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The Sydney Morning Herald

See the light

A new appreciation of Barcelona ways allows Matt Laffan to live like one of the locals, at least for a while.

Barcelona was my entry point into Spain and, because of her, I came away from my month-long sojourn more aware of time and light than ever before.

The first and perhaps only Spanish word I have been able to master is man?na: tomorrow. It is a word that conveys the many meanings of time, and I can deliver them all.

I can say man?na with a flick of the hand that signals "don't bother me with tomorrow's concerns, I am a man of today". Or with a sad voice, and a weary shake of the head, as if to say my broken heart awaits tomorrow's healing. I can employ the term to avoid trouble. By smiling a friendly man?na I could walk by the confidence tricksters and their three shells and a pea game without offending anyone. And, most importantly, I learnt to live man?na and enjoy my time at a pace befitting Spain.

I also developed a heightened appreciation for light and the way in which Barcelona, Seville and Madrid deal with it differently. As each city represents a different side of Spain, so they embrace and filter light in a manner unique to themselves.

In Barcelona, for example, the light breaks over the marina and sparkles among the boats. It is reflected off the dull-coloured sand and the still seawater. But retreat to the old part of the city, around the cathedral, and the cooler, narrow back streets where the works of its most important architect, Antonio Gaudi, reflect the light in their sparkling tiles and glass with a Fantasia-like effect. The warped shapes of the buildings, full of curves and sensuous overtones, seem as if they melted in the summer heat during construction and were saved only by a cool change.

In Seville the influence of the Moors has created a different space for the light. The Alcazar, like the cathedral, combines the cultural history and influence of Islamic and Christian ways. The intricate detail in the Alcazar's tiled walls, as the sun pours into the courtyards and filters through the atriums, is a celebration of colour and light.

Madrid is altogether different. The fractured spirit of Franco haunts the city even now. The large open spaces around the Plaza de Oriente are shadeless. The glare from the sun beating down on white stone is dictatorial. But once one escapes to the Plaza Mayor the light is softer; the cool breeze beneath the arches is a relief, and the buildings around the large square seem to enhance the pink of dusk as you settle in for an evening of food and drink.

Common to each city, however, is the fusion of time and light when siesta arrives. In the summer when the light becomes too bright and the heat suffocating, time lies still.

But all this was unknown to me when I arrived in Barcelona after two weeks in North America. Naively, I misjudged the packed La Ramblas for another big city thoroughfare filled with people making their way to a destination known. I joined the throng and wandered a little aimlessly down the length of La Ramblas to the harbour. I stared up at the statue of Cristobal Colon (Columbus) pointing back towards the Americas and wondered where everyone was going.

The exotic sound of spoken language from all over the world and the striking bodies of beautiful people in their prime were complemented by the port city's sultry conditions. I sought a cold, refreshing ale in the shade of the back streets. As the excitement of being in a new and interesting place settled upon me, I became increasingly distracted by the fact I was not being served.

Around me locals and travellers alike sat at the tapas bar and smoked, talked, drank and ate in the afternoon. But as I tore my gaze from a tattoo on a passing belly to implore the waiter to come my way, I sensed his refusal to acknowledge me. He would hover, at a distance, as if someone more important had a hold of his attention - although no-one did.

Finally he arrived and took my order but I sulked my way through my first beer. This disturbingly slow service followed me for the rest of the evening at various places. I began to believe they didn't want my money or company in this city I yearned to love.

Fortunately, on my second day I met Kevin. He was one of those essential friends of a friend who has the generosity to share time with a complete stranger. Every trip is made easier and more special for local knowledge.

Kevin, an American who has lived with his partner in Barcelona for several years, gestured towards the people wandering up and down La Ramblas and declared rather theatrically: "This is Barcelona."

He explained that, for Barcelonians, time is unimportant. He made me see how pedestrians do not rush in the city. They stop and peer with childlike fascination into shop window displays. He prepared me for the reality that the night does not finish because a particular hour has arrived; it is the occasion which matters. So if you're happy drinking and talking and the hours run from the evening to man?na, so be it.

And he told me that if I had to wait for half an hour or longer at a tapas bar before someone eventually decided to serve me, then I had to learn simply to relax and enjoy the ambience of the moment, for this was the Spanish way.

Later that evening I went into Plaza Reial for the first time. It embodies the timelessness of which he spoke. The perimeter of the square is lined with restaurants and cafes and accommodation. There are a few palm trees and a fountain. And it was here that Barcelona began to teach me her ways.

I sat down at one of the bars and observed the goings on in the plaza. I felt as if I was in a place of vague but pleasurable sin, suspended from real time. The square itself was filled mainly by young people lolling about, happy, conversing, perhaps looking for love or, having found it, relaxing with the discovery. Somehow we were connected to the drifting, warm breeze. The thunderous applause that a busking flamenco dancer received died down and was replaced by the continual noise of people talking.

Buskers gather at night in the square to practise. Fire dancers and jugglers. They sit or stand among the locals, who kick a soccer ball while waiting for dinner. Children run around despite the late hour, and the tables at which the likes of me sit are approached by buskers and beggars.

From this night on I was learning to be at one with Barcelona and Spain. It was up to Pablo Picasso and Antonio Gaudi, two of Barcelona's past great characters, to help me along the rest of the way.

Looking for the Picasso Museum one morning, I wandered down an ancient back street with others, distracted by the hanging washing and flower boxes, when I was told to be quiet and pushed up against a wall.

I had inadvertently stumbled into a film shoot. We all remained conspiratorially quiet as the actors leapt into action. The only problem was that when the script called for the police to give chase to the robbers an old local woman, intolerant of being told to be quiet, thought a real robbery was taking place. She took all of her 150cm self into the glare of the lights and cameras, calling upon all of us to do what the police obviously could not, and stop the thieves. She turned angrily on a walkie-talkie-wielding man who insisted she keep quiet, before an exasperated director called the Spanish equivalent of "Cut!" The old woman, failing to notice the police and robbers resuming their places, hobbled on despairing at the state of her city.

Once in the museum, my ignorance of Picasso began to wane. I followed his life story through his art, beginning with his work as a boy. The young Picasso revealed himself to be someone who had an amazing command of light: he captured typical scenes from his time just as a photographer might.

But whereas the young Picasso captured the essence of light, Gaudi attempted to defeat time. He built much in his life, his marvellous projects appearing like magical surprises around the city. And yet his most famous, La Sagrada Familia cathedral, is still being built 75 years after his death. Its completion date is now projected to be 2020, but standing outside it and looking skyward at the detailed stonework, I doubted it. And I hope I'm right, for while it remains being built Gaudi himself still breathes.

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