La Sagrada

Barcelona has an admixture of citizens who think the rest of Spain is a pain, who aren't sure if they want to be Spanish, who love being Catalan, and who kind of like the idea of independence. They're certainly thinking about it. But I hope they don't. That would take some of the gloss off La Sagrada

The Basilica of the Holy Family is unique, not only to Spain, but to the entire world and through history. I've seen the Eiffel Tower, the Winchester House, St. Basil's in Moscow, Watt's Towers, Neuschwanstein Castle, and the Hearst Castle. None so totally boggles the mind as La Sagrada. “It's probably impossible to find a church building anything like it in the entire history of art.” (Reiner Zerbost)

Ground breaking was in 1882. When I saw it, construction had gone on for a mere ninety years, which doesn't mean that Spaniards, not just Catalans, don't love it dearly. They do. Possibly the strongest sentiment tying northern Spain to its south is this basilica dreamed up by their Catalan, Gaudi.

When I arrived at the site, it was good that I had read Michener's “Iberia,” or I'd have assumed that it was another relic of a WWII bombing. Ninety years had produced several massive gray walls soaring grimily toward the stratosphere, each interrupted occasionally by slits that might someday be windows. 

At street level among them were what seemed to be randomly distributed clutters of building blocks, saw horses, enough tarps to cover a football field, wire, hoses, and several power grinders ravaging the ears. The deck was barely discernible, as the flow of Mediterranean air stirred up the mass of powdered concrete. My impulse was to return at once to Las Ramblas, the wonderful “Street of Flowers,” which bubbled with color and happy faces.

Construction began in 1882. Completion is anticipated  in 2026, 100 years after Gaudi's death.

But I had come here to see “Gaudi's Cross.” Topping this massive basilica was the “Christmas Cross.” I had to see it.


When a laborer looked up at me and smiled, I promptly asked him how I might get to “the Cross.” He pointed to an opening at a tower base and pointed up.  So I began to climb...

…up.  And up.  And up

I'd hoped that the winding staircase would become somewhat less gritty by the first hundred feet. Instead, I learned that the Mediterranean breeze blew up as well as north. The only sensible thing was to hope for a bath some time later and to protect my camera no matter what.

Then, about the time I was wondering if I'd be getting the bends, I passed another window slot, and there it was: red and green and decorated, just as they had said.

I guess I'd expected something more or less Medieval; this looked more as if a children's Sunday school class had done a Christmas project.

Disappointed, though, I was not. It was just astonishingly different. And I had my camera and a close-up. My clothes were filthy. Even my teeth were gritty. But so what?

Someday, in 2082, perhaps, La Sagrada will be all shiny and filled with Catholics, and Gaudi can look down and say, “C’est mon.” But NO!!!  He wouldn't dare speak French, not even Basque. In every part of Spain, La Sagrada is personal, the same way “The Falls” and “The Arch” are here.