barcelona

omar says it's lin's fault and lin says it's omar's fault. but either way we have missed our train to barcelona. after a ridiculously brisk walk to the station with all of our luggage, we arrive just in time to see the train pull away. lin got the time of the train wrong; omar woke up late with a hangover. ergo, i blame them both.

three hours later and we are finally on our way to barcelona. the view from the train is amazing. people say that water is just water, but there is little like the Mediterranean. we are joined by another passenger, a young man from Quebec named Domenic (pronounced, of course, do-men-eek), who is taking 4 months off before starting university to travel around europe. he tells us stories of staying in Provence for a month and eating baby birds after they've been put in a blender and spread on toast. he shows us pictures and even now, as I recall them, my gag reflex is still sensitive. when lin asks him if he sensed any tension from the french because he was quebecian, he replies innocently with a no; but i'll tell you right now, if someone gave me baby bird juice as a meal i would consider it a declaration of war.

we have rented an apartment for three days to be shared by six of us: lin, omar, myself and three other musicians from omar's orchestra. for some reason, though we've made it to our destination, omar is still moving with great speed towards the apartment from the train station. dragging our heavy suitcases down sidewalks and across roads - my hands blistering from my case's hard and heavy handle - i joke that on this day, Good Friday, it is ironic that i am performing my very own station of the cross. and just as Jesus carried the cross to Golgotha only to be nailed to it, I carry my suitcase to a flat in Barcelona only to find the tiniest single bed waiting for me. life is hard for us capricorns.

the apartment

the other three don't join us until the next day, and until they do, there is work to be done.

i gave up shopping for lent. last year it was chocolate and this year it was shopping. before then it was sex, but that was only a joke i made because i never had it anyway. (it would be like giving up stabbing people or hitting on babies). but shopping? i imagine it was as difficult for Fergie to give up meth as it is for me to give up shopping. i walk by shoe stores and my palms itch. the sound of a shirt being folded between sheets of tissue paper and slipped into a carrier bag tears at the worn seams of my soul. during my 40 days of withdrawal i have even tried to redistribute the addiction by getting others to buy things for themselves. I’d send links to friends or family members saying "this would go so well with your [insert piece of clothing here]" or "kill yourself or buy this." for the most part i was successful: my sister nearly had to file for bankruptcy and turn tricks for rent money, but damn would she rack up quite a clientèle in those new high-wasted jeans. on the other side of my catastrophe, i was now the proud owner of a savings account with high interest. i was so good with my money for so long. i had at least two months rent there, which - for san francisco's prices - meant i had about a gajillion dollars; and yet now, here i am staring down the shops of Barcelona, trying to convince myself that it's almost healthy to throw money away, otherwise you become a slave to it. i'm like a zen buddhist only with a fantastic pair of shoes.

as we walk from store to store, i can tell immediately that i am in love with barcelona. the streets are wider, the buildings higher, and the air even feels and smells different - not just from Valencia, but from any other place i've been. the hippest parts of new york city need 100 more years to ripen to earn the right to rub elbows with the alleys we wind through now. i somehow forget that i don't fit in here and feel instead that my willingness to relax in this place transcends any language barrier or cultural difference. this is spain, but not spain. home but not home.

boris, diane and brian, the other three joining us on this trip, arrive at the apartment at almost the exact same time that i announce to lin that i have reached my shopping capacity. she's almost as surprised by my news as i am, but i can't spend all my time in this city inside a store, and i can't spend all that money i'm not quite sure i even have anymore. the dollar is weaker than an orphan with pneumonia. and so, quite frankly, at this point, are my feet.

after dropping my bags off at the apartment, we're off to the Gaudi cathedral to meet the others.

i have been told that boris is crazy, diane is sassy and brian is the envy of most of the girls in the orchestra. when i put the faces to names it all becomes clear. boris, though hailing from canada, is officially the loudest of all of us. i smile because this entire trip i have felt all natives hear my accent and expect me to be some loud, obnoxious american. and here comes boris with his booming voice and incredibly foul language. but luckily, most of the things out of his mouth are either incredibly insightful, or very very funny: standing in a square where hundreds were massacred, boris declares "they must have been trying to outlaw siestas". juxtaposed with his bite, is a young man who has exceptional manners – holding the door open for me or letting me exit an elevator first. it seems small, but it’s noticeable.

