the wellfed voice*

In my previous commentary on my apartment, I forgot to mention one of the most mysterious occurrences. I firmly believe that one of my neighbors is keeping a pet whale in their bathtub. Some nights, we will suddenly hear this shrill bellowing sound, haunting really, almost wailing. It seems to drift from the core airshaft of the building and wafts in and out for about an hour. Is this when the whale is being fed? Or has the whale become lonely and is crying for a friend? Perhaps I should start leaving bags of krill outside my neighbors’ doors, ring the bell and wait for their reaction….

He laughed to free his mind from his mind’s bondage.*

The Irish are quite deft in the art of dark humor. The grim jokes run freely through Ulysses, and you always have the feeling that it is not only possible to laugh at almost anything, but that you should laugh at everything. In hard times, it does seem to be a great sanity saver.

In my years working in New York, there were many moments when times got tough, and I mean life/death, insanity, love/loss, fear of starvation kind of tough. Pretty much immediately, I learned to embrace my love of dark humor and wield it as a weapon against self-pity and sorrow.

I was pretty miserable slugging away at Ruby Foo’s in Times Square as a waitress after graduation. It was definitely the worst job I have ever had and, let’s pray, will ever have. However, my coworkers were a hilarious bunch and we always came up with some pretty evil jokes to pass the time. Some were on customers, like when my friend served a child a pint of pure grenadine syrup after his mother complained in a rude manner that there wasn’t enough in the previous Shirley Temple. We then watched the child burst into frantic hyperactive shenanigans, and then crash into a kiddie puddle on his insufferable mother’s lap. Entertaining. Another time, we convinced a few unsuspecting waiters that our cocaine addicted manager (who later was fired for doing coke in the office, stealing money and liquor, and left amid a sobbing tantrum) had overdosed. When he showed up to lead our meeting, he was very confused at the reactions from a few of his staff members.

When I worked in the publishing industry, life was better only in that I was a little closer to literature, and because it was a job I actually needed to have graduated from college to obtain. Our office could be a bit crazy at times, and we all kept ourselves from jumping out the window by concocting ridiculous situations and making sure everything was fair game for jokes, including suicide, heart attacks, and serious illnesses like tuberculosis and pneumonia.

New York is a fantastic place for dark humor, and in my next two jobs, I easily discovered macabre minded individuals to share a cackle with me.

Barcelona and Santa Fe, on the other hand, are not really friendly shores for this kind of comedy. Certainly, I have found kindred spirits in both places, but there is something about the plentitude of sunshine, the relaxed pace of life, the focus on things like living rather than working, the mañana attitude, that keeps people from finding it amusing that you would tell an annoying man hitting on you at a bar that you would like to take him home, chop him into pieces and store his body parts in your freezer, and that this would actually entice him further rather than scare him off.

amid hilarious applause from the girl hands.*

Fantastic news this past week: I am visiting my homeland! It has been a year and a half since I have been on the shores of America, home of the free and land of the brave. I will be in New York for one week and then Santa Fe for two. I am very eager to see how things have changed or have stayed the same, and how I have changed, or not! Will they make fun of me for my Spanish accent in Santa Fe? Will I melt into a puddle of anxiety and terror upon stepping onto the madcap streets of New York? Will my friends duct tape my hands and feet together and keep me in a closet until I miss my flight back to Barcelona? Or will Swiss immigration decide that my European adventure should end?

Oh…..all the possibilities.

Ah, poor dogsbody*

I suffered through another installment of ‘foreign-flu-cold-allergy-bacterial-viral-fungal-mystery-itis’ these past two weeks. Today, I am officially almost, kind of, just about well. It feels like there is a slug covered with acid dipped razors in my left nasal cavity, but otherwise, I’m great!

Of course, my first thought when I woke up at 5am with a fever two weeks ago was that I had la gripe porcina. My lovely imagination then filled in all the blanks with exciting details of lungs filling with fluids, infecting all my friends here, weeks in the hospital, and so on. Luckily, I think it was just a good old-fashioned case of ‘foreign-flu-cold-allergy-bacterial-viral-fungal-mystery-itis.’ Or, if it was swine flu, then hopefully I have some immunity now, and my roommates and friends seem to be fine.

