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.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
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.
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.
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