(For those of you eagerly awaiting Castellon Part II, I have some sad news. It turned into a tome that made War and Peace looke like a novella so I can’t be bothered typing it out. That and the fact that it contains nothing of interest to anyone but me and can be summarised quite accurately in an SMS worth of characters as follows: “Great festival with many great bands playing in fantastic venues leading to excessive drinking and sleep deprivation.” So without further ado, onto Barcelona:)

After the ‘pleasantness’ of Castellon (despite the great music), both Rachelle and I were buzzing to be in a vibrant metropolis like Barcelona. After checking in at our hostel we set out to see what a Sunday night in Barcelona had to offer. We headed off down Nou de la Rambla, a fairly seedy street of small bars, immigrant cafes and restaurants (mainly Middle Eastern kebab and falafel joints) and 24 hour shops with well stocked liquor sections. It was an immediate revitalising shock to the system after the quiet peaceful streets of Castellon.

We emerged onto La Rambla, an equally beguilling but radically different street. It is the backbone of the old town, running from the port up to the city’s largest square Placa de Catalunya. On either side of the central boulevard cars run separated by a wide central walkway full of souvenir stands and restaurant seating. When we return tomorrow during the day, there will be more ‘human statues’ busking in more innovative outfits than I have ever seen. But now it is just a throng of tourists moving every which way with little discernable purpose in mind. After a few minutes barging our way along we take a right turn and disappear into the Barri Gotic and the face of Barcelona changes again. Now the streets are narrow and haphazard and looking up always a sense of the long history contained here and, as in Valencia, regularly opening out onto plazas (although they are now placas as Catalan is the official language of Barcelona and the region of Catalonia, though everyone also speaks Spanish).

The varying nature of the city we experienced in this first half hour is just one manifestation of its diversity. It is a world city, with the cosmopolitan feel to match. In many ways it doesn’t feel part of Spain due to Catalonians fierce independence, the more widespread use of English and the more varied range of food. Some things however don’t change with the first two veggie restaurants that we check out — both of which are supposedly ‘open daily’ being closed (this being a Sunday and therefore excluded from the Spanish definition of a day).

Whereas Castellon had been a feast for the ears, Barcelona is one primarily for the eyes. On our first full day we visit two of Gaudi’s most stunning construction. It has often seemed odd to me that unlike, say, the ancient Egyptians or medieval Europeans, we no longer build buildings that take many decades of even over a century to build. Of course modern technology speeds up the process and the lack of narcissistic leaders with absolute power and a direct link to God makes the costs involved harder to justify but it still seemed strange that there wasn’t the occasional exception. Well it turns out there is in the form of La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s crowning glory. Started in 1882 and still a decade or two at least from completion, it is the most unbelievable church I have ever seen. It currently has eight towers of around 100 metres in height, which will eventually number 12 with one for each apostle. In addition there will be taller towers for the four evangelists, one for the virgin Mary and a final one for Jesus himself which will be 170 metres high.

The stone of the spires is intricately carved and on two of the faces of the church elements of the story of Jesus are told. On one side is a quite traditionally but extremely detailed depiction of Jesus’ birth, while on the other his crucifixion is depicted in much starker, simpler modernist style, which is no less dramatic.

Inside there is a cavernous hall held up by many pillars and catenaric curves (the ideal construction for an arch, more difficult to build but stronger than a traditional arc, parabola or hyperbola). That a building based on the century old designs of Gaudi can still look so modern and cutting edge is a testament to his genius.

Awesome as it is, the church’s impact on me is inevitably somewhat muted by the choice of subject matter and I therefore found his Parc Guell an equally impressive and far more moving experience. Freed from the stricutures building a church necessarily imposed on him, he was able to let his imagination run wild. This was immediately evident entering the park through its main gates with a Hansel and Gretel-esque ‘gingerbread’ house either side. It is built on a hill, so climbing up some colourfully designed stairs we come first to a vast hall of pillars with a bulbous roof covered in small mosaic tiles, atop which sits an even more expansive square. To one side is a passageway made from the ground above, it seeming to be a crashing wave rolling down the mountain. The shapes are such that Gaudi’s constructions seem just as natural as the plants around them.