The photo below is an approximation of what was marching through my head, endlessly repeating, during my fever dreams. Actually, no, it’s just a shot of some adorable kids randomly dressed as dominoes (por que no?) in a parade in Figueres, the otherwise unremarkable home of the Dali Museum in northwest Spain. More on Figueres and Dali to come.

elocutionary arms*

Joy for July! It's time for me to drag my blindingly white body to the beach and cause serious second degree burns to the retinas of all who look upon me!

The photo above is from a trip last year to Cadaques, one of the most delightful little villages I have come across in Spain. With my elocutionary arms spread (well, at least virtually, it would be hard to type otherwise), I will expound upon the virtues of Cadaques in an entire post in the future.

Could a swim duck? says I.*

I am sure every major country has its share of small idiosyncratic nonsensical design issues. However, it seems that Spain, for all of its seemingly first world status, has quite a few. In my apartment, for example, there are a few random problems that conspire to drive me insane.

First, our electricity can be a bit fickle. By no means can we use the washing machine at the same time as the stove. However, now, it seems that even using the oven while using more than one burner on the stove will cause the power to short out. This forces the frazzled chef at the moment to run through the dark apartment to reset the power breaker, often several times in the course of one cooking session. The fear of ruining the dinner versus the fear of tripping over a chair and breaking your neck on the hard tile floor is a surprisingly equal contest. Especially if you hate the taste of burned garlic as much as I do.

Second, our hot water heater is in the kitchen. Which is absolutely fine for washing dishes, but a bit water wasting for showers, since the bathroom is quite far away, it takes a long time for the hot water to arrive. The main problem, however, is the fact that on windy days, you take the chance of dying in a gas explosion by washing the dishes (yes, I do use this excuse). The exhaust pipe is connected directly outside without any sort of wind protection, so the wind blows directly into it and extinguishes the pilot light on the gas heater. Thus, gas happily pours into the kitchen and into the unsuspecting (at first) nostrils of anyone within a few feet. Did I mention I live with a smoker?

Third, we cannot use our telephone and internet at the same time. Sometimes, if someone calls here, the internet will remain connected, but most often, and especially if we call out, we are forced to wait until the end of the conversation to reset the router and then continue with our stalking of people on facebook. This started happening after my roommate requested that the bill be changed to her name. The company told her that she would just have to sign up for a new account, which would take a month. After a month without internet, the new account still wasn’t set up, and meanwhile she was still being charged by the old one. When the technician came, he rerouted all the wires in the building, causing our phone calls to go to our neighbor two floors above. So the fact that he somehow made it impossible to use our phone line and DSL line at the same time is not a surprise and we are too scared to have them try to fix it, really anything is possible here.

Our building is also rather eccentric. Like most buildings in Spain, the front door locks from the inside with a key, in addition to locking automatically behind you. At night and on the weekends, our neighbors lock the door, which means we have to go down with our keys to let guests in (even though we have a buzzer, it only unlocks the regular lock). Sometimes when people try to leave, they won’t be able to get out of the building and will have to come all the way back up to ask us to release them. This can be especially problematic if we are discussing the recently departed guest in loud voices when they ring our doorbell. Oops. Also, in the case of fire, it is quite possible that you could forget to grab your keys, well, too bad. There aren’t any fire escapes and if the front door is locked, you become carne asada.

Elevators are other common death traps in Barcelona. Most people are timidly thankful for the existence of an elevator in their building, especially since Spanish floor labeling includes several named floors, making a fourth floor apartment actually as much as seven flights of stairs. However, no one can be fully thankful for the presence of an elevator here, because using one is a serious threat to your life and sanity. Apparently the automatic sliding doors the rest of the world takes for granted haven’t been invented in Spain yet as I haven’t seen a single elevator here without a set of outer and inner doors, both of which must be fully closed for it to operate. That’s just annoying though, except when the wind blows one of the doors open while you are inside (have I mentioned how drafty buildings are here?) and your elevator stops. At least it is probably very spacious, at least three by two feet, so you can almost sit down and wait for someone to rescue you.

