"He's so cute! Like an old turtle without his shell!"

...is what I tell Stella when I spy the bronzest, most wrinkly naked man I've ever seen.

Bestie Beach Day!

Sept 17, Sunday

ITS SO BEAUTIFUL OUTSIDE!!!!!! Good thing it's BEACH DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Stella and I had the best of intentions to wake up and be out of the house by 1030. Then we woke up at 1030. Because we're on vacation! Yay!

There are a millions reasons I love beach days. One big reason is it looks like you're doing something but you're really doing nothing. As someone who's obsessed with "doing", it's a clever way to get me to relax. 

We go to Mar Bella so I can show my boobs to the sun. I see topless sunbathers here and there at other beaches on the way, so we really could have gone anywhere but I've got Mar Bella stuck in my head as our destination. 

Trying to help the girls defy gravity

We settle in on the "clothing optional" side. It's the gay beach so there are more men than women and more naked men than naked women. But altogether, way more suited people than nude people. 

Stella and I name the people around us:

The Turtles, older bronze men with wrinkled skin suits 

The Peacocks, men who strut around, brazenly daring the world to bask in the glory of their bodies, no matter how bright and round their bellies are

The Creepers, men who sit and stare around with weird looks on their faces (there is only one of these)

The Wows, suited men with perfect bodies playing paddleball or bending over to order a cocktail at the bar or basically existing in their lean, beautiful, boy bodies. 

There's the Creeper

Question: Are gay beaches the best?

Hypothesis: Gay beaches are The Best beaches in every way. 

Evidence: 

-A collection of the best looking, perfectly built, beautifully groomed, most stylish men hang out wearing very little, very well. 

-The men do not bother the women. At all. We feel zero percent threatened here, zero percent exposed, which does not happen in a bikini on any random beach, ever. 

-There are no children, so there is no crying or screaming. It's peaceful. It's quiet. 

-Men cuddling men is a beautiful sight. I didn't see any women couples, but I wish I had. 

-The bar makes gorgeous cocktails. 

Conclusion: Gay beaches ARE the best beaches in every way. 

My favorite Turtle is in that group of men

The first pair of balls I see is an adjustment but, just like going to the Korean Day Spa, you get desensitized quickly to the nudity, including your own. I do have a moment where my hat flies away and I have to jump up and run after it bare-breasted in which I'm very aware that I'm topless. Alluring bouncy boobs are a Playboy magazine myth. Real bouncing boobs are uncomfortable and unwieldy. I don't see any naked man jogging around and I suspect it's because their bouncing penis and balls would be as uncomfortable and unwieldy as my boobs were. 

I find myself endeared to most of the naked men, minus The Creeper and minus the man who inspires me to say out loud, "I just saw my least favorite penis." (It's very long and frightening.) 

Coupla Wows!

All the nude dudes looked like giant hairy toddlers. It's cute...

After a few hours in the sun, Stella and I hit It's Gay for food because I saw some incredible looking dishes there (not intended as a pun, but hey!) earlier as I stood in line for cocktails. I see The Boss (burger covered w Iberico Jamón, manchego and carmelized onions. HelLO, right?!) and point it out to Stella because it sounds DAMN GOOD.  Now she wants The Boss. The conversation goes like this:

B: Maybe I'll get a salad (they also looked incredible) and we can split both. 

S: You should order what you really want to eat. 

B: ...That means you don't want to share with me, right?

We burst out laughing because we both know it's true. We both order The Boss and annihilate our burgers. 

Stella and her Estrella

That evening we walk to the Magic Fountain of Montjuïc for it's show. The water and light show is highly recommended and is considered a must-see. I don't care that much about it, but we saw fireworks from our balcony last night and I assume they were part of the Saturday show. I also assume they don't do fireworks Sunday, but Stella really wants to see some so I don't say anything. At least going to the Magic Fountain gets us out of the house. Whatever. Meh. Fine. 

I HAVE A SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE AT THE MAGIC FOUNTAIN SHOW! When we arrive, we find THOUSANDS of people waiting for the show to start. The energy is rad- all ages, all walks of life, all nationalities, ready and enthused. I love being surrounded by life like this. 

Stella and I sit on the ground at the foot of the Palace stairs. You've got your usuals surrounding the fountain with their phones up, pre-filming the water. I make fun of them, crowding around a fountain to try to capture something that, like, who cares? It's a fountain show. Those pictures will just take up space. 

Minds. Blowing. 

A Queen song starts. The fountain starts. The lights start. All of humanity surrounding the Magic Fountain collectively loses its mind. 

