Resiprocal Permeability: Let the Sea Come Inside the City

Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart; and remember that the true hope of the Noldor lieth in the West, and cometh from the Sea. ~J.R.R. Tolkien,The Silmarillion~

There is in that land a haven that is named Avallónë, for it is of all cities the nearest to Valinor, and the tower of Avallónë is the first sight that the mariner beholds when at last he draws nigh to the Undying Lands over the leagues of the Sea.

~J.R.R. Tolkien,The Silmarillion~ 

The first land creatures were fish that could turn their fins to paws. More and more fish move to the land, especially the young. The land-dwellers change and adapt, separating the more fish-like from the reptilian. Qfwfq's family is almost all dwelling on the land. Only Qfwfq's great-uncle, N'ba N'ga, still lives in the water.

“The Aquatic Uncle”  - Italo Calvino 

The Sea, the Land, and the Land-dwellers

If men believe in reincarnation and the oneness of spirit, could it be possible that we would all remember of what Calvino said about our being on the land? Or maybe, by chance – it was by a risen deepest memory that Tolkien wrote about the land beyond the sea in the Silmarillion?

The fact that the sea-water covered two-third of the earth is something quite recognizable, that sometimes – by ignorance, we fear her so greatly and walked away from her grasp. Yet somehow, we longed for her nice cuddle and look for a gentle wave that comes along the beach. We, the land-dwellers change and adapt. We change and we move, adapt and defensive – that at some point we reject the fact that the land was and always be part of the sea.

Walking along the Gothic quarter in old Barcelona, one might wonder of when would she reach an opening where she could see the sea. The dwellers itself, the people live in the neighborhood – might already be so used to the view and one perspective of what the streets would bring at the end. The routines and perfect layering are what we could see when we reach a section of Ronda Litoral and space that stretched along Passeig de Colom from Colon Statue to Via Laietana. Moll de la Fusta, as all the touristic advertisement would calls it.  A very well-designed space, if I may say – for circulation and connectivity – of the LAND. 

Moll de la Fusta

·         Moll: Catalan - Noun

moll m (plural molls)

1.       quay, jetty

2.       breakwater

·         Fusta: Catalan – Noun

From Latin fustis.

fusta f (plural fustes)

wood

 “Moll de la Fusta” = Wooden Quay; Wooden Wave Breaker?

Is there any wave here that we need a wave breaker? Where is the sea, anyway? What can we possibly sense in this kind of space? Is the city stands next to the sea? Is that why we’re so concern about the EDGE of this city and playing around try to build a perfect wall? We, the land-dwellers – are so proud that we forgot that the city we built, stands accidentally on a piece of land on the sea - that rise a couple more meters so that it slightly higher than the sea level. The ignorance is so great that we also believe that the sea is not a liveable place.

What if…

What if… the wave breaker becomes the water gate? What if… the landscape view of this part of land merges with the other part that reflects them? What if… the EDGE that is actually imaginary – becomes ENTRANCE?

A boundary is not that at which something stops but, as the Greeks recognized, the boundary is that from which something begins its presencing.

Martin Heidegger, “Building, dwelling, thinking” 

Imagine to live where there are no such thing called the EDGE of the city, where the city being a part of the sea and the sea as part of the city; where the landscape view is intact.

Proposal.

1.        Put a reflection on the view of the sea seen from Moll de la Fusta onto the building façade along the way
2.        Open the city for the sea to enter and change the wooden wave breaker into sea water gate

First Step:

Postcards about the proposal, distributed to people especially those in the neighborhood. 

