I’m sitting at the Maritime Museum, in their gorgeous and unusual cafe, waiting for my feet to “cool off”. Having feet problems and loving travel is an unfortunate combination. But, I saw two gentlemen in wheelchairs today and my heart broke for them, and was filled with gratitude for my problems, small as they are comparatively.

Barcelonetta is what you would expect: commercial, filled with boobs and buts (like all beaches), filled with mediocre food (yep, I’m an elitist when it comes to food), and stunning none the less. Worth a visit! I walked up and down it today. With sunshine like this and humidity like England or the Pacific Northwest (i.e. close to none), a breeze and palm trees and shrubs and other trees and plants of all types, I felt blessed despite the commercialism and the occasional crush of the crowd.

I saw something for the first time ever: a gym, of sorts, in the middle of the beach where young, ripped men could go “prove” themselves to a hopefully watching world. Never seen a gym on a beach before! The same build of gentlemen swarmed all around this gym. Clearly you only come here if you’ve already got the muscle and desired shape to show to the world. I didn’t mind watching…

The Maritime Museum is free on weekends! How lucky! Not that Barcelona does not already have a lot of my money. It does! I’ve been giving it to all the eateries. En Ville is tremendous. 100% gluten free. I ate there last night. At first I thought it was so good that my judgment of My Fucking Restaurant as being in the top 3 of my experience had to be wrong. Then I realized what the profane restaurant offered which En Ville did not: novelty and complexity. The complexity and layers of flavors was far beyond what En Ville offered. I recommend both! But for something new and complex, the answer is My Fucking Restaurant.

Attended mass at The Cathedral this morning. It is offered in Spanish and Catalon only. This time I knew that and came prepared with an app that I hoped could help: Google Translate. The “conversations” feature translates live audio into written text of a different language. Well, it didn’t work. It works if you’re standing several feet away from the phone but not, it appears, if you’re standing ~80 feet away from the phone. Makes sense. It appears that, not for the first time, I want something that the market has not yet developed. I read the book of Micah while the priest delivered his message. Both were beautiful: the sound of the priests voice echoing through the cathedral and the intent of the book of Micah, justice.

Before entering The Cathedral, I read about it some. It was built between 1200 and 1400 but, the intricate facade it has now, which is surely what you’ll notice more than anything else on initial encounter, was not added until the late 1800s. I was annoyed by that. I had an ~1880s interpretation of the medieval viewpoint, not the actual medieval viewpoint. This was one the other reason why one of my Spanish friends had told me she preferred the Basilica to the Cathedral: the first has remained largely authentic. I looked up York Minster as a comparison. I experienced that structure a couple years ago. And thankfully, every significant drop of it is real/authentic. This is a helpful reminder to myself to continue to get the history on things so I’m not significantly misjudging. For example, I observed that most faces carved around the front door of The Cathedral looked the same. Originally I thought “this is the sort of face folks from the 1300s thought was beautiful” because of course we have no idea what Peter looked like and equally it’s excruciatingly doubtful that all 12 of the disciples looked the same (unless Jesus took the same approach that Queen Elizabeth I took which was to hire her ladies in waiting based on beauty. I think not.) But then, I realized, this was what late 1800s men thought was beautiful. If you look at the individuals carved into York Minster, they are not only not all the same, but some are actually different heights, and some are kind of unattractive!

Gonna go check out the musem now. I am returning to SantAugustina this evening for dinner to recover from the mediocre food I had on the beach. It is guaranteed to work. I am looking forward to this! And to some ships!

Fascinating fact from the Maritime Museum: at least 80% of goods sold and purchased today are transported by sea for at least part of their journey. It appears containers, and later container ships, have revolutionized our world. By creating and playing a game of tetris, we’ve become more efficient. I am fascinated by this! Would love to study this more.

