Interlude

I sometimes wonder what the best solution is to my journaling dilemma of trying to catch you all up on my adventures in Barcelona and having life.. you know.. keep going amid Birthday Month and all that comes with that. I mean since Halloween, it's been pretty exciting around here. There are lots of dating stories, girl drama - come and gone, thank GOD, dinners with many friends involving lots of catching up, SeaCompression - the giant Burning Man after party, a They Might Be Giants concert complete with sock puppets AND, as if that wasn't enough, because you know, it isn't.. my birthday party ended the week!

Phew! You'd think I'd be exhausted.. and ok.. I am a little, but it's been one of the best months since spring that I can remember. November is often like that because it's not my favorite time of year, but it is my favorite month with my favorite holiday - my birthday. Attention-whore at heart who's learned to downsize the attention-getting a little, I still love having an official day that's kind of all mine. Since it fell on a Monday this year, the festivities couldn't really be fully celebrated on the day because Mondays never feel right. I did end up with a small group of friends watching the highly anticipated Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog - and I say 'highly anticipated' because I didn't know about this Joss Wheden incredibleness before and I'm late to find out everything, but OH. MY. GOD.. Funniest thing EVER! Apparently there are enough extras by the cast that it could make a whole funny musical DVD on its own! But you can't really go wrong with Neil Patrick Harris and Nathan Fillion.. No. No you can not.

Next there was the Burning Man after-party, Seacompression. Basically all the Seattle burners and their ilk gather together in a giant hangar and have a Burning-Man-like burn just without the playa. Any excuse to dress up, dance, and be merry but it's a little different without dust and without 100-degree heat. We shook some booty as a booty is wont to do when wearing booty-shakin' attire and we met friends in the men's bathroom since the line was much shorter and stayed up til the wee hours groovin' and basically gettin' down with our bad selves.

Case in point: I shake my striped booty-shakin' self..

Eight and I share a hug and picture.

Gabi gets down..

Brit Paul groovin to the music in a coat he fashioned himself!

Weird restroom pics with Cayenne, Mez and a little Miss D.

It pretty much took all day Sunday to recover from the debauchery of the night before.. but it was sooo worth it. Since I couldn't afford to do both Burning Man and Barcelona, I figured this was my one night to pretend I was on the playa this year and it didn't suck.

And the party didn't stop there. Tuesday we succumbed to the steady downpour outside in order to see They Might Be Giants play the Flood album live. Appropriate title considering the weather.. We knew it was going to be a good show, even not knowing what to expect, but we didn't think they were going to blow the roof off the place, which they did.

The opening act's name defies memory, but they were Irish and adorable, beginning and ending their set with songs accompanied by ukulele, which I recommend to every band to do. There's something incredibly charming about that instrument and it automatically puts you in the Bands That Don't Suck category.

But of course the true joy came when TMBG walked on stage and proceeded to overwhelm us with their quirkiness and the songs off Flood. I was in college when that came out and clearly not the hardest core fan among the sold-out crowd. But they played my favorites, Birdhouse In Your Soul and Istanbul (Is Not Constantinople), which friggin rocked. But then - in the middle of everything? SOCK PUPPETS. I kid you not! I do not kid.

We watched a screen come down and we noticed we were being filmed so we raised our hands in collective crowd stupidity like all audiences do when told we're being filmed to the sock puppets' delight. They introduced themselves as The Avatars Of They and then rocked our collective socks off from that point on. Seriously, they should have their own show. Not for kids, of course.. but they reminded me of a similarly quirky group, Barenaked Ladies, and their on-stage antics.


Two and half hours later, thoroughly concert-ed out but happy, there's still a birthday party to look forward to at the end of the week.

It seems a bit anti-climactic now because it was just whomever of my friends could make it to my new favorite neighborhood bar, The Bottleneck Lounge - a favorite because of it's cool bartenders, cool owner, and two-block proximity from my house. I could literally stumble home if necessary.

There were good friends, stellar drinks, a fucking off-the-hook homemade cake by Shine and a lot of silly pictures.

Cayenne and Amsterdam (complete with unborn little one) present the cake made by unseen Shine.. mm!

Me - just a complete dork..

I'm reminded that there's a lot of life around me, a lot of positives, and really, really good people to remind me of that stuff when I forget. It's been such an emotional year. I guess if you didn't have the downs you'd never recognize the ups, but there are a lot more smiles when it's Up Time and it feels long overdue. So as winter gets on and the end of 2009 gets closer, I'm just going to keep doing what I've been doing, which is moving forward. Bring on the next year of challenges. I think I'm ready.