The feast continues the next day with a visit to the Picasso museum. Rather than for any particular work, this stood out as a demonstration of the true diversity of his work and his all-round technical brilliance. This talent was obvious in his early work, painted when he was as young as 15 and showing his mastery of the traditional techniques he was being taught and various paintings in the style of other masters who he very convincingly mimics. Slowly he begins to experiment, his lines become less rigid and his paintings more interpretations than straight depictions. There is more experimentation as he travels to Paris and is exposed to more styles. We move on through his blue and rose periods. Eventually we reach the cubist paintings for which he is most famous. Their ability to capture a moment so abstractly yet to still tell a story (perhaps even more of one) and connect emotionally is amazing. The highlights for me come at the end of the museum. First his experimentation in ceramic later in his life once again demonstrating his versatility as he adapts his cubist style to best suit this new medium. Then his interpretations of 17th century painter Velazquez’s masterpiece, Las Meninas. In the dozens of paintings here he depicts the scene from that painting both in parts and as a whole. In each, his abstract bold style completely differs from that of Valazquez but somehow he still manages to convey the emotion contained in that original work.

The final artistic experience of our time in Barcelona was a trip to Figures, two hours east of the city and birthplace of Dali. Designed by Dali over the last 20 years of his life, the museum itself is as much one of his works of art as anything hung in the galleries. While he did not have the technical mastery of Picasso, he certainly had an amazing imagination with his works overflowing with innovation, whimsy and the surreal. Highlights include his portrait of Abraham Lincoln, which could only be viewed as such from a great distance (or with modern technology, on the screen of a digital camera) — from any other perspective revealing only a naked women walking off into the sunset; his attempts at 3d art in the form of stereographic images and holograms; and his bizarre pieces of jewellery including a beating heart of rubies and diamonds.

So as to dispel any impressions that this was an art connoisseurs week, plenty of time was left for our usula interests of eating and drinking. On our first few days we visited a couple of great restaurants for veggies — an Indian and an organic buffet. Following the arrival of Hayko and his girlfriend Kathi the visits to veggie restaurants decreased but were adequately replaced by some heavy nights’ drinking (helped along by the 3 euro litres of beer at our hostel and the 3.50 euro bottles of vodka from the nearby supermarket). But after a sleepless final night in which we (ok, me and my new Rangers supporters friends) drank the hostel dry it was time to move on to Morocco.

The Lonely Planet guide to Spain introduces Castellón with the words:

“The outskirts of Castellón are drab, industrial and rambling, so the centre comes as a pleasant surprise to the few tourists who penetrate.”

Being one of those few tourists I can confirm it certainly is pleasant but that is about the strongest adjective you could use to describe the town. Castellon appears quintessential ‘Middle Spain’ — largely unoffensive and uninteresting. The wide pedestrianised streets are of a kind of which any town in England or Australia or any other Western country would be proud yet they are filled with exactly the same shop fronts found in any of those places — be they multinationals or the Spanish version of high street stores. Perhaps this is best summed up by the elegant guide to the city we found in our hotel room (adventurously titled ‘Vive Enjoy Castellón’) which, at the conclusion of its chapter on the incredible gastronomy the city has to offer, informs us that

“For fans of American food the range of restaurants in the city includes the possibility of enjoying a hamburger in any of of the large chain restaurants… (including) two McDonald’s.”

And yet, peeling away the onion another few layers beyond that described in the Lonely Planet, at least for a couple days in November one finds what must be one of the most remarkable music festivals I have come across anywhere in the world.

The opening night is a sumptuous appertiser of what is to come. Apparently advertised with little more than a poster at the entry to the ‘Centro Municipal de Cultural’ and with entry for free, it nonetheless presents two world class artists. The first who I know nothing of beforehand is Half Asleep. Walking in ten minutes into her set, by the time I find my seat I am already blown away. Her voice is immediately reminiscent of Nico’s with the same deep haunting tone (indeed she later covers one of Nico’s tracks) and her intricate and delicate piano playing provides the perfect accompaniment. However it is her final track which provides the highlight. Swapping her piano for an electric guitar, she plays a song not dissimilar in its beauty and fragility from those which have proceeded it until, reaching its end, she lays down a pretty loop of harmonics on her guitar. Over this sparse background she then sings a wordless tune. By the wonders of moddern technology she is then joined by singer after singer (all her), filling out the glorious choir of which she is the sole member.