Stella and I stand up and weave our way in front of the camera people. We become camera people! And I get it! Obviously, we all take pictures of everything all the time, but this is more than that. You know it's a fountain and the pictures won't scratch the surface of how beautiful the show is. But you try anyway because you're not trying to capture the beauty of the spectacle, you're trying to capture the beauty of how elated, pure, alive and awesome you feel. At least, I am.  

Not even scratching the surface of magic

I behold the show with a big wide open smiley mouth I can't even try to close. Stella and I sing and dance to the medley of pop songs, and sway and move to the music when it turns classical. At one point I promise Stella and myself that I'm putting my camera away unless I hear a Prince song. No Prince (sadly) but I can't help myself and I start filming the water in Slo-Mo. Just for fun. Then I film Time Lapse. Just to see. Then I take myself right to the ropes of the fountain and commune with it. I let my mind go blank and I let myself get lost in the music, the lights, the water. 

I do this until, like a temperamental artist, the fountain starts to spray everyone within 10 feet of it. I don't know if the wind changed, or what, but it was a badass move in any event. We all cleared to give the fountain its space, and it continued to dance for us. 

What a wild time. I never thought I'd get so moved my a fountain show, but that's Barcelona, man. 

"Another GREAT day!" Stella says as we turn out the lights. "Yes!" I agree. 

Beach cocktails!

Two besties + a bunch of buns = smiles

Best Beach Hut

I should have ordered the large beer

Now I'm the Creeper

Magic Hour

"Ha ha ha, dick..."

...I say to our waiter when he tells me in Spanish I should get a boyfriend to fix me from being so demanding. 

What's better than a Dracula themed restaurant? NOTHING.

September 16, Saturday

Today is our free day! The weather is perfect, compared to yesterday. Stella had the excellent idea to ride the metro to the end of the line and just explore wherever we happened to find ourselves, and one of my friends suggested Parque del Laberint d'Horta- know what that translates to?? LABYRINTH PARK. Both ideas win. 

Once out of the metro, we discover the park is closer than we anticipated, and? Next door to Vélodrom del Horta, a cycling track. There are cheers as we walk past. Stella veers towards the sound, "Let's see what that is!" 

I would die doing this

"That" are cycling races between the baddest chicks with the strongest legs riding the thinnest bikes on a banked track. I didn't even know paper-thin bikes were a thing. We cheer and place bets and chair-dance to the 80's soundtrack the venue is playing. Barely anyone is there watching, which is a shame because it's a great time. What an awesome surprise!

Another wonderful surprise? Parque del Laberint d'Horta. The grounds are the perfect mix of lush greenery and trees and ruined fountains and gazebo-type places. The first thing I see after the broken down palace is a fountain topped by a stone demon, and I know this park is pure magic. I imagine the now-decrepit palace used to belong to someone like Mr. Darcy and he'd use the gardens to walk and talk and fall in love with someone like Elizabeth Bennet. 

We find the labyrinth and Stella challenges me to a race to see who can find their way out of the maze first. Long story short, I lose. I lose my way endlessly, I lose the competition, I lose my mind after what feels like half an hour of dead end hedges. I feel sorry for the mice I used to put in mazes for the science fair (guaranteed win every time, FYI) when I was in elementary school. 

Parque del Laberint d'Horta

We get back on the metro and ride to the end of the line to see what kind of fairytale fantasy perfect place we will discover for lunch. Things we learn by doing this experiment:

-The end of the metro line is as far as you can get from tourists, which is totally cool. 

-The further you are from tourists, the more traditional the area is. Which means, mid-afternoon feels like a ghost town because everything is closed. 

-Tapas are as popular here as they are in the city center. (PS We're both tired of tapas. Sacrilege, I know.)

Little fountain demon cutie

We have to use Yelp to find someplace open that serves anything but tapas. We're en route to a Mediterranean restaurant a mile away when Stella says- "That looks like something." There are tables and chairs set up in the promenade outside a large cafe. We're still too far away to see the name clearly, but I joke, "That looks like it says Dracula..."

The restaurant is actually named Count Dracula (Cerveceria Conde Dracula)! I'm so psyched, there is no question we are eating here, even though it's tapas, even though the food looks mundane, even though/especially because it's a Dracula restaurant! Stella isn't nearly as excited about eating at Count Dracula but she's says nothing, bless her. 

The menu is in Spanish & Catalan, no English. We order a few things to share that are predictably mediocre (to be fair, our croquettes are good) and drink warmish beer. I don't care. This place is Dracula themed!!

