So I am now back in Portland, OR, and already find myself missing specific bits of Europe. I'll focus on food, because I like it. A) It is now difficult to enjoy dinner before 9 p.m. B) I crave the ability to walk to a neighborhood fruit/veggie market or bakery to pick up delicious but low priced foodstuffs. A week ago I paid 30 eurocents for long English cucumbers, and today, a puny one from Safeway cost me a dollar! This whole semester I thought that Europe was incomparably more expensive to life in the U.S., but between the gas I must use to drive to these stores, and the inflated price of fresh produce here, I am beginning to re-assess expenses in certain areas. (I cannot help but mention, of course, the many secondary costs of the U.S. food system.)

I don't want to give the U.S. an undeserved hard time. A reasonably priced meal is easier to find here than most anywhere I traveled in April and May. After my program in Barcelona ended in late April, I worked my way through France, Belgium, and Germany with a friend of mine from my Spanish university and through the Greek islands with some U.C. kids. Because our budgets allotted us approximately 3 decent meals over 3 weeks, apples, cheese, bread, and late-night kebabs were the staples of the first part of the journey, and cucumbers, tomatoes, and canned tuna, the second. We wisely decided to spend the rest of our money on transportation to the most amazing places I have ever been!

Fragmented memories of each location follow, beginning in France

-Nice: Beautiful Mediterranean coastline. Huge market between the center of the city and the beach overflowing with colorful flowers, fruits, jellies, vegetables, and breads. Tiny streets with lots of white clothing. Authentic Nicoise salads and Italian-like pizzas and focaccias. A hostel with two toilets total and no sinks in the bathroom.


-Monaco: An afternoon trip from Nice. Second smallest country in the world after Vatican City and, in my book, the most boring. Should I have the misfortune of living there, I would probably drive my new Jaguar XF off my seventh floor, with-a-view balcony into the yacht-filled ocean to end my suffering. Saw a changing of the guard in front of the palace--also boring. Good views, though, and neat buildings. Probably more luxury car stores per square mile than any other city/country/principality/whatever it is, but don't quote me on that.

*Traversed Marseille for 2 hours with 35+ lb. backpacks while waiting for train to Lyon. Even in pouring rain, was a verypretty city, with a neat, lively port. It was the first stretch of water not totally geared toward tourists that we had seen.


-Lyon: Amazing bridges. Two rivers run through it (Maclean/Redford reference intended). Enjoyable newer city in between the rivers, gorgeous old city to the east. Rain. Cathedral at the top of the east side offers magnificent views of red slanted roofs. En route to the top, a lush, well-landscaped, impeccably maintained garden, full of wisteria and ivy. Dinner at a restaurant crammed with wooden tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths. Wine in small carafes--beef buillion cube-like soup--white toast covered in roasted peppers, capers, and anchovies. Only cheap bill in France.

-Grenoble: Day trip to a college town in the French Alps. Deep green everywhere. Gorgeous, fog-encased mountains overlooking the Rhone River. Hiked up through castle ruins for 2 hours before it got dark. Broken train to return to Lyon meant a 2 hour bus ride.



-Paris: Birthday in the capital city. Climbed Eiffle Tower before total darkness (thank you, daylight savings time). Met with our relocated Spanish friend, Emily! Went to Lonely Planet-recommended vegetarian restaurant only to find its dishes cost twice what the guidebook said. Thank you, Lonely Planet. Ended up dining in a Middle Eastern cous-couseria obsessed with FC Barcelona (fitting) and Christmas (weird) with great food and horrible wine. The Louvre: overwhelmingly enormous (surprise!).
Tiny stores in the Montmarte district. Best falafel ever. Gross, confusing Metro that ate my tickets. Met a friend of Santi's, who rented the most beautiful student housing I have ever seen. Luxembourg Garden. Legs too tired for the whole Champs Elysees. Incredible Notre Dame cathedral. Beautiful plant-clad buildings. Hostel reviewed in Architectural Digest and NYT, meaning we shared space with snarky, unsatisfied vacationers who do not realize it is still a place for cheap travelers with small rooms and creaky bunk beds.

Just to humor myself:

1. Lisbon was nice. Relaxing--not an overwhelming number of things to do or see. Jessica and I walked along the port in tank tops for 4 hours on Sunday just to reach a famous bakery. The Portuguese are generally very hospitable people. Drinks come in plastic cups so that everyone can leave the small bars and socialize in the streets. They're cheap, too--Portugal's economy was hurting long before the current crisis.

