I Should Have Written This Days Ago

I really should have!

But getting back was busy (of course), and then being back was - well, I wont' get ahead of myself.

So those first two days in Dublin, I took one of those hop-on, hop-off tour buses, as I'd mentioned in my last post. Ultimately, though, I've concluded that after the first go-around, they are a monumental waste of time. Next time, I'll take the bus once around to get a glimpse of everything, maybe, but other than that, I much more enjoy myself and the city on my own.

On the third day, I just started walking. I had only a vague itinerary - Christchurch, Dublin Castle, and St. Patrick's, right?



Mission accomplished! Mostly!

I went to St. Patrick's first - sort of. Actually, I went to Grafton Street first, and got a fun time getting lost. This was the place that reminded me of different spots in Barcelona the most, if only because of all the shops - but I liked it better because Grafton Street is a relatively short street, with lots of other little walk-only streets crossing it, so it's like a little network of pedestrian fun. There were lots of streets like these in Dublin, and I adored that - I love the walk-only street. They're so much nicer, and I feel like they make you really get into the nooks and crannies of a place.

So anyway, after I did a little shopping and discovered that I'd missed a walking tour on the 1916 revolution (which made me sad), I struck off on my own; I visited St. Patrick's, which is beautiful. There's a park next to it that's just gorgeous, and in the back of it, they have memorials to various Irish writers:



So after I went inside and took a million pictures of the gorgeous stained glass, I went to Christchurch for probably my favorite historical moment of the trip - this exhibition they were doing on the Vikings!!! :D

It was so interesting to learn about them, and everything was interactive - and they had these great replicas of places and people:


Hehehe... he's on the turlet!

They also had a medieval village/market - but that floor was beset on all sides by hordes of Spanish teenagers, gumming up the works and just making me want to get out of there. Though I did talk to some of them, and they were actually really cute and sweet. I just didn't want to be taking pictures and trying to get my learn on with them wandering around, getting in the way, and yammering the whole time. LOLOL. But they were nice. One of them asked me where I was from, and I told him the U.S., and he asked me how I spoke Castillian so well (YAY! :D) and I told him my mom is Cuban, and then he was like, "Ah, yes, -that's- your accent!" LOLOL YAAAY!

So anyway, after Christchurch, I wandered around a bit more, and found Dublin Castle.

Sadly, they were done with tours for the day, so I wandered over to the Beatty Library, had a little lunch, looked at some things, and tried Turkish delight for the first time.

As I wrote in a text that many of you received:

"You know, it's not bad, but I find it hard to believe that Turkish delight was ultimately responsible for the betrayal of Aslan and Narnia."

And I agree with Alexis' assessment; respect has been lost for Edmund. LOLOL.

Okay, enough nerd humor.

So after the library, it started pissing rain - it was crazy! It had been blue-skied and sunny, gorgeous, and then all of a sudden - deluge! My cute little sheep umbrella that I got from the airport immediately succumbed to the wind, and I went to the library/museum gift shop to see if they had any umbrellas for sale.

They didn't, but they just gave me one they had back there! So sweet!

So after the library, I wandered back another way toward St. Stephen's Green, and stumbled upon this:



What a neat little market! I found a CD store that was playing what sounded like The Knife - so I went in and asked. The Irish hipster at the tiny counter looked at me with impressive disdain and disgust as soon as he heard my American accent - but when I asked if what was playing was The Knife, he looked at me again, less suspiciously this time. He informed me that actually, it was the chick from the Knife's solo project - I was like, "Oh, really? I didn't know about that! Cool!" And then he actually seemed to kind of warm up (well, relatively speaking), and told me that yeah, it'd only just come out a few weeks ago. So I was like, "Awesome," and asked for it, and I bought it, and I am excited because it's pretty cool, but I also actually bought a physical CD that just came out - I don't know if this has happened to me since before 1998. LOLOL.

Anyway, I also got a nice banana nut bread, and then took a walk through St. Stephen's Green. I'd been planning to go to the National Gallery, but I was pretty beat, and my feets were hurting from walking all day! So I went back to my inn instead!

Sadface!

But anyway, it was a lovely day. I wish I could have had just one or two more - but c'est la vie! :D

Dublin Redux: This Time, Without Jetlag!

Oh, Jaysus, Dooblin!

I don't even know where to start.

I decided to go the touristy route this time, big time - and it's such a weird experience. I mean, not too much - I just ride a bus, and it takes me places - but I researched very little for this trip, and am basically trusting the tour bus to take me interesting places, and cabbies to tell me where to hang out. It's been working out so far, though I'm going to check out lonelyplanet.com tonight for more advice.

Yesterday, I had great ambitions to see Dublin Castle and maybe Christchurch after stopping at the Guinness Storehouse for a pint.

LOLOL - I really should have known this plan was made of fail.

To my credit, I got off to a late start - I went to sleep quite late, since my flight got into Dublin at midnight local time, and by the time I got to my hotel and decompressed a little, it was well past 3:30.

The hotel itself - the Fleet Street Hotel in Temple Bar - was... well, it was kind of a dive. Not a crackhead, by-the-hour kind of dive, but run down, broken stuff in the room, grotty carpet, my-room-smelled-like-fast-food-and-cigarettes kind of dive.

To be honest, at that point, I couldn't have given less of a crap. The bathroom was clean and so were the sheets - so cleaned up and passed out. (Well, before I passed out, I made sure I had a room at my next place of sleepings. LOL.)

The next day I was on my way to where I'm staying now - the Leeson Inn, about two blocks from Stephen's Green. It's a lovely little neighborhood, removed from the noise of the denser part of downtown, but still within walking distance of the city center. I went to drop my stuff off, since check-in wasn't until two. Then, after getting a deliciously awesome breakfast at a place called Foley's a couple of blocks from my It started off innocently enough - I wandered around, learning about how beer is made, taking pictures of cool stuff, being a good, interested tourist. Then, we got to where you pour "the Perfect Pint."

Fortunately, the training I received as a member of a co-ed fraternity in college was of great use to me - I had no trouble learning this little Guinness trick. Of course, the problem now is, I can only pour the perfect pint into a Guinness pint glass. OH SADNESS.

Apparently, they deliver just the same Guinness everywhere in the world - so I discovered that the reason the Guinness tastes better in Dublin is because 1. they actually have a team of specialists who go all around Ireland making sure everything's in order to pour the perfect pint (proper air pressure, proper cold plate function, temperature, everything), and 2. the way you pour it actually makes a difference as well. Who'd have thought?! Beside the Irish, who I think would notice if somebody poured them a shitty Guinness.


My goodness, my Guinness! :D

Anyway, while I was sitting back and enjoying my delicious Guinness, I met a number of lovely people, including a mother and daughter from North Carolina - Paula and Caroline. We ended up touring the rest of the factory together, having another pint, then parting for a bit for them to do a little more shopping while I went back to check in at my hotel. We'd made plans to get back together for dinner, pints, and music at Foley's. :) That we did, and all were lovely!

Now, the reason I'd chosen the Leeson Inn was because Orbitz had told me that it had both air conditioning and wifi.

As it happened, the air conditioning bit, whether a misrepresentation on the part of the Leeson Inn or Orbitz, was definitely not the case. Fortunately, it hasn't been more than 65 degrees Fahrenheit since I've arrived here, so it's not really much of an issue. But the wifi was a deal - not that I can't go without it for a few days (>.>) but not only is correspondence and documenting this trip a big deal (one can wait, the other can still happen without internet connectivity), but the internet is a huge traveling resource for me - it's how I find out about things from what to wear to where to go to the number for a local cab.

So by the time I discovered this last night, there was no room left at the inn - I had to stick it out on the third floor, in a room that was seriously the size of a peanut.

The concierge told me last night that they couldn't switch me, no way no how; no no no. This morning, I was told there was no wifi in the rooms at all, despite what Orbitz had assured me.