Our waiter is a handful. Once he knows I can speak Spanish, he starts teasing me. I love it because it's in Spanish, I'm able to hold my own, and this place is Dracula themed! Nothing can be bad in a restaurant named Count Dracula!

Making wishes in the garden

I go inside. The walls are covered in ravaged women, naked women, dead women and I can't even be mad about it. I feel terrible as I write this because I thought I was a better feminist, but I was so jazzed at the Draculaness of it all, that I loved the stupid murals. Sincerely, this is probably my favorite themed restaurant in the whole world. 

We take the rest of the evening off to chill on our terrace - we see fireworks! - and watch Phoebe Waller-Bridge's sublime Crashing and Freaks and Geeks. It's pretty perfect.

"You have to say it was a good day again, because I decided thats how I want to end all my blog posts," I call across the room to Stella in our dark flat at bedtime. 

"Yeah, good day," Stella says as we each drift to sleep. "Yes," I agree.

Stella captures cyclists

My fantasy home

Still goddamn lost

So wonderful

"We really live an amazing life." "Yes."

...I said to Stella, and Stella said to me as we road the metro recounting some of our favorite Wes Craven memories. He was so special, so brilliant, so funny and such a visionary. 

So much damn fun!

(Quick story: Stella and I traveled to London & Paris after working on a Wes Craven movie called "Cursed" (watch it to see me act with my eyes as 'Make-Up Artist'- Wes was so fun about letting crew be on camera) as part of a pack of badass "Cursed" women: Tina, Julie, Maria and Joni- we love and miss you! 
I recalled to Stella that I was only able to afford the trip because Wes pulled my name out of the Five-Dollar Day bucket, meaning I won around $1200, the day after Stella and everyone else had booked their flights. It occurred to me for the first time that what I considered to be an amazing coincidence - that my boss pulls my name to win a load of cash the same time all my best friends are going on a trip I can't afford - might have been Wes just being a sweet, thoughtful man and giving me what I wanted most in the world. Coincidence or not, that's how great Wes was.)

September 15, Friday
We wake up late. Its been raining all night and has turned borderline cold. Today is Park Güell day! We take the subway partway and walk the rest of it, since I'd rather exercise than ride the bus. 

Even though it's a wet day, it feels good to be outside in the fresh air moving around. We have appointments both for Gaudí's House Museum and for Park Güell. We're half an hour early for our museum appointment which is good because it takes us that long to NOT find a restroom. Between the map of the park in our hands indicating where the toilets should be, and the signs pointing to the WC ("water closet"), not being able to find a place to pee is feeling like a personal failure. Finally, we appeal to museum security who lets us in early. 

The clouds only make Barcelona more gorgeous

The museum tells us Gaudí is an austere, penitent man who lived in the very house we're touring with his sickly father and niece who both die within the same year. "Murderer," whispers Stella. "Yup," I agree. It's suspicious!

Tourists in Gaudi's wonderland

We also decide Gaudí was gay, because no straight man could have this gorgeous imagination and creativity, AND be able to express himself with such sensitivity and wit. Plus, church twice a day and never married? And he had a "right-hand man"? And their love couldn't be expressed in the time in which they lived so The Right-Hand Man helped Gaudí fulfill and bring to life every exquisite vision he ever had, and the art they created together was the true expression of their hearts desire and devotion to one another, and now it exists to thrill and inspire tourists on their own quests to express their innermost yearnings... The moral of this story is no matter how many details you give us, we're gonna find a way to write our own epic tragic fairytale love story. 

Bestie in flight

By the time we have our appointment to enter Park Güell, I'm hungry and tired and dislike every tourist in the park. I keep this from Stella as long as I can, because you never want to be the unfun one. Five minutes later, the words, "Let's get this over with," come out of my mouth. 

I whine about being hungry, Stella suggests the energy bar in my purse. I whine that it's sweet and I'm feeling salty and she trades me her salty for my sweet. I yawn and whine I'm tired. She reminds me to drink water to wake up and then distracts me with a gut-busting, fantastic, fun photo shoot. Her skill for managing young children and cranky creatives comes in real handy with me. 

Park Güell is choked with tourists, even on this cold, rainy day. The Dr. Seuss vibe is strong here, which makes the place feel like an illusion come to life. I can't believe what I'm seeing, but I'm standing in it and walking through it so I know it's real. Even as a crankypants, I can't deny how phenomenal this place is. It's magic come to life. (And that magic is the fairytale love of The Penitent Artist and his Right-Hand Man-- see, it's a good story.)

