on Barcelona, the first time

first meal was paella! nom nom nom

A little twist in biases of Spanish as a blue collar language. To hear white people speaking snobby Spanish made Amanda and I raise our eyebrows at each other and say, “Ahhh, but of course.” And they were speaking it right to us, without fail, because we could easily be one of them.

The crowded bus was full of smiling, quiet people. They were mostly beautiful, even those with paunchy faces sloping to pop in exaggerated chins and noses. 

A pale, skinny girl in a dirty white dress was hanging off her father like swinging from a lamppost in the rain. Her dark and taciturn companion didn’t touch her own father at all.

The old women don’t look innocent here. They look like repositories of wisdom and scandal, beyond the possibility of shock or surprise. 

The “x” in Catalan is a lock to which I desperately want to key. 

Everything is lovely, lovely lovely lovely in every direction. Thrillingly gorgeous buildings with old plaster facades and curling wrought-iron balconies, the fantastic architectural genius of Gaudi, the way light moves across the rooftops.

I want to do more than take a picture, I want more than beauty. How can I crawl inside of this, this feeling of peace and chill and joy and vibrating excitement at once, to be alive? To see these things? To be with my beloved family at the same time?

Why are there no scrambled eggs here? All we wanted were egg sandwiches!

Why does it take a half hour of charades and pictionary to STILL only end up with four well-done sunnyside up eggs and some bread soaked in vinegar and salad dressing?