By now, I was ready to lose my shit. It's not so much even being without the internet - I am capable of going to reception and doing my business there. The issue was that I'd been told both by the hotel the day before I'd checked in (I'd called to change my booking to a day earlier once I'd seen the hole I'd started at) that there was wifi in the rooms, and it was on the Orbitz website. My computer had been able to detect the Inn's wifi, it just couldn't connect to it since the signal was too weak.

So at this point, these people were trying to play me out - or at least placate me with lies - and neither of those are okay with me.

So I went down to speak with the manager.

Now while I waited to speak with her, I had to chant a mantra to myself - be polite. Be polite. Be polite. My experience in Barcelona had kind of brought out the battleaxe in me - I'd been run around so many times that I'd lost all patience for bullshit, excuses, and not getting what I'd been promised when I'd been promised it.

Fortunately, the manager of the Leeson Inn was not trying to placate me.

She was tough, and firm, though polite. I was equally polite and firm, though sincerely pleasant as well. I think she was expecting battle axeness based on the receptionists' explanations - I don't know, maybe it's because I looked quite American. In either case, I think she was a little taken aback by my calm, reasonable explanation of the situation. I didn't yell, I didn't demand, I simply explained that the website and the person I'd spoken to Saturday night had told me there was wifi available in the rooms; I also explained that I'd been able to pick up a signal on the third floor, but that it was too weak for me to work with, so if they had something available closer to the reception area, that would be very helpful.

Anyway, once I said all that, she was very accomodating - she looked for a room near reception, and indeed, I got the room next to the main office, which I suspect is where the router and modem are probably kept. It's a much nicer room, too - probably twice the size of my last one, with a much bigger bathroom (and bathtub!), a window that doesn't face the street (less noise!) better lighting, better TV, a little chair, a desk, and - most importantly, obviously, LOL - wifi! :D

It's a weak signal, but I've been able to look up everything I've wanted to, update my blog (obviously), upload pictures, and even watch a few TV episodes. :)

YAAAAY!

I wrote in my little notebook while I waited for breakfast:

"I think one of the hardest things for me to do is be simultaneously polite and firm. In the attempt, I often find one overtaking the other, politeness giving way to aggression or excess forcefulness when met with resistance, or firmness melting into undue acquiescence or complacency in the face of slippery sweetness or helplessness.

Ireland, I find, helps me strike the right balance - or maybe they speak my language and I theirs.

They are polite and accommodating where they can be, and also full of shit here and there; but this is not malicious, and when politeness, honesty, and courtesy are employed in undermining the bullshit, they are, again, quite gracious."

In any case, once all that was wrapped up, I got on my tour bus and went around the whole loop this time so I could figure out where I wanted to visit today; I ended up choosing the Kilmainham Gaol, with ambitions to walk over to Dublin Castle, then Christchurch. >.>

LOLOL right. Ambitious again.

It might have worked if I hadn't gotten lost on the north side of Dublin for an hour or so! LOLOL.

Anyway, Kilmainham was a place of really great sadness. It was initially built in 1796, and was a horrible place, all open air (so the prisoners were always exposed to the rain and cold), and made of limestone (so even if the rain wasn't actually reaching them, it was soaking through the building - I was coughing for an hour after I left the place). It was several degrees colder within the walls of the jail than outside - and even in the outdoor areas, it didn't seem as sunlight quite made it all the way in.



The tour guide told us the story of the fourteen men who, in 1916, declared Ireland's independence from England, and where subsequently jailed and ultimately executed - martyrs to the cause for Ireland's freedom. One of them was Joseph Plunkett, who'd been engaged to a woman named Grace Gifford. Joseph had been scheduled to be executed May 4; He asked permission to marry her May 3, hours before his execution. It was granted, and she was taken away directly after the ceremony; later on that night, they were allowed ten minutes together in his cell, with a guard present, reportedly counting down the minutes aloud. When the ten minutes were up, she was escorted outside the prison, where she waited until the gunshots of the fourteen men being executed stopped.

Damn.

Afterward, rather than joining Caroline and Paula (whom I'd run into again there), I went back to O'Connell to take some pictures of the General Post Office, where Irish independence was initially declared in 1916 (great building):



My intention after that was to check out Christchurch and Dublin Castle (LOLOL), but I ended up getting turned around and lost for an hour and change - by the time I got my bearings back, I was so tired, I just wanted a nom. Fortunately, the place voted best bar in Dublin for 2009 was right across the street, so I went in and got a "gorgeous" bit of salmon (sweet Christ, it really was gorgeous - Dublin has some great, great, great food) for an extremely reasonable price, then picked up a little chocolate before taking the bus to Merrill Square. Not far from my inn, it was at the park there where some of Oscar Wilde's most famous one-liners are written on these interesting plaque things, and this very cheeky statue of him sits (or should I say, lounges? I think I should):



So all in all, a good day.

Tomorrow, Christchurch, Dublin Castle, AND St. Patricks, I SWEAR. Unless Lonely Planet has a better idea... >.> LOL!

All in all, a really lovely day. Lots of sights. Maybe more deets on people later, but damn, I am beat! :D

In Which I Write Because I Don't Wanna; In Which I Write Because I Don't Wanna Forget..

I missed being surrounded by people speaking Spanish.

That was the first thing.

I stumbled and forgot sometimes what language to speak; people addressed me in English, and I felt like there was a mental emergency braked pulled before I responded in Spanish.

That was really strange, because it didn't happen like that in Spain at all with English.



But I'm screwing up the time line - the truth is, that wasn't the first thing. The first thing, probably, is that I took an evening (for Spain - 10:15) flight out of Barcelona to Dublin. But that's not the first thing, either. Before that came my last day in Spain, which I spent contentedly packing; after I'd had most of that done, I went for one last look at the Mediterranean, and some sun. Thus energized, I finished up my business, cleaned the apartment, and got ready to go.

What struck me in the airport, which hadn't before in other contexts, was how many people travel to other countries without speaking the language of the country they're visiting.

I was hungry - I got a little sandwich at a little airport sandwich place, and sat at the counter, watching the other customers come up. It was really surprising, how much pointing went on, how many fingers held up. This seemed like such a vulnerable position to be in - of course, communication eventually happened, the message was sent and received - but that was in the airport, where things can generally be counted upon to go a certain way. But how does it work elsewhere?

Even Italy seems a little intimidating to me, and there have been times when I've been able to understand whole conversations in Italian because of my knowledge of Spanish. But these Germans, these Russians (whom I've noticed seem to comprise the majority of non-Romance-language or English-speaking travelers), they're all up in it, traveling with their families, with their friends, and getting by. Sometimes they don't really speak that much English, either, but they get by.

I think there's something to that. Maybe - I don't know. Despite the fact that I've spent this trip very focused on elements and objects (sun, sand, sky, architecture, art, history), and not really been spending the majority of my time with other people, I've still really enjoyed being able to talk to the people hosting me, as it were.

(Though contrary to rumor, -not- everyone in Dublin is immediately warm and friendly - at least not as far as I've seen. Most, definitely. But then, I've looked very much the tourist the past few days with my backpack and my hat - in Spain, I blended much better. LOLOL. Even so, in general I've found Dubliners to be kind, helpful, and funny.)

In any case, the overwhelming majority of the natives I've met - in Barcelona, in Mallorca, in Dublin - have been nothing but helpful, fun, engaging, interesting and interested. I've enjoyed talking to them, learning the character of the citizens of these cities and comparing them to the cities themselves - wondering how they influence each other. I certainly plan to travel in the future, and I hope to have the opportunity to learn a little of the languages of the places I'll be going when I do. I don't anticipate much trouble with French or Italian - maybe Portuguese for Portugal or Brazil. But I think I would like to visit Germany someday, or North Africa or the Middle East.

(I don't know that I've given up hope on Arabic, but it's not an effort I'm particularly willing to exert at this point in time.)