Our elevator scares even seasoned Spanish elevator goers. First, it drops several inches and bounces slight back up when you step inside, giving you the comfortable feeling that perhaps the cables aren’t that tight. Then, it inches upwards while making a host of nearly human whining sounds. Certainly I have never heard a machine make such noises. Sometimes it jerks a bit for no apparent reason, or sometimes one side scraps along the elevator shaft, creating a sound like a thousand forks being scraped across a porcelain plate. You must be careful never to push a button more than once or it will refuse to move. Sometimes it takes you to a different floor, just for the heck of it. Sometimes it likes to have a little fun with its human cargo by stopping between floors or by keeping its doors closed. I guess I don’t blame it – the life of an elevator must be pretty boring.

Mkgnao!*

Sea cats!

There seem to be far fewer stray cats than when I visited in 2005. I am not sure if this is due to the increased vigilance of animal rights groups (like Fundación Altarriba, El Jardinet dels Gats, Animals Sense Sostre, Protectora BCN) that run numerous programs to spay/neuter and find homes for strays, or some other, more sinister reason. Perhaps I will research this and get back to you, someday!

Lineaments of gratified desire.*

What a lovely surprise! After trying a few Spanish rosados (Spanish rosé) that were less than delicious, I was beginning to give up hope on finding one that I would like. I was starting to think that perhaps the French, especially the winemakers in Provence, have a corner on the market. Every rosado I had tried was very heavy, thick to the point of being syrupy, and astringent while also somehow sweet. Perhaps lovely for sangria, but not for your casual rosé drinking.

So, today after leaving the hostel, I wandered in vain looking for a wine store recommended by a friend. I couldn’t find it (will ask and report back to you). Instead, I went to a little place in Gràcia that I would have adored in New York, but being in Spain, and especially in the very neighborhoody and Catalan area of Gràcia, it has intimidated me in the past. I have gone in a few times, looked at the very handsome selection of wines, cheeses, chocolates, etc., all very gourmet and seemingly exquisite, and squeaked that I was “solo mirando” and scooted out ASAP. However, today, I had a mission. The store owner was there (I am assuming he owns the store by his proprietary air and the fact that he has been there every time I have wandered by), and I asked him if he had any dry rosados. He quickly suggested quite a few, explaining their components and was very patient with my Spanish when I tried to explain my troubled history with rosados. I chose the wine he pointed out as his favorite. He asked me to report back to him, and I promised I would, and so I shall for this wine is (almost wrote ‘divine’ but held back, you’re welcome) quite wonderful.

Now, all of you who abhor wine-talk, bear with me, but I must describe it. The color is a bit unusual for a rosé, quite dark like rosados tend to be (none of the pale pink French hues for Spain), but also with a slight purple tone…a paler version of a cross between ruby and garnet. At first taste, it is a surprise, greeting your mouth with a rich, soft currant/plum flavor, not characteristic of a rosé at all. Quickly, the acidity kicks in, washing away the fruit, followed by a very balanced minerality. It is a fairly medium bodied wine for a rosé, but somehow still leaves the impression of being very light and refreshing. I’m in love, and now, after my second glass, slightly tipsy.

Details and other tasting notes:
Barbara Forés, Rosado 2008, D.O. Terra Alta
http://www.cellerbarbarafores.com
with cheese: the combination of dryness and very round mouth create a mellow answer to the cream, very compatible.
with olives: embraces the salt! Really quite fantastic, brings out the fruitier flavors of the olives, reminding me that they are technically fruit. A nice dryness in the wine gets along well with the brine in the olives, while the mineral flavors balance the fruit.
with water: even the water tastes sweeter!

The great store:
Bodega Bonavista
a review in Time Out Barcelona, if you can read Catalan….

Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey!*

Things I saw/heard walking home tonight:

“Hola guapa.”
“Hola _____.”
“Hello there.”
Many variations of the hot hissing sound men make that causes me to quiver to my very core and wish to become their slave forever because it is so seductive and powerful.

A beer seller asking if I wanted to buy a beer and then offering me “something else.”

One of the largest prostitutes I have ever seen. He/she could give Tyson a run for his money.

Wet streets: BCNeta, piss, beer, blood, an oil spill.

Trash in the streets: Beer cans, bottles, crusty pizza boxes, voided metro cards, empty sugar packets.

‘Life’ in the streets: A cockroach flapping its wings while trying to get off its back, a man jogging, a dead parrot curled up in the corner of a building.

Police ticketing beer sellers while prostitutes loitered nonchalantly nearby.

A bicing brazenly parked outside a restaurant.

