Ever since I was in grade school and our art teacher, Ms. Sorenson, showed us a slide of Salvador Dali's The Persistence of Memory I have been enamored with his work. I’m no art buff, and I only know a handful of paintings in general, but this one really stuck with me.
Surrealism makes me feel things, namely that I can appreciate visual art. It shows me that there is a different, more delightful, way to experience the world. It unmoors me, helps me find whimsy, makes hopeful that I’ve just been seeing everything in one dimension, the very tip of the iceberg. The idea of reality being far bigger than my ability to comprehend is some kind of religious comfort.
Unfortunately, this morning, when I woke up in Barcelona with my ticket for the train to Figueres, the location of Dalis Theater and Museum, I was not ready to find magic OR whimsy. I had a grating hangover, courtesy of too much wine, too many cocktails, and some kind of passion fruit shot that two Brazilian men had purchased for Marissa and me at the creperie in the amazing El Borne neighborhood the previous evening.
However, I was determined to meet the day and make the most of my short time here in Spain (a stolen luxury at the end of a UK tour and before a weeks-long US tour). So I found some fresh tangerine juice at the cafe down the block, which I chugged along with a coffee, and made my way to the train station.
The one-hour train trip was relaxing, and I sat next to a handsome couple of boys, one American, and one Spanish. One had his hand on the other’s leg and they chatted away, making small talk about cultural differences, clearly newly infatuated. It was tender and lovely.
I got off in the small town of Figueres, the hometown of Dali, and made my way on foot. It was chilly, and I was just thinking that I should have brought an extra layer when I encountered an open-air street market. I found a very soft, rust-red sweater which I bought for 10 euros and immediately put on over my t-shirt. It was feeling like the kind of day that falls into place just as you need it to.
Despite being overrun by school trips, the Dali museum itself was incredible. Dali essentially made the place his own Mausoleum, filling it with his own work as well as his tomb. It’s not a gallery exactly, rather the whole building is the canvas, with installations, and paintings on the ceilings and walls as well as gallery-hung work.
After about an hour and a half of navigating the museum (attempting to dodge the munchkins wreaking absolute havoc on the place), I decided my hangover was really setting in and my need for water was paramount.
I found a cute and quiet cafe where I sat down outside to enjoy lunch, coffee, and most importantly several bottles of water. What peace, what joy, I thought. I’m so lucky to be able to experience this! I love art! My life is amazing! The world is beautiful!
My headache and nausea was starting to truly kick at this point and I was dreaming of an afternoon siesta back at the hotel when I saw a man prowling around with an oddly shaped case and some kind of stand.
The man had white dreads and wore a newsboy cap, and he proceeded to set up directly behind me. A painter I thought? A cartoonist? But no… he proceeded to take out his HANDPAN DRUM and place it on the stand.
Oh Jesus I thought.
After a short intro in Spanish about what his songs meant to him, he took off… “Oh Africaaaaa” he sang, banging on the drum so that it pulsed in time with my headache. He was about two feet behind me, and there was no escape.
I sat there in pain for a while and listened to three terrible songs. Then, white dreads disappeared and a teenager from one of the school groups came up and started hitting the drum with even more frequency and even less finesse. At this point, even the waiter appeared in distress. I could see him deciding if he would say something or not. I guess he opted for non-interference while I asked for la cuenta por favor, neccesito get the fuck outa here, por favor, me duele la cabeza!
White dreads reappeared suddenly by my side. Oh shit, I thought. In Spanish, he asked me if I had enjoyed the music and if I had any money for him. I stared at him blankly, lo siento, I said, pretending not to understand, even though there was only one thing he could possibly have been asking me. English he said? You speak English? Lo siento I said again, continuing to stare blankly. He tried French and Italian, before finally giving up on me. Okay, he said, okay, and walked away. It was a small win, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. If I had any cash I would have already paid him to stop playing.
Lord, I thought, I have received your punishment and I understand my wrongdoings. More paintings, less alcohol.
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