A Press-Up Too Far

'It all started with a fitness session, which turned from a regular beasting to life threatening and I never saw it coming.  My reason for writing this is twofold: firstly to make people aware of the risks and secondly to come to terms myself with what happened.

I have 26 years of experience of hard physical training within the military, there is a mentality that you keep going and persevere.  It has never been a case of being macho or competition, well not for me, it shows character and endurance.

I have always hated circuits (multiple exercises in short bursts), because they are uncomfortable and painful.  It pains me to say this but I now have a grudging respect for the Physical Training branch, why?  Well because they know what they are doing, to me it always seemed mad, but there is a degree of balance and sense to the exercises that pushes but does not break the body.

The session last Monday took me over the safe limit for two reasons: firstly I pushed myself too far, to the point of exhaustion in fact and secondly the instructor did not balance out the session across different muscle groups.  It is important to point out that the damage in this case was to my upper body, this has always been a weak area of mine and so was particularly vulnerable to this session.  So what happened?

As far as I remember the exercise went something like this:

No warm up - the first part was regarded as a warm up but was already high intensity.

Sprinting on the spot interspersed with press-ups which counted down from 10 to 1 (I worked this out as 55 press-ups in around 3 or so minutes). We did this twice with maybe 90 seconds between rounds .  I may have got the details wrong but the key point is that by the end of this I could no longer support my body weight whilst in the press-up position and I was struggling well before the second round ended.  I should have stopped at that point.

The next part involved partnering up and doing more press-up related exercises whilst your partner ran to a point and returned.  I had already decided that I would do variations on sit ups as I simply could not do the required exercise.  I don't recall how many sprints we did but it was enough.

Unbeknown to me I had damaged the muscles in my upper body to the same degree that crush victims in earthquakes experience.  Whenever I have done these exercises in the past I have always experienced a degree of discomfort, most do if they truly push themselves.  This was different, by day three I still could not lift my arms above my head, that was not normal.  In addition my urine had turned a very dark brown and had been so for a few days.  At first I thought this was dehydration but it usually clears on day one.  I remember remarking that I had never experienced a circuit like that in terms of intensity, there is a good reason for that.  The military vary the muscle groups being worked upon and it avoids the risk of severe damage.  To exercise the same group repeatedly at high intensity increases the risk.  So what was it?  What was going on?

There is always a danger when resorting to 'Doctor Internet' that you find you are about to die and need to rush to accident and emergency.  I checked out my symptoms on Thursday and found a condition called Rhabdomyolysis.  Now stop reading this blog now and go to the link below, read all of the information and be aware, it may save your life or someone else's. http://www.healthline.com/health/rhabdomyolysis#Overview1

So I was now getting concerned and considered going to Accident and Emergency in the UK.  As it was I had been drinking between the exercise and my discovery of what it might be and I had to drive back to Belgium.  I should have gone straight to A&E, but I didn't.  Once home my wife and I had a tense discussion and decided against going to A&E, she did call the doctor who said I should make an appointment at the local clinic to get tested.  I was fortunate in that there was an appointment at 08.30.

First thing Friday morning and the doctor did a urine test and took some blood.  Apparently there was blood in my urine and this is more common than I thought.  She reassured me and said that I could call for the results on Monday and if there was a problem she would call me immediately.  I was reassured as the condition indicated that myoglobin would be present and not blood, however, both give the same result on the test.  I took the call late Friday afternoon.  Go immediately to A&E.

I was not scared or worried, although An was shocked.  For me it was a case of let's get going and get this sorted out.  I was concerned about damage to my kidneys or possible failure, so I was pretty focussed. The true impact of my experience would not hit me until I was discharged from the hospital four days later.

I was processed fairly quickly having explained several times what had happened.  I was told that I would be staying, blood was taken, urine was taken and I was out on a drip.  I was examined and asked about other symptoms.  For me there were no other danger signs, no vomiting, nausea or pains other than my sore muscles, which were recovering by that stage.  The doctors said I should look up crush victims to get an idea of what it was that I had, I didn't need to.  A not so tactful nurse made it abundantly clear what my condition was, almost blaming me for it.  It was self inflicted but I am no macho fitness freak.  I liken it to being blind and crossing a motorway, it is bloody dangerous but you just can't see the danger.  I had no idea that such exercise could pose a risk in this way and, having spread the word, no one else had come across it, apart from my medically trained friends.

Word quickly got out to the family that I was in hospital and so I was doing my best to reassure and inform them as I lay with the drip, in casualty.  My Apple Watch came into its own as I made calls through  my watch, it felt a bit like Star Trek.  My mother, An's mother and An to start with.  Then I put a message and photo on Facebook when I knew the danger had passed.  On Saturday morning I had the blood test back that said there was no damage to my kidneys but that a certain enzyme was at dangerously high levels and necessitated me being on 4 litres of IV fluid per day, this is exceptional and poses other risks.