2. My parents came here for 10 days with their friends. We ate tapas--lots of tapas. I am still not convinced they know that other forms of food preparation are alive and well in Barcelona. I learned there are a lot more things to do in Barcelona with a more flexible budget. Speaking of money, my dad chased down a pick pocket and got his wallet back--pretty baller. All in all, it was a lovely trip, although I was not able to spend as much time with them as I would have liked. Also, I discovered several cool restaurants after they left. Bummer.

3. Bolonia plan: My brain is not up to this level of thought right now.

4. Sevilla: We paddle-boated down the river at sunset with cerveza. What more could you ask for? Maybe a huge, beautiful Cathedral, perfect weather, delicious, cheap tapas, and a precious family-run pension. I am quite disappointed I will not have a chance to further explore Southern Spain.

Last thoughts

This morning I ran to the top of a hill that overlooks the city. Our daily AM Spanish class that had prevented me from doing so before now has finished, like the rest of our classes. My life in Barcelona is coming to an end so quickly, so abruptly.

On my way, I passed through narrow streets full of rush hour (9 a.m.) traffic. Commuters rushed to their Vespas holding helmets and tinfoil-wrapped bocadillos. Parents gripped their childrens' hands and walked to nearby schools. Most teenagers strolled to the Metro with their friends, some holding croissants and talking loudly, while a few poor latecomers sprinted past with half-open backpacks. As the only living creature within miles in shorts, a bright T-shirt, and tennis shoes, I received the expected stares and occasional "Guuuappppa" comments.

And then, with one steep turn to the right, I left it all behind and ascended into the morning quiet of the dirt trails outside of Parc Guell. The requisite ten minutes of why-am-I-doing-this-I-am-so-out-of-shape gasping pain to reach the top of my beloved rocky outcrop were, as always, worthwhile. I danced like crazy to GirlTalk as I watched the city come alive, and I realized how much I am going to miss this place.

It is not my home. Nowhere I've been has felt anything like home, and I doubt Europe ever could. That is why I am ready to leave here to explore other cities--to watch how others live, but without lingering so long that I lose my busied excitement and realize how out of sync I am with the pulse of a strange place.

But Barcelona is a special place: Animated with pride for a nation and regulated by a general love for people that transcends demands of time or language. Intolerance exists here too: I have experienced or witnessed displays of racism, sexism, and ethnocentricism here as much, if not more, than in the U.S. But I will remember instead the parents coming to walk their hijos home from school for almuerzo...the two gossiping girls gripping each other in avid conversation...the brusque forn de pa worker who knows his customers by name...the two old women walking arm and arm, blocking my rapid path up the escalator, because, quite frankly, I just don't matter. I think I have learned a lot about human connection here that I missed growing up surrounded by America's proud, rugged individualism.

Hmm.

I will not fail at this!

Things I will write about (once I insure I will actually pass my classes):

1. Lisbon
2. The incredible consumption of food that was my parent's visit
3. The Bolonia plan protests
4. Sevilla

Lists help me.

Things to which I've become accustomed that at first seemed notable:

-People carrying long skinny baguettes at all hours.
-Dog poop sitting in the middle of the street, waiting for my shoes.
-Nothing being open on Sundays. Except maybe the hospital.
-Everything but cafes and restaurants being closed from 2-4 p.m.
-Olive oil (of the delicious variety). Everywhere. Usually with salt.
-Eyes looking at me when I eat shell fish.
-Newspapers that do not hide their (Obama) biases.
-A total distaste for most sarcasm, regardless of intonation. "Es un CHISTE" currently is the important phrase in my vocabulary.
-My ever-loosening grasp on coherent English.
-Indoor smoke.
-The popularity of low rider bicycles. My friend remarked that finding a good road bike is more difficult than finding "the ones with the tiny wheels." (Image coming when I have completed my midterm.)

Human tetris pieces, ninjas, angels, devils, chickens, Spidermen, draq queens, and whorish nuns have filled Barcelona's subways, streets, bars, clubs and beaches the past few days. Por supuesto--es Carnaval! If I'd begun to take this city for granted, this weekend kicked my sensory system into an overdrive that promptly reminded me.