Anyway, this has become a pretty major digression. I don't know how I feel about the idea of seeing places without being able to communicate with the people who inhabit them. I certainly think that many of the works of art I've seen could be appreciated in any language, but for example, I visited Kilmainham Gaol today in Dublin - and there, in the museum section, everything was in Gaelic and English, and the tour was given only in English. I don't know if historical sites are of any interest to people who don't share the strange sort of cultural commonalities we of the formerly-English-occupied world do, but I was interested in the historical aspects of Spain I was exposed to - but then, I have a hereditary stake there, too - especially in Barcelona, where my grandfather's family was from originally. (Maybe his grandparents and up, I think.)

But then, I'm a history nerd. I don't know why other people travel. Architecture speaks for itself; art does, nature does. Beaches certainly do. I don't think every vacation necessarily needs to be an anthropological excursion. So I guess those things draw other people, too; landmarks, food, music, climate. Those can say a lot, too, about a people, about a place.

I'm interested. But I still want to learn another language.

I just have to decide between French and Italian next.

Let's Talk About Gaudí.

So when I decided to come to Barcelona for a month, there were a few reasons - most of them vague, one quite practical. I knew I wanted to be on the Mediterranean coast - that was never in question. Also, it was always my intention to visit Mallorca while in Spain, but I wasn't just going to call my cousins and be like, "Hey, guys, is it cool if I crash at your place for a month?"

(Honestly, I think they would have been cool with it, but that wasn't what I was trying to do in any case.)

So Barcelona is one of the closest departure points to Mallorca. The only one closer (that's a major city, from which the boats leave) is Valencia, and to be honest, it was a toss-up at that point. I'd never heard anything bad about Valencia, I'd assumed it was beautiful, but Barcelona had been getting a lot of good press in the past couple of years.

I was a little intimidated by the idea of staying in Catalunya. I knew everyone here speaks Catalán, and I decidedly do not. But everyone told me that everyone here also speaks Castillian, so that was reassuring. Beyond that, I kept hearing about how full of great art and culture it was. These are vague accolades to be sure, but I was interested.

So when I got here, I was immediately blown away by how pretty it was, sure - but as I've recorded, I quickly became acquainted with the work of one Antoní Gaudí, Barcelona's most famous architect, whose genius has inspired generations of architects who've followed him.

Blah blah blah.

I saw La Sagrada Familia, probably his most famous work; I saw the Park Güell, which is the thing that everyone who´d ever even thought of Barcelona told me to go see. Both were absolutely breathtaking, for sure, and worth the hype. But yesterday and today I went to see the two apartment houses in the city he´s most famous for designing; Casa Battló and Casa Milá (better known as La Pedrera, or "The Quarry").

Now, while Vinnie was here, we'd planned to go see these on his last day in town, but I was so exhausted from our sojourn to Sitges (possibly my new favorite place on earth; Sitges will get its own blog post, rest assured), I opted to stay in that day, aside from running a few errands. Apparently, according to the Rough Guide, Vinnie had said, Casa Milá was the more impressive of the two, and more worth going to see. So, knowing that my days in Barcelona were numbered, but not really wanting to travel too far, and recognizing that there was more Gaudí work to be seen, I opted to take a look at these houses.





I went first to Casa Battló; its exterior is the one that had appealed most immediately to me. La Pedrera is clearly impressive as well, but Battló´s colors and curves drew me from the first time I saw it, and I´ve only come to think it more beautiful each time I´ve passed it.

The interior was hardly a disappointment. The building was commissioned by the Battló family; it had been a pre-existing structure, and they hired Gaudí to remodel it. Without getting into too many details about the whys and the hows (though I found them really interesting, how he combined form and function so seamlessly), he did just that.



As my audioguide told me, Gaudí was greatly inspired by nature, and the shapes and structures that appear in his architecture are ones that he discovered in the natural world. The colors, curves, arches, warped wood and glass that make up Casa Battló are inspired by the sea, and even on the rooftop, that motif remained consistent. Every inch was crafted with aesthetic and utilitarian purpose - it´s not just Modernist wank.



La Pedrera is a larger structure. The rooms of the apartment they let us see were not, to me, quite as interesting or impressive, but they were full of furniture from the period, which was really cool to see. The building - the indoor patios, the curved staircases, the balconies, everything - was really beautiful, don´t get me wrong. But it was working with more of an earth theme, as its name suggests, and I´ve always had more of an aesthetic and personal affinity for all things marine.



In the attic, though, there was not only some truly impressive architecture, but a ton of information on Gaudí´s work, with audiovisual aids, scale models, and a bunch of neat stuff. It was fascinating to learn more about the artist, where he got his ideas from, and examples of how his work not only carries its weight in artistic merit, but how he revolutionized architecture with methods that employed efficiency, ecological friendliness, and really, just ingenious thinking.



Also, we got to go on the roof - which had the craziest views!



So what about Gaudí? I don´t know - he was the descendant of coppersmiths, and he learned his trade from them. In architectural school, one of his professors said they were giving a degree either to a genius or a lunatic (probably a bit of both, if other geniuses are any indication). He had this amazing, creative eye and vision that melded nature and modernity in gorgeous and original ways.

All of this is bunk though - this whole post, really. How can I articulate how seeing all this affected me? How can I communicate, without sounding like a pretentious twit, the feelings that being inside these structures, seeing the work in front of me, inspired? Can I admit I was a little awestruck at points? I mean, I just did, but I was. It´s a small miracle to me that one person could have such vision; could be artist and technician, architect and visionary.

I'm a little dreamy, a bit of a romantic, especially when it comes to the arts. I've never been a visual artist - I used to sketch and doodle when I was a kid, but getting better took work - hard work. Writing evolved much more naturally for me - I did it all the time, so practicing didn't feel like practicing, it just felt like doing something I enjoyed (for the most part). This is not to compare my writing to Gaudí's genius - not even a little. If I could manage a pinprick of Gaudí's creative power, his uniqueness of vision, the unbearable beauty of his talent, I'd still be way ahead. But seeing his work made me want to make things, made me want to push at the boundaries of my expression; words seem so flat, so simple and plain compared to the polyglot that is visual structure - not even painting, not even sculpture, but an entire building of communication, where every tile, every stone, every length of wood or iron is saying something, is -being- something. Jesus god. Amazing.

Mallorca

So I debated for a little while about whether I'd include my Mallorca trip in any great detail here. After all, this blog has been mostly about personal observations and adventures during my time abroad from a sort of... I don't know if I want to say removed or detached, or even outside perspective, but certainly it's been the entity of me encountering the entity of Barcelona.

Mallorca was not so much the case.

But what's nice about this thing is that there aren't really any rules for it, so I can document whatever I want. And this includes my time in Mallorca, where I spent a very lovely birthday week.

My cousins Marta and Guillermo were gracious enough to host me for five days and four nights at their beautiful, gorgeous, lovely home in Palma, which I did not take pictures of, because I thought it would be intrusive and maybe weird. But it's a beautiful place, on the seventh floor of a building in the center of Palma, with a huge roof deck/terrace/what have you and a lovely view of the mountains. There are windows everywhere in the apartment, and natural light and great breezes pervade it as a result. I stayed in their guest room, and while I was there, so was Marta and Guillermo's granddaughter, my nine-year-old cousin, Isabel - who's sweet and fun and insatiably curious. Guillermo had to work during the day while I was there, so Marta, Isabel, and I traipsed across the island together (short traipses - you can drive across the widest part of the island in about an hour and a half), seeing the sights.



We went to see the Cathedral de Mallorca, which is this gorgeous building dating back at least to the thirteenth century (if not before - I don't know where I put my pamphlet), and featuring Gothic architecture as well as a beautiful piece for the altar by Antoní Gaudí.



