Worldly Encounters

We were following our Contiki tour guide through winding back alleys in Barcelona, Spain. She was telling us where the best tapas bar was and that we should most definitely order a pitcher of sangria. I was at the back of the group, leisurely following along, half-listening while my mouth watered at the thought of lunch. The sun was shining and the air was warm on my skin as I reveled in the excitement of being in a new, unknown city.
I found myself becoming lost in the old architecture of the alleys, but the modernity of the urban city revealed itself around each corner, as a car would race by or disrupt the mood with a honk. Suddenly the group came to a stop and I was jostled out of my dream-like state when I nearly ran into the heels of the person in front of me.
Emerging from a narrow backstreet, we arrived in an expansive courtyard. A tall luscious tree had grown in the center, its curved branches reaching high above our heads while a modest fountain sat to the left, quietly flowing as birds bathed themselves. A group of about ten uniformed school children chased one another around the courtyard, yanking at the back of each other’s faded, oversized pink t-shirts. They shrieked joyfully and ran carelessly, their raw energy bringing a particular life to the otherwise still courtyard. The children’s infectious laughter paired with the flowing fountain and flourishing foliage created an atmosphere of vitality.
And then our tour guide told us to look closer at the wall. Leaning in, it was suddenly unavoidably clear that the concrete was bruised and scarred – huge chunks were missing all over one area. I was not prepared for what I was about to learn.
“During the Spanish Civil War, hundreds of men were executed here. Those are bullet holes,” the guide spoke solemnly, pointing at the shelled wall. Suddenly the courtyard took on a whole new mood. A place where hundreds of men lost their lives had years later become a courtyard where school children lived, breathed, and played – exercising their youth and spirit. I was struck by the irony of this startling contrast. As I learned this new somber piece of information, the kids continued to chase each other and run around us. I don’t think they had any idea.
I walked out of the courtyard with a strange feeling. How uncanny, I thought. Without the tour guide, I too, like the children, would have never known the massacre that had taken place in an otherwise beautiful backstreet.