The quality of the music is undoubtably enhanced by the wonderful surrounds in which it is played. Holding no more than 100 people, the room is an expansive auditorium clearly more used to staging classical performances. Outside is a simple courtyard in which people sit, chat and smoke between sets. At no point is there any sign of anyone in charge — no bouncer, ticket collector, bar staff, organiser, manager or sound guy. There are no introductions and no annoucements that the next act is about to begin. It seems that the audience’s presence is incidental to the whole event.

It is an impression not diminished when Third Eye Foundation hits the stage. In the course of his set, not once will he look up at the audience or pause to allow them to applaude. Indeed the fact that he is onstage at all comes as something of a surprise.

Many years ago I must have come across the name TEF in enough music reviews to make me decide to check him out. I found one of his albums (I’d actually always assumed it was a group rather than an individual) — You Guys Kill me, which blew me away. It was unlike anything I had heard before with its industrial electronic intensity contrasted with an almost classical feel in its overarching melody and repetative structure. But as of 2001, TEF stopped releasing new material and there I assumed went another great band I would never see live.

The unexpected reacquaintance was everything for which I could have hoped. He too played perfectly in the environs but whereas Half Asleep’s fragility complemented the building’s age, TEF’s industrial tones jarred with it just as his music always had in my head when listening to it at home. His unique mix of drum and bass, folk, classical, hip-hop and genres wide and varied of which I don’t know the name was at once danceable, cinematic and slightly uncomfortable. His final piece was a crackling looped piano sample. As it faded away, he skulled of stage to raptuous applause, doing his best to ensure eye contact was never made. As the lights came up, night one of the Tanned Tin music festival came to a close. I could only dream that the 39 acts to follow in the coming four days, hidden away here in drab, industrial Castellón could come anywhere matching the splendour of opening night.

Valencia was the perfect place to start my trip, immediately reminding me what I love about Europe. Arriving in the city centre at 9 on a Saturday evening (after taking the metro from the airport for a tenth of what the same trip cost me in London and not even a quarter of the equivalent in Melbourne), I was immediately struck by the buildings around me — so beautifully designed and ornate, so varied in style and each, no doubt, with such a long and interesting history.

Valencia is a city of narrow, seemingly randomly arranged streets — the buildings apparently telling the road where to go rather than the other way round — leading into square after square with a church, a fountain and al fresco dining and drinking. The layout meant navigation was a little tricky and we got lost about four times within my first half hour there, but down every alleyway we stumbled there was a wealth of inviting hole-in-the-wall bars. Being Saturday night the streets were throbbing with people, getting busier and busier until we called it a night around 1.30 (with me not quite over my jet lag).

Sunday of course was a different story with barely a shop or restaurant open. Churches however were so we gatecrashed Sunday mass at the cathedral and saw the only officially Vatican sanctioned version of the Holy Grail. As grails go, it was quite impressive but some Pythonesque humour would have livened the service up no end.

Next we headed to the IVAM — the Valencia museum of modern art. The highlights included the work of Eduardo Kac whose pieces included a rabbit genetically crossed with a jellyfish so as to glow green under UV light and a microbe whose genetic code had been altered to include the text of Genesis (transcribed first, of course, into Morse code before being translated into the Gs, As, Ts and Cs of DNA). Said microbe was then placed under lights which the audience member could control to induce mutations in the microbe’s genome and hence the words of God himself. Such thought provoking work was only marginally surpassed by an exhibit of mannequins sporting Marge Simpson style 19th century hair dos, some complete with their own model boats.

A Valencian Sunday having offered us just about all it was going to, we managed to find one open shop, a bottle of vodka and saw the day out with it, ending up dancing in one of the city’s many squares to a busker’s rendition of “New York, New York”.