Click to enlarge

Click to enlarge

There’s no such thing as what we called the EDGE,

When the Metropolis stand as an osmosis membrane

And the reciprocal landscape stretched along the lane…

per·me·a·bil·i·ty/ˌpərmēəˈbilitē/Noun

1.        The state or quality of a material or membrane that causes it to allow liquids or gases to pass through it.
2.        Permeability or connectivity describes the extent to which urban forms permit (or restrict) movement of people or vehicles in different directions

Intervention Proposal

for Metropolis - In-situ 2011

Agnes Stephania___Lilach Gibori

Muchas gracias a:

Tuhan YME

Lina Aboureslan and her kitchen

Wayang Kulit at the Barcelona Pavilion

light, shadow, reflections

it gives a soul to the whole structure 

while defining a blur line 

between the space in the exterior and the interior

at the same time,

it breaks the routine-like, compact, elegant,

linear sight of the space

...

which one is the spectacle?

which one is the spectator?

 the space?

 the enclosures? 

the visitors?

this is a story of a subjective angle

an angle of an objective story

...

of the wayang [shadow]

of

a pavilion

...

spec·ta·cle/ˈspektəkəl/Noun

1. A visually striking performance or display: "the show is pure spectacle".

2. An event or scene regarded in terms of its visual impact: "the spectacle of a city's mass grief"

spec·ta·tor

/ˈspekˌtātər/

Noun: A person who watches at a show, game, or other event.

Wayang is an Indonesian word for theatre (literally "shadow").^[1] When the term is used to refer to kinds of puppet theatre, sometimes the puppet itself is referred to as wayang

Music taken from Gamelan Dewaruci part 01 and Denau by Kua Etnika

El Viento de la Barceloneta

The Wanderers, the Chairs, and the Stories

The Metro station pouring out tourists, with clothes ready for the beach – but also cotton scarves on their neck, as the cold breeze of the spring insisted. It was almost time for sunset, and the clouds hovering above – when 3 strangers set their feet in La Barceloneta. Their faces are different, their gesture are distant, as they come from 3 different corners of the world. Walking by the sidewalk, they’re nothing like tourists – as they begun to enter Carrer de la Sal and recording every details; with notebook in one hand, recorder or pocket camera, and Watson’s faces next to Holmes.

Set in front of apartment’s doors, the chairs in Barceloneta apparently took their attention. These chairs, most of it planted permanently to the sidewalk – are like an extension of the living room. The street are short, divided the blocks and provides the pisos with light and fresh air. The neighborhood  is quiet, and almost free of tourists – regardless the fact that it’s not a very distinct area from the touristic Joan de Borbo. Children playing balls in one corner, and there are skaters on the other -  giving some particular sounds and ambience. 

As an area famous for being a sailor’s and fishermen’s neighborhood, Barceloneta’s like an envelop, with layers of myths and stories enclosed. That’s exactly what have the wanderers found that night and on the following morning: different impressions and different faces, problem or not problem, rejection or acceptance. Their story begun on an encounter with a nice Mexican girl; a pop art collage artist whom neighbor turns out to be a very “sensitive” lady – shouting and swearing her to stop using spray on her work – who eventually brought the police to the site; claimed the street and the sidewalk as her space. Is this means problem?

The following morning, they got another impression from the local elders on the big plaza next to the market: contention, memories, everyday-life and hope. Nothing matters and nothing bothers; even if the pisos are tiny, the tourists seem to increase every year, and immigrants taking their spaces. Some memories about places came to surface, and some particular term reflects their view about immigrants. Is this means problem?

With photos, recordings, and experiences in their pocket, the 3 wanderers went for brainstorming [of course with good meals accompanied – whether it’s with glasses of beer and tapas in Cerveseria, or glasses of wine and home-made cooking lunch].

From Philosophical View to Practical Positive Enhancement

Three wanderers sit in the crowded Cerveseria, with glasses of beer and tapas for dinner. They started another journey, this time in the intangible world of mind and thousands terabyte space inside their brain. They walked through the memory about the spaces, the furniture and the people. They passed several folders of facts and impressions – analyzing place, people and interaction. They stopped at some point, under the issue of friction and co-existing problem; and started to peel it up with several view from different philosophical – as well as socio-political backgrounds. Some cases arise. What kind of impression follows behind some particular terms like Moros or Paquis? In the short journey in the field of thoughts, the wanderers happened to think to destroy the negative connotation by some kind of intervention on the children of Barceloneta.

