Barcelona: I fell in like with you.

I just realized that I hadn't yet posted about the Barcelona leg of the Eurotrip with Rach. Whoops. Alright, let's brush off the cobwebs.

What I remember most distinctly about Barcelona was that it was completely overwhelming - in size, culture, noise, population - they simply have MORE of everything (including an insane amount of French.) Valencia, though the third largest city in Spain, was considerably less... jarring. While only a four hour train ride away, the provincial dialect was completely different, thus throwing another wrench in the already-shaky works of my Spanish. I missed the Valencian lisp... dearly. Where's Joaquin?

But we were there to learn... nay - to live! Our hostel was a super scene little place, two blocks back from Las Ramblas, one of the main drags of Barcelona. The staff was friendly and the place was clean. The downsides? Really noisy and in need of at least one more shower. More than once I was in line in the hallway with bed-head and a pre-caffe con leche frown.

We went generally exploring the first and second day we were there. We took in the Gothic church and the district of the same name. One of the highlights of the entire trip was seeing the man, pictured above, playing panpipes outside of the church. What he playing you ask? How about Frank Sinatra's "My Way," backed up by a stereo playing the little midi version of the same song. When Rachel and I took the elevator up to the roof, we could hear those pipes of Pan as we ascended. Glorious!

We made the pilgrimage to the Picasso Museum. It was interesting in terms of scope - most of what they had was not the "best known" Picasso, but rather, a lot of his early work and a considerable number of prints and drawings. His early drawings were... phenomenal. When you find yourself saying "wooow!" at the scribbled study of a goat, you know the man was good - not to say that everything he touched turned to gold - but you have to admit, he was arguably the best artist of the 20th century.

Discuss.

We also took in all the Gaudi we could handle. We spent a full day and a half with him, actually - bouncing from site to site. We first hit Sagrada Família, which was nothing short of mind-numbingly awesome. As Kenny Rogers once said, "I saw so much, I broke my mind." It's not even complete and it's one of the most beautiful man made structures I've ever seen. I must go back to see it completed... sometime after 2026.

Next, we swung by Casa Batlló, a private home in the theme of a man-eating dragon. It was, devastatingly, closed for no apparent reason. Luckily for us, Gaudi is everywhere and we walked a mere two blocks up and found another private residence-turned-museum in Casa Milà. The most interesting places were the attic - a winding series of brick archways - and the roof - a series of stairways, towers, and arches... tremendous. The interior was gorgeous as well. Gaudi took a Frank Lloyd Wright approach to most of his projects, in that he designed everything, down to the chairs and door knockers. Fantastico.

The next day, we hoofed it out to Park Güell, and I think of the movie 10 Things I Hate About You...

Chastity: I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed... but can you ever just be whelmed?
Bianca: I think you can in Europe.

I was whelmed. Rachel was whelmed. The park is pretty amazing. It's gigantic, with multiple sections with different visual themes... but it was so incredibly overrun with people that I wanted to scream. The last part we visited was the long mosaic tile bench, which winds around the terrace above the main gate... we couldn't see any of it because it was covered by the asses of a thousand fatties. I expected people, but not what seemed like an organized mob sent to piss us off. Rachel and I both left feeling rather letdown, and sought comfort in our cervezas. Perhaps we should have been less naive, but it was, to put it gently, anti-climactic.

The last full day was spent mostly at a beach in Sitges, a tourist town about an hour south of Barcelona. When the water touched our feet, Rachel screamed. It was cold. Cold even for this jaded New Englander. The temperature of the Atlantic off the coast of Maine in early June. COLD! We took a picnic lunch of bread and fruit, which we ate almost immediately. Rachel said, "oh man, I'm not going in." I cocked my head and looked at her because she already knew the answer. We, of course, went in. How do you not swim in the Mediterranean? Sure, our lips literally turned blue (well, violet), but damn it - we went in. And it was good.

One of the scariest/"we can laugh about it now!" moments took place on the last night. Rachel and I decided to take a different route back to our hostel, which was between a Russian a Middle Eastern neighborhood. We head down this street, somewhat populated with people... we soon realize, however, that they're all men. We start getting that fight-or-flight feeling... but then we see a woman hanging out and think "phew!" Turns out that it's a hooker... of course. Meanwhile, the guys are watching, sort of following Rach and I in small clumps. I think to myself, "if street-smart Rach gets freaked out, then I'll freak out, but until then..." As if on cue, Rachel grabs my arm - HARD. Crimeny. We dive off that street to a slightly less freaky street with some drunk clubbers, and start talking...