Notes from Barcelona: Chapter 5 - More Pictures Than Words

Thursday afternoon, Oct. 1st

I got up today at a reasonable hour, 10:30, made coffee for the last time in the apartment, chatted only briefly with Emma and Keano all the while noticing how sore my calves were. I showered and packed then walked my bags over to the Hostel Baires across the street. The room is solely mine and has a little balcony off Carrer Gignas, which I walk down every day. It's clean with a sink and a little balcony. The bathroom and shower, both different little rooms are down the hall.

I get ready and make my way out determined to find the Picasso Museum today (sorry - only the Spanish site is working - the English version gives you a blank page). I scoured the map yesterday and it doesn't look far or hard. I walk in that direction and take in parts of El Born and the Barri Gòthic I haven't yet seen. I'm still shy with my camera and I don't know why. It's silly. I find my way down a main street, see some government building a distance away and then recognize Carrer Comerç and walk down that til I hit Carrer Principessa and have to ask where the museum is. He doesn't speak English so I keep going and find the Museu de la Xocolata, buy a gift for one of my girlfriends while there and then ask directions thinking one tourist spot has to know where the other is. They do, I head out and it's gorgeous and stunning and old and the sad part is, they don't allow pictures, not even without flash, so I spend a small fortune in the gift shop because hi - Picasso - and only get pictures of the plaques outside to mark I was there.

Afterwards, I buy a few scarves for girlfriends just down from the museum from a nice man who's selling them. After I pay for them he gives me advice on how to protect my bag, where to eat near Plaça de Catalunya and asks me where I'm from. We chat and then I'm off for food. I seriously spent so long in the gift shop buying souveniers that the siesta hours came and went so businesses are opening up again. I find a cute little clothing boutique and fall for a little bright green and grey hoodie. It's stupid as far as the price, but I can't give it up and tho the woman and I go back and forth in foreign-to-the-other gibberish because she doesn't speak any English, we still figure it out. I pay for it and a couple of darling little handmade coin purses shaped like animal faces for my nieces, Emo and Lulu back home. I also found some Spanish fans that might be touristy, but I think they'll love them and I've seen a lot of Spanish women using them especially in the metro stations where it's so unreasonably hot it feels like Middle Earth.

I find a little café, Buenas Migas, where I sit myself down for a bit and write and watch. I realize I'm near the Catedral where Giannis took me to the other day and I watch huge talking tours come and go speaking all kinds of languages - French, German, English/American. It's only Thursday and you can tell the crowds are already picking up. Sigh - my hip and my writing are suffering at the moment so I'm going to pop some pain pills, then head over to the church for some pictures and home after to freshen up.

These are outside the Catedral - churches hold something for me but this.. wow.. this was some of the most stunning architecture and you can feel the history emanate from the walls.

Inside, it's intricate and ornate and every nook and cranny deserves to be logged by a camera, but you just can't get it all and it certainly doesn't do it justice, the beauty of it all..

I love this Mary - she has this very contented smile.. It was comforting.

My favorite crucifix of the entire trip.. I love that Jesus is flanked at every side by angels..

Outside, but adjacently connected to the church are the cloisters from the 14th century. There are no words but phenomenally gorgeous..

The gueese always number 13. I found conflicting information saying they are kept there and also they choose to be there. I'd like to believe they choose to be there by a lovely and tragic religious history. They say they're 13 because each goose represents one year of the life of the martyr Saint Eulalia who was a young girl tortured to death in the 4th century for her religious beliefs by the Romans. She's the patron saint of Barcelona.

Hi.. random Picasso on the roof perimeter of this building that's across from La Seu. Beautiful - wish you were here.

Busker - a motionless one at that - but his hat out nonetheless for the euro you might throw in for his determination I suppose.

My favorite angel of the whole trip.. just takes my breath away for some reason..

Notes from Barcelona: Chapter 4 - Adventures Are Sometimes Frustrating

Wednesday Sept. 30th:

The Museu Nacional D'Art de Catalunya is amazing. It's palatial and gorgeous, but unfortunately, we've been invited to accompany Emma's friend on a tour she's guiding which only covered the Romanesque and Gothic portions of the museum, not to mention it was mostly in Spanish so I had no idea what they were talking about. It was also long.


Emma and her friend wanted to spend their time together afterwards and being hungover and having eaten so little I was feeling a little defeated because I was also so tired and in an area of the city I wasn't familiar with. I wanted to see more and her friend would've arranged for me to be allowed to look through the rest of the museum, but I opted to head home and recoop thinking I'd be back later in the week.