Messages started to come through thick and fast from my friends asking me if I was okay and wishing me a speedy recovery.  It was warming to get such support, which was not lacking in any sense.  I felt a bit of a burden on An, both in time and causing stress.  I was happy with my book, in this case on the Battle of Culludon and the immediate history before and after, which I finished.

I was very lucky that there was no damage to my kidneys, it was now a case of flushing me out to unblock what had accumulated there.  My stay in hospital was an experience, I had four blood tests taken and the drip was changed from my right to my left arm at one point.  Now anyone who really knows me will be aware of my phobic reaction to having my blood taken.  Experiences vary from going into shock to coping well enough.  It is ironic that bravery is really defined as facing up to your greatest fears and overcoming them.  In this case this was the equivalent of vertigo, going over the top in the trenches, facing off spiders, wild dogs, bears, snakes etc.  I cannot understate how much of a trauma it can be even though I know that it is not life threatening and that there is no rational reason to shut down.  I wish I could get over it but there it is.  When changing the drip one of the nurses had problems spearing my vein and I could feel the needle squelching in and out as she tried to find it, I felt like a kebab but tried to keep my mind off it by examining the details of the room to the enth degree.  Often resorting to humour to deal with my nerves.

One funny moment was when An said she would do anything I wanted whilst I was in hospital, at last this was the opportunity that I had been waiting for!  The look on her face as I laughed about this was one of 'well sacrifices must be made'.  I reassured her that I would not ask her to do anything she did not want to do but we did laugh about the possibilities.

Also whilst in hospital I got a better appreciation of the nursing and medical staff and made good use of my Dutch language skills, which they kept making me use.  One of my fellow patients was told to use Dutch with me when he was heard speaking English.  I am grateful and I learned a lot and was complimented on my knowledge and skills.

One of the risks with IV fluids is pulmonary edema, in essence water on the lungs.  The doctors did not tell me that they were monitoring for this but it became apparent eventually.  My hands became swollen and I had put on around 5 kilos, mostly fluids.  I was not moving about a lot and was effectively confined to my bed, it was not helping.  Eventually I was reduced to 2 litres of IV per day which eased the burden.

Eventually I met the senior consultant who said that he was happy for me to go home, this was four days later.  I asked for the consultation in English so that I did not miss anything important, I asked in Dutch!  He confirmed that there was no permanent damage and no long term effects.  I could do exercise again in two weeks time but clearly not overdo it.  There was no need to follow up or be administered medicine.  At that point he confirmed that it was myoglobin in the urine and not blood.  No one had actually confirmed the condition to me at any point, but it became obvious.

Whilst waiting to be discharged the heavens opened and it poured with rain, with the odd rumble of thunder thrown in.  I reflected that I had no jacket and only shorts and t-shirts.  I would be catching the bus as An was unable to collect me.  I am certain had I called friends then I would have had a lift back but I wanted time to reflect.  As I cleared my things I felt slightly down, I was dressed in my black Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt, hiking shorts, desert boots and socks.  I had a small blue rucksack, laptop bag and cloth bag for my laundry.  I looked like a clean homeless person and with the various puncture marks on my arm, I could have been mistaken for a drug addict too.

The bus took over an hour to get from the hospital to the home town,  I almost welled up on the bus as I reflected on what I had been through and the risks.  I then watched the people getting on and off, oblivious to the experience I had had.  When I arrived it was raining but it did not matter, it was not important.  I slowly trudged home in the pleasantly warm rain.

Upon my return the first thing I did was let An know I was back and then I was welcomed by the cats.  I could not feel much when in hospital but now my body was telling me that it was a bit worn out.  Maybe it was just having the relief of being home and out of danger and now I was more sensitive to the normal aches and noises of my body.

I was acutely aware of being overly dramatic about the risk but no matter how I think about it the risk of kidney failure was very real and it has now changed my outlook and made me appreciate things a bit more.

It's Only A Key Ring

For some time now I have been putting up with my bunch of keys and the laws of gravity being applied to them.  In particular my car key which has, with some frustration on my part, crashed to the floor too many times now and has been broken.

The cause of my annoyance is that the main ring or clip has been used all too often and is now in a semi open state.  It is my fault of course, whenever I want to go for a run I do not want my bunch of keys rattling away in my very small key pocket nor do I wish to carry the said keys for 13 or so kilometres.  I do waffle, but I am coming to my point.  I needed a solution in the form of a particular key ring to defy the gravitational forces and meet my demanding requirements.

Cue the search for a solution, I thought maybe something like the image below or even better the one below that.

Normally I would go to the internet and find one on Amazon and just order it, but no!  I thought I would go to the local economy and do my bit.  It is then that my quest to defeat gravity turned into an altogether more formidable challenge.

What, I hear you ask, can be more challenging than defeating one the laws of physics?  Simply this, finding and coordinating my somewhat empty schedule with the opening hours of the local cobbler, really.