On a sadder note – I actually cried in the museum – the galley rowers (the men who sat in the lower part of a galley ship and rowed in unison to propel the boat) were chained to their seats! They rowed, slept, ate, and pooped and urinated from that position. They were chained until the trip was complete. Most would not live longer than two years. I hate galley ships. (And yes, I realize I’m hating something from the past.)

I have finally run out of steam! Today, I finished the last of five days of work so now my actual vacation starts and Barcelona awaits!

One native Barcelonan told me her favorite historical church is Santa Maria del Mar because the acoustics are so good. Perhaps the richness of the sound I heard in Santa Maria is unusual for a cathedral/basilica! I had wondered. If I opened the doors to my balcony and had Inspector Gadget arms I could touch Santa Maria. It’s probably only 10 feet away.

My new Italian friend, GianLuca, swears that if you cook pasta right, i.e. al dente, it’s healthier. I’m not convinced. He’s a very biased source.

I was going to read more about Antoni Gaudi, who appears to be a one-of-a-kind human, but my eyes are closing again. Without my approval. Here’s a fun term I ran into on the Wikipedia page on Gaudi: hyperbolic paraboloid. Yep, I don’t really know what that means! But, I’m visiting two of his works tomorrow and Sagrada Familia Thursday, so will read about him between those and share what sense of this man I can find; he may never make sense to me, so I hope at least to catch some of his inspiration! (He is like Sherlock! Never married. His work was his life. While I am passionate, I yet do not understand this. My philosophy: have your cake and eat it too! Also, I wish to point out that I just compared a real man to a fictional one. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle deserves some credit for having created such a “reality”.)

Above is a pleasant view I had on my way to an entirely gluten free pizza restaurant. Pizza was good! Service was mediocre. Bed is calling.

I am sitting at My Fucking Restaurant. Now, let me be clear about one thing. I don’t cuss. The times I do are when I’m quoting someone. And, at some point in the universe’ history, an aspiring restaurant owner in Barcelona, Spain said what can I name my restaurant that would be unforgettable? Well, he chose the granddaddy of cuss words. The one word which at least one British historian has said is all that the English have contributed to history: the F word. (I might differ with him. I can think of a lot of things like the industrial revolution, the spread of democracy, globalization, rule of law, etc etc etc. But that’s a post for another day.)

That said, I came here because I’m gluten free! This restaurant is 100% gluten free and I can’t say what a relief it is to not have to think and, if I may add, to not feel excluded. Unfortunately, history is unkind. Five years ago it decided “you shall be dairy free also!”. So, I still had to think a little. But not much.

There is a reason, Diego, the front line person asked, when I walked in, do you have a reservation? There was no room left! (I didn’t know this place was a gem.) There never is. I asked. People aren’t here for the profanity. This restaurant is easily in the top three restaurants I’ve ever eaten at. If you come to Barcelona, come here, but first, make a reservation. I simply sat at the bar (although others got turned away from the bar later!) and enjoyed conversation with three Canadian ladies who also found out the hard way that you should make a reservation.

One aperol (with a smokey, fruity flavor), a bread (with smokey butter and intense large salt pieces), one steak plus garlic aioli (amazingly, the least flavorful/memorable dish of them all), one Zucchini Cannelloni with Indian Chicken Curry (tremendous lime aftertaste, or something, I’m no food critic), and one “Bravas” Surprise later (chickpea replacement of potato – this was the most impressive dish), and yet another cocktail, and the meal was complete. They’re letting me sit here, typing away, while I recover from the happiness.

The three Canadian ladies are from BC, British Columbia, and just finished walking across Spain for two weeks, ending up in Barcelona. I forget how many miles a day… I did have two drinks. They’re in their 50s and 60s. Delightful.

Traveling solo is a bit like freshman year of college. If you meet others like yourself, everyone thinks you’re best buds right away! Not because you are, but because novelty is a large force and so is desperation. It’s a lovely adventure overall. Can’t be compared to any other adventure, not even that freshman year in college because that year involves homework while traveling involves huge visual sensation (typically put as “the sights”) with no other responsibilities whatsoever.

