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.