In addition to the Cathedral and the Old City (as well as the palace where the King of Spain summers - Bill Clinton was there!), we also took a trip across the island from Palma to the Cave of the Dragon, which is a twenty million-year-old cave with the most incredible stalactite and stalagmite formations I've ever seen. Not that I've seen many. But it was damn impressive. Pictures were not allowed, alas, but many of the formations were quite breathtaking. At the end of our walk through the cave, there was a lake, and in front of it rows of benches where we sat to take in a little concert performed by musicians in little lit-up row boats! They turned off the rest of the lights in the cave, and the water and our surroundings were illuminated only by the light of the boats - it was very like that Grimm's fairy tale, "The Twelve Dancing Princesses," when they all sneak out in the night to go party underground and are taken to a castle across a lake in magical boats!

LOLOL it's far less corny than I'm making it sound, I promise. LOLOL.

I got to meet two new cousins, Dalay and Venus, both of whom emigrated from Cuba recently - Dalay three years ago, Venus a year and a half ago. They are awesome, funny, smart, and lovely girls. Part of what was really cool about that was recognizing the similarities that emerge and remain despite having been raised worlds and seas apart. It's clear that we are of a kind.

Marta and Guillermo were kind enough to take us all out for Spanish pizza for my birthday, and then we took a walk through Palma at night, which is as lovely as any place I've been. The pace is markedly different than Barcelona's, for obvious reason - less bustle, fewer tourists (in the city, at least LOL), and in general a more relaxed attitude. The Moors occupied Mallorca for four-hundred-plus years rather than the mere one-hundred-plus of Barcelona,

Anyway, the beach was an integral element of this trip; we visited four or five different beaches in three days, each with a different attraction and character. I keep saying on this trip that these are the most beautiful places I've ever seen, but it's true; I'll grant you that having grown up in New Jersey and living in Boston doesn't necessarily give me the best exposure to the best of the best as far as beaches are concerned, but...



Anyway, I adored Mallorca. By being with my cousin there, I really got the sense of community that exists; knowing everyone you meet, running into friends on the bus. Palma is a small city, but beautiful and historically rich. The island itself is mountainous (I wish I could have gotten a photo of when I was flying in, and all I saw was this enormous mountain, before anything else) and undeveloped in most parts, and just... lovely. I had a great time there, and was quite sorry to leave.

Day Trip - Girona y Figueres (or - architecture and Dalí)

You know, I'm not even sure I have a post about Girona and Figueres (Dalí) in me. At first I'd been trying to upload the many, many pictures I took there, but my connection has not been cooperating - I'm really going to have to go to an internet cafe for that (fortunately, I've discovered a bar nearby with sandwiches, tapas, and wifi - oooo, what?!). But even beyond that, I'm not even sure how much there is to write on that experience.

It seems that any attempt I make to capture the feelings evoked by being in Girona - of exploring centuries- (in some cases, millenia-)old architecture, of taking in the views from the tops of towers and walls that I'd breathlessly (and a little fearfully) climbed, of having a glimpse of history as a living thing, of understanding what all the pages of often dry text and the arbitrary dates and lines drawn in the sand, demarcating who goes here and who goes there really amount to - will be inadequate. It a quietly thrilling, thoughtful, and really enjoyable experience. That much, I can say. Aside from that, it seems pointless to try to explain the wonder I felt, or the excitement - yes, excitement. This is maybe a nerdy thing, but I just loved the feeling of the narrowness, the sense of how close together life was then - and continues to be now, in many, but not all, ways - in this area. So there's that. For what it's worth.



Also, in Girona, I made a few new friends in the form of Tracey, Bill, and Ada - a couple and their two-year-old daughter who live in Australia, but are originally from northern England (Tracey) and Ireland (Bill). They were great fun and great company, and somehow we managed to get separated from the tour group in Girona and exploring the town on our own (and following up with some tasty lunch in the town square). Tracey has the most amazing camera eye, and not a few of the shots I took in Girona are owed to her. Also, Ada is pretty much the awesomest two-year-old I've ever met, bar none. Just the other day I was talking with Leez about how people don't need to be taking their damn kids on vacation, because the damn things don't know how to act right. Well, Ada is definitely the exception. Not only quiet and able to function independently quite well, she was funny and charming and fun without being intrusive or desperate for attention. She was a pleasure to spend time with, and by the time we'd all been traveling together for about an hour, she was clinging to my skirt and asking to be picked up. Heh!



As far as Dalí is concerned, I had a pretty good idea that he was a madman before ever having seen a piece of his in person. It hardly seems a rarity to have seen a poster of one or two of his works tattered and battered on the wall of the occasional college dorm or twenty-something apartment, a space usually also occupied by Pink Floyd or the Dead or maybe the Schpongle/Infected Mushroom crowd. Either way, I'd never really had an idea of Dalí's genius prior to this. I knew only that he was a crazy Spanish artist, and that it seemed like a trip worth taking to see his work.


Duuuuuuude, seriously... take a hit and look at this...

Right on all counts, but oh so incomplete.

Again, words fail here. Salvador Dalí was crazy, and Spanish, and an artist, but I'd never realized his genius. There is cleverness and humor all through his art, and he not only identifies connections between food, sex, relationships, violence, love, and death, but he twists them, braids them, juliennes them and then constructs things almost wholly unfamiliar but almost always recognizable. He slides in sly references to class, animals, love and loss. Also, he made puzzles, he was a magician; there are visual tricks all over that museum, and the three hours I had to peruse it were simply not enough. The scale on which he worked ranged from the smallest little seven-inch wide canvas to the entire building in which all his art was housed - the building itself was literally a work of his art, with the same visual puzzles built into it everywhere. I already want to go back.

Culture Clash: My Fellow Americans, You Are Assholes. Kind Spaniards, Stop Lying and Get Yo Shit Together.

I seriously cannot fathom how this culture managed to conquer like, a quarter to a third of the landmass on this planet with this mode of operations. I'm pretty laid back; if something's not going to happen in the time frame I'd hoped, I can work it out and deal with it. But for the love of Christ, don't tell me it's going to happen in ten minutes if it's not going to happen for four hours. Perfect example of the Spanish/American culture clash; on the way back from the Dali Museum yesterday, a tire on the bus that brought us all there blew out. I don't know about everybody else on that bus, but I had a pretty good idea that it was going to be more than a minute before they could handle the situation. But what does a good Spanish tour guide do? He tells everybody we'll be back on the road in half an hour.

Oh, nelly.

Obviously, this is not what happened. We were seriously ten kilometers (I don't know, roughly five miles, maybe? I dunno) out of Barcelona. We broke down in front of a sign that said so. But sometimes shit takes longer than we want it to, obviously, and the Spanish inclination seems to always be to give the best case scenario (or I think, in many cases, "when in doubt, bullshit!"). But half an hour came and went; then an hour came and went.

Now this is one of those moments when my American brethren exhibited the reason the rest of the world thinks we're such assholes. (No, it's not just because of Bush - Bush was just the epitome of everything that the rest of the world thinks is wrong with America, and Americans.) It's because we go out into other countries, and act like we have no fucking home training or sense of politeness whatsoever. Something doesn't go our way, and the immediate assumption is that somebody's trying to fuck with us, or get over on us, and ZOMG GOD BABY JESUS IN HEAVEN FORBID somebody EVER try to FUCK WIF AN AMURRRKAN, BECAUSE DON'T MESS WIF THE USA.

Or something.

Now, I don't know where these people were from - I couldn't place their accents (isn't it always the way that the worst offenders won't have identifiable accents so that the rest of the Americans can be like, "Oh, we're not from THERE"). But as soon as the tire blew out, one of them grabbed the guide as he was trying to give out water to the people on the bus and demanded in a really shitty, smarmy tone, "Hey, tell us what's going on! You should make an announcement!"

(Actually, he already had, but it hadn't been over the loudspeaker, for whatever reason.)

I heard their rumblings at the back of the bus almost exactly thirty minutes after the guide's announcement, it seems like. Not another thirty minutes later, this rather angry, aggressive, and ill-mannered couple stood up (FREEDOM FIGHTERS AGINST THE AXIS OF VACASHUN RUINING EVIL) and started shouting (no, seriously, shouting) across the bus to the tour guide, demanding answers, asking when we were going to get back, and essentially waving their dicks around.