I first took a combined visit to the supermarket more than a week ago (on a Friday).  As I dropped by the supermarket I took the astronomically slight chance that the cobbler might be open and paid a visit.  My next challenge was to communicate my requirement in Dutch, which was not really necessary but I do like to practice where I can and the cobbler paid me the compliment of playing along, up to a point.  It became rapidly apparent that, although the planets had aligned in terms of opening hours, they were not quite in alignment in terms of having the said key holder in stock.  "Not to worry" he said, in English by now, "I will order one if they are still available and you can come in next Friday to collect it.  Don't worry if you don't as I will just sell it to some other customer."  I should have noted the cautionary 'if they are still available' but I am an optimist at heart.

I duly departed and went on to buy the weekly groceries.  I had been to the bank where, on my second visit, I had collected a new bank card that took two weeks to produce as it had to travel across the Sahara desert on a lame camel.

I waited, excitedly for the week and, the following Friday I joyfully drove into town to go and pick up my treasure.  First slight hiccup, he was closed for lunch.  I decided that the 1/2 hour or so was too long to wait and I resolved to pick it up the next time I was passing.  I noted the opening hours, but to my eternal shame I paid no attention, particularly to the mythical opening hours that require tarot cards and a crystal ball to see.

The next occasion I was in town was the following Monday.  As I approached I saw that the lights were not on and, if I am honest with you, I did swear just a little bit.  I acknowledged that this was the usual weekly closing day in place of having to endure a hectic trading on the Saturday, he must have been overwhelmed.  I sulked off and did my grocery shopping again.

As it happens I had failed to successfully complete the grocery shopping on Monday, despite taking a photograph of the items I needed to get.  I blame my petulant mood for my missing to procure the mayonnaise and cocktail sauce.  I am on first name terms with the Delhaize staff, although they don't know it.  I think they may be offended when I refer to them as: Dopey, Grumpy, Sneezy, Bashful, Sleepy, Doc and Happy (when I am in a good mood) or Irritable, Ignorant, Tetchy, Violent, Careless, Useless and Vacant (when my mood is off).  Anyway, I felt obliged to go back into town if only to ensure that the staff of Delhaize did not somehow forget who I was.

I made my way from the car park, having displayed my blue card (with the time on it), across the bridge (minding out for trolls and angry ducks) and then up to the main square and round the corner.  To my devastation I observed the lack of electric lighting in the window of the cobblers, was he unable to pay his bills, was he somehow now lying in darkness unable to call for help?  No.  A curt message in the neat form of a white Dymo label declared that the shop was closed, exceptionally I presume so that he could attend the lodge meeting of the Absent Cobblers Guild of Belgium.  Either that or some other customer had ambushed him with loose keys, and even now the police were investigating how much force is required to embed a Yale key into the forehead of someone and noting the slightly less force required to embed a broken car key into his rectal passage.  Defeated I walked off swearing at anyone within 30 feet, much to their surprise.

Today I had a Dutch lesson and, near the end I briefly explained my frustration with the opening hours of the cobbler.  Directly, I proceeded from my lesson to the said shop.  As fanfares blared and fireworks blasted off all around me (in my head) I burst forth into the shop.  I was slightly perturbed that the Grand Master of the Absent Cobblers Guild failed to recognise me without my usual clowns costume and donkey ears.  I needed to remind him of my mission and I did so in Dutch.  It was then that he confirmed my worst fears, "they don't do them any more".  Now for most people I would imagine that you think the shop became a scene of horrifying murder and obscene key assault, it didn't.  By now I simply said thank you and left, thinking that this is why the shops are closing down around Aarschot.  My protest, frustration or other entreaty would be fruitless when compared to the power that is the combined force of opening hours and availability of stock.

Needless to say I shall be ordering the item from Amazon today as I should have done from the outset.

Working

It has been a while since I last posted, so much is going on that it is difficult to know what to start with or where to comment.  I have now been in my current job for 5 months and I seem to have little time for other things.  Typically I rise at 06.00 and I am on a train by 07.07 for the short commute into Brussels.  Usually I arrive at work between 08.00-08.30 and finish up anywhere between 17.30-19.00, with a leaning towards 19.00.  The novelty of having a new job has worn off and now I know the train times and platforms by heart, I see the same faces on my walk as I migrate with the herd on my daily journey.  I started wrapped up in the cold of February and now I appreciate the daylight and greenery of the summer.  I have acquired a dislike of the impersonal shop assistants in the main station in Brussels Central, although the waffle and coffee kiosk is always friendly, even last night when I dropped a 1 cent coin both the assistant and a nearby train conductor went out of their way to make sure I got it back.

I am surprised at how many times I have been asked to help with directions and train times by people of all nationalities.  It is rather handy having the iPad with the NMBS app on it. I have discovered that everyone in Belgium blows their noses like trumpets in an orchestra and I am irked by those who seem to smoke everywhere I go.  My entertainment, apart from people watching, is usually a good book, radio 4 podcast or watching a film on the iPad.  The latter has its risks as I recently discovered.  NMBS has the habit of throwing in surprises to the journey, like re-routing trains that don't stop where you expect them to and this is whilst you are on them too, you need to keep listening out for changes.

