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I have recently been to Barcelona.
The way I pictured Barcelona was mainly influenced by conversations with friends who visited or live there and George Orwell's "Homage to Catalonia".
In my imagination, Orwell's description has always been the most romantic, even though it was set in the 1930's war-time. I pictured a city engulfed in a myst of culture and traditions. I imagined working men and women sitting in cafes, either whispering or shouting their political views. I thought of those brave simple people that 70 years ago took arms against fascism, driving taxis against military barricades. I thought of street artists.
I can not say I was entirely disappointed with Barcelona but its hard to hold a dream while standing at the door of designer clothes shops, McDonalds, KFCs, Irish pubs and souvenir shops selling the same snow-globes in every corner. Here and there I found niches of what my Barcelona would have looked like but the vast majority was a Spanish version of Oxford Street.
It is very likely that I was stuck in the tourist trail and missed all the places that could have filled my standards. Maybe it would have been different if a local had guided me away from the blond tourists wearing Che Guevara t-shirts and Gucci bags.
Nevertheless I found Barcelona's homage to Orwell. A dark little triangular square in the middle of the old town.
I sat there and thought of the International Brigades, the anarchists, the Republic. I thought about art, about life and about choices.
My day-dreaming was interrupted by a spanish-looking young man handing me flyers with discounts for yet another Irish Pub.
The way I pictured Barcelona was mainly influenced by conversations with friends who visited or live there and George Orwell's "Homage to Catalonia".
In my imagination, Orwell's description has always been the most romantic, even though it was set in the 1930's war-time. I pictured a city engulfed in a myst of culture and traditions. I imagined working men and women sitting in cafes, either whispering or shouting their political views. I thought of those brave simple people that 70 years ago took arms against fascism, driving taxis against military barricades. I thought of street artists.
I can not say I was entirely disappointed with Barcelona but its hard to hold a dream while standing at the door of designer clothes shops, McDonalds, KFCs, Irish pubs and souvenir shops selling the same snow-globes in every corner. Here and there I found niches of what my Barcelona would have looked like but the vast majority was a Spanish version of Oxford Street.
It is very likely that I was stuck in the tourist trail and missed all the places that could have filled my standards. Maybe it would have been different if a local had guided me away from the blond tourists wearing Che Guevara t-shirts and Gucci bags.
Nevertheless I found Barcelona's homage to Orwell. A dark little triangular square in the middle of the old town.
I sat there and thought of the International Brigades, the anarchists, the Republic. I thought about art, about life and about choices.
My day-dreaming was interrupted by a spanish-looking young man handing me flyers with discounts for yet another Irish Pub.
Pedromics
Sciency nerdy friends, I've created a page with some science-related cartoons on facebook.
Visit at www.facebook.com/pedromics
:)
Movember
This November I will be entering "Movember" where one grows a moustache for charity. I chose this because I can not run marathons or sing or do anything worth sponsoring - but I can get my upper lip area to be very hairy.
If you would like to sponsor my social-suicide please visit my Movember page: http://mobro.co/pedrovelica
More about Movember here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Movember and here: http://uk.movember.com/about/
Thank you!
My porcelain cat and I
I sit down with my drawing pad, my pencils, my pens, my stiffened brush. I turn on the lamp and take a glimpse at the porcelain cat I bought as a joke. I put my forearms on top of the clever Ikea table that folds and unfolds according to my modern personal needs. I adjust my bottom on the uncomfortable chair, cross my legs, then put them straight again. I shuffle through my music as if browsing for inspiration but the collection is too diverse.
I'm forcing myself to be creative. To do something clever, something artistic.
But my head is a sprinkler instead of a quiet stream. Thoughts bounce erratically: the new gas and electricity bill, the
Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes
I have broken the glass and pressed the big red emergency stop button. "Stop this life, I want to get out!"
So I jumped off the train and took control of my life again.
I am happier then ever.
(dot dot dot)
© 2009 - 2024 Velica
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