Seattle, when you’re on a bike. Longer, I imagine, if you were the one on the unicycle, or the scooter, or the tricycle.

It was a lot, and it is all in my head together. I close my eyes and I can see the long pace lines passing us, the rest stops with lawns coated with bicycles, the tree-lined highways, the slow curving slopes, the the roadside repairs, the bridges, the traffic. Too much to process effectively. 213.5 miles, in total, because we stayed slightly out of the way on Saturday night, in Toledo High School, where we slept on the floor of the library. Specifically we slept in the reference section, next to books on the Constitutional Amendments and career paths for people who like to travel, play sports, want to be nurses, etc.

The start line was a line-up, en masse in what looked like a cattle chute. Fortunately no cattle prods, just a few speed bumps on the way out of the university parking lot.

The steepest hill was in Seattle, getting out of Seward Park. Or it may have been the last sneaky little hill before we got into downtown Portland. Either way, neither was more than .2 miles long.

I learned a bit of group riding communication skillz: “car back!” – there is a car coming from behind. “car up!” “on your left” – I am passing you and it would be nice if you shifted over so I don’t have to go into traffic. “slowing” “stopping” – I’m warning you so you don’t run into me. Then there was the occasional “road hazard”, but mostly people just point down at the grating or dropped water bottle or whatever

As well as roadkill there were a number of flattened energy bars on the roadside.

I can still go fast at the end of the day as long as I have a goal in mind. Last twenty miles to spaghetti. Last hour until spaghetti. Six miles to pasta. Less than two miles to food. Last two hours. Last thirty miles. Last sixteen miles. The more people I pass, the less people in line before me for massage.

The last seven miles were pretty easy, because with seven miles to go, I ran over a staple. An inch long, staple gun staple. We had a bit of a rest stop changing the tire using the screw-driver heads on mine and Alex’s multi-tools, because we didn’t actually have tire levers.

Actually, the route was overall very flat. The vaunted BIG HILL was a little long, but not steep. Its length and my refusal to go slowly did make it the only place I approached lactic acid, though.

On the bus ride back, we listened to part of an audio version of ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,’ and noticed pretty much nil of the return scenery. We saw a lot of it close up already.

I wore a Sponge Bob Squarepants jersey (child’s L) for the ride. Early in the day Saturday we were going through a small town, and two little girls were standing on the corner trying to get high-fives from the riders. I slapped their hands, they saw my jersey and yelled ‘Sponge Bob is awesome!’ or something similar.

We counted roadside casualties, during the first couple hours it was averaging around one every five minutes. The first day we saw about thirty-five, and the second day another fifteen or twenty. After we got to Oregon we finally got to the point where the number of casualties was higher than the remaining miles to Portland.

There was a definite gender imbalance amongst the riders. This meant that anywhere the bathrooms were gendered (rather than just port-a-potties), there was a long line for the men, little to no line for the women.

I found myself thinking a lot about rowing, and racing, and racing two or three times. Don’t think about the next race, my coach always admonished us. This about this race, and give it your all, and when the next race comes around, you will find the energy. So I spent the first day thinking not much further ahead than the next mini-stop, and the second day took care of itself, energy-wise. Probably the whole ride was similar to a steady state workout, 82%, eight and a half hours.

Besides the requisite bruising of my derierre, I was in remarkably little pain. Even sleeping on the floor didn’t make me feel stiff. My lower back hurt in the morning of the first day, after the hill bit, but I took some ibuprofen and iced it at lunch, and it was fine after that. By the end of the first day as well, I had a pain in my right shoulder, near my neck, which stopped when I stopped, but crept back while I was a pedaling, and continued the second day. There was also occasional tingling and numbness in my left hand, but overall no screaming muscles at the end of the day; I did not exceed my muscular or cardiovascular limits. After we got off the bus in Seattle and reclaimed our luggage and bikes though, once we got on the Burke-Gilman trail to head towards food, shower and bed, my knees hurt and Alex suddenly discovered pain in his Achilles’ tendon. We made it a mile, then walked up to the Ave, got food, and took a bus the rest of the way. Coming home this morning, I went another quarter mile on the bike, and knees still less than happy, so I took some ibuprofen (Vitamin I!) and will wait and see.

The most amazing thing was the bridge over the Columbia River, the border between Washington and Oregon. This a serious bridge, a big freeway bridge. To one side they corraled off the cyclists until they had a large group, three or four hundred. Then they stopped the south-bound lane of traffic, and let us bikers go. En masse. The bridge, of course, is basically a hill in shape, so it was a very slow up with the crowd, then finally the apex, cheering for the ‘Welcome to Oregon’ sign, and the downhill. It spread out, but I stayed slow because there were a couple of nasty grates, perfect to catch a bike wheel and kill you, then we were over the bridge, and the freeway sweeps down, and the southbound exit to Portland is a wide clover-leaf, swirling down to the right to make a 270 degree turn, and there’s a line of bikers zipping down it. It was like an amazing vision of human powered mass transit, freeway covered with bikes instead of cars.

The best jersey I saw was probably the South Park one – red on the back, with Cartman and the words ‘Oh man, you guys SUCK!’ And I developed a yearning to be a part of the ‘Blue Monkey’ team, because their jerseys had a blue monkey on them.

Saw and/or talked to riders who were from Ireland, Australia, Florida, New York, and a number of points in between.

Ate quite a few clif bars, and quite a few cookies.