I don't generally speak to others on the journey but when I do they are very friendly.  I can only recall maybe one incident of a commuter that seemed impatient to get on or off the train.  They also do seem to block off spare seats or refuse to slip sideways into the seats by the windows, preferring to see you awkwardly balance your way between unsympathetic knees before plonking into the seemingly insufficient space that they have grudgingly removed their bag from.

I have paid for the privilege of using the station toilets, 50 cents and no toilet seat.  I wonder, as I carefully lay down paper on the rim, why and how anyone can steel a toilet seat and past the assistant who collects the money.  I sympathise with the toilet attendant for having such a job, it seems degrading but then someone has to do it.

Banks and Vagabonds

I have not written anything for a while as I have been a tad busy of late.  I started doing contract work for a bank in February and the days are quite long.  I must say from the outset that it is not my intention to offend anyone with this blog nor do I wish to dismiss the plight of those who find themselves on the streets.  I just want to say how I feel and what I think as I go to and from work each day.

Banks, with justification or not, have a somewhat tarnished reputation.  One can name a range of scandals such as LIBOR rigging, Foreign exchange fraud, the poor handling of risk that led to the financial crisis of 2008, tax avoidance, PPI  and mortgage mis-selling.  And it would appear that those responsible are not being held to account.  I know from my limited time that there is a great deal of work being done to ensure that such things do not, or at least are less likely, to happen again.  The changes being applied to the financial services industry can be felt in the changing attitude to how risk is handled and the lower return on capital that can now be achieved.  In essence banks are being asked to hold sufficient liquid assets to be able to meet their obligations (with limits applied).  In simple terms to you or I it means having money in the bank to pay the bills but not necessarily enough to cover all of them, as they should never be called in at the same time.  Imagine if the bank said you must pay back your mortgage, credit card and personal loans all at once, you would effectively go bust unless you had sufficient savings or investments to cover the debt and you had quick enough access.  Net effect for banks is that they must hold more money, which is inefficient and therefore investors will go elsewhere to get a higher return, this will then lead to some aspects of the business being sold off or discontinued and banks will seek profit elsewhere such as so called free banking.  This is a simplistic example and not really the purpose of my blog!

Every morning I am delivered to the railway station by An to await my direct train into Brussels.  I buy a 3 month ticket, which is only valid on the Aarschot to Brussels route, for 399 euros.  It is good value for money and for a half hour trip into Brussels, it beats the car hands down.  When I get off at Brussels Central I have a short walk to work, it is on this short walk that I meet a moral challenge.

Upon leaving the train I go up one level to the very busy concourse, going right out of the station when I have gone up the wide stone steps with the main information board at the top.  When I first started commuting I would often go out of a different exit, the disadvantage with that is that it does not lead to a shopping arcade that provides a degree of shelter against the weather and you need to cross more roads to get on.  As I go up the steps towards the information board I cut across diagonally, which must annoy those wishing to go straight up the steps.  At the top I go right, past the coffee and waffle kiosk and under the road (which also leads to the Metro) there I  see my first moral challenge.

I am not sure what the best term is, there are so many and they all invoke an image: vagabond, tramp, hobo, urchin, beggar, homeless person.  Think about those terms and what comes to mind are people who are unwashed, unshaven, dressed in dirty and worn out clothes, people who have nothing and nothing to be happy about, people who are thin.  I am sure you can think of more, but, as I shall describe, the ones I meet have only one thing in common and that is they are all asking, begging, for money.  There are usually two people I see before I ascend the steps of the subway, the first is a young man who is clean shaven, smartly dressed in casual clothes and wearing what look like designer shoes.  He has a smart back pack and is holding a cardboard sign with French writing on it. He does not say anything but just stands and holds his sign and paper collection cup.  It is not a challenge to ignore him.  Further on, sitting on the steps is another older man, maybe in his 50s, not quite as smart but certainly not badly dressed.  He smiles and greets people as they pass, he seems much less serious about the situation.  Again I don't give anything.

There is now a longer walk before I get to the next person.  I go up the steps and then cross the road into the shopping arcade, sometimes you see some people taking shelter there but they tend to be sitting at the tables of the cafes.  The arcade is one of those places built maybe in the 30's and was probably quite grand in its time, it has long since lost it's appeal.  I climb the large curving staircase at the end, this staircase rises from both sides to meet in the middle and provide a balcony before continuing up to the road at the top.  Across the road there is a double stone staircase, very grand.  On the left hand set of steps there is another beggar, on the right it is clear.  Sometimes I consciously climb the right, he is always on the left. This man is more like the kind of stereotype that you would expect and is my greatest challenge, he looks beaten, unclean and in need.  He is, or appears to be, aggressive when he talks to you.  Also the food and other things he has been given he as used then dumped the remains around him, burger rolls, wrapping, plastic, whatever.  Again I do not give anything. Also on the same steps is a Gypsy accordion player, he never smiles and I always think of the Spanish train incident where An got upset by another accordion player.  I sometimes recognise the music but never leave anything, but at least he is providing some consideration for the change that is given.