Rachel: Did you see that?
Alec: You mean the freaking "Thriller" video that was following us?
Rachel: No - the street filled with hookers!
Alec: I saw the one hooker...
Rachel: No - there were more! I looked down one of the alleys and it was FILLED with hookers! AHHH! We're gonna DIE!

As we were walking back towards Las Ramblas to get back to our hostel the non-hooker filled way, we saw a couple of cop cars filled with attractive and extremely bored policemen going to scatter the wolves of Barcelona and the hookers paid to love them. We needed to shower and go to bed. ASAP.

To end on a positive note, earlier that night, Rachel and I went out for dinner and a cute little French family sat next to us. It was a youngish couple with two little boys - a redhead around five or so, and a little blond cherub around two. The two-year-old takes one look at me and was, apparently, smitten. He spent the whole evening smiling at me, hiding his face, then smiling again and trying to edge closer to me on the bench, getting upset only when his mom pulled him back. The mom was thoroughly embarrassed and frustrated, the younger brother thought it was hilarious, and the dad was trying not to smile. When the little one tried to sneak over to our table, I told the mom something in French along the lines of "no worries." She gave me a meek grin and they left shortly thereafter. I would have nabbed him if I thought I could make it through customs with one extra towheaded French toddler than I'd left the country with. He was too cute. I don't know why two-year-olds think I'm awesome, but they do.

Anyway, to sum up this series of random events, I enjoyed Barcelona, but not as much as I thought I would. I didn't fall in love with it - as I had expected. If I had the chance to go back, I guess I would, but not without some reservation (as in "couldn't I go to Seville, instead?") But I'd be willing to see what else it had to offer. And catch up with Gaudi.


The trip home started off frantically, and ended quite easily. Rach and I got to the Barcelona airport in plenty of time, but were told that we had to check our bags - something we'd manage to avoid. No bueno. The flight from Barcelona to Dublin was running late and, on top of that, took longer than expected. We knew we were going to miss the connecting flight and our bags. We touch down in Dublin and us and two guys going to Boston were ushered upstairs, thrown into a van, zoomed through customs, and dropped off at the gate. We ran onto the plane and were greeted by, what else but a pleasant Irish woman who said, "oh, no needtah run garls! The plane inn't going tah leave withoutchu!" I wanted to hug her and stay in that glorious country until they found me and gave me the boot back to its little snot-nosed brother of Boston. We were the last people on the plane and plopped into our seats - which had individual screens and a list of shows and movies to choose from... even an episode of "Father Ted." I was overjoyed. The flight was without incident and when we arrived, we were unnecessarily sassed by a fake-cranky Boston cop (home!)... and both our bags were there! Rachel declared it a St. Patrick's day miracle, in spite of it being about two months late. My parents were only ten minutes late picking us up. It is a miracle!

Back home, Rach and I ate our weight in chips and fruit, crashed and had brunch with my fam the next day at Julian's. At the Providence airport, we parted ways as we always do - without much pomp and circumstance - because we know we'll see each other again.

The end.

Round two: FIGHT!

Oh Valencia... where to begin? Rachel and I left Florence with a heave and a sigh (the heave from our hauling our heavy bags and the sigh out of sentimentality.) The Pisa airport was relatively small, but rather sleek - and much more efficient than Florence or Bologna (P.S. NEVER fly into Bologna.) We got to Valencia sans hitch - it was perfect. The Valencia airport is connected directly (like walk-down-one-flight-of-stairs directly) to the clean and efficient Metro system. Five or six stops later, we were wandering around a glorious plaza made of marble, surrounded by bright Baroque buildings, looking for our hostel. The hostel was nice - very simple, but bright and clean. A shower and sink in the room, along with our own balcony - not bad, eh?

One of my favorite moments from the whole trip actually was rather trying at first. The first evening in Valencia, we went exploring the evening and got lost in the Valencian suburbs. We were both hungry and tired and had low blood sugar (the one common thing that can make us both less than pleasant to be around.) At one point, I notice that Rachel is no longer walking beside me. I turn around to see her asking a handsome, middle-aged man tethered to a wire-haired fox terrier, in broken Spanish, where's a good place for tapas? He was awkwardly charming (he had "professor" written all over him), and his English was a bit better than our Spanish, so we continued our conversation in steady and purposeful Spanglish. His wife came out of the store we were standing in front of, and he explained our situation. They had a good-natured argument about directions and restaurants until the wife motioned for us to go with them. So we followed this adorable couple through the surprisingly busy streets. The missus left on her own errand, so we continued on with the man - pausing while he returned a DVD at a Blockbuster.