Don’t think I would go another five miles today, but give me a few months, and I’ll sign up to do it all again next year. ‘Why do we do this to ourselves?’ Alex asked me.

‘Because it feels so good when we stop.’

If you know me, you probably already know that I totally signed up to do it all again the next year. But the scenery didn’t change, and there are plenty of other places to ride, so I only did it twice.

29 Sep

Seven Years in Seattle


Seven years ago I landed at Seatac International Airport and took a bus to downtown Seattle. I opted for a local route rather than an express, hoping to see more of what would be my new home. I meandered through suburbs I have never revisited, and marveled at the sheer amount of greenery. Read More

08 Aug

PAWMA Camp: Shihan Fukuda

PAWMA board president Rosanne Boudreau greets Shihan Keiko Fukuda at Friday night’s opening class.

Late this spring, I promised my taller half that I would come with him to Pickathon, a music festival in Oregon. When I realized it was the same weekend as the Pacific Association of Women Martial Artists camp, I told him I didn’t mind not going to camp this year.

Then I found out that Shihan Keiko Fukuda was going to be there for the opening class.

When we talk living legends of women’s martial arts, Fukuda should be at the top of anyone’s list. At 99 she is the last living student of Jiguro Kano, the founder of Judo. She is the highest ranking woman in Judo: 10th dan according to the US Judo Federation, and 9th dan with the Kodokan in Japan, where the men who run things aren’t quite prepared to give a woman the highest honors, no matter how overwhelmingly she deserves them.

Fortunately my husband is a bit more sensible and modern than what I assume is a panel of old Japanese men, and I was able to convince him that this was a once in a lifetime sort of thing, worth skipping a music festival for.

Shihan Fukuda still teaches three times a week, despite being wheelchair bound, and is assisted by her black belts. The piece she chose to share with us was ju-no-kata, the “gentle form.” She demonstrated this form at the 1964 Olympics in Tokyo. The form does not include actual throws, but rather the lead up to throws – tori takes uke to the point when they are just about to fall, and then sets them down gently again. It was a very slow and deliberate form.

I took a lot of rapid fire sequences of photos during camp and made some into gifs, including this one of Shihan Fukuda’s black belts demonstrating one of the almost-but-not-quite throws of ju-no-kata.

I don’t have any pictures of the camp participants practicing the form, since I was in on the class and there was another photographer taking pictures at that point, but we learned a part that involved joint locks, not throws.

After the class session, we got to watch Mrs. Judo, a brand spanking new documentary on Fukuda and her life. Here’s the trailer.

The rest of camp involved a lot more mat artists than usual, which I really liked. Last year while I was living in Alaska, I trained for several months with the Sitka Judo Club, and got my yellow belt. Here’s another giffed set of pictures from one of the classes taught by Sensei Denise Gonzales.

Stay tuned, because I have several hundred decent photos from camp, and dozens of really great ones, and I’ll share some here in the next week or three. If you were at camp, I will be putting all the good photos up online somewhere else and you will get an email from the organization with a link. If you’re a lapsed member, send in your dues so you can be on the email list to get that link! And if you’re a maybe kinda thinking about it prospective member of the Pacific Association of Women Martial Artists, I strongly encourage you to sign up, because camp is wonderful for three days, and it is also a door into a beautiful community of strong, inspiring, women.

It doesn’t matter if you started training last week – do you catch the white belt in the above gif? That woman has been training for about a month. You have no excuse. Join PAWMA and come play with us next year!

28 Jul

Avoiding freebies in Barcelona

Custom House” by flickr user Davido

During our one day in Barcelona, we started with an early morning walk to Las Ramblas, the main drag and tourist trap. Seeking a city map, we approached a tourist information booth.

The booth was surrounded by barkers for a tour bus, who mobbed us, and anyone else passing by.

We studiously ignored them. Having lived and traveled in Asia, where people on the streets are extremely interested in catching your attention to sell you something, anyone who starts following us on the street saying “Hello!? Hello!? English? How are you?” just gets tuned out. I mean, we walk past those people as if they are invisible. Whatever they’re selling, there is about 0.01% chance we want it.

No one in China ever seemed bothered when you ignored them, or answered with the standard “bu yao” (don’t want)[1], but these Barcelona pushers seemed genuinely offended by us.

When we made it past them to the actual booth, the woman there explained that she could sell us a city map for 1 euro. Lame, we thought. Everywhere else they give you maps for free.  But, she continued, pointing to the tour pushers who we’d snubbed, they will give you a map for free.

Ah, well, then. Guess we should have listened to them this time around.

Of course, we still didn’t want to engage with the barkers. So, to save face, we asked where we could acquire a regional map, which we needed for route planning anyway. A bookstore.

The moral of the story? Well, there’s a couple conclusions to draw. First, that the taller half and I are stubborn and have a lot of (perhaps occasionally misguided) pride about traveling independently without falling into tourist traps. Second, Barcelona is no Beijing. And finally, what the heck, 1 euro for a map?

(We got along fine with a smart phone and the system maps in the metro.)

[1] Funny story from someone’s China memoir, although I’m sorry to say I can’t remember which one. After passing the same street sellers for weeks, and every day telling them “bu yao!” this particular expat had been learning some Mandarin. One day as she went by, she expanded her statement on noninterest to “don’t want yesterday, don’t want today, don’t want tomorrow!” And they smiled and laughed at her. And probably continued to pitch to her the next day and every day until she left the area.