I cross the road at the top and then make my way through the park and over the main road past the embassies, the Royal Palace and the Prime Minister's house.  The last leg is to walk the length of the street where the office is.  I meet my last person here and one day I arrived as he arrived for work, so to speak.  He is again very smartly dressed and has good hiking boots on.  He holds a sign written in French and he kneels with a travel bag in front of him.  Recently I noticed that he puts cardboard beneath his knees.  He doesn't say anything but he is clearly aiming for a certain clientele.

So I have this conversation on my way to and from work almost everyday.  Should I give anything, why and what if I do?  Will it help?  Am I the only one that feels guilty and should I feel guilty?  My brother, unfortunately, spent a bit of time on the streets and has a different perspective to me, he shares the common experience, but whilst he transited the area he was in these people seem to be permanent fixtures.  I think about if I give anything then there will be an expectation that I will always give something. Sometimes I want to stop and chat to find out why they are where they are and what they are doing about it.  I never see them when I am going home from work, so they are only working in the commuting hours in the morning.  Sometimes on my way home I do see gypsy women with children and babies in the main railway station, but their plight was slightly undermined when one of them started tapping away on a smart phone whilst holding her cup out,baby in arms.  Maybe I am cold hearted, unforgiving or dismissive of their situation?

I think of the job I am doing and I think of these people who are asking for money on the street.  I don't think I have ever given anything to a person just begging.  I have given to a street performer before.  Maybe I will change, maybe not.  In the morning I am usually too intent on getting to work on time, sometimes I feel like stopping to buy them something but then what?  What they need is work to be able to support themselves but they have to take the initiative too.

I will continue to go through the moral self examination for some time I think.

A New Start

Just over a week ago I started a new job as a contractor with a not so well known global bank.  I have joined a team of 5 who are managing a project to oversee the strengthening of Client Asset Protection in the Belgian market.  In essence this is strengthening the safeguards and controls in place following the banking crisis of 2008 and subsequent scandals that have emerged.

Had someone said to me that at the beginning of 2015 you would be working in Brussels and have set up your own company I would have said the odds were definitely not in favour.  I had viewed my lack of in depth language skills as a significant disadvantage and therefore set my sights on moving to London where I thought I could fit in better.  That was until I was presented with this opportunity in late January.

Barcelona! It Was The First Time That We Met...

Well, actually we first met at Pisa airport and An declined my offer of a sweetie, which sounds kind of freaky in hindsight.  I was with my mother at the time so she should have felt reasonably safe...  Anyway this is not the topic of this blog!

Barcelona, a secret trip that had to be revealed when some work got in the way and then rescheduled, adding more than 120 Euros to the cost of the flights.  I fancied taking An off somewhere nice and at the same time fulfilling my ambition to go to a Dali exhibition. Not much of an ambition but I have failed to see any of his work exhibited (twice in London and twice in Brugge).

So we finally got to the point where all arrangements were in place and I had re-booked the hotel and was hoping it would meet the high standards expected of my better half (I am happy to stay at rather more austere accommodation as long as the price is right).  We decided to take the car to the airport and found that for a 4 day stay it would cost a mere 45 euros.  We elected to take the car because of the convenient strike being held on the Monday and we did not want to take any chances on our return trip being disrupted.  Sadly more was to follow on this, although the disruption came from a slightly different source.  We arrived in good time despite driving through the early rush hour on Thursday to get our car parked.  It was a relatively painless process to get to the airport and we made our way to Gate A as we had checked in online already.  We both took hand luggage and got through security without a hitch, we then settled for the first of many expensive coffees at various transport hubs during our weekend.

The flight was fine apart from being one of the last to board and therefore not being able to find room for my hand baggage, which was then subsequently checked into the hold.  I was asked if there was anything I needed out of the bag before the was placed into the hold, I thought she said it with a hint of 'it'll be the last time you see it' in her voice.  My fears were misplaced and I recovered the bag quickly at the other end.  I had researched the trip and decided that we would catch one of the regular trains from the airport to the city, the hotel was a couple of blocks from there.  In the event it was much more convenient as the hotel was just a 200 metre walk across the square from the main station, Barcelona Sants.  Incidentally we had not been required to show our identification documents at any stage, which felt a bit odd.

Checking in was ok, the hotel had 24 floors including the restaurant and we were on the 21st floor.  The room was quite large by most standards and the bathroom was split into three areas, sinks and bath, shower and toilet.  As you walked in there was a glass partition separating the toilet (and bidet) from the double sink set up.  An did not need to say anything, I knew she would not feel happy either using or someone else using the toilet within earshot!  The shower was further divided by another partition and you could fit a small Welsh rugby choir in there, there was plenty of room.