A flower seller asking me if I wanted to buy a rose, “regalo?”

Hoho begob *

Well, my cruel parents have upped the ante to get me home by carrying out a long threatened bribe. They finally went to the animal shelter and picked up a new puppy! Now, when I talk to them and request to see the adorable, furry, wiggling beast, they tell me that I just have to come home to see him. So evil!

I am not sure how they knew my special weakness for Bernese Mountain Dogs, but this puppy seems to be a mixture of that lovable, docile giant breed and random NM mutt. They have finally settled on a name of Obie or Ob, not sure how they are officially spelling it now (Mom, comment?).

Here are few pictures of my new pupther in action. My mother captioned this photo:
“Puppy follows Puppy Poppa around the house.”

This is the flagstone paved area behind the house. For many years, this was a gentle dirt slope, but after several floods, my dad decided to make more of a moat with sturdier reinforcement against the runoff from the mesa behind the house.

Contrary to appearances, the walls of the house are not made of the traditional New Mexican building material, adobe, used for hundreds of years by the Pueblo Indians, and coincidentally, in Spain as well. Most modern homes in NM are now built with stucco (often coating over a fieldstone, brick, log or wood frame), which requires less upkeep and labor.

Here we can see that the puppy is already being spoiled with a piece of chicken barbecued over our backyard firepit:


And it was delicious:

Wavewhite wedded words*

I haven’t shared many thoughts on my experience of reading Ulysses. This has been more out of sheer laziness than a lack of commentary. I will try to be more forthcoming in the future.

To get started, one of my favorite things about the book is that Joyce basically invents his own language. I don’t think Ulysses was written in English, really, it is written in Joycean, an ever changing, ever surprising mixture of different tones, colloquialisms, rhythms, and sounds. I truly loved his descriptions of the sea, especially as a poet.

The following poem doesn’t owe much to Joyce, especially as it is not particularly experimental as far as language is concerned, but it is my response to walking along the beach on a turbulent spring day.


Sea Green

We watch the waves crunch
like soft gears on the beach,
a mouth full of froth and sand.

The meek Mediterranean wants
to be an ocean today, beats
its chest with white fists,
eats the land with fury,
and howls deeply. The sky

is a flash and muffle, the sun
has come and gone, gold
mixes with grey reflections,
cold green, vague blue, the water
is pale and moody, the color
of the lip of a china tea cup.

sunshine marrying*

I chose this picture of a few forlorn rose petals in the sun after a wedding in Sitges to bring up my disappointment over the vote today by the California Supreme Court on Proposition 8. I truly don’t understand it.

How can the government have the power to pass a moral judgment on the validity of your love for another person? By upholding measures that deny gay people the right to marry, the government is deeming their feelings and their basic rights as irrelevant, unworthy, and wrong. On what basis does the government have the authority, wisdom, and ethical sensibility to base this judgment?

Why not ban people from marrying each other if they have only known each other for a few days, if they have been married before, if they are a certain difference in weight or height, if they have ever been in prison, if they are both sterile, if one person has voted and the other person has not, if they don’t pay their taxes….all of this seems just as arbitrary to me in the face of making a decision about with whom you want to share your life and love. I say that anyone prepared follow through with such an important commitment deserves to have their union recognized by their government. All the objections seem to be purely religious in nature. What about the separation of church and state? The 1st Amendment? The 9th Amendment? Or the fact that the constitution never actually mentions marriage?

Why have we not come to a point in our growth as a species when we realize that our complexities go far beyond what our ideas of nature, religion, and history are able to explain?

In light of all of this, here is a sweet article about a lesbian couple marrying in Connecticut.


For the record, Spain, despite its large Catholic population, legalized full marriage rights for gay couples in 2005.

‘Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug, metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.*

So, what exactly am I doing in Barcelona? I realize that I have been very skimpy on the explanatory posts, especially in expounding the Santa Fe, New York, and Barcelona connections.

Well, as of right now, I am working at the front desk of a cute little boutique hostel started by two intrepid young American women. They opened the ten room hotel/hostel last year and I’ve been there nearly a year now. How time passes!

Aside from giving metro directions to travelers hailing from everywhere, I have been freelance writing. Hold your breath, I work for a client in New York writing internal corporate communications for enormous global corporations. Okay, the tough part is over.