Now let's take a pause.

It's not like the bus driver pulled over to chug sangría, or masturbate, or even to barf from partying too hard the night before. The goddamn tire blew out. You could see the damn thing in little chunks all over the road right out of the back window of the bus, which they were all gawking out of anyway. I know that you've probably planned a very exact and demanding itinerary for OPTIMUM FUNTIMES on your vacation, but maybe you could take a fucking pill, since it's nobody's fault!

Anyway, the guide at this point was no less agitated himself, but told them there was nothing he could do, that they were all waiting for the bus.

Now here's where the tour company needs to take a lesson.

Recognizing that it wasn't just Americans on this tour, it did seem like at least half of the people were, indeed, from the States. I don´t know how anybody else was handling it; everybody else seemed to be pretty chill. But while in this instance, it really wasn't anybody's fault, a company dealing with Americans probably needs to recognize that Americans are often a lot better behaved dealt with in a direct way. I think things would have gone more smoothly if they'd said, "Hey, we're very sorry, but it's going to take about an hour for them to get a bus out to us." That at least would have kept the bitching to a dull roar until the bus had gotten there.

And I'll be honest - it's not always in innocuous contexts like this. For example, the situation with the air conditioning in my apartment. I was told on Saturday it would be handled Saturday. Then it was Monday. On Monday, they didn't have the damn key to the roof of the apartment, so the check-in manager said he'd go get it from his office; he never came back, so the repair guys couldn't get to the roof when they came back. So then it was supposed to be Tuesday. Nobody came. The guy says Wednesday. Wednesday, nobody came, and the check-in manager was waffling, soI told the him if he didn't fix the situation by the time I got back on Thursday, I'd be talking to the landlady/big boss. Oooooh, all of a sudden, his panties are in a twist, and when I get back on Thursday, my AC is working.

But see what I'm saying? The situation could have been handled on Tuesday, and he'd had no intention of handling it on Saturday or Wednesday, but just kept telling me shit I wanted to hear to shut me up, which in turn only pissed me off more.

I kind of felt like an asshole American in a few of these instances, but at the same time, I don't know how they get shit done here; I only know how we get it done back home. And I wasn't trying to sweat my cojojos off until mid-July out of politeness, fo' sho!

How to Get Over Homesickness (Monday/Tuesday, 6/29-30)

It’s getting harder to keep track of what I do day to day – part of me really wants to record everything, for a variety of reasons, but part of me just really wants to be unfettered and enjoy these experiences without feeling any responsibility to anyone, even myself.

But of course, I can’t go more than a few days without writing something, and honestly, there’s nothing I want to write more about than Spain; what’s happening here, what this trip is doing to me, the things I’m seeing, et cetera. The problem is that so much happens every day, even when I do nothing at all, that if I lapse a few days (or four, like this week!), I end up having to do so much catch-up, it feels unwieldy.

But again, this is for my benefit. Maybe I’ll try to restructure things and really work this through. I think I may dedicate the rest of my morning to this.

So on Monday, I went on a little trip to recharge my cell (i.e., pay Vodafone some money), and while I was in the area, I took a walk to this spa I’d heard about to set up an appointment for a facial. From there, I was off to L’Arc d’Trionph (honestly, I keep forgetting how to spell this – it’s in Catalán, and I’m too lazy to pick up one of my guidebooks right now).

It was a nice little walk, and as evidenced by my facebook photo album, I took a ton of pictures of the areas I visited. When I got home, though, I was really struck by an awful sense of homesickness and malaise. Doubtless precipitated by my agitation from not having internet over the weekend, even with my restored connectivity, I still felt lost and lonely, and – honestly, I haven’t even fully parsed through it all yet. I don’t like to write during times like those, because generally it ends up being a bunch of maudlin, hyperbolic drama. Nobody needs that, least of all me. Instead, I ended up talking at length to Leez, whose words once again proved invaluable; she just talked sense to me in a way that was both comforting and calming, appealing to my sense of logic in such a way that managed to subdue my heightened emotions.

So, between talking to her and consulting various websites on how to combat homesickness, I was even more determined to carry out my plan for the following day; a facial, the Museu de Picasso, and La Boquería.

The facial was phenomenal; not exclusive to Spain, but I think a lot of times vacation is the time when we give ourselves permission to indulge in luxuries that technically we could have at home, but good sense and pragmatism prevent us from enjoying. Fortunately, good sense and pragmatism only extend so far on this trip (and in Spain, I’m starting to suspect), so I got my damn facial, and I felt like a million dollars afterward.

I walked toward the Picasso museum, and on the way, saw a free art gallery, where I went in and took some more pictures.

I love that these things exist; again, I can’t express how much I love how highly art is regarded in this city, how encouraged it is, how much of it exists. After the gallery, I got myself a damn fine bocadillo de jamon serrano, which is basically like fresh prosciutto except even more delicious, in my estimation (sorry, Italians!), then trotted off to the Picasso museum. The thing was that once I got there, I saw a sign that said the Picasso museum is free on Sundays, so I was all, “eff that, see you Sunday, fools!”

(suckers! hope you didn't like that 9 Euro! LOL)

and started walking to la Boqueria, taking side streets, because I kind of love the way the streets are in Barcelona. Extremely narrow – many it doesn’t seem like you could fit a car through without scraping the side-view mirrors (which explains, in part at least, why there are so many itty bitty teeny weenie Citroens and Peugots all over the place!). The paths are twisty, the buildings tall, and there are balconies everywhere, which gives this really interesting feeling. If the buildings hadn’t had the balconies – if they’d just been very tall buildings with narrow streets between them – it probably would have been quite foreboding, unwelcoming, and sort of inhuman. (And to be honest, there were streets where the narrowness blocked out the light to the point where I did feel a little sketched out – and on the two occasions that happened, I didn’t hesitate to turn my ass around and find some other way to go).

In any case, there are balconies, which make all the difference. The buildings aren’t monolithic structures, inaccessible stone fortresses, or worse, just objects that exist to fill space. The balconies create an unmistakable sense of openness, maybe of curiosity or interest (whether in the occupants of the balcony or the people walking below), and they are implicit reminders of the fact that life and people inhabit every corner of this city – horizontal and vertical. This is only helped by the laundry drying on these balconies everywhere you look. People live here. In other cities, in the city centers, I’ve not had such a strong sense of the people, the residents, in commercial districts, in places where business happens. Not so in Barcelona – I am reminded of the people of Barcelona everywhere I go, and I really love that.

So anyway, the Boquería is lovely, and there’s something I really like about the way food is bought here. Yes, they have supermarkets where you can get all the stuff you need in one clean shot – and that’s convenient sometimes. But that development of modernity does not seem to have adversely affected the popularity of the old-school market in Barcelona – there are markets everywhere, places with a vendor for every taste. A stall for each food category (often more than one):fruit, nuts, meats, veggies, sweets, pastries, tapas, seafood, vegetarian foods, organic foods, cheeses… I could go on.

So you can find these kinds of stalls at any market (mercat), but the biggest and best is off La Rambla, the main drag, La Boquería. I can’t tell you much about La Boquería that hasn’t been written in travel guides over and over again other than to say that it was really cool. I was not overwhelmed with wonder, but at the same time, I was impressed (and tempted!) by the variety and freshness, and charmed by the liveliness of it. I can only seem to make it to market in the hours between 1:00 and 4:00 PM, which is, of course, when half the market’s taking a siesta – but I’m going to try again today and see how I do.