We found out that his name was Joaquin and his dog was Terry. And we love him.

After about ten minutes of walking, with a great big smile and a wave, he left us in front of a nice tapas place with great shrimp and an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for this wonderful place - this beautiful Valencia - which, only an hour before, made me nauseous after I realized I couldn't understand anything anyone said. We also had our first taste of the Bud Light of Spain: Estrella Damm. Well, maybe it's more like the Spanish Sam Adams, since it's actually potable and rather nice. The food is great - lots of seafood, lots of fried, and yet, somehow, I still lost weight... I love the Spanish.

We did the adventure to the City of the Arts and Sciences. This involved a metro stop and about 48 miles of walking in sunshine, which is nice, unless you're of a certain P&C complexion (peaches and cream, yo). We trekked to the largest aquarium in all of Europe and spent most of the day mooning over over Beluga whales and sea lions. On the way back, the heat and sun caught up with my pale Northerness and I was slapped in the face with a bout of heat stroke and a rather nasty sunburn. While I slept off my nausea, Rach adventured out and found the super scene area of Valencia that was strewn with tapas places, shops and churches (of course.) We spent the next couple of days primarily in that neighborhood, exploring churches, drinking caffe con leche, and eating... there was much eating.

The thing I may love most about daily European life is the market/mercado. Quality fresh food, good prices, and good variety. You're bound to be more adventurous in your cooking and eating if you know where your food came from. There's the occasional farmer's market around here, but if there could be something large-scale and more consistent, my life would be... wondrous.

Strange Things About Valencia

• Wedding shops. EVERYWHERE. We also witnessed evidence of four weddings on one day. Apparently, getting hitched is quite en vogue in V-Town.

• Bull fights. Still big. Like, NASCAR big.

• I saw something with Dr. Phil on it. I don't remember what, because I forced it out as soon as I saw it, but I thought I had escaped his grasp.

• More "Strange Things About Valencia" under "Reasons Why Rachel and I Liked Spain (Valencia in Particular)"


Reasons Why Rachel and I Liked Spain (Valencia in Particular):

• Fatties! Yes - fat people! After Florence - a city of slender Italians in four-inch heels - we found ourselves surrounded by an equal number of beautiful, youthful Spaniards and Spaniards with yoga pants and beer bellies. Human after all!

• Spanish people do it. All the time. How do we know this? Babies. BABIES EVERYWHERE. Baby here, baby there... babies every-fraking-where. Like pietas in Italia, you're bound to see more than your fair share of babies in Espagna. Also, their version of a TV drama involves a comical amount of sex scenes. Hilarious bordering on just plain weird.

• They fucking LOVE chocolate. Not only are there chocolate shops everywhere, but also, after watching a couple of hours of Spanish TV, Rachel and I noticed that out of, say, seven commercials, five of them were for some sort of chocolate-based product; the other two commercials were for weight loss and feminine hygiene products. Take from that what you will.

• Dos cervezas = doth thervethaths. I adore the Valencian lisp - Rachel on the other hand, was not a fan.

• Caffe con leche. Unlike Italians who sneer at you for ordering a cappuccino after noon, the Spanish will whip up a less frothy version for you at any time. Though I missed the pomp and circumstance of a cappuccino, there was something to be said about getting what you wanted exactly when you wanted it. There are shops everywhere. I became very dependent on caffeine during the trip - I'm still trying to wean myself off 3-5 shots of espresso a day.

Anyway, both Rachel and I enjoyed Valencia a lot. While we expected it to be nice, I think we were both still pleasantly surprised. We came to the conclusion that it's a very livable city - there's open space and well-kept parks, nice public transit, and what seemed like stable, relatively diverse economy. It was tourist-friendly, but not "touristy" - an unfortunate bog that Florence has become thoroughly lodged in. The weather was perfect and the city was very clean. Anytime we asked for directions, someone was more than happy to help.

Oh Valencia, if I spoke Spanish, I'd be back to you in a heartbeat with a working visa.

The more you know...