The hotel was conveniently located almost a kilometre from the Magic Fountain of Mountjuic.

We did a lot of walking during the weekend as my sore feet can testify, but then it was exercise and we got to see a bit more of the city that way.  A four day metro pass is around 44 euros per person, for a single fare on the metro to any other station it is 2.15 euros, not worth getting the pass in my view.

Anyway, back to the beginning.  We had decided (my ambition) to go to Figueres to see the Dali Museum.  In order to do so we had to get up early to avoid wasting too much time.  The journey would take almost two hours on the fast train and cost 32 euros each return.  It sounds a lot but it is worth taking the time out.  The cost to get into the museum was a further 12 euros each.  We were very lucky to get there early, soon the museum was mobbed by pensioners, young kids and annoying students.  It was quite a challenge to get around once the crowds started to build up and not only that the noise was something else.  To get to the museum it is a short walk through the town and as long as you have got your spatial awareness sorted out and know roughly where it is in relation to the station and town square then you should be ok.  There are also plenty of signs too.

I cannot explain why I find Dali so fascinating, I mean if you look at his work you have to wonder what on earth was going on in his head to generate such output.  As always I live and learn with each experience.  My attraction began with his more renowned work, which I could get.  In fact we bought a picture of The Girl at the Window:

As I made my way around the galleries of sculptures, paintings and sketches I tried to understand what was going on, I couldn't.  There is so much happening that to study any of his work in detail would take quite some time, I suppose this means that if you revisit you will not necessarily see the same thing again and this is enhanced by the changes to your own perspective in the interim.  A bit deep but that is as arty as I get!  What I did notice, which worryingly may be a reflection of my own perspective, was his apparent obsession with the anus.  One image, The Tower of Eternal Well Being, shows workers spiralling up to the top as if working towards building up the tower and yet when you get to the top it shows a man, who I take to be the owner, defecating.  To me this is a commentary on the masses being abused by those in power and I viewed it in the context of the Spanish Civil War, although the picture is dated 1973.  There were plenty of other images with explicit sexual references in them and there are definite phases of his work.  I was not aware of this until I had visited the museum but he also designed jewellery as well.  I have to say that I was first attracted by the surrealism and then I discovered his jewellery which I found to be a highlight of the visit.  I am not easily impressed by jewellery but this was something that even I could appreciate.

An's highlight of the trip was viewing the image below having climbed some steps to view it through a specially mounted lens carried by a camel.  A bit much isn't it?  Anyway she said she remembered when she and her sister had visited years before and seen the same view.

On leaving the museum we paid a visit to the shop and then I wandered for a bit to take some photos of the famous tower with eggs on top, again, what was he thinking and what did it mean?

Finally, I have to add that Dali reclaimed a war damaged theatre and re-built it as a museum.  The theatre was damaged during the Spanish Civil War.  He created a shrine from its ruins.

We left around lunchtime and chose to get some food.  We had tapas, and why not?  We found a restaurant off the main square and we chose two dishes each (but ended up getting served a bit more anyway).  I chose calamari with a Roman sauce and a kind of cheese croquet.  An chose brave potatoes (spicy) and king prawns.  We also got some bread with a tomato and buttery paste.  In all it was lovely.  The sparkling water we ordered did taste a bit unusual, although An said it was fine I could not quite identify the flavour.  When we made it back to the station we were just too late to catch the fast train back and thus we had to hang around for a much slower regional train.

On the train there was a man with an accordion, who was busking, An was not impressed and decided to move to another carriage.  When I stood up to follow the train jolted and I ended up falling onto this lady opposite.  She had such a look of utter disgust, despite my apologies.  I thought to myself, surely she does not think that I enjoy hurling myself uncontrollably at random old ladies?  An did not even notice as she was off pretty quickly.  With the mood now set a number of other factors came ito play.  To begin with, almost as inevitably as night follows day, the annoying accordion player moved into our carriage.  An protested but it was to no avail, he did not understand as I said as politely as I could that she does not agree with his music.  At this point my phone vibrated and I went to check it out.  Our flight back to Brussels had been cancelled and this was less than 24 hours after leaving.  The strike on Monday had caused the airline to review its plans and they decided to cancel our flight, even though it was taking place the day before. There was nothing we could do but mull over the situation as the train made its way slowly to Barcelona.  I tried to reason through the possibilities but this was not the time to do so.

We made it back to the hotel around 17.20 and the first task was to contact the airline to see what could be done about the flight.  Eventually I got through having waited for 28 minutes on my Belgian mobile calling from Spain.  We were offered an earlier flight and we had no choice but to accept.  There is compensation available, according to their terms and conditions, but this would require an email to their customer relations department.  Problem solved, better early than late I suppose and this now left us to enjoy what was left of the weekend.  We had lost around 5 hours from Sunday as a result of the changes and if the truth be told my feet were grateful!