I head back to my temporary neighborhood, the Barri Gòthic, call Giannis who'll meet me in a little while and decide to get food at a cafe I walk by daily called Venus. I'm a bit frustrated with my situation for a few reasons. The whole doing everything on my own is getting to me. I'm just not a solitary person for long. I want to get out in the city more but the little to no Spanish I know is really limiting, my hip is bothering more than I ever thought it would and that's actual pain and Ben also left me a note today saying there are paying tourists coming thru so I need to find new digs. I expected that to happen at some point, but it's just another thing to arrange. He recommends the hostel across the street and says it's super cheap and clean. I'd rather stay in the same neighborhood anyway and with having to pay for only five days of a 10 day trip, I feel pretty lucky. It was really generous of Ben to host.

My food is good and I eat like I'm starved. I meet up with Giannis for coffee afterwards and then we go back to the flat so I can check in with Ben about details for packing up, etc. Afterwards, Giannis takes me to the El Born district for a drink.

Today feels strange. It's slow. My hip is kind of killing me and though Giannis has been sweet to show me around and I'm getting more familiar with the area, our language barrier is becoming apparent. I talk too fast so I find myself sometimes talking in more broken English and I see sometimes he gets a little frustrated with me. The whole thing is a bit exhausting. We go back to his flat where I check my email and then he walks me out and we make plans for maybe tomorrow. I know how to find him.

I'm homesick. I miss my friends, would love to talk to Eight because I have this slight missing of Boy rising up within me. He'd certainly challenge me to do more, but then again, so would anyone else. I'm just lonely and tired of doing things on my own.

I make my own bocadillo at the flat, visit with Emma and her husband, Keano, and their cute little dog, Donnie, who leaves tomorrow. They're shipping him to Australia six weeks early. Poor little guy.. he's the sweetest. It's been nice to have a pet around being without Miss Emma Kitty and hoping she's doing fine without me.


People have little dogs everywhere around here. Lots of pugs, terriers, and French bulldogs. I see some shepherd types and pitbull mixes too.. but not one single cat. Not even a stray. Birds are popular and they usually sit out on the little porches of everyone's apartments in their cages. You hear them calling out when walking thru any given neighborhood.

I wander out on the town a bit after midnight. I give up easily tonight not finding a place I really want to sit and write. There's a cozy looking place right around the corner but no one is there and I need people around in order to be social. La Ria, the place Simon and I went to, seems too bright and a little too crowded for me to find a spot.. or I'm just being shy. My hip bugs me, but I keep going and ask the Syrian man outside the falafel place we've been eating at frequently how to get back to El Born because I can't seem to find it. He tries, I attempt to get there, and just feel lost and like the area's pretty sketchy tonight. Most of the men don't bother me, but it just feels dodgy. I walk by Sukūr and tho they're closed, I wave to Alejandro, Giannis' co-worker, who I met last night. I walk by the falafel joint again and Amer and I get to talking. He's the owner and I tell him between his place and the Belgian crepe place down the street, I'm getting fat because they're both so good.

I'm tired. I've taken enough ibuprofen to fell an elephant so I give in to the end of the day. The neighbor's next to Ben's flat are still up as they usually are in the wee hours always sounding like they have nothing better to do but party all night every night. I've met one, a guy from Portugal, and they're super nice, but I haven't really talked to them much. I see there's a few bright pink post-its on their door and each has one letter on it spelling out 'FUN'. I go to take a picture of it and the door opens suddenly. It's the roommate I haven't met, they invite me in, but it's awkward as I make small talk with them and a female friend of theirs inside. After about 10 minutes, I make an excuse about being tired, which isn't really an excuse, and head back to my own apartment to plan my day tomorrow. I'm still frustrated, but maybe having no plan isn't always a good idea so this is kind of exciting laying out the map and deciding if I should try the Picasso Museum and the Sagrada Família before the week gets on too far, when I should move from this apartment to the hostel, and thinking about buying a new camera. This one I just bought before the trip off craigslist is smaller than my old one, but really not great. The hostel also does laundry! Can I please say how excited I am for clean shirts? SO excited! I can't even explain!

Ok.. bed. Sleep. Now.

We Interrupt This Story For My Birthday..