diane, his counterpart, is a tiny thing -- unassuming and sweet; but just as you've adjusted to her quietness you are surprised by her brutally sharp sense of humor. when she discovers sunday morning that I am incredibly hungover, she insists i do a shot of tequila with her assuring me it will make me feel much better. she counters boris incredibly well; at least in my humble opinion.

now as for brian, I can’t write too much, lest boris read this and use it as even more ammunition, as part of the tradition of making brian the brunt of every joke (a role brian plays with great humility). but i will say that it is obvious why brian is as popular as his reputation suggests. he is good looking, for sure; but beyond that there is a quiet sensitivity and intellect to him that i can't quite explain. it is very easy to like him, without necessarily knowing all of the things there are to like about him. and while he is funny (you have to be with this group), it is his sinister laugh that makes everything seem even funnier.

lin, omar, boris, diane, brian and myself

i have seen the show friends but i never believed it. six people getting along so well just seems the most ridiculous of fictions; but omar, lin, boris, diane, brian and i prove to be a better ensemble than even nbc's thursday lineup could offer. everyone gets a turn being both the teaser and the teasee, and everyone handles it with grace. there are penis jokes, AIDS jokes, and sex jokes. Boris will comment on how omar is as a lover and brian will call him “omey”, parroting the nickname lin has given for her husband. with the backdrop of barcelona as the set to our scene, it's really too good to be true.

my memory begins to fade that night. we are sitting at a funky little bar in Born, the hip neighborhood the tourists don't yet infiltrate, drinking copious amounts of cava, spain's sparkling wine. before that there was sangria at the basque restaurant just up the alley, and before that there are caipirinhas, a traditional rum drink of brazil. i will do many uncharacteristic things that night, some that i will remember and some that i will not. i will remember the faces that i spoke to, but i will not remember what it was exactly that i said. i will remember my first trip to the bathroom, but i will not remember the trips that followed - leading lin by the hand only for a dance party in front of the mirror. i will not remember announcing to lin that i am smitten with her husband's friend, but i will remember his face; and for that, i am a very lucky girl.

the next morning i will awake almost euphoric, despite the hangover pressing at the corners of my stomach. then lin will come in and start her "remember when you..."s and i will tell her to stop before i become too embarrassed to face my other roommates. apparently at some point in the night i decided i was only going to speak french - a language no one else in the group understands. i am sure it is only one of the many embarrassing things i said that night; i still cringe at the thought. she will tell me that omar drank my last cava, which will make me feel better about myself since it will mean i didn’t drink it, but sorry for omar since he spent most of the night lying by the toilet. "i started yelling at him to come to bed before he passed out there," lin will tell me, "and he said 'shut up! i'm gathering energy.'"

the next day we ascend to park guell – another of Gaudi's creations - before returning to downtown Barcelona to eat mexican food and walk to the beach. we will each take turns trying to purge songs like "eye of the tiger" and "funky town" from our tired minds and we will all fail miserably. we will walk through gypsy towns and euro disney (or at least the boardwalk's pale version of), and while i will have started out the day worried about how the others would treat me after my french escapades the night before (among others), i will find them just as kind as they were the moment I met them.

the world has a weird way of presenting wonderful things in unreachable places at inconvenient times. i want to pack up these people and this city and pull them in closer to the life that i now have to return to, a million worlds away. but instead, all i can take back with me are the memories: the small moments that lin and omar steal to connect when they think no one's looking; omar and his videotaping of our every single move; the landscape, the language; even the split second, drunken flashes of a deep conversation or a new friend whispering that i’m beautiful as i finally fall asleep.

for now, these things are enough to get me by. and keep me very very happy.

greetings, from España

when i arrived in valencia, the sky was on fire. they say at this time of year, nearing the end of their festival Las Fallas, it is the loudest place anywhere in the world outside of an actual war zone. it's true. i totally know what it feels like to live in baghdad now.