So the Friday evening was now kind of partially lost but we headed out anyway and up towards the Old Bullfighting arena that had now become a shopping centre.  This was pretty much like any other and after that we headed up towards the Magic fountain and the other water features up from the Plaza Espanya.

There were large numbers of people and along with the display of fountains there was also music too.  The views were impressive and if you did not feel like walking then you could go up escalators to get to the top.  These are some of the pictures I took:

We walked back to the hotel and had another meal in the restaurant in the hotel, which also has spectacular views.

The next day we aimed to hit Gaudi's Casa Batllo.  This was the highlight of the weekend for me and despite my initial baulking at the 21 euro ticket price, it was well worth it.  Again, I am not easily impressed but this building did impress me as soon as I set foot through the door.  It pains me to say that I did not take a photograph of the staircase, which I should have done.  I did take lots of other pictures, when tourists allowed me a clear shot.  I cannot do justice to the house by trying to describe it but every detail within the house has been carefully thought through from the ergonomic door handles cast from the palm of Gaudi to the innovative way light is appreciated and used throughout the house.  As an example there are two light wells that run down the middle of the house, their purpose is to allow natural light to enter from the top to the bottom of the house.  In designing these Gaudi has also used a stronger blue near the top of the well than at the bottom and this matches the strength of the light so that it appears evenly distributed.  The windows on the upper floors are smaller, again a reflection of the amount of light available in comparison with  the lower floors.  The theme is very much aquatic in nature and perhaps this also appeals to a deep affinity that I have for the sea.  I did not take any photos of the light wells either but I was conscious of taking too long on the tour.  I have given an example of some of the photos below.

Casa Batlllo Facade

The living room windows!

The living room with spiral design.

The spiral ceiling with chandelier ( not the original)

The 'back yard'

The somewhat more austere rear of the building!

The attic spaces

The serpent, or however you wish to see the roof!

More of the attic space!

After visiting the Gaudi house we then walked off towards the Gothic quarter of the city.  Our aim was to grab some lunch, which we did after wandering around bypassing most of the cafes that would have been quite suitable and then we ended up in a small square at a rather inauspicious place.  We chose more tapas, we had ham croquette, I had  goats cheese with a burger and An had a salad.  We did not want too much as we would be hitting the Hard Rock Cafe later on.  In the event we had even more after the Picasso museum! The food was very nice and I would recommend the place if only I could remember!

After missing the sign to the Picasso Museum we wandered the narrow streets, which all looked the same to me, until we basically ended up backtracking.  The Picasso pilgrimage was for An's benefit, I have no love or feeling for his work.  That said we paid our fees and went for it.  I have to say that part of the exhibition included a set of photos by an American photojournalist David Douglas Duncan, a guy who was lucky enough to befriend the artist.  So as a photographer myself, this was a bit of a bonus.  There were some interesting images, including a record of him engaged in producing his art, a diary if you like.  Picasso shows none of the eccentricity that Dali seems to do when photographed.  It was interesting to view the fact  that Picasso almost always seemed to wear a tie when working.  I got the impression that his wife tired of his work, but then there is only so much you can put up with!  what did I learn, well that Picasso did start off with traditional work and then went his own way, which is reassuring as his well known works look like a five year old produced them and, in my humble opinion, is a bit poor.  This point of view was to resurface in what must be the deepest conversation An and I have held about art, but that is later.  There was also a red and blue phase that Picasso went through and there was a fascinating photograph capturing his emotional response to the body of David's Marine friend killed in the Korean war.  Picasso, like most I suppose, reflected his experiences and the times in his work.  It was his record and commentary saved for the interpretation by others.  There were the crowds and kids as there were at Dali's museum.

I almost forgot, we paid a homage to the shoes, An managed to find some shoes that fit her.  In fact there was quite a choice so we had to take advantage.  She bought a pair and a bag (one or  the other was free as the cost was 200 euros).  One of the bags was a snip at 400 euros (we did not buy this), I was taken aback to say the least, I think it was made from the Golden Fleece...  I asked the lady in the shop if I could take some photos, some of which are below:

When we left I automatically steered towards the cathedral and when we got there we discovered a rather large market.  An did not fancy the crowds, so we made our way back round to where we had come from.  On our travels we had seen so many shops with lovely chocolate, cakes, fudge and nougat. Sadly, try as we may we could not find the same ones again.  We ended up stopping for a bit of cake, but the choice of venue was poor, the cheese cake was a frozen and did not resemble the delightful image on the menu and the coffee was overpriced.  We could afford to get some things wrong I suppose.  We decided to head back to the hotel for a break before the evening trip out.  This time we used the metro instead of walking.  It cost us 2.15 euros each, which I thought was quite reasonable.

After the briefest of rests at the hotel we headed back out.  I researched where the Hard Rock Cafe was and checked the opening times.  We caught the metro and found the cafe with little trouble.  The streets were heaving with people and the scene was very colourful.  At this point it is worth mentioning that the shops and restaurants have a siesta and open later in the evening and run on, it is like all year round late night shopping, paradise for some!