Gotta walk home now! Do you think of home the way I do? It’s wherever I slept last night. El Born. I don’t even know what that means. I should look that up…

Oh, I’m barefoot. It was too hot to leave socks and tennis shoes on. I’m the American making sure to violate social customs while I’m here. Leaving a good impression on the world! Diego likes me.

Sometimes the best things can’t be planned. Serendipity.

I will get back to that serendipity in just a sec. I have a massive correction to make. I am not staying in the Gothic Quarter. I am in El Born, the neighborhood next to the Gothic Quarter which looks an awful lot like the Gothic Quarter!

That said, I came around the world to meet two life-giving souls from my own country: Olivia and Stacy. Standing outside Vinya del Senyor with the basilica to my back, I was curious to experience the tremendous wine and tapas offered by a place so strongly recommended by my colleague, Gianluca (a handsome, deeply personable Italian whose name is pronounced “Johnluca”, or something like that – he helped me say his name more correctly multiple times).

Olivia, who is is hard to miss – easily six feet tall, elegant, blond, casually dressed, and with easy mannerisms and confidence – was standing a few feet away, also alone. We were each waiting for a table to open up in the open air outside the bar.

And It was dark, meaning the Spaniards are just now coming out to play, and an accordion player was to my right, playing simple tunes that ironically make me think of Italy.

Next thing I knew, Olivia was chatting with a woman above the bar who was hanging out of the balcony, and then that woman (Stacy) was downstairs and they had invited me to the table they just got sat at. Why not?! Olivia is soaking in glamor, the kind of look and feel that puts someone in the movies and into legend. Stacy is soaking in ADHD. I recognize it as someone who has a best friend with that challenge and gift. Stacy, like my best friend, has ideas coming out of every pour of her body and soul and they just won’t stop! A firehose of life and feeling.

The warmth with which these two woman from Colorado invited me into their table, and friendship, was memorable. Olivia, going into psychology, asked deeply heartfelt and probing questions and listened carefully. Stacy, exiting pharmacology and entering business, shared personal story after personal story. Each member of this trio is well-educated, American, filled with life, and yet fundamentally different. Olivia, who started out in neuroscience and considered being a doctor, is polyamorous. Stacy is also polyamorous and adds to that bisexual. Olivia also works as a stripper and is moved by the similarities between that industry and psychology. I was moved by the comparisons she was able to make! The primary of which was that the people she serves in either context are primarily looking for relationship, connection, or even very simply human touch. She was a wealth of fascinating perspective. I like to think I’m wealth of fascinating perspective, but I am monogamous, currently single, and have never set foot in a strip club.

Stacy was raised Catholic and wants nothing to do with the faith. But I think as we all shared our stories, the most basic fundamentals were the same: a desire to feel life at its fullest, its maximum, and a desire for peace and health. If I had more time I would attempt to tease out where we diverged and converged and why and possibly, most importantly, who these woman were and what joy they brought to my soul. Suffice it to say I am violating the most fundamental rule of creative writing: show, don’t tell. But it’s nearly midnight, I need to go to bed, and I’m honoring my commitment of one post per day, no matter how poorly written it is. (Dear Gods of Writing: please forgive me. I don’t like it either!)

I’ve decided each of my travel posts should have a subtitle, just like an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Today’s is The Best Meal I Ever Had. Unfortunately this subtitle strongly reminds me of the previous president of the U.S. Whoopsie! Guess we have something in common: a primal sense.

By the way, I had to look up “primal” to ensure I was using it correctly, and very oddly, very few of the dictionaries have the right definition. (That’s humor.) Only Britannica had what I was going for: very basic and powerful — used especially to describe feelings that are like the feelings of animals and that seem to come from a part of human nature that has existed since ancient times, primal urges/instincts.

