Arrivals (and Departures)

This seemingly death-defying act of cocktail preparation is really nothing to worry about.

As you can see, Ian is handling the flaming 140-proof liqueur in a metal spoon so calmly that he doesn't even need to let go of his beer with the other hand.

Sure, in any other city, arriving after midnight (weather delays, wandering luggage, ridiculous layovers, don't ask) would mean a quick hug, an explanation of the toilets, and a collapsing into bed. But it was Friday night in Barcelona, so after cooking up some absinthe and a splif, we headed out into the humid Spanish night. A quick subway ride to Jaume I, and then Ian led me for several minutes through dark, narrow, twisting alleys that reeked of urine until suddenly I found myself on a giant promenade where people of every imaginable race, nationality, orientation, and creed had come together to share their love of drunken innuendo.

Called Las Ramblas (I can only assume because of all the ramblers), it was a cornucopia of vice. Ubiquitous Pakistanis hawking ice-cold one-euro local beers kept our thirst sated as we fought off, with varying levels of fortitude, many offers of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, though not always in that order. Now I know what you're thinking, but it was my first night, and I was really just browsing.

Ian's roommate/host is a DJ named Omar, and he was spinning from 4-6 (yes, AM) at a mega-club called Razzmatazz (which is fun to say, but even more fun to say with a Spanish accent. Go ahead, try it. See?) and since we were on la lista, and all the bars on Las Ramblas had closed by now, we decided to go check it out.

Oh, but of course first we decided to stop back at el piso for another shot of absinthe, so by the time we got to the club they had closed the list and were asking 15 euros for the remaining hour of loud techno surrounded by mostly guys. We decided our money was better spent on more cheap beer (seriously, those guys are EVERYWHERE) and another cab home.

Already when you're traveling across eight time zones your circadian rhythms become a little disoriented, but time doesn't seem to exist here, at least not in the form I've grown accustomed to. My room is pitch black day and night, creating a real "sensory deprivation tank" kind of feel; Omar comes home well after dawn and, as far as I know, still hasn't risen at the time of this writing (19.45); and the sun just seems to linger in the sky, no real hurry about getting anywhere anytime. It's nice, but it's taking some getting used to.

So where are all the pictures?

Yeah, sorry about that. Last night it just didn't seem right. People want their picture taken at the beginning of the night, when they're all gussied up to go out. By the time we got there, I felt like a paparazzo following Lindsay Lohan around. Like I said, just not right. Plus, I already look like the biggest (literally) rube at the carnival, with my wide eyes and gawky smile all over the place, I didn't want to make myself completely irresistible to muggers.

Today I was roused for breakfast around 5 (yes, PM), which was served on the outdoor patio off Ian's dining room. He has promised me a dinner of Catalonian food, followed by pub-crawling with a group of (mostly British) expats he's been running with, which should be fun, but not so photogenic. Sunday we are (appropriately enough) doing our church-going, our Gaudi Afternoon, if you will, and that will be beautiful. Monday the plan is the Museu Picasso, dedicated to the work of a Spanish painter of some note. Details to follow.