I've been doing some more research on Valencia, because Rach and I didn't really know too much about it when we chose it. Our decision to go to Valencia came about as follows:
A-Town: Ryanair doesn't fly Pisa to Madrid!
Rachel: Crap! Where does it go?
A-Town: It flies to Valencia... that sounds promising...
Rachel: You know what - screw Madrid! It had it coming! ... So, where's Valencia?

Valencia is happily just down the coast from Barcelona, which should make for a nice, relatively easy train ride when we head north. It sounds like a really great place, actually. Something sort of quiet after a whirlwind few days in Firenze. Wanna know some factoids about V-Town, as well as some subjective truthitudes? Valencia has the largest aquarium in Europe (which I'm kind of geeking out about because I strode to be a mammal marine biologist... when I was 9.) It's supposedly a great city for young artists and still has a certain "old world charm." It's also fiscally responsible: nice hostel lodging for four days for both Rachel and myself came out to be just a smidgen over $300, and I hear that most tapas run around $4.

Cheap sardines? Why not?

Valencia is on the list of "Second-Tier Cities" from the NY Times, which also includes Italy's prodigal son, Napoli. They're cities that one wouldn't necessarily think of when someone asks "where do you want to go in Europe?" - but fine, up-and-coming, bring-home-to-Mom type places nonetheless.

Sounds nice, huh? I just hope I can pick up some Spanish before this trip, and not confuse it with my limited Italian in the process. I watched Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations: Paris" after some nudging by Rob (I find Bourdain obnoxious - and not in an endearing Dr. House sort of way...) Well, I now find Bourdain tolerable, but also, I miss.... European-ness. More than ever. I really miss the French language. It was my second language - I took seven years of it, giving up after freshman year of college because I dealt with a bitter WASP of a professor who wished he was French so badly that he took out his misery on my grammar skills. I never had a chance to speak it with someone who wasn't an educator, and when you're abroad there's something thrilling about asking for directions or even buying stamps in another language. I simply enjoy hearing French, and speaking it can be a pleasure when it's a casual situation. It's not as warm and vivacious as Italian, or cool as Spanish, but its filled with subtleties and swirling tones. The end of their words get pulled up by invisible strings and tumble down and up, and then get crammed together like cars in traffic, only to free up unexpectedly. An interesting language.

As for today being Super Tuesday, I'm not registered as a Democrat, so I'm not voting in the primary. But, I of course look forward to see who will nail this... or gently cradle this like a photo-op baby. (But how cute is that Obama/baby picture??) I have reservations about both Democratic candidates, but I won't voice my concerns till the dust settles - once they're in-line for the nomination, they're a little more secure. And I'll say this about the Republicans: John McCain looks like he couldn't handle the stress created by climbing a flight of stairs and his eagerness to appease the right concerns me immensely; Mitt Romney? Well, he reminds me of the evil billionaire from the classically MST3K'd movie Timechasers.

So what if I'm a nerd - he's evil.

My plan is going exactly according to... plan.

Can I get a drum roll please? Ladies and gentlemen, Rachel and I have concluded our booking of the trip: lodgings and air travel are now SET. We booked our digs in Barcelona and home sweet Firenze the other day and I guess I feel a little too accomplished after sorting through a few dozen flights, hostels, hotels, and apartments per city (including the ill-fated Madrid)...

But whatever... BOOSH!

In Barcelona, we'll be staying at the Downtown Paraiso Hostel, a place run by four friends (which worked out in Switzerland... oh Switzerland! You'll always have a little piece of my heart, Simon.) This hostel, in a city filled with over-priced dumps, turns out to be reasonable and an even better catch if it lives up to its description. It's close to Las Ramblas, but not too close, and it looks chic but still cozy in hostel terms. (Though I'm not sure whether I love that room or just find the mural really creepy.)

As for Firenze, we'll be staying in Hotel Tina which, from what I gather, is about two - count 'em, TWO - blocks away from the chambers of les personnes célèbres - that is to say, PL and A-Town, the very people who are bringing us all together for this Glorious Amalgamation of truth and beauty. With their love for love. And love for holy matrimony. And love for gelato and really old things. Our hotel is close to San Marco, which is pretty groovy and about four blocks from the Mighty Stallions. Very exciting. Can't wait to swing by some of my old haunts...


Yeah that's right... what up, Standa? You got some pesca té for me? Is it Clever? Hm? Is it? And Astor, do you remember Bianca?