So many things change in a year's time. Between this year and last, I found and lost a great love in a man, in a theater, in a band.. in a stepfather. Some of those things were probably meant to come and go. I still miss most of them, tho the band not so much. I felt challenged and driven over the course of that time and tho this spring and summer had me somewhat paralyzed with sadness, I'm starting to find my way out. I'm surprised it's taken me so long but I've started to think maybe I like my own space, even if it's not completely painted yet. At some point, I will finish that.. slowly it'll happen.. like the cleaning of clutter, getting rid of junk and things like that, not only from my apartment, but from my life.

I met a lot of people in Spain. Everyone had a story and some of them were fresh heartbreaks. They were all complicated and really hard and so much more sad than mine. I was naively shocked that other people halfway across the world had hurt like I did and they were dealing a whole lot better.

Maybe that's what Barcelona taught me.. to live better, to keep going because after all, that's what life is.. 1% of what happens to you and 99% of how you choose to deal with it.

This year I hope to grow further, find some peace with the decisions other people have made, find that creativity that pushed me to make art happen around me and simply find a better sense of self and happiness. Here's to my 38th year of new experiences, new challenges, and rising to those occasions.

Notes from Barcelona: Chapter 3 - Wide-Eyed and Slightly Bushy-Tailed

When I get out on the town, it's late for food, but the neighborhood is amazingly bustling for a Monday night I think. Emma and her husband suggested a place for dinner and writing that's still social but it was closed so I kept milling around and found myself walking in a lot of circles. I keep ending up on La Rambla which is touristy all day and recommended for people-watching and whatnot, but everyone cautions you to completely avoid it at night due to pickpockets and their ilk. It was still packed with people so I never felt unsafe, but I was still wary and wanted to get out of there. Twice more I found myself on the same damn street. Ugh.

I walk by tons of foreigners - a variety of Americans, Germans, Scandinavians, and Australians that I could tell and the groups of men and a few women constantly handing out flyers for this or that. Are they thieves trying to distract me? I have no idea but keep walking past them fast nonetheless.

I wander through a few squares I finally recognize and wonder why I can't find this bar Ben's taken me to a couple of times. It's a cervesaria, more Brit than Spanish and even tho it's really close to the apartment, goddamn if I can find it myself. It's practically invisible. The main owner/bartender is straight from Liverpool, knows a lot about beer, barely has any teeth and what's there is questionable, but he's raunchy and hilarious. It's a cool place.

I finally get tired of wandering aimlessly and settle on a place called Art & Schilling. Good combination of dimly lit and bright enough to write. Not packed, but enough people to eavesdrop upon or observe. The waiter is cute, bartender is cuter - but more alternative. I order some food and a gin and tonic. The feel of the place is cool but not pretentious. The food arrives quickly - a boccadillo with veggies and goat cheese (they forgot the cheese), olives, and my drink comes in a tall narrow glass filled halfway with gin, no ice, and I'm given a small but entire bottle of tonic, and a lemon. Not really the same but whatever.

It's after midnight and the people-watching isn't boring. Families walk in, mixed groups of tourists, some couples and different pairs of male and female friends in to catch up over drinks. The bartender walks out from behind the bar and gives me the eye. Or maybe I'm just brazen enough to stare back because isn't Barcelona kind of like Vegas? I think so.

I have yet to have any sangria because it seems like a touristy option. As are the cocktail lists that abound. They all say things like 'Mojito, Sex on the Beach, Piña Colada, Margarita' and yet no one really knows how to make them. I never see a single bartender with a shaker once and yet the list options make me feel like I'm in Fort Lauderdale for spring break. The boccadillos are also popular. They're just basically french bread with a variety of meats and cheeses on them and that's really it. Good after drinking mostly. The chorizo and other types of pork are really fresh and so good.

You can always tell the tourists because Spanish men are much smaller framed. When the Aryan-looking stockier and/or taller types walk in, one thinks German or American because they just look healthier. The Spanish smoke and drink a cafe con leche for breakfast.. not much in the way of nutrition there.

The bartender goes back to work and with his bracelets and tattoo he reminds me of a dj I knew in college. A girl should always know to stay away from both by policy.. but this one seems interesting anyway and I think I might have to move to the bar so I have more to write about later. Ahem.

The girls next to me have left but there isn't enough room next to me to fit the larger groups of guys that keep walking in, clearly lost. I hope I don't look depressed or like an obvious American journaling her way through her trip trying to be the next Anaïs Nin or Virginia Woolf, but it is a bit antisocial. I actually am a bit frustrated that I don't think I'm pushing myself enough and also disappointed that I know myself well enough that I guessed this would happen.

