Hot Fun in the Summertime

Today began (after a bikini and a Coke Light at the BraCafe (oh, relax. A bikini is what they call a croque-monsieur, which is just a grilled ham-n-cheese.)) with a trip to the market to prepare for our barbacoa this evening. Oh, the hilarity when two clueless Americans try to shop for fresh produce and meat with so little Spanish! I saw a sign offering Pies and I thought, "mmmmm.....pies..." seconds before realizing pies are feet. Somewhat less delicious. My other favorite misunderstanding was when an old lady (it was all old ladies in the market, btw) would come up and ask me, "Es el último?" As those who know me will attest, I do think I'm the ultimate, so I would respond, "Sí! Soy el último!" only to find out that she was trying to find out if I was the last person in line.

After our misadventures at the mercado, we discovered that the Museu Picasso is closed on Mondays, so Ian decided once again to be hard at work. I have no such obligations, so I went up to the top of the other big hill in Barcelona, Montjuïc.



You take the Metro to a funicula which goes up the hill, where there is a museum dedicated to Surrealist Joan Miró. Wait for it...that's right! It was also closed today, as this kind local informed me.



So after strolling around the grounds a bit, I took the telefèric, which is a sort of hanging gondola thingie, up to the medieval castle. Because I was alone, I got my own car, which worked out because I'm not sure the other passengers would have enjoyed my continued singing of "Funiculi, funicula, funiculi, funicuLAAAAAA!" the entire way up.



The view from up there was incredible.



I don't know if you can make it out, but on the ground is a statue of someone shaking a chair at us. Love it.



I walked down the hill, stopping at the Mirador de Alcalde (Mayor's View?) for a sangria and some shade. Then I caught this other telefèric, which crosses the harbor and took us to the beach, where I was to meet Ian for focaccia.






I suppose at this point I should probably mention the toplessness of the beachgoers, but I'd rather not sully the experience with words. Wouldn't you rather hear about my tan? It's looking good.

Metro back to the pad, where Ian made some bidness calls and I took a power nap (too much sun makes me shleeepy) before we headed out to an English pub called the George and Dragon. Evidently St. George (San Jorge?) is a big'un in Barcelona, so much so that our favorite architect designed this weirdo house in tribute. It has a scaly roof, dragon-eye windows, and columns that look like teeth or bones, or both, depending on how you look at it.



We were there to watch the 24-hour delayed Game 2 of the NBA finals (SPOILER ALERT: Cavs pulled out a stunning, come from behind, eleven point loss!) but by the start of the fourth quarter we figured we knew the end, so we headed back for the bbq.





This is Omar. He's the super-cool DJ who shares this flat with Ian's friend Roy's friend Phil. He ate and drank wine with us, patiently enduring our mangled attempts to discuss politics in Spanish, and after we'd had our fill, we went out to shoot pool. If you think explaining cut-throat is difficult in English...

So that's Barcelona! Tomorrow we've got a flight to Prague, or to Berlin and then a bus to Prague, or something. I don't know, I let Ian handle the arrangements. All I know is we'll be there for the next three days. If any of you have some suggestions about what to see in Prague, I'm all ears, I know nothing about the Czech Republic, save for I've seen a few of Vaclav Havel's plays.

Oh, and by the way, don't believe the post times on this blog. It thinks I'm back in L.A. You should add 9 hours to find out when I was actually sitting bleary-eyed at a laptop.