That's our tea! It's warmed by a tea light! I get the name now!

Stella and I have been outside in the rainy cold for hours at this point and only eaten a small breakfast and protein bars. We are dying for ramen. We walk from Park Güell into Grácia and use our instincts to decide where to turn left and right. And when that doesn't work fast enough, I try Yelp. Every ramen place we look up doesn't open for hours. We turn a corner randomly and find IT. The Perfect Place. The place with ramen and good beer and beautiful tea and a great soundtrack and a waiter that speaks excellent English, but we don't realize it because he's understanding my Spanish. Plus, it's warm and dry. Stella and I consider sleeping here, if not just moving in. 

On Fridays, we ramen.

We go home to rest, but not for long because we're going out. Again. This is breaking news because in LA, we leave the house for food and exercise and not much else. Certainly not to be around people drinking drinks we could drink at home watching Friends. 

Last night we walked to Ambar, a local bar Stella found that we've been drooling over simply based on its pictures. It's perfect- divey, a weirdo rockabilly soundtrack, and reminds me so much of the California Clipper in Chicago. 

Tonight, we branch out and try a few bars recommended by an article that I decide was meant for 23 year-olds with little imagination and taste. I might not have been in the best mental headspace, trying to top our previous night's success with greasy hair in the clothes I shivered and sweated in all day. 

The last bar we try is The George Payne, a giant Irish bar with an excellent 90s soundtrack and fun people watching. This place has everything, from a Hawaiian clad bachelor party to white-wine moms on their night out to club kids to a table of Irish Elders building things out of coasters. I'm too tired to appreciate it until we're walking out and I know that bedtime is imminent. 

"Another good day," Stella says as we both settle into our sofa beds in opposite nooks of our quirky little art studio. "Yeah," I agree. 

Barcelona resistance after my own heart

Big iron spikes and a tiny Stella

"This makes me want to mosaic so bad!"

Surfing the perfect tube

So awkward when I have to pose I default to Vanna White or Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader

"THOSE are your long shorts???"

...Stella asks me when I tell her I want to dress appropriately for Sagrada Família, so I'm opting for long shorts rather than my normal shorts.

Happy in my happy place

Sept 14, Thursday 

I get a champ's night of sleep - almost 9 hours! Good ones! Stella and I hike up to the Olympic grounds which are about a mile from our flat. Whenever we get the slightest bit lost, the line to say is, "We're on a journey." We journey a few times before we make it to the Olympics. 

We hike around our neighborhood for a while before we head home for breakfast. Stella is an outstanding food maker. I'm very good at cleaning. She makes us avocado toast and I clean the kitchen. Together, we really are the perfect person. 

Today is Sagrada Família day! Sixteen years ago in Barcelona, I was only able to see the outside of the Sagrada Família from a distance because the whole thing was covered in scaffolding. Even that much ignited my love for Gaudí and made me swoon. Today, I am floored. 

Audiotour nerds

From the moment I see the Sagrada Família, my heart pounds. My skin feels hypersensitive and I feel warm inside. The pores of my skin feel slightly electrified. I'm constantly a little choked up. This is what it feels like when I fall in love. 

The Sagrada Família is more than a religious experience, it feels like coming home. A genius named Antoni Gaudí created art over 100 years ago that manifests the some of the corners of my imagination. It feels like he made this work of art for me. The Sagrada Família is reverent, witty, creative, sacred, innocent, expansive, earthy, and bodacious.

Standing inside of it feels like a dream I never knew I dreamt come true. 

Stella and I take picture after picture. I think to myself over and over, "I can't wait to come back. I can't wait to come back." We end the visit with a visit to Gaudí's museum and one more spin in the center of the church. 

The inside of this church is what the inside of my brain looks like

After, we had to a tapas place recommended by our Air BnB host. The tapas are amazing, I swear off sangria (for now), and I eat my favorite thing (besides churros & chocolate) so far on this trip- chorizo & peppers. It's served between two thin slices of French bread and it's the only taste I want in my mouth for the immediate future. 

Stella and I amble home in the cool, rain-threatening air. When it indeed does start raining, Stella declares, "I'm happy it's raining!"

I am, too. I'm happy it's everything right now. 

La Sagrada Família

Heart-stopping

Me realizing Stella's been taking pictures of me and saying, "Quit, I'm about to cry!"

Jesus is on the cross under the round awning

The best kind of geeking out

So in love with this church I wanted to hug it

"Your fingers really do smell like ham!"

