I really hate to do this, but I am going to skip a few weeks' worth of material. I kept excellent notes and even wrote a few entries by hand in my notebook, but it takes a lot of effort to revisit those thoughts and record them here. Besides, by now I would have lost my passion for whatever those subjects were and the entries wouldn't be nearly as insightful as I would like them to be. Instead, I will catch up on what I did during my holiday. If for some reason you really want to hear about my French épilation du maillot experience or the several afternoons I spent sprawled on the grass by the Seine, just let me know.

For our vacation, Liz and I booked a trip to Barcelona. I was a little disappointed that I wasn't going to be able to go to Morocco, but I couldn't have asked for more from Barcelona (except possibly for warmer weather). I love the city. Whereas before I had diagnosed my chronic bad mood as homesickness, now I realize it is only my relationship with Paris that gets me down. I'm not saying Paris is a terrible city -- plenty of people seem to love it. But plenty of people don't. I always figured I would be one of those people who found Paris to be the happiest place on the planet. What a surprise to discover that I'm not sixteen anymore.

Basically, in Barcelona I spent my days in museums and the nights with a drink in my hand. I returned to Paris with spirit, inspiration (for design, writing, and overall life-living), and an addiction to coffee. The only thing Barcelona refused me was sleep.

Liz and I went to El Museo de la Xocolata (the Museum of Chocolate), which is great to see milk chocolate sculptures of Don Quixote and Ben Hur and to conquer PMS, and to El Museu Picasso, which had a lot of sketches from his youth. Society, I apologize -- just like I was wrong in saying The Beatles were overrated, it was foolish of me to once believe that Picasso was only for philistines. (Calm down, I now realize it is silly and/or pretentious of me to say that Anything, especially some specific artist, is intended for only such an audience or that such an audience actually exists. But I will probably continue doing so.)

Another day, I went to the Fundació Joan Miro to see the Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen exhibition. Amazing, amazing, amazing. There was no Giant Cake, but that was fine with me. I could tell that I could have been best friends with everyone at the exhibit -- everyone was mischievously sneaking photographs of the work and exchanging giddy, knowing smiles as if they were six-year-olds smuggling cookies. Even the museum guards seemed excited and spent more time examining the work than sitting on their stools. I made a couple of friends, a professor from the University of Calgary (Gerald Hushlak) and his colleague. We talked shop and they walked me through the other exhibits, including a temporary one on digital media.



On yet another day Liz and I went to CaixaForum (el Fundació la Caixa), a gallery-space sponsored by the bank. We went mainly for the Lee Friedlander exhibit. They had over 500 over his photographs. I have never looked at his work before, but his street photography (okay, nearly all of his subjects) did a lot for me and rekindled my interest in the medium. They also had a couple of rooms of contemporary installations. Some Sophie Calle and Joseph Beuys, as well as these other two incredible works: 'Text Rain' by Camille Utterback and Romy Achituv (pictured, with yours truly playing participant) and 'Paraules encreuades' (in Spanish) by Rivane Neuenschwander.

I also spent a few hours going to three different fine art bookstores (including the one at el Museu d'Art Contemporani) in search of the Oldenburg catalog. Instead, I found more fine architecture, the café and terrace for the art-school kids, and a delicious fluffball of meringue. One of the bookshops was just so cool. I spent way more time in them than I needed to, but I did pick up a couple of magazines and a totebag.

In any other city, I tire of going to museums. No matter how much you love art, it is an exhausting trip to make over and over again. But in Barcelona, I only wanted more. I'm not sure what had gotten into me, but it saddens me that I can feel that enthusiasm drifting away more each day. The city's atmosphere was so encouraging. It is very cosmopolitan and the architecture reflects its cultural diversity. As far as I am concerned, Barcelona has successfully preserved an authentic Catalonian identity regardless of its booming tourist industry.

And please don't even get me started on its graffiti! I have never had much of an interest in so-called "street art" until this trip and now I already have a wishlist going on Amazon for a few books on the stuff.

Paris is beautiful, but nearly every building looks the same. My surroundings need to stimulate me. In Paris, I find that stimulation only in watching other people.

