cotton at bat

In Cartagena, I searched for Hannibal.  And struck out.

In Valencia, I searched for El Cid.  And struck out.

In Barcelona, I decided to wise up and go someplace I knew existed.  The Picasso Museum.

You may think you know where this is going.  But don’t get ahead of me.

Barcelona is another of those cities that were finalists on my “Places to Retire” list.  Based on my prior visits.

The city has every urban amenity that appeals to me.  Crowds.  Noise.  Vibrancy.  And enough culture to choke Picasso’s Guernica horse.

And culture it was going to be on this trip.

I knew the general location of the museum.  So, I trudged off into the narrow alleys of the “Gothic Quarter” in search of one of my favorite artists.

Getting lost in those streets is part of the adventure.  It gives the tourist an excuse to stop by the shabbily chic shops.  Where you can buy a pair of shoes that will set you back one or two weeks worth of salary.

But I was not looking for shoes.  I needed an acrylic fix.

And there it was.  Around a blind corner.  The Picasso Museum,  But I could not find an entrance.

For good reason.  The sign says it all.  It was Monday.

Closed.  Cerrado.  Strike three.  There may be no joy in Mudville.  But I am not Casey.

Picasso was not to be.  But Barcelona was.

You know from my prior posts that I am very fond of quirky Spanish architecture.  Barcelona is full of it.

The king of quirky in Barcelona, of course, is Antoni Gaudi.  And his Sagrada Familia church is his masterpiece.  But I have already visited it several times.

There are plenty of other eccentric architects in town.

Do you want umbrellas and fans on the side of your building?  Done.

How about a cascade of large black and white balls to decorate a façade?  Here you go.

Even churches have jumped on the “skewed, but interesting” wagon.

But one of Barcelona’s more flamboyant buildings is Lluís Domènech i Montaner’s Palau de la Música Catalana.  The Palace of Music.  An extraordinary building that blends modernist and rococo elements into a thing of beauty.

I almost filed the storage card in my camera.  Barcelona is as photogenic as as Donatello’s Mary Magdalene.

But let me leave you with this shot.  I may have not found Picasso.  But I found the life he portrayed.