One of the more curious aspects of Valencia is its river. It is by no means a small river — some 100 metres across and complete with the large stone bridges you would expect to find accompanying such a river in an old European city. It is however lacking insofar as it contains no water — the Valencians apparently having awoken one morning to have found it all gone. Struck with the quandry of what to do with this now dry river bed, they responded well, building parks, football pitches, a science museum, a centre for the performing arts and, with more than a hint of irony, an aquarium.

The complex in which the last three are found is an architectural marvel of space age smooth white curves reminiscent of the Sydney opera house stretching as far as the eye can see. The aquarium is one of the best of its kind I have seen showing examples of aquatic creatures from across the world — most stunningly the Arctic section with walruses and Beluga whales.

We decided to end our time in Valencia with a trip to a vegetarian tapas bar. The concept of vegetarianism leads the average Spaniard to give a look not dissimilar to that which would result if you showed him your Flat Earth Society membership card. Stating in a restaurant ‘Soy vegetarino. No carno. No pescaito.’ guarantees little more than being served a ham omlette. The people who ran this place, however, are clearly more enlightened and the cheese, marinated peppers and mushrooms we are served are absolutely delicious and make the perfect finale to our time in Valencia.

The next day it is on to Castellón de la Plana and the Tanned Tin music festival…

I may need an intervention. My efforts at avoiding a cult have only left me open to another dangerous obsession. Of course, I saw it coming, but I was unprepared for its dangerous allure. Gaming has become a very real vice for me.

This is not to say that I’m a hardcore gamer. My paltry gamerscore currently sits at 2,715 which barely rivals certain other, more dedicated folk. But there’s the rub, right there. That’s what sucked me in. Statistics. Sneaky, fiddly little statistics. Because that 2,715 isn’t just one number, but an aggregation of achievements that I’ve accrued in various games. Perhaps even that might not have sucked me in, but for a certain other game’s nefarious influence.

Halo 3 came out a little while back and has gone some way to consuming my spare time. The game obviously comes with its requisite 1000 available points for your gamerscore, but there’s more than that. There’s this. Every single game you ever play, listed, categorised, broken down, analysed, outlined and summarised.

So now, not only is gaming eating into my other hobbies, but gaming is eating into my gaming. Why play Zelda on the Wii if I will receive no points? Ace Attorney 3 on the DS (dutifully imported by Jackson) is at least holding my attention, due to the same delightfully ridiculous sense of humour that has run through the entire series.

And now, a segue.

Ace Attorney is a game about lawyers.

Now I am talking about lawyers.

We had some lawyers come to talk to us at work, and sitting across the table from them made me realise just what a whacked out view of them I really have, courtesy of David E. Kelley. I was constantly disappointed as they failed to sing, dance, engage in witty repartee, have affairs with each other, pour the water in a slow trickle, announce their name and say nothing more, or just admire the skin underneath women’s jaws.

Must try harder, lawyers. You’re being left behind by fiction.

Having been presented with the very real possibility of having to take my shirt off on stage in front of quite a few people, Andy and I decided to look into Fitness First the other day. In we walked, optimistic of picking up some kind of brochure before going swimming at Waves.

“Please fill in these forms.”
“Ah, we’re just really after some info, if you’ve got some…”
“I don’t have the information, I can let you in to talk to one of our advisors, you’ll have to sign these forms.” This receptionist has raised the bar for sullen and uninterested receptionists everywhere.

Alright, we fill out the forms, making sure to tick “No Promotion” but not knowing if it’ll do any good. Then we go to a table, where we are met by the friendly-but-not-particularly-fit-looking advisor person. We’re about to ask her about the gym but she blindsides us by giving us yet another form to fill out, each. This one is much more in-depth, and includes such questions as “What are your personal goals,” “What’s been holding you back from them,” and “Are your family and friends supportive to you?”

Having filled them out, our new friend proceeds to read them to us. Er, we know about us, thank you very much. In fact, not only is it our special subject, but we just wrote it all down for you.