...what Stella said when I shoved my fingers in her face a full hour after I ate gross jamón flavored chips.

In our tiny, elevator!

Sept 13, Wednesday

It's Stella Day! 

1009a I'm waiting for the bus to the Granada airport. I'm cutting it close taking this bus, but my earlier option would have given me three hours to kill in the airport. 

I hate waiting for things to happen. The bus has 6 minutes until it's exactly on time. I'm sitting at the start of the bus route. Waiting. 

1019a The bus is 4 minutes late... 

1025a 10 minutes late. 

1030a I'm in a cab. It's not the end of the world, but I'd had my mind on spending 3 Euros not 30. The thing is, I did my research. Yesterday I made a dry run to the same airport bus pick-up. I saw the airport bus, waiting early for passengers. I even took a picture of it so I would know what it looked like this morning. I even went to another airport bus pick-up closer to my place, but opted to wait at the origin of the route because I'd seen the bus there with my own eyes. My control freakshow has its upsides. 

My Buddy makes a great airport chair

WHEN IT WORKS. There's an obvious lesson here but I'm too annoyed to- fine, there is no such thing as control and adapting is the real superpower, I get it! 

1120a I'm through security and charging my phone in the snack area when I hear a voice yelling, "ARVIN!" 

That's weird. 

"BIANCA! BIANCA ARVIN!!"

Me??

"BIANCA ARVIIIIN!!!"

I yank my phone from the wall. I know I have my passport and anything else with my name on it. I run towards security and recognize the woman who checked me in.   She is in a panic. "Que pasó?" She talks a blue streak in Spanish. I really need to work on my Spanish. 

Barcelona coast from the sky

She hustles me back to the Check in desk and makes a call. I'm in such shock I can only think, is my ticket bad? Is my flight cancelled? Did something happen to Stella? To my dad??? I start writing the story of how Stella's airline and/or my dad's nursing home could only get a hold of me in the airport.

Airport security arrives. He's a uniformed officer- do they look like that in the states?? The uniform is intimidating! He walks me into the bowels of luggage check and I finally get it. They think I have a bomb in my luggage. He's much more calm than Panicky over at the check-in desk. Calm, but serious. The next baggage security guy who shows me the picture of the "bomb" in my luggage is also very serious. 

I don't blame them. It looks like I have a bomb. It's actually a camera stabilizer I've used zero times because it's too heavy to lug around sight-seeing. Once I take the stabilizer out and explain how to use it, everyone chills out. I apologize and they're both like, "Eh, we're security."

Stella's first pintxos

Either LAX is more used to pseudo-bombs or Granada's one-terminal, four-gate airport is ON TOP OF IT. I make a mental note to add bomb-check time to our flights for the rest of the trip. 

330p Stella’s here! I’m here! We’re here together!!

After we check into our Air BnB (so artsy, in a newly fashionable part of town according to Paula- all signs point to yes on that) we go for pintxos because I’m starving. As we try to leave our building, I can’t open the door. We can’t get out. Stella pulls it open like she’s Lancelot. We try to lock the door from the outside. She can’t get the key in- of course, I can and I do. I lock the door and we’re on our way.

We’re the perfect team, obviously. 

I’m so happy!

My view as I blog on our terrace- I didn't realize but you can see Stella in the mirror in her hammock!

At home on our terrace watching sunset

"I wanted to flay her and hang her skin as a flag..."

...says Klaus of his former soulmate during Season 3 of The Originals. I'm using my nightly three hour sleep break to finally catch up on The Originals. Yes, my jet lag is still stronger than my sleeping pills. God, I love Klaus. 

This + blue jeans is what my afternoon looked like

I jolt awake to my 830a alarm. I force myself to get up. My jet lag feels like it's getting stronger? That sucks. Sometime between 530 and 830 the temperature dropped about 15 degrees. I spend the morning in my sweatshirt because I cannot shake my bone chill. I guess no beach today either. Pout.

I have a dilemma because I don't want to see anything Stella will want to see when she gets here, so the major sights like Sagrada Familia are out. The upside is that keeps me away from big touristy sights- conceivably anyway. Really the only time I've not felt surrounded by tourists has been in my own (Paula's) neighborhood. Regardless, I have no plan for today. I tell Paula at breakfast and she suggests Palau de la Música. 