No, screw that noise. I hated Standa and their untamed surliness. That store is like a very unfunny version of Clerks. I'm going to the place near the Accademia, with the guy with the bandanna. (Two euro says he's still there.) Or the Mercato Centrale with its multi-leveled goodness. Rachel and I have already agreed we're probably on the wine, cheese, bread and fruit diet the whole time we're there. Which is fine. Hopefully, we end up dropping a few pounds and acquiring a healthy flush to our cheeks.

But my number one priority, apart from flying (literally flying, Mercury-style) into the arms of my beloved and stuffing my face with these bad boys, is to get some Sad Gelato Man gelato. Eryn and I have discussed this ultimate reunion many times and have only agreed that we must expect the unexpected. But in all likelihood, there will be a scene. And many awkward pictures taken.

Things that I want to do that I didn't do while in Firenze? Maybe hit up the Duomo ("Duo"/"dwhoah" for those in the know) and Santa Croce to see some tombs (Michelangelo, Machiavelli and Ghiberti). And the old favorite of catching the sunset at Piazzale and then hitting up El Taco, OF COURSE. And then Art Bar for a girls' night out. So much to do! (I like how the majority of my priorities revolve around food.)

What I miss the most is that these places (SGM's, El Taco, SACI, Art Bar, Fiddler's Elbow, the Odeon, this statue...) were such a focus and we were so attached and cared about them so much, it feels like no one else could come close to caring about them as we did - and do, to this day. So, in that respect, they're ours. And I can't wait to go back and show Firenze what I've become - a lot of which is due to it and the experiences I had there.

But for now all I have to do is buy a dress and show up! ...And find a way to pay for it all... but I suppose that's why Ramen and home-brewed espresso exist. Good thing I like home-brewed espresso, even with my little crappy steam-driven machine. Making coffee can be so meditative - I enjoy the process on the weekends, when I'm not in a rush. I think that would be one of the biggest bummers to a planned pregnancy - quitting caffeine. Stupid babies and their vulnerability to stimulants... why do they have to be such... babies??

And just for kicks, here's JR and the boys performing on Letterman Tuesday night. Yeah enthusiasm! Gotta love Zack's assistance on the cymbals.

Freezing cold temperatures = pointless posting!

This weekend has been quite low key, keeping in tone with the frigid temperatures. Yesterday, I didn't do much of anything, except pick up my new glasses (in black with blue highlights, which I would say fall under the category of "chic librarian"). Very exciting, I know. I also watched A Mighty Wind, which I saw years ago, but my love was rekindled by my relatively new appreciation for folk music and Parker Posey. The comedy is ridiculous, but dialed down to the point of deadpan absurdity. I recommend it and any other Christopher Guest mockumentary.

The Patriots are going to the Superbowl. Not exactly a surprise for a team that's 18-0 this season (but boy, will their faces be red if they lose the big one to Peyton's goofy little brother.) While I don't follow football very closely at all, I have to tip my hat to them - really exceptional all season long. Nicely done, Mr. Brady.

I had the honor of talking to both Miss Rachel and The Reginator today. "But how - how I say - did you talk to Regina, who is in the exotic far off land of Turkey?" Well, we used Skype, which I downloaded while I was in Italy, but never had the opportunity to use for anything other than instant messaging. As it turns out, it's pretty freaking awesome. The sound quality's great, there's very little lag... and oh yeah - it's free! I just use my laptop's built-in microphone and my regular speakers. You can surf the intertubes while you're talking and there's no pressure to cram in some amazing, life-changing conversation in as short a time as possible because it's freeeeee. So we were able to be our natural, idiotic selves. It was wonderful.

And it's official. Rachel and I will be staying Hostal Moratin in Valencia while we're there for four days, immediately post-Amalgamation. In terms of hostels, it looks somewhat classy, though rather spartan. While on the phone and looking at the hostel's photos, we both had the same reaction (in the Eurotrash voice): You like chair? Mmmm... we have chaaaair. There is only one chair... but it's so chic. We're either going to kill each other or end up bound by a civil ceremony at the end of this trip... probably the latter as European hostels usually mean double beds. Spicy!

This is completely and utterly unrelated to everything above, but my brother's playing Bioshock, a ridiculously gruesome, but ridiculously awesome computer game. The graphics and locomotion are amazing. The art, production and design detail are insane. Picture a city underwater, circa 1960, if Ayn Rand's ideas were taken seriously by a group of very well funded and very vehement group of people... A sort of disgustingly brutal and beautiful anarchy ensues. I simply enjoy watching it, because playing a game like that would get me frantic and squeamish.

Just leave me my Scrabulous.