After I went to the Boquería, I walked down La Rambla, and enjoyed the sights. I’d previously (and uncharitably) compared it to Times Square in New York, and that was really a base, inaccurate description, and highly misleading. At the time when I wrote it, I hadn’t yet seen enough of it to make a call – I’d just been aggravated by seen a McDonald’s sign and the proliferation of tourists than crowd the place into a clusterfuck. So in those ways, it is like Times Square – also in the sense that it’s rife with overpriced restaurants and shops full of cheap, tacky, and overpriced souvenirs. But it’s also quite lovely – a tree-lined route in which pedestrians are the priority, though there are car lanes on either side, and jesus, the sun. The sun in Barcelona is so strong, it’s hard for me not to enjoy myself when I’m outside during the day.

So I bought tickets to a tour of Girona, a city about an hour, hour and a half outside of Barcelona, and Figueres – where the Salvador Dalí museum lives. I went to the Corte Ingles, bought pretty much the awesomest cherries ever, as well as a book in English, and wandered around that area a bit before heading home, sweaty, exhausted, and content.

Though less so once I got back and realized my air conditioner was still busted.

Goddamnit. LOLOL!

Backlog: Saturday/Sunday, June 27/28, 2009

Okay, this isn’t really relevant to my whole travel adventure, but I picked up a pair of Sennheiser headphones (honestly, they’re earbuds) in Dublin that were, by my usual standards, outrageously priced, especially since I was paying in Euros. However, I have to say as I sit here in my apartment that’s on the first floor, right on noisy little street, that not only is the sound quality light years above and beyond anything I’ve experienced in portable audio before, but it is blocking out everything but “Enjoy the Silence” right now, and my iTunes volume is only about a third of the way up.

Oh, the pleasure.

Anyway, today was a day of lesson learning. I was already a crankypants because I slept too little yesterday.

As was implied in my last post’s subject, I went to the beach yesterday, which wiped me out entirely, as it tends to do. I should take this opportunity to mention that it’s agreed upon in both my guidebooks and by everyone I’ve talked to here so far, while the beach I was at yesterday is one of the better ones in the city, none of the city beaches compare with the ones that are about an hour out. (The guy who handled the exchange of funds for the apartment , who’s a really sweet Italian guy called Junior, gave me a map, and at my request, circled places I should go, tourist traps I should avoid, and wrote the names of places off the map that I should go see).

I should also say that despite this consensus, for someone who’s spent the majority of her beach experiences at the Jersey shore, it was still a massive improvement. The Mediterranean is beautiful and warm and the perfect color entirely. Walking up to it felt like wonder and home at the same time, because though I’ve seen it before, by this point in my life, I figured my impression of its loveliness must have been embellished by nostalgia and the fuzziness of a memory so far faded. And maybe, even just yesterday, even now, the near-overwhelming feeling it inspired is skewing my perception.

It’s not an exact thing, this feeling; there was some inexplicable feeling of rightness in it for me, some feeling that this was what water meeting earth is supposed to look like, feel like. There are too many facts in my head about this sea for me to let myself believe that there is some ineffable and transcendent connection between me and it. Surely my understanding of the as the sea from which I am descended, on both sides of my family , is a recognition of the mind that has wended its way through my body. It must be that knowing that this sea was once a desert, and that every part of my known heritage leads back to it, that made me feel quieter, more humbled, and somehow perfectly placed in its presence than perhaps I ever have before. (The Spanish ancestry of my Cuban grandfather leads back here – his family were Catalán, from Barcelona. And certainly, the fact that no less than three people have asked me for directions since I arrived here only reinforces this strange sense.)

I did not come here for this; I did not expect this.

In any case, yesterday was a day of enjoyment and reflection, of warming myself in the sun and moving with the waves.

But like I said, that wears a girl out; so I took a nap when I got back to the hotel.
A nap that went way long.

So, long story slightly less long, ended up staying awake until five AM, then waking up at eight to pack up all my stuff, shower, etc.

I’d met with Begoña, my landlady, yesterday, and she was extraordinarily sweet, welcoming, and apologetic about the problem with the apartment. She explained that the last tenant had suffered a heatstroke, and that was why the apartment hadn’t been available – the doctor had told him he should delay traveling a few days. I would have felt more than a twinge of guilt for my behavior in light of this knowledge, but I still don’t quite understand why I hadn’t been told this from the beginning. In any case, she gave me the key, welcoming to come stay at the apartment as soon as I liked. I’d opted to stay at my hotel specifically because I’d been told the beaches in that part of town – at Poble Nou – were better than the ones near where I’m staying, at La Barceloneta.

So okay. I got to the apartment a bit earlier than noon – the time I’d set up with Begoña – to meet with the Check-In Manager, Ahmed, to pay for the room, set up the internet, and do whatever else needed doing.

The first issue was that the air conditioner isn’t working.

This was not a great tragedy, as the high today was 77 degrees. It got quite warm in the apartment as I unpacked (and took pictures! To follow when plausible), but I figured Ahmed would fix it when he arrived (with my USB modem).

The second issue was that Junior arrived instead of Ahmed.

Maybe people are more trusting in Spain; it’s obviously more laid back here than the States in most ways I’ve been able to perceive. But clearly, when a different man than I’d been told to expect arrived without me having heard from Begoña about it, I was immediately on guard.
But Junior had the exact same paper Begoña and I had looked over together, with her writing still on it where she’d adjusted the price to compensate for the four days I hadn’t been in the apartment. So I let him in and told him about the air conditioner, which he promptly tried to fix, but couldn’t. There were phone calls; there was lament; there was the promise that his boss would come to look at it later in the afternoon. Also, Ahmed hadn’t told him that I’d needed internet, and so he hadn’t come with the USB modem Begoña had assured me I’d have, though he promised to return on Monday. In good faith, and because he promised me, despite my reticence, I gave him my credit card and paid the remainder of the balance on the apartment, as well as the deposit. We ended up talking for a long while about America, Italy (where he’s from), what he’s doing in Barcelona, what I’m doing in Barcelona, the problem with the ways universities work, and politics. It was a great conversation, and put us both at our ease, I think. He went on to circle locations of interest on my map, to warn me about pickpockets and where they’re most often found, and to tell me I had less to worry about than a German or a Swede, because I look like I’m from here.

So, as he advised, while I’d waited for him to call and let me know his boss was coming over, I went out into my neighborhood to pick up some things for the house (they totally don’t refrigerate eggs or milk here! BANANAS. Also, Kinder Joy is just that – a joy!). He was supposed to have called at 4:30, and meet his boss here at 5:00 (which I’d already taken to mean 5:30 based on my experience with Spanish timekeeping thus far – HA!).

When I got back at twenty after six, though, the air conditioner still wasn’t working, and no one had called me.

So I called Junior, and raised – well, maybe not hell, but purgatory, maybe. I was maybe kind of a bitch – certainly unyielding and not the pleasant conversationalist I’d been earlier in the day. He was extremely (and I think sincerely) apologetic, and told me his boss was coming with fans; he explained that everything in Spain is closed on Sunday, and so truly, there wasn’t anything they could do until Monday. Still upset, I called Begoña and informed her of the situation, and she reassured me of the same. Junior’s boss, Rafael, came shortly thereafter with two fans in tow, as well as an explanation and a USB modem (!).

Okay, so that’s cool. The modem had a disc for setup, and I was so eagerly excited for my internet connection, I failed to remember that my netbook doesn’t have a CD drive. By the time I realize this, Rafael was gone, and my pre-paid cell had run out of minutes. Shit.

So I’m trying to get in touch with Vodafone, my cell provider, and the automated system I’m trying to buy more minutes from isn’t understanding me, or won’t take my card, or something. After four attempts (one of which with a very impatient dick who obviously had no interest in helping someone who was not Spanish, and probably American, and hung up on me), I finally got to talk to someone who could help me, only to discover that they can’t accept my debit card because of some American legal issue with what people are allowed to use debit cards for. So what I have to do, apparently, is go to a Vodafone store, or recharge my card at a cajero (which I think may be an ATM, but damned if I know). Anyway, by this point, I was exhausted, so I’d just given myself over to dealing with it tomorrow (today). If I find a cajero today where I can recharge my card, great. If not, it’s fine – a communications blackout till Monday won’t kill me, and it’s not like I can’t write during this time (clearly – HA!).

