Road trip Berlin to Spain, part 4
Catalonia: Figueres, the city of Salvador Dalí
I’ve finally reached Spain. I’m making a stopover in Catalonia, in the town that is the birthplace and final resting place of the famous surrealist painter. And I’m heading to a very special spot on the Costa Brava.
Before setting off from Montpellier in the morning, I check the GPS on my smartphone. Google Maps tells me that the journey to Figueres in Catalonia will take a) around 2.5 hours on the toll freeway, or b) 4.5 hours without using the freeway nor paying tolls. I decide on a middle ground: partly on the freeway, but without tolls. The estimated travel time is 3.5 hours. This will not only save me money, but also spare me the tedious straight driving on the expressway.
After 21 miles on the freeway, the GPS guides me onto the “national road”. It’s like a highway with only one lane in each direction, and a speed limit of 45 to 55 m/h. That’s fine with me. Above all, I’m finally driving through the southern French countryside and seeing small towns up close as I pass through them. It takes time, sure. But my senses are stimulated and I’m in a good mood.
I set off in sunshine, but the sky is visibly darkening on the horizon. I am slowly approaching the Mediterranean. Near the coastal town of Narbonne, about halfway on my journey, I am very surprised to see that the vines on both sides of the road are knee-deep in water. Is this supposed to be the case? As the water stretches on for miles, it dawns on me: it has rained heavily here and flooded the meadows, fields, and vines. Later, I read in the newspaper that residents of two districts had to spend the night in emergency shelters. However, the floodwaters also have a positive effect: in this region, which is otherwise regularly plagued by drought, the water levels of many rivers returned to normal and the underground water reserves recovered.
Then I finally see the sea. It accompanies me for quite a distance on the left side of the road. At the same time, a snow-covered mountain range appears in the distance: the Pyrenees. A turnoff to the right leads to the mini-state of Andorra, but I continue straight ahead. The road climbs rapidly and winds its way up the mountainside. On a expressway bridge high above the valley, trucks are lined up bumper to bumper for as long as the bridge is long, presumably waiting to be cleared. The last small town on French soil appears in front of me, followed by a customs house. A few more meters and my “red lightning” Volkswagen and I roll across the border: Spain. Now it’s only half an hour to our destination for the day, the town of Figueres and Salvador Dalí.
In Figueres, I check into a “hostal”. At the reception desk, I am greeted by a young woman wearing a headscarf. She speaks Spanish and French, and broken English, but somehow we manage to communicate. The geographical proximity to France comes to my mind, where millions of descendants of its former North African colonies live. Perhaps the young woman or her family moved here from France. She puts the key into my hand: third floor, no elevator. I had specifically asked for a room not on the first floor and now struggle to drag my suitcase up the stairs. The small room has a large bed and a table, a TV, and a tiny bathroom with a mini bathtub. So everything I need, just in a very small space that is filled to the last inch. Only one of the two blinds in front of the window can be opened, and the curtain rod is loose on one side, so I have to open the window or the closet door next to it to put the rod on it so it doesn’t fall down. But what can I expect? The room costs a total of 36 US$ per night.
I squeeze my suitcase into the only free corner of the room and set off for the Dalí House Museum in Portlligat, a fishing village near Cadaqués in the Catalan province of Girona, open to the public as the Casa-Museu Salvador Dalí. The house museum was Dalí’s permanent residence from 1930 until the death of his wife Gala in 1982.
My GPS shows me a driving time of 53 minutes for just 23 miles. My surprise quickly fades when, after ten miles through flat countryside, the road becomes steep and winds its way up in a series of tight hairpin bends, while the valley disappears into ever greater depths on the right. Through the open car window, I can hear the leaves of the trees rustling along the roadside. Nevertheless, when I get out at a viewpoint, I am surprised at how strongly the wind blows into my face and around my ears.
Once I reach the ridge, I see the Mediterranean Sea glistening far below on my left. Now the road winds down the other side of the mountain for several miles before finally opening up to a view of Cadaqués. Whitewashed houses and behind them the blue of the Costa Brava. I take a deep breath. A Mediterranean feast for the eyes.
