Getting to Tibidabo

Ever since Michael stepped out onto our tiny balcony that fronts Muntaner and looked left, he has been eyeing the church that towers over the town. Yesterday he said, “This is where I want to go — Tibidabo.” Tonight I am trying to figure out how to get there. Walking is NOT an option.

The metro does not go as far as Tibidabo, but something called the FGC does.  I check our ATM card—Àrea de Barcelona Autoritat del Transport Metropolità—the FGC is part of their system.

The Metro

This morning we head for the metro, descending into its warm, sometimes hot depths. Changing trains at the Diagonal we exit onto Placa de Catalunya and search for the FGC, walking down into a tunnel. Walking back up. Walking down the wrong street. Turning around. Searching for signs. Then, finally asking for help.  Walking down into the correct tunnel…

“If you know what you are doing it is easy,” I tell Michael.

The FGC

I like the FGC.  It is like a regular train with spacious comfortable seating. They run on a schedule. You do not have to worry about the doors closing on you if you are seconds too late trying to board (been there—done that).  I think I am going to enjoy this ride. At the Tibidabo station, we exit the underground train and follow the small crowd till Michael sees they are taking an elevator up.

“Let’s take the stairs,” he says.

I follow thinking it is a good idea until we reach the sixth flight, and still climb — forever upward.  How far underground were we?

The Tram

Emerging from the depths we cross the street to where a small blue tram is parked.  We get in line and are fortunate that the group ahead wants to pay with a credit card. They are directed to an ATM, while we pay cash and board. When totally full, with no standing room left, we begin the long climb up the hill.  I have the window seat — how did that happen? The homes up here are beautiful.

The Funicular

The tram stops in a large circular area surrounded by restaurants with a view. They are ignored. All of the passengers are heading toward the funicular.  We have the option of just buying a ride to the top or purchasing a combination ticket that includes the amusement park below the church.  We forego the thrill of the lurching roller coaster and board the Funicular, ascending the mountain backward. Almost vertically.  I’m grateful we are not on foot. Foliage brushes the side of our car as we ascend. I am reminded of our train ride through the Austin zoo.

Tibidabo

We are welcomed by a sign—white on white—in seemingly every language on earth.  The sun is shining today and the park is not overly crowded but is still full of squealing revelers of all ages. There are lines at each snack bar/restaurant.  I find a table near the edge of the park—a table with a view of the city beyond—and sit in the warming sun.  Happy.

Michael is not quite as happy.  The line for this snack bar is longer than he likes and the food offerings unappealing—everything savory—he wants something sweet.  We leave our sunny surroundings and make our way to a larger restaurant with a shaded outdoor eating area. I sit facing my nemesis — The Temple Expiatori del Sagrat Cor — a towering church with too too too many steps to the top. I mistakenly point out people in the tower.  I’m glad Michael agrees we don’t want to do that.

The Temple Expiatori del Sagrat Cor

After coffee and pastry, while I sit, Michael explores and then beckons me forward.  He explains that after walking up about twenty steps to the church entrance we can take an elevator to the top. I guess my nemesis wins. At the end of our ascent, four of us spill out of the elevator onto the wide terrace with a high wall.  This isn’t so bad—I feel safe.  We walk around the main steeple viewing Barcelona to the sea and beyond and the tree-green valleys behind her.  The amusement park on Tibidabo surrounds us.  Ancient planes fly, the roller coaster has that unique roller coaster sound as it struggles upward, the Ferris wheel turns, and a tall giant of a thing with two colorful-people-filled-fists on each end, s-l-o-w-l-y rises and falls.

We stumble on a narrow turret. With stairs. Leading up. I knew it was a mistake to get on — and then off — the elevator.  Climbing the airy cocoon, I try very hard to hang on to the turret walls.  I stand above the heads of the statues that towered above me when I sat looking at them below.