[As it happened, didn't get connected till today - and only 3G, not wifi! Sadface! I will try to work out my wifi situation - but tomorrow. LOL)

What’s good about this, though, is that I’m thinking less and less that this is about deception or getting over, and simply a cultural hiccup. Back home, when shit goes wrong, we’re taught to expect it to be taken care of now – right now, twenty minutes ago, now. In Spain , the pace is simply more leisurely, less urgent. This is really cool when it comes to chilling out and enjoying oneself – it can be pretty distressing when plans go unexpectedly awry. But once everything was done, and I’d settled in for an early night (I am more and more rejecting this idea of “you’ll sleep when you’re dead” – I’m on vacation, and my capacity for enjoyment is exponentially greater when I’m well-rested), advice a Spanish-Portugay friend gave me came to mind – to just go with the flow. What that meant didn’t crystallize until I’d just given over to my situation, put away the modem to stop trying to make it work, put away my phone so its lack of functionality would stop tormenting me, and just read some things on my netbook and my magazines.

I’d really like to get my phone working again this morning, since I’ve made plans with a friend of said Portugay’s for this evening – but if it doesn’t happen, I’m not going to die.
As an aside, I totally just saw the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen scurry across the floor of my bedroom. I can only assume that this is as much how things go in Barcelona as it is in New Yawk. LOLOL Man, that is the one thing I hate about city living!

[In cockroach news, I haven't seen another of the damn things yet - though I'm being extra careful now with dishes, crumbs, moisture, and other roach-bait. Oh roach!)

La Sagrada Familia (for real this time), My Apartment/La Barceloneta, the Beach

Okay, so I promised to talk about La Sagrada Famila last time - the unfinished and ever-under-construction cathedral that Antoni Gaudi designed. First of all, it's insanely gorgeous, and none of the pictures I took were at all able to capture just how much so. It's impressive, it's grand, and it's different - it's all very unexpected for a cathedral, and I think because of that some greater testament to the greatness of what it's meant to worship. I don't know what Gaudi's religious beliefs were, but he definitely knew from inspiration.

La Sagrada Familia is another tourist haven, and we visitors from other lands waited in line to catch an elevator to (almost) the top of one of the four immensely tall spires. The view was incredible, as one might guess - you could see all the way to the mountains or the sea depending on what direction you were looking in. The amazing part, though, was in the details; the huge nativity that serves as the face of the cathedral; the windows inside; the stained glass. I don't know the architectural terms for the shapes this man intended stone to be carved into, but it was quite incredible.

Afterward, I met a Canadian backpacker and chatted for a few minutes before I went back to the hotel - the day really took it out of me, but I ended up staying up too late anyway. Damn you, jetlag!

But today, I went to see the apartment I'm renting this month, that one in La Barceloneta. The neighborhood is not at all fancy, and maybe it could even be a little shady - I think if I'm coming in late at night, I'll be taking a cab. There was a swastika spray-painted on the concrete of the plaza across the street. I didn't know what to think of that; I still don't. Is there a strong neo-Nazi movement in Barcelona? In this neighborhood? Was it just a bunch of kids being assholes? There was (maybe there still is) a swastika spray-painted (or something) on the sidewalk of the bridge from New Brunswick to Highland Park in New Jersey, where I used to live - and honestly, it's hard to imagine anyone having the balls to act on it in that kind of environment. But I'm in a different place, and I don't know what it means here. I don't know what to think.

My thoughts on this matter are further complicated by the neighborhood itself. It's quite lively, and I don't mean that euphemistically. The streets are narrow, and many of the buildings look like they could use a fresh coat of paint, but there's something like a bustle to it - not a hustle and bustle, mind, but just an energy that I really enjoyed. People live there - there were old people and little kids, and all ages in between. There were lots of smiles, and people talking to each other in ways that are familiar and comforting/comfortable to me. It is not the sanitary, posh, impersonal atmosphere of this hotel, or of other places I've stayed when traveling. In fact, there is nothing at all impersonal about La Barceloneta that I could see. On my way to the apartment, I asked a little old man where the street I was looking for was (as it happened, I was on it). On my way back from my meeting with the landlady, I saw him again, and he smiled at me as I smiled back with a little wave. I made three stops on my way back to the Metro; one at the pharmacy to get some sunscreen (and, since I saw it there, some after-sun spray. It's supposed to prevent peeling and prolong tans. I don't know if it works yet, but it smells nice), one at a children's bookstore where I bought the first Harry Potter book in Spanish (Castillian), and one at this little bodega for a snack.

(By the way, the Spanish? Not really into snacking the way I'm used to. Nary a granola bar or even a bag of trail mix to be found, but about fifteen different kinds of meat and seven different kinds of cheese, displayed next to little bottles of wine, in a store about the size of my bedroom.)

Everyone I met was totally sweet, charming, and helpful - friendly, warm, and welcoming. (Even the toothless old man hanging out and tormenting the Indian clerk at the bodega.) I already felt at home. On top of all that, there are tons of restaurants and little shops all around; the neighborhood has character, and a vibrant pulse that I love.

So why is there a swastika on the concrete of the plaza across the street from my apartment?

The apartment itself is lovely. Tiny, on the first floor, with just a teeny bathroom, a kitchenette, a small living room, and a bedroom. Everything looks brand-new; the exterior of the building looks recently renovated, as does the inside. I think I'll be quite comfortable there.

But what about that goddamn swastika?

Things I Love About Europe

* The Half-Flush. Back in the States, when you potty, you have but two choices - either flush down five gallons (maybe four, if you put a full two-liter bottle in your tank) of perfectly good water whenever you use the bathroom, or let whatever you just left behind sit there being nasty. This conundrum has led to extraordinary levels of water waste, as well as what I consider to be the truly gross (and unhygienic) solution of "If it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down." Here in Europe, they've resolved this conundrum (or at least, come up with what I consider to be a better solution than the hippie "let the pee fester" method) in the half-flush. The toilets in Dublin and here in Spain both had little half-buttons - if you press one, you get a little flush; if you press both, you get a big ole flush. I think this is a brilliant step toward eco-friendlier potties - and light years ahead of leaving a toilet full of pee constantly sitting in your bathroom.

* Pedestrian-Friendly Cities. It's not only because I am a lifelong and avid pedestrian that this is so great to me. I realize that cars have their uses even within the borders of the most walkable city, but what it comes down to for me is that I like walking. I like dealing with the elements, I like not being in constant climate control, and I like actually seeing the city I'm in from time to time without being separated from it by a windshield. I like to know what a city sounds like and smells like (okay, not always - but generally! LOL). Now I know that the U.S. has its share of pedestrian-friendly cities, but I've never seen a subway system like Barcelona's Metro before. Sweet Jesus, it's amazing. Clean, well-marked and mapped-out, efficient, fast; plus, it runs very frequently, even at off-peak hours, and is open late as hell on the weekends and holidays! Further, there are little signs telling you where stuff is everywhere even on the street; things are clearly marked, there are bike paths (which counts, as I consider bicyclists as close cousins to pedestrians) everywhere, and wide, well-paved sidewalks abound.

* Multilingualism. In Barcelona, in particular, this is really cool. I realize that English is supposed to be the new international language or something, and it just happens to be my advantage that it's my first language - but it's nice to see signs in English, Catalan, and Spanish - and in some places, several other languages, as well. It's simple, but it gives the sense of a smaller world, and is a little reminder, multiple times a day, that there are other cultures all around, and that we're all moving in the same spaces.

* No High Fructose Corn Syrup. Correct! I don't know if it's because Europeans have more discriminating tastes, or because they just don't truck with people fucking with their food, but I have yet to sample (or even see) anything - anything! with that horrible shit in it. Coca-cola? Made with sugar. Candy? Sugar. Pastries? Azúcar, azúcar, azúcar! Now, I have friends who will be more than happy (Tina, Nat!) to tell me all about why sugar is horrible and nasty and terrible, too, but it's better than HFC! Besides, I'm not saying I'm going on a sugar binge or anything - it's just nice to see!