But experiences follow, and more stories becoming references.

Three students sit in a round dining table, after glasses of wine and a nice home-made cooking lunch. They started a second journey to the land of thoughts.

What is problem what is not? What is friction what is not? What is negative what is not?

What lies in the heart of Barceloneta’s people? The memory about the school and the soccer field or their destruction? The tourists and the immigrants? The simple life and memories about the sea?

What could be done for Barceloneta?

As they review all the thing experienced in Barceloneta, they encountered a simple fact: it's impossible to trace a real problem and give it a solution. They are all total strangers in La Barceloneta. What can 3 strangers possibly judge for only 3 days spent in La Barceloneta? What problem could they truly find? So instead of trying to be a perfect problem solver; they changed direction and decided to focus on the good side in Barceloneta and to enhance it.  Then there they are, remembering their experience – and came up with the perfect implication of the blocks and streets in Barceloneta: the wind; the breeze that is so focal and mostly needed in Barceloneta. The whole structure and openings, and the spaces that made it possible for the wind to flow. Of all that thought, the balconies in Barceloneta took them to other tools for their intervention: los molinetes!

The Wind Vanes, the Kite and the Children of Barceloneta

Project              : Vanes and Kite Workshop

Participants       : Children of Alexandre Gali Elementary School (age 7-10)

Place                : Alexandre Gali School, Parc de la Barceloneta

Aim                  : Gives awareness to the children about the nice breeze in Barceloneta and the configuration of the space that made the implication.

A Search for Children

08.30am. The sun was low, the streets were empty, and the clouds hovering above Barceloneta. Three wanderers started the day with hope and big expectation.

09.30am. The hope was fading, the faces changed, while the construction workers started to come. Three wanderers sit in front of the Community Centre of Barceloneta, being rejected by 3 schools. Pikima, a Basque lady in the reception of the Community Centre suggested for them to wait until 10.30am, when the director would come and might help them.

10.00am. After some other conversation with locals and a quick breakfast, they run to the library and find a possibility to arrange an activity there. Another suggestion to wait for the director, and an advice not to just invite some children to do the activity in the public space – for it might involves the local authority.

11.00am. A talk with Juanjo, a local owner of a kiosk in Parc de la Barceloneta; after a conversation with some help from Pikima. Some little hope, for them to make it in the park when the children come out from their schools.

12.30am. A door opener arrived. With Andres [who seems to be considered local by the secretary of the school] they entered the school and talked with the principal. Problem solved. The faces changed, the animo was high, and they started to run for equipments – before 03.00pm, which is the time they agreed with the school.

The Spinning Vanes, the Flying Kite and Smiling Faces

4 adults and 20 children walked to Parc de la Barceloneta, with a spinning vane in each hands, a kite with long tail, and smile on their faces. Suddenly, three wanderers became part of Barceloneta. 

Click to see presentation

BCN, May 2011
the 3 wanderers,
https://picasaweb.google.com/118123429836412410013/CitiesThroughTheSenses?authkey=Gv1sRgCKTb-d3Xw_bdXA#5621061788382541122

Agnes Stephania___Hernando Gomez___Michal Doukarsky

for

Metropolis  - Ecosistema Urbano Workshop

Jose Luis Vallejo / Andres Walliser 

Mil gracias a:

Tuhan YME

Los ninos de Escuela Alexandre Gali

El principal y la profesora de Alexandre Gali

Andres Waliiser y Jose Luis Vallejo

Pikima y Juanjo

Forn de pa Baluard

El Vaso de Oro

Los Metropolitanos  

Where are the crickets in Barcelona?

Donde esta los Grillos en Barcelona?

The screech and mechanical uproar of the big city turns the citified head, fills citified ears -- as the song of birds, wind in the trees, animal cries, or as the voices and songs of his loved ones once filled his heart. He is sidewalk-happy. 