Back to Spain. Vanessa, with the perfect eyeliner and paisley blue dress, re-informed me that Spaniards eat dinner at approximately 10:30pm. And what is the rest of the night for? Not sleeping! Drinks around midnight and dancing around 2 or 3am. Bedtime? 5 or 6am is just about right. While this usually occurs on a weekend, not always! And the workday starts at 8:30 or 9:00!

I couldn’t do that in college. I have always been old… and never Spanish. I was born an old American. And, very happy I might add.

The front doors and entire 5-story facade to X (the company I work for) in Barcelona are beautiful, intricate, old, fascinating. A far cry from their Chicago compatriot (probably counterpoint would work better there but I like compatriot better – is not language to be used and abused? or at least used and stretched and morphed – it is organic – I think I’m off topic).

Speaking of counterpoint, I have a counterpoint in Egypt which has piqued my something. I can’t figure out what has been piqued. He, my cousin, has raised money to serve a church and surrounding community in Egypt. Me, that’s myself, has chosen to pour money into a slightly-cultural but mostly pleasure-seeking adventure. (He left for Egypt the day I left for Barcelona.) My mind knows these are equal in God’s sight. But my heart does not. Did you know there is a long tunnel between the heart and the mind? Yes, tunnel. It’s more fun that way. I think it’s in the Bible too. (That’s also humor) So, let’s hear what my mind has to say. All goodness is to be celebrated for what it is: good. Implicit in this is that we can find goodness. I believe we can! This may frequently be primal knowledge. I suppose the deeper question could be in a world, such as the one we find ourselves in, what proportion of ourselves should go to pleasure as opposed to service and healing (and of course these may entirely converge!). I have no idea! That’s the short answer. And, dear heart, what do you have to say? I say you’ve had too much to drink and you have no capability to plumb my depths or find the words to incarnate those depths at this very moment. Fine. But, on a slightly more serious note, I am praying for my dear cousin – for the success of his venture and the healing of his soul and the soul’s he came to serve – and I pray for me – to learn what it means to celebrate, swim in goodness, and sing to the uncontrolled heights. For the record, I should never sing. Publicly. But I can tell you my soul sings! Especially after a dinner like I had tonight.

From SantAugustina in the Gothic Quarter in Barcelona, I had charcoal grilled sea bass with citrus puree, fennel, pickle, and butter. (And potato). That was the best dish I have ever had. And I have had a lot of good dishes. (Thank you Chicago. And St. Lucia!)

What does God think of good food? Does he love it as much as I do? How does a human conceptualize God? Probably as father. That is understandable. And I really like my Dad.

Well dear God, thank you for the best meal I ever had. And for the alcohol! Had a Raspberry Margarita tonight.

I think I will spend part of the rest of my life awed by the divergence between the beauty and horror of this world. Given the existence of those two, am I not called to celebrate and to serve/cry/give? Of course. Of course, I know. I will pray for God to show me better how to serve, where to direct my tears, to redeem my tears and the pain of others. And to celebrate! I turned the wrong corner this evening, in the narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter and nearly ran into a small, skinny woman/child. She was exiting what looked like a hole in the wall. Her clothes were tattered. And she was certainly sick. We were surrounded by party-goers (tourists) from around the world, those pursuing the good life, or at least more alcohol and stimulation or the adoring look of their partner, with no knowledge of her existence. I don’t know her story. But it didn’t feel right. I imagine I repeat what others have observed a million times over.

While we’re on the topic of counterpoints/opposites/irony/the inexplicable, I saw the most surreal example of consumerism paired with the sacred I’ve ever seen. I’ll post that pic and story tomorrow. Let me just say it involves The Cathedral and the Galaxy Z Fold4.

What is most beautiful about Barcelona? It is the same as in Madrid! The texture, color, character of stonework and cobblestone paired with the greenery of trees and more trees of many varieties planted right into the cobblestone with, frequently, a stonewall behind. This, pleasantly is a counterpoint which creates beauty.