* Friendly, Interested, Engaging People Who Like Talking to Strangers. Now, I will admit that in Spain, I'm at a certain advantage since I'm fluent in Spanish, but as many people will attest, sharing a common language with someone is not always a reason for conversation in the U.S. Beside that, even when I was in Dublin and England, despite the fact that I think I'm fairly obviously American (if not because of my mode of dress, which I don't find to be dissimilar from people here - one guy even mistook me for a local!! And he spoke Spanish! Like a Spaniard!!!), it's pretty clear the minute I open my mouth, even when I'm toning down my Jersey accent (which I've found myself doing here in general), people were immensely friendly, helpful, and curious. I don't know if it's that we Americans have earned a lot of credit by electing Obama into office, or if it's that we don't have as bad a rep as everyone says, or if the Irish, English, and Spanish are just generally a polite people who aren't going to treat you like shit just because they're secretly thinking you're American pigscum, but I've had nothing but pleasant experiences so far. (With the exception of the nighttime concierge at this hotel, who has been more snooty, unhelpful, and dismissive to me than anyone I've ever met before, despite my concerted efforts to be on my best behavior; truly, I have been nothing but polite, courteous, and even soft-spoken/deferential! [Yes, this is possible. I do have home training, you know.] Even so, there's a cunt in every crowd, and I certainly don't hold Barcelona responsible for her snobbery.)

* History, Art, and Culture. Granted, it's helpful that the cities I've been to have been Dublin and Barcelona, but it is a beautiful thing to walk around a city and be surrounded by buildings of artistic and historical significance. I had dinner in the church where Jonathan Swift attended mass; where the guy who created Guinness was baptized. I've seen amazing art and architecture the likes of which I never imagined, buildings that are older than America, or even the colonization of North America. (Not counting Leif Erikkson, natch.) The dork in me is so in love with this element of Europe; meanwhile, the techie spoiled brat in me adores the modernity, the innovation, the melding of form and function, and the influence that the historical foundation of these cities has had on its aesthetic development.

* Chocolate. That's it man. Just that. It's really, really good here. I don't know why. But goddamn. The goddamn pizza place that delivers to my hotel room brought me truffles that I'd have knocked somebody out for. The PIZZA PLACE.

Anyway, I need to get moving - apartments to see, sunburns to get. WOOT!

Park Güell, La Sagrada Familia, Good Eats and Thinky Thinky.

So I slept all day yesterday, woke up, hung out in my hotel room for a few hours, then took some codeine and a muscle relaxer, and went back to sleep. I have not slept this much possibly ever, and it was goddamn amazing! I don't think I've quite beat the jetlag, but I am tons and tons better than I was before yesterday. So I lost a day of Barcelona, but I think in doing so, I vastly improved the quality of the following ones. Many thanks to all the friends who offered jetlag advice on fb - I've been following it! Sunlight ftw!

There are a couple of things that occurred to me today.

One is that I'm really, really glad I speak Spanish.

They say that everyone speaks English in Europe, and maybe that's true - I don't know. In Spain, it seems like English is more of a labor for the people who can speak it, with few exceptions (usually people who want to sell me stuff).

Also, it's kind of nice to be thinking in Spanish again - even though sometimes I don't understand everything people here say, in part because I'm out of practice, in part because on top of having a Spanish from Spain accent, they have a Catalan accent! Most of the time, I'm fine with Spaniards speaking Spanish, but the cabbie who brought me back to my hotel had a really strong Catalan accent. (Think about those parts in Snatch or Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels when they had to subtitle the people speaking cockney or the Pikeys. Okay, not as bad as the Pikeys, but still!)

Another cool thing is tricking people - another of my cabbies today (okay, listen, I've been taking the Metro, but there was something wrong with the L5 Line and while it would have been nice to walk to Sagrada Familia from where I was, I'd hiked my ass all over Park Güell and I needed some AC!) asked me where I was from - he seemed quite surprised to hear the U.S.! He said he'd thought I was Cuban or Mexican. (LOLOLOL oh Mary!). This is an awesome compliment, because I'm generally a little self-conscious about my Spanish, because I'm nowhere near as good at it as English. Also, the guy at the store where I bought my cell phone said I speak Castillian better than he speaks English! (Now, I don't know if that's a comment on my Spanish or his English, but I'll take it! LOLOL)

Something else that occurred to me - or I guess it'd be more of a discovery - is that the Barcelona Metro is as fucking awesome as everybody says. It's awesome, it's clean, it's modern, it's reliable, it's speedy. I bought myself a monthly pass today, and at 47.50 Euro, it's not a bad deal at all - a little more than a monthly T pass in Boston, but hey, it's Europe - everything's more expensive here. Also, the Barcelona Metro makes the T look like a horse and buggy as far as speed, accessibility, and coverage of the city are concerned. Psha!

The third thing I discovered/occurred to me is that I actually really, really, really like hiking. I just don't like hiking with other people.

I'm kind of a city slicker to begin with - my experience with hiking equals exactly one (1) dog hike with Doug over a year ago. Besides that, I'm overweight and out of shape, and in general, the people I know who hike are decidedly not (there may be a connection here... LOL). However, when hiking by myself through Park Güell, the back end of which turned out to involve a lot of dusty-footed climbing over unpaved, mountainy terrain, I found I enjoyed it. I was careful when I needed to be, slow when I wanted to be, and took my time to look at the landscape around me and go at a pace I was comfortable with. What this resulted in was a really enjoyable hikish walk in the sun, and climbing to the top of some kind of peaky-hill-high-place-thing successfully and happily! There was no stress about being the n00b fattie holding everyone up, there was no being uncomfortably out of breath and trying to front like I wasn't, there was no tripping or falling or anything - just a nice walk, and an awesome view! Granted I didn't dress for it - LOLOL I wasn't expecting Park Güell to involve this kind of business - but my ballet flats have good, substantial soles and served me well. Maybe a dress wasn't the best choice of attire (my skirt flew up and I nearly gave the other tourists a bit of a show at a couple of points - it's windy in Barce!), but overall, I was fine!


This was my reward for climbing and stuff.

So there was that.

Anyway, after scaring the shit out of myself and climbing to the top of that little mountainy peak thing, I was like, "Now where the hell are the sculptures?!"

So after a little searching, I did, indeed, find them.

Wow.

It's like a big sculpture you can walk around in. Outside. It's... I don't even know if it's worth describing. I mean, there were tourists everywhere, from all over Europe and beyond - and I guess that was another thing that was nice about being alone, and about being abroad - I felt the liberty, for the first time, to just be a goddamn tourist. I had my camera out all the time, took pictures of every damn thing, people-watched, wandered around lost a few times, asked questions, and generally just let myself feel the wonder of being in a wholly different place that was completely new to me. It was great! As for the park itself - well, I took a bunch of pictures. That's all I can do. I will say that I hadn't known places that beautiful existed - that people could make art like that out of objects that we can be inside of, that surround us. It is a special thing to be surrounded by a structure that is, in itself, so obviously art. It was wonderful and felt otherworldly in places, and was such a great and lovely experience. I don't think I saw everything, either - I'll most likely go back before I leave and see if I can't find more.



I also took a side trip to the Casa Museu Gaudi - which is a really cool-looking pink house on the grounds where he lived. All I have to say is that clearly, I need to live with a great crazy artist architect. Well, actually I probably don't - I haven't read up on Gaudi, but if he was that talented and creative, odds are he was seriously maladjusted, or at least had major woman problems, so maybe not.

It had been my intention to write on La Sagrada Familia and maybe even the very fancy lunch I had - but I've decided now that I'm too tired. LOLOL. Anyway, the pics'll be up on fb. :D