~Frank Lloyd Wright~

 Where is the land? Where is the ground?

Can I hear them if I put my ears on the ground?

Where is the sound? Where are the crickets?

I can hear them chirping in my head.

Maybe, I can hear them if I have antennas…


Agnes Stephania for Metropolis 2011
BCN, June 2011

a [Cricket]'s View of La Sagrada Familia

a [Cricket]'s View of  La Sagrada Familia
Poster presented for 36 Views of Sagrada Familia [after Hokusai]
Metropolis Graduate Program of Architecture and Urban Culture
BCN, May 2011

La Sagrada Familia. A monumental symbol or just a neverending construction site of "ruins"? A landmark in metropolitan landscape - or an illutional appearance out of personal orgasm? A guiding lighthouse in the middle of confusing El Eixample - or a legal alien [as Sting would calls it] in the neighborhood?

Walking or hopping East from Jardins d'Antoni Puigvert through carrer Corsega, maybe seen as normal and as boring as walking in any other part in El Eixample derecha.  Anyhow, even if it seems like a long boring walk in similar blocks, everyday life in the neighborhood is full of tones and colours. The scent of lilies up on the balcony sneaking out to the sidewalks, makes a unique mixture of smells with the polen sent from Parc Guell. On the bench just around the corner, an old lady with a cane keeps sneezing - not aware of the polen that stimulates her allergy. A chirping bird flying from one tree to another, competing with the grumpy mortar mixer sounds beyond the high barks of a chihua-hua. People passes by: various colours in various melodies. 

In some points, a wide open linear area divided the rigid blocks makes a linear sight like an axis; but everything else seems the same. People come and go, while there are also those with particular acts. Some with camera hanging in their chess, or those with smiles posing on the chair outside the cafetaria. A beautiful young lady dressed like gypsy sit on the sidewalk in front of an ice cream kiosk, with novel on her right hand. For three kids there, the avinguda named after a local artist here is their soccer field cover with grey grass. 

The trees lining through Avinguda Gaudi; escorts the wanderer with their branches and leaves hovering above, makes a particular enclosure and completed the landscape with warmth. It's a long walk, as you see - but this tiny little legs can take me anywhere.  From the wooden bench to those brownie skin of the trunk. From the smells of cinnamon ice cream to the rich savoury - tangy pizza with anchovies. I stand on a clump of dirt, watching them passes me by. A boy with a ball, old couple holding arms each other, and groups of teenager laughing along the way. 

From this flattened plank of wood, the world seems smaller. I can hardly hear the roar and screech of machines, as hardly can I see the tourists with their cameras. Yet somehow up on the sky - between the range of the branches and the shilouette of leaves, I can still see the arm of the alien - reaching up through the navy blue canvas. 

Bordeaux, a Taste of Grape

Click to enlarge [go to Picasa]

[Klik untuk Bahasa Indonesia]


There are cities; where the streets seem likely the same,the breeze reminds you of other city, and the people are merely different. But there, in those kinds of cities, something tickle your senses almost to the depth.   The passer by with their languages, gestures and emotional faces, footprints and traces – or even only the smell of the iron fences. Most of times, even without realizing it – we tend to find the originality of things – and places. Advertised architecture which became a mere tourism like the particular history of the old city, gothic churches – oriental mosques – some unthinkable temples  – exotic palaces or genocide plazas. Others would prefer the grandiose culinary journey of home-made typical dish in the region, or products. All the mixture of the land, people, the culture abide and the wave of time delicately shapes a wide variety of the gestures of the city.