I have been published a few times in a local glossy magazine here, The Barcelona Metropolitan, but the times have been particularly rough on them as they survive entirely on ad revenue. So, I am not sure they will continue to pay as well, or at all.

Otherwise, I spend my days procrastinating on learning Spanish, forcing myself to meet complete strangers to talk in a foreign language, writing poetry, cooking, researching other places to live, and lots of sleeping. Exciting ex-pat life!

I don’t make much money at all, but somehow, I have been scraping by. As I tell many people, I moved to a foreign country without a job, without knowing anyone, where they speak two languages I don’t know, and where my U.S. citizenship can be problematic…but it is STILL easier than living in New York.

Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end.*

My grandmother passed away last night. My mother and family had been by her bedside for a week and she went peacefully and gently. I cannot be there in person (curses to the dubious legality of my living abroad), but I am doing my best to be there in spirit. When I left for Spain, I knew that something like this could happen, and that, given the limited resources of my family and myself, as well as the logistics of immigration controls, I may not be able to return to the United States if something of this nature occurred. I think this is the hardest part of living abroad, not being able to be with your family when struggling through grief. I will add this to my list of reasons to return to America eventually.

I wrote a poem for my mother, although I am not sure she will be able to read it through her tears. I would like to share it here, even though it is slightly off the tone and topic of this blog. It is an attempt to project my love further, and to feel closer.

One of the things I keep thinking about when remembering my grandmother is how she enriched my childhood by sending several large boxes of old library books to our little cabin in the woods each summer. Reading was my saving grace as a child, my education where the NM public schools failed me, my entertainment when I was lonely in the mountains, my comfort in the incredible darkness of New Mexico nights. My grandmother fed my passion for literature, literally, and I will be forever grateful.


Alma
– for my grandmother

Five in the morning, Barcelona, Spain,
my father’s voice crumbles warmth,
in trembles and pauses, you are gone.

My mother has lost her mother, and
she wails into the phone, a plastic
beacon to her far away daughter,
we are women alone in this moment,
and we have lost more than words.

All day, I stared across rooftops, sun
came and rain fell, dogs barked in the plaza,
people drank cans of beer on benches
below the balcony, laundry sagged,
clouds hid the sea, and I cradled my grief.

Now, I touch the mysterious fabric
of death, and watch my love fold
your life into words, spelled by heart.

Grandmother, mother, Alma, your name
is kind, nourishing, gentle. Your soul
is a word of worship where I am. Alma,
now you are pure soul, complete grace.

I knew you through my mother, your patience
mirrored in her, your strength filled her voice,
your honesty held her truths, your love lived
in her arms. You were never far from our lives.

Alma, you gave me words, boxes every summer,
heavy and full of dusty secrets. Pages of worlds,
stories that shaped me, lives that lived through me,
journeys taken into what it means to be human.

Alma, I give you these words, late and humble,
sent across the world, but meant with every
breath to bless, celebrate, and love you.

We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination.*

My research on the pigarrot proved rather fruitless. I unearthed a photo of a multi-colored pigeon shaking itself on Las Ramblas, but it didn’t really resemble my mythical creature. According to most of my sources (Google), it appears that pigeons and parrots cannot mate. Perhaps it was an incredibly selective mutation? Hmmmm.

I haven’t looked up the cause of the tree destruction yet, further report to follow.

Currently, I am participating in a poem a day challenge celebrating April as Poetry Month. A few of my poems might actually be pertinent for this blog, so you will see them in the coming days. Please remember these are more for fun and to burn the cobwebs in my brain with tiny, joking little fires.

I also have a surprise from Friday night to post soon, another random Barcelona moment that would NEVER happen in the US.

Here are a few of the poems I thought fitting for this space thus far. First, a tribute to the wonder of nature known as the parrgeon.


The Lovechild of a Parrot and a Pigeon

Perry saw Peggy fat on a rock one day
and knew he had to have her, no matter

the odds. Biology, the flock, her cock,
her indifferent orange eyes.

He swooped down and threw out his
RAAAARRRRRK eh RAAAAAKR!

She demurred, flitted her wings, and
said, coo roo-c’too-coo coolly.

(A quick snack ant distracted Perry)
(Peggy waddled into a dusty bush)

One Cloacal Kiss and several weeks later
a Parrgeon was born…or a pigarrot, you

name it what you please. But Perry
and Peggy called her Daffodil.


