After 8 days in Catalunya, we were all starting to feel pretty burned out, but Wednesday dawned cool and sunny, so we decided to make a pilgrimage to Montserrat anyway.

As most of my readers know, I'm a fan of mountain climbing, ruins, and holy relics; Montserrat, with its oddly shaped peaks, abandoned abbeys, and ancient objects of veneration represented an irresistable combination of all three.

There are several ways to reach the monastery complex: aerial tramway, cog-wheel train, and automobile. Since my kids are both averse to great heights, we opted to take the car. Even so, the twisty, winding road up had both white-knuckled.

Montserrat is in fact, a single gigantic batholith that rises up from the surrounding plains like the jaws of a prehistoric monster. Even from afar, it's imposing and immediately commands attention. Little wonder that it has been a focus of spiritual activities for more than a millenium.

We arrived around lunchtime, so our first stop was one of the cafeterias where we tanked up for the exertions ahead. The monastery caters primarily to pilgrims, not tourists, so the food was good, but relatively inexpensive. We were also pleased to find that no admission fees were being charged to enter the basilica, nor was the church sticking their hands into our pockets at every opportunity with pleas for donations. A refreshing change.

We stopped briefly to admire the basilica's facade, then got right into line to see the famous La Moreneta (Black Virgin), the patron saint of Catalunya. Despite multiple signs calling for respectful silence and adjuring visitors to refrain from flash photography, neither request was heeded by the busloads of mainly Polish and French tourists waiting in line. The line snaked from the front of the basilica, all the way to the rear, and up a long flight of stairs to reach the statue sitting on its throne of silver, high above the altar. We passed through several small chapels on the way that contained various tableaus. One in particular was downright creepy; a large canvas featuring a pale, ghostly figure clad in a black robe. It was difficult to determine the gender of the subject, but we first assumed that it was some particularly severe female saint. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that it was, in fact, a painting of the young Saint Benedict, the founder of the monastery's order, done by Catalan painter, Montserrat Gaudiol.

After roughly 20 minutes in line, we finally began the ascent to the throne. The hallway was tiled with mosaic images of various saints. Soon, we could see the statue itself, surrounded by a heavy plexiglass shield, with only the Virgin's right hand partially exposed to enable the pilgrims to touch the globe that it held, which we referred to sacrilegiously as God's Right Ball. If there's a hell, I'm probably going there for that one.

I often wonder what people pray for in these sorts of situations. Miracle cures, no doubt, form a large portion of their supplications, but I suspect that the vast majority of requests are pretty selfish and pedestrian: winning the Lotto, regrowing hair on bald heads, enlarged breasts, and longer-lasting erections probably figure prominently...kinda like SPAM. As an unrepentantly lapsed Catholic, I made no pretense of prayerful contemplation. To paraphrase the guy in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "It's only a statue."

We made our way down from the platform and stopped in the Holy Chapel of the Blessed Virgin's Backside, behind the altar. The sickly-sweet smell of roses filled the air...offerings to Mary.

On our way in, we had noticed a funicular railroad climbing almost vertically up the side of the mountain. Mark and I were enthusiastic about doing a little hiking, so we dragged the rest of our entourage to the ticket office and took the brief ride up to the top of Sant Joan, a point from which several trailheads began. To spare the non-hikers, we chose a route that was mainly downhill, which would bring us back to the monastery. It took us about 50 minutes to complete the hike, and the views from the trail were spectacular. My wife and daughter had unwisely chosen to wear open-heeled sandals, so they had a difficult time maneuvering down the the steep, pebble-strewn path, but they made it unscathed.

After stopping at the gift store, we returned to Barcelona. Mark suggested that we all drive to a large outlet mall that evening to do some shopping. We spent a couple of hours looking around, then returned to the city. Mark and Rosa decided to eat dinner at their apartment, so the rest of us taxied over to an Indian restaurant.

We decided to spend Thursday doing a little clean-up sightseeing, so we took the metro over to Sagrada Familia. The line to get inside was massive, so we took a walk around the periphery and split for the Ciutat Vella.

We needed to buy a birthday present for my mom, so we decided to have lunch in the Corte Ingles cafeteria, then browse for gifties afterwards. We came up emptyhanded, so I suggested that we head over to a Dali exhibit nearby where we'd seen these very cool soft wristwatches the previous week. We picked one with a blue leather band and an iridescent dial, that I'm sure my mother will love. Hell, Joyce and I both wanted one for ourselves!

In the evening, Mark suggested that we attempt another visit to the spa, so we navigated the Autopista once again and this time, found it open, albeit a bit crowded. The spa is quite new and it's located in a gorgeous setting amidst a beautiful pine forest in the hills. The temperature of the pools ranged from cold to almost hot, and there were three different types of saunas. We passed a couple of very pleasant hours there, and left feeling very relaxed.

Friday, nobody felt like doing anything at all, but I forced myself to walk over with Mark to attempt another visit to La Pedrera. Once again, the line was unbelievably long, so we simply visited the gift shop, then walked over to the Fundacio Antonio Tapies, a gallery of contemporary art that was featuring a special exhibition on the downside of Spanish tourism (how apropos!). Afterwards, we met Joyce and the kids at a Japanese restaurant for lunch.

When we got back to the apartment, none of us were inclined to do anything, so we simply sat around until 8:00pm, then headed out for a farewell dinner with Mark and Rosa at a nouveau restaurant at Port Olympic called Bestial. We were seated on the patio, at a table overlooking the almost deserted beach, with the famous "Sardine" sculpture looming overhead. It was a beautiful evening. The waiters were pretty goth...dressed all in black, and wearing t-shirts with a picture of Marlene Deitrich on them. I have no idea why. We had an excellent dinner, then said goodbye to our benevolent host and hostess.

The next morning, we departed for the US. Although we made it home without too much hassle, I feel compelled to offer the following advice to prospective travellers:

- Never, ever, EVER attempt to clear customs in Detroit unless it's your final destination or else you have several hours in between connecting flights

- US Customs *will* make you go through the agricultural inspection line if you declare any foodstuffs whatsoever, even if you have only 20 minutes to make your connection

- KLM baggage handlers suck Gouda

- Do not eat Manchego cheese that has sat at room temperature in your carry-on luggage for 17 hours

Finis