Only after having all of the random crap we’ve written down re-affirmed to us in very positive and motivational terms are we allowed to actually look around the facilities. Well, mostly positive:

“I see one of your goals is weight loss. Looking to lose the spare tire?” I bite down the proper response, something along the lines of “Fuck off, you’re at least 4 times fatter than me, and you work here.” Instead I debate the difference between a spare tire and a lump. It’s a good save, but I lament the day when I become old and impatient and insult everyone I meet.

We wander the gym, and it is truly large. Equipment everywhere — lots of people, too, but more equipment. There are televisions which you can watch while you cycle or run on the treadmills. It’s all very nice. Well, except:

“It’s not a very big pool,” I comment.
“It’s 23 metres. Do you know why? If it were 25 or more, it’d be a public pool, and we’d have to have a lifeguard.” Don’t ask me how, but she sells this to us as a plus.
“I’m not very keen on a 23 metre pool. I like the rhythm of a 50 metre pool.”
“Shall I tell you how many long distance swimmers we have swimming here?” Oh, I see. Now I’m a long distance swimmer with a spare tire. You go to all the trouble of filling out two forms about yourself and they still don’t get you.

And now of course, it comes time to sign us up for membership. She’s waving the third forms of the evening at us enticingly. We weren’t actually looking to sign up today, but talk of the ‘first visit’ bonus and 15 days cooling off periods convince us. We get nice backpacks and membership cards. Her logic is inescapable; why not sign up now if we can pull out later? Of course, the idea behind it is that we won’t be bothered with the pulling out. The possibility concerns me, as I am quite lazy.

Luckily, one week later, I’ve pre-ordered an iPod Nano, and am therefore answering every mysterious call that my phone receives. Disappointingly, it’s Fitness First. Apparently something about my contract is confusing. I come up with a novel way to avoid the problem; I cancel my membership. Random Admin Guy seems quite okay with it, which is almost disappointing, as I was hoping to round the story off with my account of their cultish attempts to keep me in the fold. I almost wanted to hear ___’s nicely prepared script for people who think they want to leave Fitness First. Perhaps I still will.

The amusing epilogue to all of this is our visit to the Waves gym, where they hand us a brochure with pricing info, answer our questions about the availability of the gym without first interrogating us about our lifestyle choices, and quickly nip up and give us a tour, before letting us have a swim without nagging us to join right then and there. Oh it was magnificent. I wanted to hug them and tell them about the nasty, creepy people at Fitness First. But I didn’t.

Or, to put it another way, Waves good, Fitness First bad. That is all.

clears away cobwebs

Ahem. It was a peculiar feeling to wake up after a few days heavy skiing a week or two back, and suddenly realise that new iMacs had been released during the night and that I had completely forgotten about it. New Apple releases, debuts of favourite television shows, and the anticipation of a fancy meal at a quality restaurant are the only things these days that manage to simulate that childish enthusiasm which comes less and less easily these days.

After a few SMSes from Jackson and a few moments at the internet cafe, I realised that the lower of the two 24″ iMacs was the one for me. And now, one ski trip and one house-move later, I has myself one.

It’s only very nearly 3 years since I purchased my last one, so I felt somewhat extravagant after I lightened my credit card. However actually receiving the computer put all my misgivings aside. Big changes have happened since I last bought a Mac — intel processors, webcams, remote controls. The whole thing feels like a much more complete media centre, and certainly looks more like a widescreen television than the old iMacs. I was dubious about the keyboard, but it’s actually crisper and more pleasant to use than the previous model. And, of course, I can play Half-Life 2, Neverwinter Nights 2, and any number of other sequels on the… ick… the Windows partition of the iMac.

What’s that? Oh yes, I mentioned moving house, didn’t I. Yes, now I live with fellow atypicalreviewers Andy Cocker, Jackson Kearney and Matthew Cocker (in order of prolificacy of writing), for the first time since Marten Court. Strictly speaking, I’m in their garage, however the garage has been converted, painted and carpeted to be somewhat more appealing. The room is short on furniture, but big on lack of furniture.

It’s a bit cold though. Must buy heater.