Then, a Brooklyn poem…


Grand Army Plaza, Brooklyn

Long weeks looking for a home:
not the basement with dilapidated floors
and caving ceilings on the LES,
not the checkerboard tiled, bullet
hole doored, closet free abode
in the Village, not the seven
layered grime palace on Prospect,
not the slanted, ant inhabited
empty nest on Fourth Avenue.

We were more than discouraged,
it was the toothbreaker NYC special,
the empty grin kick, the nosebleed,
black eye, blistered feet, internal
hemorrhaging delight provided via
first last credit check deposit broker fee.

And Then! The setting sunlight
on Grand Army Plaza, and we forgot
it was a pale imitation of older
and grander victory arches, someone
beat someone and who cared because
all was bathed in red tea light and
we knew we would succeed.


And lastly, a haiku for learning Spanish….


Hablando Castellano

I live in my mouth
– bright room filled with dark feathers –
mangle your language.

I caught a cold in the park. The gate was open.*

I ran up to Parc Güell today for the first time in months. Okay, yes, I have been exceedingly lazy, but I have excuses! I haven’t been running much because my neighborhood isn’t very exercise friendly. Every time I run in Gràcia (more about my neighborhood in a future post), I elicit incredulous stares and comments. I know they are wondering how a tourist got up this far from Las Ramblas. I feel incredibly foreign and vulnerable, as if I were a giraffe loping down the street. It doesn’t help that now the weather is warmer, I wear shorts, exposing my shockingly white legs that are taller than many people here. Actually, I have a suspicion that not being tan is a crime in Spain.
Luckily, they can’t catch me.

Anyway, I made it through the eight plus minutes of steep uphill to the park, but the side entrance I usually use was closed. There were herds of tourists milling about in front of the barricade, looking hopelessly lost. I decided to forge on anyway and came upon a tall closed gate and a new looking fence. Further investigation revealed a section where a rock wall (embedded with pieces of broken glass to create an extra challenge) offered an easier climb. Once in the empty section of the park, I immediately discovered the cause of the closure: all the trees were gone. There were piles of trunks and branches hacked to bits all over the place, alongside stumps still seeping sap, and entire root systems wrenched from the ground. It was horrifying. In areas, it appeared that nearly 90% of the trees were gone, while other areas appeared untouched. I ran along my usual paths, finding them all ending in fences and realized that most of the park was closed off. What had caused this? Insane neighbors furious about the constant stream of tourists flowing past their doorways? A mob of deranged Catalan separatists? A drunken bunch of Texan fratboys? A tornado that secretly touched down in specific spots on a dark winter night? I think the exposed roots indicating that some trees were literally uprooted offers a clue. Perhaps some of the strong winds and heavy rains have caused massive erosion on the steep hills of the park, carrying trees downhill.

After trying to escape through other exits, I returned to carefully climb over my glass studded rock wall. Waiting on the other side as an Italian man asking how to get in. I answered in Spanish, he replied in Italian, I replied and he switched to English, so I switched to English and he then switched to Italian. Eventually, I think he understood my alternative directions for entering (after eschewing my suggestion to climb the wall).

My Spanish wasn’t that great during this conversation because I was distracted by one of the oddest things I have ever seen. I wish I had a camera with me. It was a parrigeon or a pigarrot, a mixture between a pigeon and a parrot. As I was approaching, at first it resembled a pigeon someone had cruelly dyed for Easter. Upon closer inspection, the pastel blues, pinks, and yellows appeared to be real. It looked like a normal pigeon from it’s head to mid-back. There, it morphed into a parrot with wings, lower back, and tail feathers all sorts of colors, magenta, bright green, along with the aforementioned pastels. It walked awkwardly (it was also larger than a normal pigeon), but when it flew away, it was surprisingly graceful, with a large wingspan and its bright colors even more vivid and striking in the sunlight against the blue sky.

These developments require some research…I will get back to you!

More bluggy drunkables?*

I have officially fallen in love with Colmado Quilez, a dangerous (to the wallet!) store I walk by almost everyday on Rambla Catalunya. Last week, I wandered in for the first time in months and came across a bottle of Loriñon, which has always been difficult for me to find. I first encountered this voluptuous wine while working at El Farol in Santa Fe, and was charmed by its name, there is something so woeful about it, forlorn…But as for a Rioja, it is one of my favorites as it has a fuller body and a bit more spice than most. The only other time I have found it was when I came to Barcelona years ago, and believe me, I searched New York high and low for it.