i am here visiting my best friend lin, who moved to spain to live with her husband in July of last year as he plays with the Valencian opera orchestra. i am quickly learning the rules of her household, though it is hard to keep up. i have to take my shoes off at the door and put on "house slippers". house slippers are, however, not to be worn on the carpets, and are not to be confused with the slippers i have to wear when out on the terrace. so far omar has counted two strikes i've made against this rule: (1) running to my room from the living room without my house slippers, and (2) walking onto the carpet with my slippers on. i've actually made a third that he doesn't yet know about, where i just put on my shoes getting ready to go, and then popped around the corner for a quick pee before we left. shhhhhh.

indoor shoes

outdoor shoes

my first night here, after dropping off my luggage, showering and having some dinner (finally, after 24 solid hours of traveling), we walked to Cannovas to watch some fireworks. i have never been so close to fireworks before in my life. immersed in a crowd of spaniards, some with disappointingly poor fashion taste (think tan colored snake-print leather coat with shoulder pads (and then stop masturbating from how hot that image just made you)), we finally found an open space for us to stand. (i'm telling you, if you want to find a place to breathe in a crowd full of thousands, walk towards the police van).

it has been nothing but fireworks since. you walk through the streets of valencia to children as tall as your knee playing with fireworks, with little care of their tiny fingers or your fragile, flammable face. "Las Fallas" (sounds like fy-us) is the Spanish word for this festival, though it is more commonly referred to in these parts as "Nit del Foc" which is Valencian (the second language of Valencia) for "Night of Fire". Every time Omar refers to Nit del Foc, Lin and I begin to giggle. "It sounds like 'Need to Fuck'," lin will say. "I have a similar festival," i reply, "it happens once a month, and is called 'Ovulation'."

yesterday was the last day of Las Fallas. we started the day going to watch the Mascletá, which is basically the daytime fireworks show. the best part is, there are so many people and the streets are so narrow, the chances of you actually seeing any fireworks are small. the chances of you going deaf, however, are pretty much guaranteed. valencians are very proud of their fireworks. the louder the better, and they listen to the bangs in the sky like one might listen to an italian opera or miles davis. to put in earplugs, or plug your own ears, is looked upon as a great insult, and as an american - and therefore not particularly popular with the locals to begin with - i don't need to do anything to make it any worse. the fireworks are so loud and so close to you that they echo down throughout your ribcage. they say you have to watch them with your mouth slightly agape so your skull can properly distribute the vibrations. or maybe that´s just what they tell tourists so they look like idiots.

the people here speak very fast, and they don´t appear to have time for people who don´t speak their language. luckily omar is pretty much fluent, so i just turn to him when i need anything. i´ll hand him €20 and tell him what i want and send him on his way. i kinda wish i had that back home. except without the giving them money part. i think they´re called...a husband.

i hadn´t really had much time to casually walk around and soak in the city. instead, we rushed from block to block to see every Fallas before they were set on fire. each block has patrons that donate money that go towards an artist or two creating these huge structures, a Falla, that sit at the end of each block. these things are stories and stories high and wide. some depict trannies standing at urinals while others show a big breasted woman in a low cut top about to get bucked off a horse. in other words: classy. they look like disney floats and while people worship them as art here, they have ruined the aesthetic of valencia for me. i may never know what this town really looks like because it is covered in rubble, drunk people, and cartoon paper mache. last night we walked almost 10 miles trying to watch as many Fallas as possible get burned down. i took many many pictures, and looked on with great satisfaction as each Falla disappeared inside an envelop of black smoke and fire.

today, my last day in valencia, we biked to the opera house where omar plays before heading to the beach to eat my first paella. there at the beach, the shore is lined with restaurants and while lin and i admired the beauty of the beach, omar scoffed and said it had nothing on brazil. i guess he missed all the trannies.

i will say this only once, so read very carefully: i would fuck paella if it wouldn´t make such a mess. holy crap it was amazing. perfectly softened rice steeped in tomatoes with rosemary, roasted artichokes, broad beans and these big white beans that soak up all the flavor of the sauce. add to that chicken and rabbit, and you have heaven in a wide, thin paella dish. add to that sangria to drink, and you should kill yourself because everything after that is only going to disappoint.

and now i am at home. slowly pecking out this posting on a spanish computer, searching the keys for letters that aren´t where they should be, and pressing keys for symbols i´ve never seen before. i am exhausted, full, and happy. tomorrow morning we take the train to barcelona.

until then, ¡buenas noches!