We got our table but were quite well fed from earlier so this meal was going to be pleasing my eyes and not my stomach, as my auntie used to say.  I ordered nachos, which both an and I picked at.  It was a rather large plate and too much for the two of us, considering the mains were coming too.  I had ordered chicken fajitas and An ordered a burger complete with chips.  

The two pints of beer helped me to engage in a rather deep conversation about what constitutes an artist.  I accepted after some debate that an artist differs from the average person on the street because they have: talent with materials, the technical skill to compose an image, a story to tell and they can get that across with their art.  An suggested that many modern artists lack the story element.  I have not done the debate justice in those two lines really.  It went on for about 10 minutes or so.  I suppose once an artist is established they can then do their own thing.  I saw Fleetwood Mac last year and they got across the message that basically musicians have to conform to the industry and then when they are established they can do what they really want to do, even if some of us find their 'true' work a bit less than impressive.  And so it is that my opinion of Picasso is that I am not impressed with his 'true' works of art.  He in fact has also been through a bizarre phase, where he seems to have been tormented by demons, at least that is what his sketches were telling me.  An pointed out the connection of his art with other well known pieces, including one by Diego Velazquez.  Now this raised an interesting point, a chain of connections between artists who have been influenced by others.  I have written earlier of how Henry Moore was infected by Picasso (I mean that in a derogatory sense), for years I wondered why Moore chose to produce such a style of sculpture and I found the answer in an exhibition in London.  He got his inspiration from Picasso!  Enough of the arty debate.

Back in Barcelona, we got out at the right time, the clients were piling in as we left.  I took the opportunity to get a t-shirt.  After a brief visit to Massimo Duti we headed back to the hotel.  The following day was our final curtailed day.

Despite the short time available we decided to give the Miro museum a stab, we caught the metro to the base of the hill that the museum was on and then slogged it to the top, through some rather suspect areas.  I had no idea who Miro was, but An pointed out a sculpture near the old bull ring and my comment of 'why has it got a banana on the top?' drew the response 'It's a moon!'  Of course it was, how silly of me, but then that is two different people interpreting art, one who knows and the other who is clueless, I shall leave you to guess which category I fall into.  As an added bonus, again, there was a temporary exhibition.  This one was about the first world war and contained photographs and artwork from the war years, An sat out this part reading a book.  I swept along, conscious of the time.  Miro, well, lots of colour and a bit of eccentricity, sorry to say that I did not get it and could not see the story he was trying to get across. We walked back down towards the Magic Fountain and caught the metro back to the hotel, where we had left our bags.  The plan was to catch a taxi back to the airport and as far as the onward journey went it was uneventful and nice to be back in our warm house.

On the subject of architecture and the Spanish cities, two of the most prominent features for both of us was the sheer quantity of graffiti and concrete.  On further observations An and I differed.  I find the buildings and streets quite scruffy and run down, dirty by far.  An on the other hand thinks it is a style on its own and made the comparison to any other city in the UK or Belgium.  I have to say I feel the same way about the club med countries, the buildings, apart from the special ones of course, don't appeal.  Barcelona has a lot of great buildings and architecture but by God they have built seemingly endless tenement blocks, which in my view are unsightly.  An is right though, the same can be said for London or Newcastle but it is only my opinion of course.

I would thoroughly recommend the city and the four days (3 1/2 we had) are not enough to do it justice.  I am hoping to go back again.

Manbag

For some time my wife has been keen for me to make use of a manbag in my day to day life.  Now, being a gentleman from the North East of England, the prospect of being seen with such an accessory in the windswept, if friendly metropolis that is the Newcastle conurbation, does not really bear thinking about.  However we are now talking about Belgium and London.

A manbag for those that are not acquainted, is a handbag designed to carry a laptop/ipad/convenient office stuff.  It is like it has evolved from the briefcase and is carried by lots of people these days.  My wife want me to use one so that I don't have anything in my pockets making unattractive lumps and bumps where there should be nice smooth lines.

As any woman will know, if you have a bag of any description you will generally fill it full of all sorts of useless and, in rare cases, useful stuff.  So likewise my manbag started to acquire its own assortment including: kindle, paracetamol, a book, iPad, pens, business cards, headphones, keys, wallet, hat, scarf, gloves, umbrella, security pass and tissues.

The advantage of having a manbag is that you can carry more stuff than you can in your pockets, the huge and I mean huge disadvantage is that you sometimes do not know what is in or out of the bag and thus I have left things behind on a number of occasions. Not only that but I have done a complete cavity search as well as had sniffer dogs trying to locate my wallet due to the fact that it has been placed in the bag and cannot be readily grabbed.  Now compare that with the age old tried and tested location for the wallet which is the back pocket of the trousers!  When I didn't have a manbag I knew where everything was and that I had it all, now, not so sure if I am honest.