Today, I wandered into Colmado Quilez and tasted a high end beer produced by the Estrella Damm company. Called Inedit, they describe it as “a unique coupage of barley malt and wheat with hop, coriander, orange peel, liquorice, yeast and water. After bottling and capping, a secondary fermentation in the bottle occurs, leading to a more complex product.” Delicious, proving to me that Spain CAN make good beer.

I also discovered that they carry the La Guita label of Manzanilla, recommended to us in Carmona by an on-duty officer drinking his lunch at a local bar (yes, he was armed). The clerk was impressed by my choice and said he is a big fan. For those of you who have never tried Manzanilla, it is a type of dry sherry made in Andalusia. I think it tastes like a salty plum, and others have described flavors of chamomile (where the name originates).

Oh, and they also have every kind of delectable little tidbit of food, condiments, and accompaniments imaginable. I am intrigued and frightened by the saffron gin, you will be hearing more about that, I am sure.

a horrible example of free thought.*

In my quest to transcribe thousands of pages from old journals, I came across this entry that struck me as rather Joycean, though more in its insane jumble than its brilliance. It is interesting to travel in time back to my days in New York. My life there was very different, very difficult. I have included a photo of downtown Manhattan taken from the Manhattan bridge in the wee hours walking home from a party in Chinatown.


"9-24-03 8:42pm
To what land do I go, trot with a head of gibberish, to and fro through the trio of muses I call men but they are but boys and I lost among them only a smattering of woman. Black and white paisley skirt devours Lolita, ah Nabokov you sick bastard to make me think such love is kind to all of our tattered morals. I leave the city downtown in the East river rippling in a fallen autumn air. Who are these beautiful people sitting in orange plastic boats on voyages to lives I can barely guess, even the effort makes my guts crawl. Two liters of seltzer water and I still haven’t burped away this illness, the ravishing vomit bug that creates new back and stomach muscles to scream when I laugh or cough. Excellent weight loss regimen, this. Great for my intellect as well, creating new words stuporific and swelling with more than normal nonsense like a sticky piece of leather, sodden and bloated on a nail. Ah my sense, where hast thou gone? Dreamt of travel last night, France – Paris, boats, villages, dank mysteries. Cast iron belly coils a stew fit for two, myself and a porcelain friend. Skin crawling misery. Why? Not cursed, just free. Must rhyme for some reason (‘tis the season!) (but no reason at all from rhyme) wow where am I, have I journeyed?"

A black crack of noise in the street here, alack, bawled, back.*

It was another incredibly windy day here in Barcelona. Perhaps not as terrible as the wind a while ago that caused walls and buildings to collapse and kill people in the city and across Spain, but something to be reckoned with nonetheless. Spanish buildings just aren’t made for wind, as I write this, the lamp above me is swaying, even though all of our windows are closed…there is enough of a draft coming through somewhere to cause this heavy, ponderous globe to sway. I am afraid to take the elevator on days like this because the wind howls down the shaft, seemingly pushing the already scary old contraption downward. Our hot water heater in the kitchen has an exhaust pipe into which the wind blows and puts out the pilot light, causing gas to fill our kitchen every time I try to use hot water on windy days.

Today, I was walking back from taking the glass out (to the green vidre recycling kiosk), when the wind blew a chunk of soil from one of the planters on the plaza into my eye. I was about to bemoan this fact when I walked into the health food store on the corner and was cheered by taking candy from a stranger. Well, it was a customer purchasing his favorite thing in life, second only to music, eucalyptus and pine lozenges. He offered one to me and the shopkeeper while espousing the merits of Pastora, apparently the daughter of a famous Catalan musician is in this popular band. My eye stopped hurting after that.

Love loves to love love.*

It is almost V-Day here, and this year there are advertisements galore. I thought that the Spanish weren't as into the holiday as the U.S., but I think the retailers here are jumping at any opportunity to sell anything. Most of the marketing reeks of desperation, more so than V-Day marketing usually does.
But love, well, what can I say...most of the time, I love to love love.