Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Hineni, you ravenous hinds
¡Estamos à Barcelona!
Six, seven days in paris give way to four of unmitigated idyll en el capital de Catalúnya, where the palm trees which, unlike those of Dungbin, actually seem to belong, sprouting forth from cracked concrete esplanades, where the prices are reasonable (a kilo of strawberries for EUR1.20, a bottle of Cava for 3.50), where winding streets so narrow most Americans can´t fit through them form deltas from smashing great thoroughfares.
We´ve been here two hours and I am absolutely loving it. Paris has nothing on this place. Granted, I´m blasé about Paris; there´s little that´s new in it for me. I still love it dearly, but it's no longer new. It's much too much ingrained in me to be anything but mostly familiar--and when it's not familiar, it's threatening. I have taken to dividing restaurants, on sight, into two categories: They Hate Me and They Don't Hate Me. But this place is all new. We just drank fresh-squeezed pitaya juice, derived from a fruit that more reminds me of the plant from Little Shop, only small and fluorescent pink, than, say, an orange. It occurs to me that I haven´t felt New in years--not since Dublin five years ago. So we are happy. We will speak more on this as the feeling develops, shapes, matures, molds itself like cheese, of which we have eaten a metric ton since our departure.
Excuses are in order for the past two weeks' radio silence; between essays, the much-anticipated and well-celebrated arrival of the girls, relocation to the continent, fear and loathing of the French keyboard, and the ultimate disappearance of the computer from the fabulous apartment we were staying in le Marais (Lucy took it with her), blogging was simply not on the agenda. This keyboard is mostly the same, but with some novel options, like the ñ. Also the internet in the hostel is free. But mostly it's the keyboard. I really, really hate the French keyboard.
Six, seven days in paris give way to four of unmitigated idyll en el capital de Catalúnya, where the palm trees which, unlike those of Dungbin, actually seem to belong, sprouting forth from cracked concrete esplanades, where the prices are reasonable (a kilo of strawberries for EUR1.20, a bottle of Cava for 3.50), where winding streets so narrow most Americans can´t fit through them form deltas from smashing great thoroughfares.
We´ve been here two hours and I am absolutely loving it. Paris has nothing on this place. Granted, I´m blasé about Paris; there´s little that´s new in it for me. I still love it dearly, but it's no longer new. It's much too much ingrained in me to be anything but mostly familiar--and when it's not familiar, it's threatening. I have taken to dividing restaurants, on sight, into two categories: They Hate Me and They Don't Hate Me. But this place is all new. We just drank fresh-squeezed pitaya juice, derived from a fruit that more reminds me of the plant from Little Shop, only small and fluorescent pink, than, say, an orange. It occurs to me that I haven´t felt New in years--not since Dublin five years ago. So we are happy. We will speak more on this as the feeling develops, shapes, matures, molds itself like cheese, of which we have eaten a metric ton since our departure.
Excuses are in order for the past two weeks' radio silence; between essays, the much-anticipated and well-celebrated arrival of the girls, relocation to the continent, fear and loathing of the French keyboard, and the ultimate disappearance of the computer from the fabulous apartment we were staying in le Marais (Lucy took it with her), blogging was simply not on the agenda. This keyboard is mostly the same, but with some novel options, like the ñ. Also the internet in the hostel is free. But mostly it's the keyboard. I really, really hate the French keyboard.
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