But here too, storms have raged in recent days, as I can see from the rivulets along the mountain slopes and the occasional puddles on the road. When I drive through, the water splashes up on both sides. There are also extensive puddles in the designated parking lot. From here on, only your feet will carry you to Dalí’s house. To do this, you walk steadily downhill. This opens up a magnificent view of Portlligat Bay, where Dalí’s house is located. From the sidewalk, the villa is still hidden behind lush trees. However, two oversized white heads designed by the artist peek out from between the treetops. While I am somewhat intoxicated by the view, the wind is shaking the trees here too, violently swaying their crowns back and forth.
The last hundred yards to the Dalí House Museum are descended via a cobblestone staircase leading down to the bay, which the artist’s gleaming white villa overlooks. A few small white fishing boats lie on the shore, waiting for their owners. Next to the Dalí House, rainwater flows down the slope toward the sea. “That’s no longer a sidewalk, it’s a stream,” a local resident tells me. And: “Closed today.” Because the door to the villa is locked. The friendly gentleman can’t tell me why. Perhaps it’s because of the storm. So I miss out on the 3,000 exhibits, Dalí’s studio with easels, brushes, and solvents, the library, the bedrooms, the garden with surrealist sculptures, and the famous giant egg on the roof, which is supposed to symbolize an “intrauterine house.” Whatever that means. Originally, the house was a collection of fishermen’s huts, I read, which Dalí and his wife Gala expanded and redesigned over 40 years into a labyrinthine structure that he described as a “truly biological structure” – with rooms connected by narrow corridors, differences in height, and dead ends.
Visiting them would certainly have been impressive. But I am satisfied even without visiting and spend a while looking at the soothingly swaying sea. Dalí and Gala chose a paradisiacal spot to live.
I reluctantly drive back “to the city,” to Figueres. I am a nature lover, not a museum-goer. That’s why, during my subsequent city walking tour, I only look at Dalí’s birthplace in the old town and the Dalí Museum from the outside. And it’s only now that I realize that it is the anniversary of Dalí’s death: he died on January 23, 1989, here in Figueres, his birthplace.
When it comes to surrealism, I have another favorite anyway: the British-Mexican painter, sculptor, writer, and playwright Leonora Carrington (April 6, 1917–May 25, 2011). As an art student, she joined the surrealist movement in Paris and also met Dalí. In 1937, she lived with the German Dadaist Max Ernst in occupied France. After Ernst’s internment, she fled to Spain and eventually emigrated to Mexico.
I have read some of her short stories and have “The Ear Trumpet” on my bookshelf in Berlin. In it, an old lady is given an ear trumpet as a gift. It is a gift that changes her life, because it reveals the true feelings of those around her—including her family’s intention to send her to a nursing home. Of course, this is no ordinary place, but one inhabited by many surreal characters. I also borrowed a painting by Carrington from the Artothek in Berlin, in midnight blue and, as I recall, featuring horses, which took up half of my living room wall. While she was still alive, I even wrote to one of her sons and asked if I could visit her in Mexico for a portrait. Contrary to my expectations, I received a positive response. But at that time, I wasn’t ready to just go – and while I waited and let time pass, Leonora Carrington died in Mexico City in 2011. It is one of my regrets in life that I still regret to this day. So this time, when I learn during my stay in Montpellier that my trip to Barcelona will take me past “the city” of Salvador Dalí, I don’t hesitate for long and decide to make a stopover.
When I return to the guesthouse after my trip to Dali’s house by the sea and my tour of the city, there is another young woman sitting at the reception, also wearing a headscarf. In the evening, I hear a man in the next room talking loudly on the phone in Arabic. Fortunately, he finishes after half an hour and is quiet for the rest of the evening. It reminds me of my time as a backpacker, when I stayed in a cheap hotel in Cairo. The noise level was the same. The next morning, two men check out at the same time as me, both wearing the traditional nightgown-like robes of Arab men, complete with beards and fez hats on their heads. Some things never change.
Next station: Barcelona
This text was first published on my German website and translated by me.