The six day festival of decadence that precedes Lent seems to me fitting for a region with few practicing Catholics but a rich religious history. Food, alchool, and dancing are kings in anticipation of 40 days of restriction. On Friday my friends and I went to Sitges, a beach town 40 minutes from the city center famous for its Carnaval revelry. Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday--especially Tuesday--are the most notorious days in Sitges, but even on Friday the streets were full until the first train went back to Barca at 4:48 a.m. (I am sure of this time because by about 4 a.m. no amount of dancing would keep my sockless feet from freezing in th 7 degree C weather. Yes, I occasionally lack street smarts. And no, a longer 40 minutes I have not passed in a while.)

This is what happens when you instigate feather mask headbutt wars. (The mask had feathers all across the top when I purchased it.)

Two weeks prior, my former roommate Alyssa, who is studying in Rome, visited me. She is just as amazing as I remember. I spent a lot of time with her friend, Brittany, and in total we were the only triplet of curly blondes I've seen in Barcelona. In hosting her and, later, Brett, I have learned a lot of interesting facts about Barcelona (read: Gaudi). Too bad forgetting is inevitable.

No one is allowed to request postcards now. Alyssa has it covered. (On the roof of Casa Batllo.)

Also, I went to Madrid last weekend. Now, I've experienced some strange weather patterns in Oregon--24 degree temperature shifts in 24 hours, for example, or heavy snow immediately followed by torrential rainfall. But nothing beats Madrid's weather last weekend. I toured the city comfortably in a long sleeved T-shirt less than one week after snow had covered the streets. It's pretty sweet when bipolarity works in your favor.

I really enjoyed Madrid. I saw Guernica in person, a dream I've had since high school. Unfortunately, this naive dream also involved me standing solitary in front of the artwork, when the reality of the Museo de Reina Sofia on a Sunday afternoon situated me among a pack of about 50 onlookers.

What a hard life, no?

Sorry for the lack of updates; I know you all (five or so) have anxiously awaited updates on my life. It is so exciting at times even I can't stand it--like today, when I spent a grand total of 8 hours in subways, buses, and an airport to go...nowhere. RyanAir canceled my flight to Shannon, Ireland, an hour after it was supposed to depart. A frazzled service agent offered me another flight 10 hours later, but I declined after calculating that would mean more hours spent traveling than with my incredible friend Erin. Instead I requested a full refund, which she gave me along with a corresponding receipt. Then, when I opened my email inbox after the 1.75 hour bus and metro ride home from the airport, I read that I would only be credited one third of that amount. Some poor soul at RyanAir will have the pleasure of reading a rather unhappy message from, and no one at RyanAir will have the pleasure of seeing my discontented face ever again, if I can help it.

What almost went down at the cashier's desk. AP photo.

But really, as I discussed with the amazing Stephanie M Lee, who is also trying to keep an updated online account of her life in Europe, the term "travel blog" has some internal tension: if one is actually traveling, one cannot blog all that much. Kind of like, if you're trying to inhabit another culture, documenting every experience with a camera is difficult; although, a Universitat student told me, many Americans try.

My long post speaks to this point: with travel plans decimated, I am blogging.

Last weekend I spent some time in Montjuic, a beautiful lush mountain rising out of urbanization. At the top are facilities constructed for the 1992 Olympics, but the hike there is far more captivating (at least when no world-class athletes around). On our way down we went to Fundacio Miro, the beautiful museum that houses much of Joan Miro's work. Watching the painter's perspective change internally and spurred by external factors was fascinating, from his take on the dominant aesthetics, human beings, and the Spanish Civil War and WWII--realities gruesome to the point of unreality. All this even though I was incredibly hungry: no mean feat, Miro.

Also, at some point I went to see a Flamenco show. Ten minutes in, the (main) female dancer hurt her knee and didn't perform again. The man was amazingly talented and worked very hard to make up for the loss--he was dripping sweat--but alas, I imagine Flamenco in Sevilla is slightly different.

And just because the beginning of my post was so bitter...

I like to watch the city and the sea unfold from the top of Parc Guell, or this jardin by my home--it's absoluteley incredible. And when I do, I always remember the views of Berkeley from Grizzly Peak, the Rose Garden, Indian Rock, or the lookout point on the firetrails behind the football stadium. And I remember that despite the rich experience I'm having here, my heart still lies with the people of Noregon.


Next: my planned petition to Governors Schwarzenneger and Kulongoski to annex Oregon with Northern California, no feds required!