The bartender flirts or he's just bored. I can't tell. He takes a smoke break and I do finally move to the bar to join him for a chat. He's French - of course. No one is actually from here. They're all from somewhere else and biding their time. His name is Lork and when he finishes his break, he puts something like an amaretto sour in front of me on the house. He says it's a slow night for them and he has no plans after work. Not sure if that's an invitation or not.


Tuesday Night, Sept. 29th:

Um.. yes, for those inquiring minds, it was an invitation. The bartender from last night said I should meet him when they closed, so I did. He took me to a fairly secretive, but well-known bar called The Pipa Club. He knew most of the staff, we got one drink and left soon after. The boy didn't waste much time. Tho we were close, he wasn't much different than the typical commitment-phobic male - they're all the same, regardless of what culture they're from. He was clear about his policy of not getting attached, we had fun, and I knew I wouldn't see him again.

Today I slept until 2pm. Clearly I was up later with the bartender than I thought. I wandered to Sukūr to see if Giannis wanted to hang out possibly and between shifts, he took a break with me. We walked through the more popular streets for shopping in the Barri Gòtic that I hadn't discovered yet and took me directly to the La Seu Catedral, which was stunning.

He explained the government buildings in Plaça Sant Jaume; Palau de la Generalitat and on the other side, City Hall, both flanked by a lot of policia.



I walk him back to work eventually and kiss him goodbye. I do my own window-shopping when I find my way back to the areas we just walked thru and covet the amazing clothing and boots you'd never find in the states, but I don't buy anything but one blouse for work because I'm not yet sure what I want to spend my money on.

My hip gets me to head back to the apartment for a little siesta and I've rested for about an hour or so when the buzzer rings. Apparently, people will ring any apartment, even if they're not there to see you, just to get access. It's not a big deal there so then you just wait to see if the person is there for you. And this was Ben's friend, Simon - another Australian. We make a lot of small talk, he's there to borrow Ben's guitar, and he's covered in paint. He's heading back to Australia in November where his wife is already so he's repainting their flat before they go. (The unemployment is so high in Spain, if you have your resident card, the government will pay for your trip to go back to where you came from. Nice.) He writes and produces music full time and we go on about that stuff so long that we decide to get some food together since we were going to do that separately anyway. He has to meet a musician friend of his nearby so he takes me to Bahlia, a bar where he knows the staff and the beer is free because he's dj'd there before. He forgets I need food and then that comes up again so tipsy at that point, he takes me to La Ria around the corner, which seems divey but comforting. I like it.

Simon is super funny, a really nice guy and we discuss jobs, the Barcelona culture and society and then his friend shows up, Daniel, who's French. As in not Spanish. Shocker. They leave for about 15 minutes to do whatever music stuff they need to do, Simon comes back to keep me company afterwards and our conversation starts where we left off. We keep the wine coming because it's cheap and snack on the food we ordered: a small plate stacked with cheese, bread rubbed with tomato, patatas bravas that's fantastic, some omelette thing that tastes fishy to me and I can't stomach it.. and my favorite, pimientos de padron. These are a full plate of tiny little green peppers that you think are hot, but aren't really. They're simply cooked in olive oil and sea salt til wilty and you eat them right off the stem. The surprise is that once in a while, you'll get one with a kick, but mostly, that's not the case. They're fucking awesome. I feel like we just ate like kings for almost nothing.

While Simon had been gone, I wrote. There's a big table of kids near us celebrating someone's birthday, two men at the bar who look like delapidated sea captains, and another who looks like an old Jim Morrison. The birthday party is full of attractive women and men - all smoking and filling the table up with lots of empty bottles. The women are so pretty and they don't even try. Most wear little to no make up at all and they're gorgeous.

After food and conversation for a while after Simon returns, we're off to another bar, LP, for cocktails - because clearly a beer and ample wine isn't mixing alcohol enough for me. On the way, tho it's really beyond the bar, Simon was kind enough to walk me to Giannis' flat, but he didn't answer his phone or the door so we can't include him. Unfaltered by this, Simon and I continue our bar crawl, have a poorly made amaretto sour made by the bartender at LP who clearly didn't want us to stay because they were closing and then we went back to the first place, Bahlia, where we closed the bar down, smoked a joint, had another beer or two and called it good. Simon was awfully gracious to let me stop by Giannis' flat one more time just in case, but no answer so I gave up. Didn't want to be a stalker tho Simon kept me laughing about it the whole time.

Wednesday Sept. 30th:

I went to bed alone and drunk, but earlier than usual. Still woke up hungover today, but managed to get to the Musea Nacional D'Art de Catalunya with Emma, who was nice enough to invite me along with her.