Sits in the Northern Pyrenees, Bordeaux bears in its skin – a nice gesture of Southern France and a delicate beauty of the mountainous terrain. The city itself nicely depicted by the collide spaces between the  new over the old ones. As the tourism industry bursts all over the globe, sidewalks and streets as well as pedestal kiosk or little chapel in the city becomes attractions on various way. People walk out from the central station – with suitcases and maps; clicking cameras along the skateboard park, and families posed in between La Porte Cailhau. The old buildings with their façade facing the river, stretches along the way – providing a nice photographic view fits for postcards and travel journey. But out of all the excitement of tourism and commodification; its blood, is the taste of grape – runs in its vein through every organ to its heart; where the seeds burst and the wine flows in the River Garonne.

First bite: Bordeaux is astringent. A familiar, yet somehow strange taste arises in the first impression. The similarity, and yet a different ambience come from the bustling people around and across the streets, pedestal and the alley-ways.  Men and women, girls and boys – with winter clothes up to their necks and the joyful smile of holiday. Rock and asphalt, bricks and mortar. Gothic churches and steel structures, small alleys and boulevards. Pizzerias and Kebab Places, bars, cafes and restaurants. Over them all, a sunny – yet freezing breeze completed the scene.

Second sensation: Bordeaux is crunchy, and sweet – with a little lemony sting and a bit of honey scent.  Not only seduce you to discover more, the facades and building blocks offer a nice scene in a typical European screen. Nice little shops, pattiseries with smell of croissant intact,  lines in the boulevard, and bouquets in the florists intertwined altogether. All of those create a rather pleasant sentiment, even if the sewage still smells putrid, the cigarettes butts decorate the pedestal, and the smoky residues clouded the streets.

Third role: Bordeaux has couple of seeds in the center. The touristic center offers the grandiose antique structures together with shops and tempting gastronomic sprays. Street signs and tram stops pointed on landmarks, a particular guide to each group of people from across the globe, or those backpackers who wander without map. The eye-catching colorful macaroons and nicely round kouignettes decorate the window displays; completed with the chocolate fondue fountain next to it. The aroma itself, supplied by the lining pattiseries, bistros, and chocolatiers – indulge you with the perfect combination of spice, butter on warm croissant, frozen sugar, nutty biscuits and intoxicating chocolate. Those very rich surroundings are like the grape seeds which you can’t taste at once – but create another entrance for another time.

The bursts of the heart: Bordeaux is wine. Flowing like the river Garonne which defines the city geographical status, wine is what defines the heart of Bordeaux. Enveloped, and surrounded by the vineyard regions, one could breathe the wine in the air – even for those who don’t drink wine. The true artistic flavor densely permeates; with the chateaus and their vineyards, bottles in the cellars, a whole dictionary abound. From broadly range of red wine to some type of white, rose or sparkling; spiced, fruity, or nutty; light, warm, or bold and elegant – such a splendor nature wrapped in bottles. Serves in typical glasses with their typical texture and color, one can see wine everywhere on the tables of restaurants, bistros, and cafes all around the city. While more beers being served in most of European city today, it’s really like another kind of story. A story – a book with free pages to write on. Bordeaux – is one of those cities where everything seems merely different, and yet tickles the senses. 

Barcelona, March 2011

Shanghai: Memoir, 2007

[Klik untuk versi Bahasa Indonesia]

Small alleys intersects one another; with small shops lined along. The length of the line limited by tiny stairs, flooded by legs trying to precede each other. This long corridor only  sometimes touches the free air, with ornamental chocolate-coloured roofs on both sides, and calligraphic-painted wood planks. In the end, the crossing intersection interposed each other labyrinth-like   grooved, led this sea-flooded people into other crossing or doors toward the street.

Wonder which Daedalus created this temple’s garden, be such that it’s thread is now so dense – loaded by people. Here, all the products meet the buyers: crafts and genuine or fake antiques, souvenirs and beautiful trinkets, calligraphic art to detailed paintings inside 7 cm jars. Mounted food to candies and cotton candy, traditional medicine to decades-old tea, fabric shoes to shiny leather belts, not to mention the sale winter clothes and boutique-made clothes on fixed price. 