Lola I met outside Santa Maria del Mar, on Catalonian Day (today!). She was friendly and easy and down to earth. Her clothes were rumpled and she was slightly overweight (or entirely sexy by medieval standards). She’s a photographer for the Catalonian government (among many other odd jobs, such as being a waitress at the outdoor cafe we were sitting at). She translated my order for breakfast to the waitress (overcoming language problems) and informed me repeatedly that my waitress was “not smart”. Don’t tip her. She’s not fast. She also runs a Facebook page with many followers dedicated to Barcelona Travel Tips. How lucky! We quickly became buds. She learned English through Harry Potter. And your TV shows, she said. (That means she’s probably seen more American shows than I have.) “Lola” is short for her full Catalonian name which is just too hard to say so she gave up half way through. Fun fact: when she’s speaking with Italians and they can’t understand her, she switches to Catalon and they understand right away! Catalon wasn’t an option in Duolingo (I looked!) so I came prepared with a total of one word I can remember: maleta! (Suitcase). Turns out one word isn’t very helpful… especially for ordering food.

She had warned me, sitting under the rising sun between the high walls of the Gothic Quarter, that at any moment she may have to race off. She was preparing her camera. She was to photograph a high-ranking official in the Bascilica sitting twenty feet away from us in an upcoming service (surely related to Catalon Day). I finished half of my eggs and, sure enough, she whisked her rumpled, confident, fun self out of her chair… and I don’t think I’ll ever see her again. She disappeared into the Santa Maria del Mar. I finished my coffee.

There are more tattoos here than I remember back home. And definitely a lot more smoking. I’m not thrilled with the second hand smoke I’m getting.

I attended an international service at Santa Maria del Mar, assuming “international” meant in some way translation would be offered to non-Spanish seaking folk. Nope! The service only suported Catalan and Spanish. We’ll see if The Cathedral can help monolinguals like myself next Sunday. I had really been looking forward to worshiping with them so this was sad. But, it couldn’t help but conjour up centuries of services (in my mind) in which the content was delivered in a language the worshippers did not know. How does God look on this? How is that worshipper supposed to grow? Are they satisifed? I was not. However, the music was gorgeous and moving. Do distant, vaulted ceilings such as that which cathedrals tends to have contribute to this? And if so, did the architects of cathedrals do this intentioanlly?

Trees are everywhere. Like what I remember in Madrid. I think greenery does for me what a drug does for others. Such happiness. I’m hoping to decorate my house in like manner. Filled with live beings changing shape over time and cleaning the air and living a life of simplicity, but, most importantly, creating a look which can be created no other way.

That’s off topic…

New words! Pisco (a type of brandy) and lascar (an Indian sailor).

Ohh, Pretty Peter. You won’t be able to hear about him because my eyes are closing again. It’s practically bed time. He was my enjoyable British waiter at a seafood “whole-in-the-wall” who doesn’t know that I found out his name was Peter or that I think he’s pretty.

Gaudi is a star in Barcelona. I hope to read more about him. He is intriguing to me. His La Sagrada Familia is not finished and has obtained the dubious award of “longest currently-running constructuction project on earth.” He always knew his cathedral would not be finished before his death. When asked, he once responsed “Don’t you worry. My client is in no hurry. God has all the time in the world.”

And, finally, a word I relarned: salubrious. What a delightful word! Salubrious means favorable, restorative, and/or leading to health. May my sleep be salubrious, and yours too!

This is being written after finishing a glass of Sangria (which is essentially two glasses of wine) and having barely slept in two days AND having weathered various unbelievable travel hiccups.

Barcelona is a place for partiers, meaning those who want to celebrate. My eyes keep closing. This is going to be a problem.

Well, suffice it to say I’m not dead. And the Gothic quarter feels like a commercialized medieval town. This is where I’m staying. I can hear those outside my balcony exalting in the youngness of the night and not writing up their thoughts on a blog. What’s wrong with them.

Going to bed. Eyes won’t let me type anymore.