In addition to all of those, we also visited La Sagrada Familia (Gaudí's famous and still unfinished cathedral) and Sagrat Cor, Barcelona's Sacred Heart with a giant statue of Christ looking over the city. Sagrat Cor is on top of a mountain -- we had to take a tram to get all the way there. There's an amusement park with a ferris wheel on top, as well, which I would not have even considered riding.

Another factor that left a great impression was the language. It was fun to practice my Spanish and French, as well as to learn that neither one is sufficient for speaking Catalonian. The social atmosphere is much more supportive than Paris, though. In one of the pastry shops, the girls asked me where I was from and what language I spoke. My "foreign" switch was on, so I ended up answering their questions in my own language, a combination and bastardization of the other three. Still, they acted amazed that I knew more than one language (even if on a very basic level) and they told me to keep it up. That made me want to practice even more. (On a side note, someone guessed I was Russian. What a compliment!)

One of the nights, Liz and I went dancing with a Parisian she met (French). That evening, I danced all night with an Australian (English). I also met two German men (German, English, Catalonian, Spanish, et cetera), who invited Liz and I to a cake party the following afternoon. A cake party! A stranger invited me to his apartment on a quiet Sunday afternoon to share cake! What a pleasure. Matthias lived right off of the beach, so we sat on the roof of his apartment eating (what else?) cake, cookies, and spaghetti, as well as drinking cappuccinos and caiprinhas. It seemed that each of the guests spoke at least two languages, but very few of us shared the same two. So, we talked through each other with nearly everyone having a chance to play translator. Naturally, we talked a lot about traveling and cultural difference (the Germans complain a lot, the Spaniards don't like Catalonians because they're too tall and so on). How badly I wanted to know German!

The following evening we met the three guys sharing our room at the hostel. They are from northern Italy: Matteo (a baker), Ric (a med student), and Ricardo (an architecture student). Liz and I spent a bit of time the next couple of days getting to know these guys while picnicking at the beach, going to bars and restaurants, and walking around the city. I made quite a bit of effort to learn as much Italian as I could. It wasn't much, but I am very proud of what I did pick up. Matteo made an excellent teacher. In exchange, I shared with him some Buddhist wisdom, speaking as slowly as I could.

My conversations with both Oliver (one of our German friends) and Matteo led to insightful discussions on personal and cultural tastes. I find it incredibly intriguing that these topics come up often and entirely on their own, suggesting that people make enormous efforts to understand why they like and feel what they do. My desire to learn every language in the world has never been so strong. I want to be able to speak to everyone about their opinions. It is more of a possibility now than it was before -- not that I can learn every language, but now I realize it isn't even necessary. Matteo's and my conversation was one of the most enlightening I've ever had and it was exchanged through very simple and broken English.

The food? I had tapas (a lot of chorizo, Iberican ham, and pineapple), spaghetti, and a gigantuous cheeseburger. It had two patties, cheese, tomato, lettuce, bacon AND a fried egg, in case I wasn't getting enough protein. Our first night out I was able to experience some (free) absinthe. Dancing at Club Razzmatazz rewarded me (free) whiskey and (15€) refreshed self-confidence. In the market, I bought a pound of dried fruit (under 6€) and a cup of mint-melon juice (2€). Several mornings in a row I went to a small, open café on Carrer Ferran for a croissant and coffee (1.75€). Why didn't anyone tell me how utterly amazing coffee can be?

For my clairscentient readers: The air of Barcelona is fruity, balmy like in the Caribbean but not as overripe, as well as very floral, although there were not many flowers in bloom. All over the city it smelled like a beautiful woman's perfume. Maybe I AM in love.

In short, I felt much more at home in Barcelona than in Paris. I was very sad to leave, especially because the weather was getting so nice. I couldn't stand the busyness of La Rambla or the cheesiness of a lot of the clubs, but the overall feel of Barcelona was a lot more safe, relaxed and fun-loving (which includes art just as much as it does dance clubs) than any other city I've found.

I'm working on a Flickr album of my favorite photos. I have far too many to post.