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and condensed cream of sweet cinnamon arising from the hands of a Starbucks barista from the middle of the market; mixed with melting caramel and candies in the palm of a peddler, smell of the roasted chicken and cheeseburger from McDonalds kitchen, and crab broth aroma mixed with pork from xiao lung bao tiny hole. In front of the tavern, hundreds people lined up waiting their turn to pick up their dozens xiao lung bao orders.  

All men speak all languages: Mandarin, Cantonese, Gongfu, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Thai and Malay; so far as to English, French, German, Dutch, Italian or Spanish. One haggling, other being haggled. One calling, other answering. Voices of the craftsmen who worked at various heights complete the madness of sounds. Not to mention the bicycle bells and car horns from the street outside the complex. Perhaps that’s why they say any tourist should go to this particular Shanghai’s market.   

Shanghai, 2007

Beijing: Memoir, 2007

[Klik untuk versi Bahasa Indonesia]


Landed average fields, with pavements or vegetation structured in such a way. The willows lined up on the streets, adjoined side by side with the height pole pedestal lighting and continuous electrical poles. Springs leaf buds overwritten by the shiny silvery dew, only supported by the elegance of the wind; swaying lightly over it’s new shoots. Down in the left-opened sandy soil, lying some cigarette butts under the willows, waiting for the scavenger who comes every morning.

City Park flooded by plum flowers and rows of toddler Bao Babs, with hands hanging  loomed as an inverted sticking roots down the earth. Windows disguised by the grey-white mist, where sometimes captured- in frame- moms looks down to the street as they hung the clothes; while also chatting with others on above or lower level. 

Dispersed are the scent of the earth, mixed with a light aroma of rose tea and dark concentrated broth smoke, thick condensed melting fat, and  the delicate aroma of steamed bread. At the end of the wave of these smell, meet the pungent carbide and the newly signed gasoline vapour, stinky putrid  river and sewer dashed niff of final disposal.

A scavenger smoothly moves on the edge of the road with a claw in his right hand and steering wheel in his left, riding a small bike with a cart behind.  Next to him, an old man on the sidewalk wearing trousers made of old sacks, decades- old leather shoes with tangled rope wet with puddles, a long-sleeved blue shirt with dark blue jacket, a cap that facing backwards with earmuff and gloves soggy wet of tonight’s rain. His slant eye tail off even more due to the wrinkles in his forehead and a rarely warm smile;  result of his brief conversation with a tourist at the crossroad.

In front of them, dozens of cars pass every minute; a relaxed or hurry one, public and private vehicles, with locals or tourists inside of them. Wheels and tires passed over the glossy black asphalt, wet by rain and a bit vague in the dust that fell overnight. Standing at many crossroads, large columns holding pedestrian bridges, and its interchange to each pedestal body. 

At the end of the street lined up those who waiting for taxi or buses, waiting to be picked up or for crossing the red light. Some with high boots, long trousers and long-sleeved shirt, jacket or long coat strongly tied to survived the cold. A big book or a folder in the left hand, a handbag or a backpack hanging in the right, completed with a cup of coffee, tea, or even only hot water with hint of puffed white-smoke. Some others dressed in their own style, staring dreamily into different directions, playing with their own wishful thinking that floating and hovering apart from their body.

   

People of all these sizes, types and classes might meet later in the afternoon in a building or another; climbing the same marble staircases, or holding the same metal railings. Stepping on the same elevator, or breathing the same air conditioned atmosphere; while the time keep on strolling, seemed as chasing one another.

Here, people may forever ask; what are they doing today.

Here, the plants may always wonder, how long will that sun survive this time.

Here, the roads and asphalt may ask, when will the rain come again.

Here, the buildings may forever wonder; keep asking and joking one another.

Beijing, 2007

Lourdes, End of the Year

[Klik untuk versi Indonesia] 
Empty. The almost dark grey sky are slightly washed by the cumulus arcs; and the watery air are yet arid feel. Lonely branches sticking out and challenge the sky along the pedestal, gave their nod last month to the runaway beavers. A thermometer started to freeze, hanging on the corner of a restaurant wall next to the train station. In front of it, there’s the owner prepares to go home for the umpteenth time.

