Barcelona. Bar. Ce. Lo. Na. Bartha. We took the bus from Aix late Friday night, arrived early morning Saturday, spent a good chunk of time shooting the shit at a train station café. After we settled at our hostel, we three tour ogres dominated the city. I saw the Mediterranean Sea for the first time, and a few famous ugly buildings.
We went to the Picasso Museum, and for the first time I wasn’t pretending to be interested in the artwork on display… good job Picasso. But then I ate something hateful and my stomach jumped out of my mouth. It started at Starbucks, in the men’s room. It continued in the metro station, at a Spanish Lens Crafters, in a paper hat in the ambulance, and overnight at a Spanish hospital. I don’t know how I managed to cry, being dehydrated and all, but I certainly did. I cried for relief, for my mom, and for you too. Don’t believe that everyone will speak English when you travel. The ethnocentric Anthropologist got her comeuppance at a desolate hospital in the south of Spain.
The next day I got dizzy at the Dali museum, wouldn’t you? It gave me a right scare, and we left Bartha early, thank god. The city kicked all of our asses; we knew it was time to say uncle. Plus, our hostel (Kabul, make note) smelled like bologna sandwiches and cancer.
When we arrived in Aix, the best bakery was just opening, and we started picking up the pieces with warm goo baguette and orange juice. It feels so good to be home.
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