Oh, sure, the city was beautiful. It was all sun and sand and orange bicycles, and long winding streets and palm trees that sprouted with leaves like pineapples, rough and splintery brown trunks. It was basking on a beach with warmed between my toes and the icy crashing of the Mediterranean sea, cool and blue and opaque. It was icy Malibu and tanned faces and sunburn and a heavy sense of relaxation and laziness settling in our chests. A fuzzy, out of control feeling of delight and no obligations and lying with the sound of waves in your ears and your friends around you and your face on a warm red towel.
Barcelona was a vacation, plain and simple. I coasted by some of The Sights on a bright rented bike, wind whipping against me; a tall, red arc of brick and a church with the ugliest, most square and unpleasant architecture that I've ever seen. Buildings warble and wave, walls smoothed round and circular, giving off the appearance of melting concrete.
Our hostel, Kabul, was bedecked with rainbow lights and red-faced people toting plastic liter cups of beer that foamed and frothed. Wooden tables with chess pieces scattered about and black and white pictures on the wall and laughter and noise. Warm breezes even at night and discussions of politics conducted over shared balconies that look over a plaza populated by waving palm trees and a bubbling fountain.
Vacation, all I ever wanted.
One last trip to Italy - coming soon to an internet near you.
Starting to think about leaving this place is driving me mad but that's a whole other story, too.