The greenish brown pants tightly filled by layered socks and long johns. In the end, a pair of rubber-soled leather boots thinning eroded by the asphalt and last week – snow. A candle nut colored leather jacket with high collar that she wear definitely not just to cover her body, with a bushy scarf with similar color which hid half of the layering fur knitted to the collar; up to her chin. Her hindered gesture confirming the density of clothes she wore under her jacket. Gloves  and a knitted skullcaps completed her costume today; leaving only her face and a little bit of hair on the forehead get in touch freely with the freezing cold. Her smoky breath is like the breezy-blown cigarette smoke. With a wave to a kiosk owner inside the station, she stepped onto the declining path.

The pedestal under his feet damp by the wet air, washed out traces of the afternoon busy city. The fragrant of wooden branches sticking along the way emanates from the dripping dew. That very fragrant which usually being swallowed by hundreds scent of perfume and aroma of millions pilgrims, are now freely lunge –  carried within the breeze and hovering on the lonely air. Anyone could sense the solitude of the Pyrenees and the scent of snow up there, only by sank into the smoky breathe in every corner of this street. On the gaps of that solemn aromas, comes the scent of savory grilled salmon and the light breadcrumbs crawling out from a restaurant of the hotel – whose sign becomes an accent over the emptiness.  Sometimes appear those who walk piercing the wind and the cold weather, who enter the lobby to warm up their hands – or those who come in search for one bowl of hot soup.

In some heated rooms, they serve a set menu or ala carte for the hungry and freezing pilgrims. Small groups from other part of the globe with their own guide and priests, those who come in search of solitude and contemplate, those in desperation or put their hope onto the faith; or those amazed by the solitary of this land towards Christmas.

Clinking sounds of the forks and knives collides the dishes, silver spoons swirling on ceramic cups, singing constant tweeter. Over which,  the light chattering around the tables adding the swaying bass. Those who laugh and jokes on stories in the bus this noon, an old man teasing his wife after decades of tasteless marriage, those with comments on a glass of sauvignon blanc in hand, or those who choose the weather and the cold breeze as a theme accompanying the meals. Along with it, the waiters which always understaffed quickly walk from table to table.  Sometimes with potage crème de champignons on both hands, sometimes with canard a l’orange on the left and gratin de saumon au vin blanc on the right. Across the room, his fellow co-worker is pouring the cabernet sauvignon for a middle-aged couple who are busy with entrecote pieces on their plates. All around the bar, some white-haired women tell stories and joking to each other, with canes or wheelchair next to the sofa and a big glass of beer or a cup of hot chocolate on their table.

Outside, the night falls, no moon, the doors tightly locked, and streets missing the vehicle. White granules fall layering the elegant Pyrenees, waiting for the sun. While the cave’s cold stones remained firmly in place, series of luxuriant-leaves ivy  enjoying the winter, and the flow of the holy water intoning a litany to The Great Owner.

Barcelona, January 2011

Lourdes, Penghujung Tahun

[Click here for English version] 
Kosong. Langit abu-abu hampir gelap berhias sekilas lengkung cumulus,  dan udara basah yang penuh titik kecil air tetap terasa kering. Ranting-ranting kesepian mencuat menantang langit di sepanjang pedestal, mengangguk setuju pada berang-berang yang pergi menjauh bulan lalu. Pengukur suhu mulai membeku, bergantung di pojok dinding restoran di samping stasiun kereta. Di depannya, sang empunya bersiap pulang untuk kesekian kalinya.