The sun drop arch over Palau de la Musica

I leave tomorrow and my jet lag is making me slower than usual in every way. I take the morning to pack and listen to podcasts. (Recommendation! Conversations with People Who Hate Me. Dylan Marron is a social activist who receives a lot of hateful messages. He calls the hatemail senders and engages them in a conversation about their perceived differences. It's fantastic. )

I organize a rough list of touristy-light activities, except for the tour at Palau de la Música, and finally leave the house. The tour is pretty spectacular. Interesting tidbits:

-The Palau de la Música has over 300 performances scheduled each year.

-It's design is Modernismo (Catalan Art Nouveau) which uses natural light, concrete, mosaics, and wrought iron.

-The Muses of Music surround the stage- only performers can see all eighteen because of their onstage perspective. Each muse plays a different instrument because all music is welcome at Palau de la Música.

-It has a “very big organ” (lol) consisting of over 2200 pipes.

-The center dome is designed to be a drop of sun, as sunlight literally drops into the room. The angels choir surrounds the sun.

Cute little Nudie-to-the-Right beach signs

When I emerge from the tour the weather is surprisingly warm and pleasant... like beach weather! I scrap my half assed day and head to the beach. 

Rick Steves book warns of the long walk to the beach from the metro, but I like long walks.  ('...on the beach, nights in front of the fire place and sushi.' Shout out to Spoonie Love’s personal ad on Crank Yankers? Anyone?) This is a pretty dry walk though. It's like walking through Century City or a business park. Ugh... 

When the horizon finally breaks and I'm able to see the beach and its sparkling Mediterranean blue water, I am unprepared for how excited I am. I'M AT THE BEACH!

Barcelona has beaches lined up in succession, starting with Platja Sant Sebastiá and ending, seven beaches later, with Platja del Llevant, the newest, furthest and least touristy beach. My sights are on Mar Bella, beach #6, the clothing optional beach. There are a few reasons why: 

-I never get to sunbathe topless because American puritanical fear is LAME BS.

-The first time I ever went topless was sixteen years ago in Barcelona for 15 minutes to prove to myself I wasn't chicken. I like the symmetry of coming back to roughly the same place to do roughly the same thing as a grown ass woman. 

-Boobies! In the Sun! My white boobies can see the sun!

Today deserves Sangria & Pintxos: Chorizo, dolmas,
croquettas, jamon, curry empanada

So, here's the thing. My nude beach fantasies starred me and other liberated women. No men. My nude beach reality is, I see 500% more penis than I do any part belonging to a woman. As soon as I see my first penis, I notice the Be Gay! Bar and realize I have to adjust my feminist fantasy. 

Being perpetually optimistic, I had shoved my bikini into my purse as I left home just in case. Yay me! I find myself changing on the beach in a public restroom stall the size of an airplane toilet. As I start to strip, I get the genius idea to put my string bikini bottoms on like a diaper rather than peel off my jeans and sneakers, thus saving my feet and clothes from the floor of the public toilet. If I pull off the diaper move, I also avoid fighting my jeans back up my sweaty sticky legs and rubbing them with toilet floor germs. It doesn't occur to me to remove all my clothes and just walk around in my bikini. That's too obvious.   

Looong story short, the diaper thing doesn't work because of bikini engineering. Back on the boardwalk, I spend OVER AN HOUR trying to repair my bikini bottoms with a ball point pen because I REALLY want to be in that water. I'm like McGyver but slower, less successful, and covered in ink. Booooo.

Pretty Pintxos!

Its killing me that I can't fix my suit because I feel so close, but I finally give up because I'm suddenly so tired and hungry that I get emotional. Jet lag. 

I take myself to Carrer del Blai for pintxos and sangria on a friend's recommendation. Pintxos are pretty eats held together (pinched = pintxos) by a toothpick that you self serve off the bar. When you finish eating, you pay based on how many toothpicks you have collected. I have so much fun eating my first lunch that I stroll to the next block of Blai and I eat a second lunch.

I leave early tomorrow for Granada. I'm equal parts excited/unprepared. I arranged a rental car to make the 8-hour drive from Barcelona, because I wanted the adventure of driving across Spain but... I kinda wish I could nap for 8 hours instead.

City art: Mosaic with donated photos by Joan Fontcuberta, "The World Begins With Every Kiss"
From the placard, "The sound of a kiss is not so loud as a cannon,
but its echo lasts a great deal longer."- Oliver Wendall Holmes

Impossible to capture the beauty of the Palau de la Musica

My favorite detail from Palau de la Musica

City art: Something to love about BCN, even in a stale part of town you find some quirky art

Pintxos & Sangria lunch #2: egg roll, croquettas, BBQ pork ribs