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!