In a case of déjà vu, we had breakfast at Krumble and then set sail for the Pompidou Centre. It was coffee and croissant again and a chat with one of the owners of Krumble. Originally they had their eyes on Australia and Covid happened. Instead they moved from Argentina to Spain. A pity. I would have loved their croissants and pastries being available in Sydney.
That big white shuttered door at the Pompidou Centre was open today and it made entrance to the centre so much more obvious and much easier. Jayne chatted with the attendant and mentioned the Frida Kahlo exhibition. Apparently the webpage that noted the Kahlo exhibition was only 10 years out of date. It closed in 2015. Just missed it.
There was a semi-permanent exhibition, To Open Eyes Artists Views, and a temporary one, The Animal Dream. The former examined, amongst other things, feminist art and the latter human relationships with animals. The artist view's collection featured a variety of works from sculpture and installations to paintings and covered Duchamp to Pollock to some interesting feminist works from Judy Chicago. That is, naked painted women playing with flares (the same colour they were painted) in the California desert. It was about reclaiming the feminine form from objectification. Deep.
The cube from the inside.
The animal exhibition was reasonably predictable in the beginning and then got weird and in the end, finished with some completely esoteric film clips. Let me explain. There were the usual portrait style photographs of a variety of animals from a rooster to a lizard to an orang-utan to an elephant. Some complete with a reflection in the pupil that showed the photographer. Each of these had a darkened background like an old masters portrait. Interesting, if not obvious.
Duchamp.
The next section was a documentary. It interviewed a series of American women and one man, each of whom entered some sort of competitive dancing thing with their dog or dogs. It was riveting stuff, like seeing a car accident. You couldn't look away. Weird is insufficient to describe these people. The final movie was about the eradication of fire ants and involved a lot of cacti, some bad acting and a soccer ball. Yeah, I have no idea. Anyway, it was interesting.
Unmistakably Jackson Pollock
We had decided to forgo dinner this evening and have a late, lingering lunch. There were plenty of options along Pier One and there was only one small cruise liner in today, with a capacity of about 700 people, so crowds were low. After so much tapas, we decided a steak would be the choice of the day. It came down to two restaurants, side-by-side. One, Lola's, was recommended by our guide from yesterday. The other was not. There we have the link to today's title, Lola by The Kinks, an absolute classic from 1970.
Lola's was the cheaper option and with the prophetic words of Jayne's father ringing in my ears, "It's not cheap if you can't eat it," we sat down. The rib eye steak was really sirloin. My 'rare' was tending the other side of medium and Jayne's 'medium' was nailed to a stump in a bushfire. Part of the problem, and I haven't seen this sort of stupidity since England in 2003, was serving the steaks on a hot metal plate, so they continue to cook until the plate cools. Idiots. I thought the Spanish would know better, but then this is a tourist area, heavily frequented by Brits.
There were two other issues with our lunch. The red wine was served and the bottle was unchilled. This is a first in Spain. All red is served slightly chilled to combat the heat and the white is over-chilled and iced to death in a bucket. Consequently the wine wasn't quite blood temperature but it didn't get to show its best. The view across the harbour was delightful and the people watching was interesting until a 'super yacht' arrived and obscured our view and that of about four other restaurants. It turned out the yacht was once owned by a Russian oligarch (now dead, a pity a few more don't follow his lead) and is for sale for a tidy €240 million. Now I've always been more of a socialist than a capitalist, dear reader, even when flying Business Class, but the concept that someone could spend that sort of money on a plaything is absolutely ludicrous. If you haven't read Juice by Tim Winton, you should.
On the walk back to the hotel, we saw a bobcat bogged on the beach. Vastly amusing. Spades at the ready, the workers, trying fruitlessly to dig it out, sent sand flying. More like dirt flying, it doesn't really resemble sand at all.
Funny to watch.
Back at the hotel, we changed and joined many other guests at the pool. There were more people cultivating sun cancers than in the water and it was a refreshing dip. The afternoon sun was moving quickly and we needed to move to capture some warmth and dry our gear, in preparation for packing for transit day tomorrow.
Before. After.
The area below our room had been transformed into a Porsche car wash. There were six or seven of them lined up at the front of the hotel in the morning. None of them were ours. I didn't see the Peugeot 308 getting washed.
The hotel from the beach.
As the sun was close to setting, we walked back down to Pier One to photograph the sunset. Yeah, nah. Not much happening there. And have a gelato.
I've seen better.
That was the day.
Until tomorrow, another transit day.
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