NOLA

It's easy to love a city in 36 hours, especially when you go to exactly the area designed to make you fall in love with it, especially when the city is New Orleans, which seems to have been created strictly for pleasure: food, drink, sex, music, heat, magic. The celebration of life with the subtle, underlying awareness of (and resistance to) death is everywhere we've been here, and we haven't left the French Quarter. The people are incredibly warm, but maybe it feels different than other parts of the South - people just greet you in the street. Men just greet you in the street - not even trying to chat you up. They see a pair of pretty girls and just want to say hello and have a good night.

Years ago, I formulated a half-baked emergency evacuation plan to New Orleans. I had been making serious messes in my life, and just wanted to go somewhere else - do something else. I'm not sure how that would have turned out - it seems like New Orleans could be a dangerous place to escape, because all the pleasures I mentioned earlier can be so easily used as escapes in themselves; escapes that become a lifestyle, that obscure the path to the other things I wanted at that time - things already obscured by layers of my own lack of self-awareness and care. It might have taken longer for me to clean up the messes I was making - but maybe not.

Either way, coming here now that I'm 30-something and have my shit mostly together, coming here when I'm less than a year away from graduating from my MFA program, coming here when the cold of Boston - all the different colds of Boston - have only started to thaw, and were cracking my bones for six months, makes me long and long and long for this place. I know that it's not all the French Quarter; I know that New Orleans has been hurt, and badly, by the past few years, but I think I need to live in this city. More than New York, which would work for me, which would provide opportunity to me - I think New Orleans could thaw me out, bring back something living in the Northeast has slowly been diminishing.

Anyway, this kind of reflection isn't so much about what we did in New Orleans, which was eat, drink, and be merry. Of course, we went to Cafe du Monde and had beignets and frozen coffees, which were amazing, of course. We walked Decatur street, did some shopping. But really, it was the food.

Jambalaya, crawfish etoufee, gumbo ya ya, red beans and rice (the only beans and rice I've ever tasted that I'd even think about putting up against my grandmother's), fried crawfish tails, creme brulee, white chocolate bread pudding - and crawfish! The whole kind that you eat, then suck the heads. (This was way more troubling to me than I ever could have anticipated; for someone who eats meat as often as I do, I had a lot of trouble tearing the head off of something - even something that just looked like a huge red bug - and sucking/tearing its insides out. It was kind of a violent and sad process. Yes, I understand that factory farming does much worse than that, but I don't chop the heads off of cows or pigs and de-rib them.)

Anyway, needless to say, the food was amazing. Like, out of control. The French Quarter itself is beautiful; the architecture here is gorgeous and romantic. The intimacy of the buildings - two or three stories, balconies, very close together, if not connected - reinforces the sense of friendliness of the area, and even in the heat, walking around was a pleasure. It was a smorgasbord of accents, especially Southern ones, which was really lovely to listen to - there's something about a drawl that works well with the heat.

Bourbon Street was as full of life and flavor as the food. There's music everywhere, color, people, drinks - I'd really like to come back some night when I can really go the distance. As it was, since we're getting on the road in about an hour and a half, we had to go to bed early, leaving at midnight - which was clearly still the warm-up period for Rue Bourbon. Even on a weeknight, it was jumping, so I can't begin to imagine how it is on the weekends - or at Mardi Gras. It's almost terrifying to contemplate!

Vita Coco should open up a whole store in the French Quarter.

I feel like there's more to say - I feel like I need more time here, I want to learn this city and love it and live in it and write in it. But for now, it's time to get ready to get back on the road again, to find the next adventure, see the next place.

But I'll be back.

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.

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!