Josh shakes his head. “I don’t know. I can be pretty judgemental.”
“Yeah, but…it’s like you’re on the right side of the law.”
He smiles.
I poke his chest. “You wanna see something cool?”
“I’m looking at it.”
“Shut up.” I laugh. “Turn around.”
We’re standing across the street from Casa Batlló, another Gaudí masterpiece. The surface is covered in ceramic-shard mosaics – aqua and cobalt, rust and gold – in rough, skinlike patterns. And it has another spectacular rooftop, an animalistic arch of metallic tiles that’s curved like the back of a mighty dragon. I like this building even more.
Josh’s eyes widen with speechlessness.
“See that turret with the cross?” I point to the roof. “Some people think it’s supposed to be the lance of Saint George who’s just slayed the dragon.”
“Architecture. Maybe this is your future.”
“It’s more art than architecture.”
“Same thing,” he says.
I ponder this, but if my interest was that strong, I’d want to rummage around through its insides. I’d want to inspect every angle from as close a vantage point as possible. “Nah,” I finally say. “I just like the story. And the way it looks.”
Josh places an arm around me. “Every art needs its connoisseurs.”
I happily burrow into his wet side.
“What’s next?” he asks, glancing at the clock on his phone.
I look at him in question.
He shakes his head, and we try not to be disappointed. It’s still too early to check in.
Sagrada Família is next. The map easily leads us to the closest transit station. The métro is an unaccented metro, but apart from that, it’s identical to its brother in Paris. When we exit the station, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. And then we see it. Casa Batlló may be a dragon, but Sagrada Família?
It’s a monster.
It wants me to cower. It wants me to weep. It wants to save my soul from hell. Gaudí started work on this church in the late nineteenth century, but it won’t be finished for at least another decade. It stretches twice as high as the tallest cathedrals of France. It looks like a fantasyland castle – wet sand dripped through fingers, both sharp and soft. Bright construction lights are everywhere, and workers are tinkering around its massive spires in dangerously tall cranes.
We circle the entire structure, shading our eyes from the rain, as we look skyward towards the figures that are carved into every inch of its facade. So much is happening, everywhere, that the overall style defies categorization. Some of the spires are topped with mounds of rainbow-coloured grapes, while the west side is austere and tormented, drawing the eyes to an emaciated Jesus on an iron cross. Stone women wail beside a pile of skulls at his feet. But then the east side is an abundance of life – humans and angels and animals and wheat – and topped by a green tree covered in white doves.
“It’s beautiful,” Josh says. “Fuck, that’s beautiful.” Something occurs to me. I’m off running. “Hold that thought!”
“Where are you going?” he shouts.
“I’ll be right back! Don’t move!” I dart across the street and down two blocks until I find a convenience store with a display of umbrellas beside their entrance. I grab the first one, pay for it, and race back with a cheap clear kiddie umbrella.
Josh is confused and upset. “Don’t you think it’s too late for that?”
I hold it above his head as I dig into his backpack. I toss him tomorrow’s T-shirt. “Dry your hands.” He obeys, and then I replace the shirt with his sketchbook and pen. “You have to draw it. When will you get another chance?”
“Isla, I…”
I zip up his bag, step aside, and hold the tiny shelter above his body.
He watches the rain roll down my face. “Thank you,” he says quietly.