Celana kain coklat kehijauan menggemuk padat oleh banyaknya lapisan kaus kaki dan pakaian dalam musim dingin. Di ujungnya, sepatu boot kulit  bersol karet menipis terkikis aspal dan salju yang turun minggu lalu. Jaket kulit warna kemiri berleher tinggi yang dipakainya jelas bukan sekedar pelapis tubuh, dengan syal tebal sewarna menutupi separuh bulu binatang yang melapis kerah; tinggi hingga dagu. Gesturnya yang terhambat mengkonfirmasi tebalnya lapisan pakaian di bawah jaket. Sarung tangan dan penutup kepala rajutan melengkapi kostumnya hari ini; meninggalkan hanya wajah dan sedikit rambut di atas keningnya bersentuhan dengan udara terbuka yang dinginnya mengiris. Napasnya yang mengepul keputihan seperti asap rokok yang ditiup tertahan. Dengan sebuah lambaian pada penjaga kios di stasiun, ia melangkah ke arah jalan yang menurun.

Pedestal di bawah kakinya lembab oleh basahnya udara, menghapus tapak-tapak bayangan kesibukan di kota tadi siang. Harum kayu dari barisan cuat batang  di sepanjang jalan merebak dari embun yang menetes. Harum yang biasanya tertelan oleh ratusan parfum dan aroma tubuh-tubuh jutaan peziarah itu, kini bebas merangsek terbawa semilir dan bergelantungan di repih-repih udara yang sepi. Siapa saja dapat merasakan sepinya Pyrenees dan wangi salju di atas sana, hanya dengan meresapi nafasnya yang berasap di sudut-sudut jalan ini. Di sela-sela sepinya aroma itu, gurihnya wangi salmon panggang dan remah roti yang ringan keluar  dari restoran sebuah hotel yang lampunya menjadi aksen di tengah kekosongan. Sesekali tampak pejalan kaki yang berjalan menembus dingin dan masuk untuk sekedar menghangatkan tangannya di lobby hotel – atau mereka yang masuk untuk mencari semangkuk sup panas.

Di ruang-ruang dengan penghangat, mereka menyajikan menu set atau ala carte untuk para peziarah yang lapar dan kedinginan. Rombongan-rombongan kecil dari belahan dunia seberang dengan pemandu dan pastor mereka sendiri, mereka yang datang untuk menyepi dan berkontemplasi, mereka yang putus asa atau menggantungkan harapan pada keyakinan; atau mereka yang keheranan melihat sepinya tanah ini menjelang Natal.

Bunyi denting pisau dan garpu yang beradu dengan piring, sendok-sendok keperakan berputar di cangkir keramik, melagukan nada-nada tinggi yang konstan. Di atasnya, suara obrolan-obrolan ringan di tiap meja menambahkan nada rendah yang berayun. Mereka yang tertawa dan bergurau karena cerita di bus tadi siang, seorang kakek yang menggoda istrinya setelah puluhan tahun pernikahan yang tak berwarna, mereka yang berkomentar tentang segelas sauvignon blanc di tangan, atau mereka yang memilih cuaca dan udara dingin sebagai tema pengantar makan. Sementara pelayan restoran yang selalu kekurangan tenaga berjalan cepat-cepat dari meja ke meja. Sesekali dengan potage crème de champignons di kedua tangan, sesekali dengan canard a l’orange di kiri dan gratin de saumon au vin blanc di kanan. Di seberang ruangan, teman sekerjanya menuang cabernet sauvignon untuk pasangan separuh baya yang sibuk dengan potongan entrecote di piring mereka. Di sekeliling bar, beberapa wanita berambut putih bercanda dan bercerita, dengan tongkat penyangga atau kursi roda di pinggir kursi dan segelas besar bir atau cokelat panas di meja.

Di luar sana, malam menjelang, bulan tak nampak, pintu-pintu terkunci, jalan-jalan tanpa kendaraan. Butir-butir putih turun melapis keanggunan Pyrenees, menanti datangnya mentari. Sementara batu-batu gua yang dingin tetap kokoh di tempatnya, rangkaian ivy berdaun lebat kegirangan di musim dingin, dan aliran air suci bergemericik melantunkan litani pada Sang Empunya.

Barcelona, Januari 2011