Walking is overrated...

Ian and I began our day with an authentic Czech lunch of pork, chicken, some more chicken, dumplings, and beer at a café on the Charles Bridge, overlooking the lovely Vltava River.



Then, since Ian shuns any kind of organized tourism, we wandered our way through Jewish Town, Old Town Square, and Wenceslaus Square (yes, THAT Wenceslaus), so your guess is as good as mine as to what these pictures are of, but I thought the buildings were pretty.





This is a cool astronomical clock. Anybody who knows how to read it, please email me. My nearest guess is it is half-past Gemini.







Eventually we found ourselves in a beautiful park named Navlickovy Sady (not really, but this keyboard won't make the crazy letters they have here. What the hell does a c need an umlaut for?), where we stopped to rest our weary bones.



This all used to be vineyards, and some still exist.




The view from the park.



After much hoofing back to the hostel, our dogs were barking, so we decided to go on a pub crawl through old town, where Ian insisted I engage his weird feudal lord fantasies.




I tried to get in on the act, but I just can't take state-sponsored slavery seriously in any context.



At one of the pubs we tried to get all absinthe-y again, and the bar staff had a good laugh at the two clueless Americans, but they prepared it exactly the same way as we had done it, so clearly they didn't know how to make it smoky either. Maybe it's the brand...

Anyways, the night wore on, and I wish I could tell you everything that we did, but discretion (and selective amnesia) forbids it. Let's just pretend we capped the night off with a carriage ride.



Isn't that nice?

If it's Tuesday, this must be Prague.

Apologies go out to you daily readers out there, USB connections have been difficult to find here in the Golden City, and no one wants to hear me rant without some pretty pictures, right?

So after our flight was delayed out of Barcelona (Ah, Europe!), we finally made it to the Prague airport, only to discover that the Czech Republic is not in the EU, and consequently we were penniless. Or, more precisely, crown-less. Somehow we managed to stumble our way onto the bus across the countryside, onto the Metro, and off it into the city streets. Only now it was close to midnight and we were lost. Since Ian's international phrasebook is cash-only (get it? No Czechs!) we were starting to get a little worried, when we heard a sweet voice ask us if we needed help. She guided us right up to our street without asking a thing in return. You should have seen cynical ol' Ian's face light up. It was like when the Grinch's heart grows three sizes. "She just changed my whole opinion about the human race," he was heard to remark. (Of course, the snidery returned shortly, see comments to previous post.)

After checking in to Miss Sophie's Hostel, we decided to wander the streets and see what we could see. Above is the Prague Castle by night, and here is my attempt to capture the glow of the city without a tripod.



Ooooh, arty.

This is probably the most foreign place I've ever been. I mean, I don't understand a word of this language. And their money? Impossible. But still, in this crazy world, there are still some things that we all understand.



I didn't win any friends that night in the hostel (even with my offer of free earplugs to all) but Ian made sure to keep tossing coins at my face every time the snores got too loud. I must have made 35 Kc that night, whatever that means. Incidentally, those of you searching for a metaphor to describe the din, here's Ian's:

You're not exactly sawing logs, it's more like you're grinding them down to sawdust, and then trying to inhale them.

More to come...

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.

Gaudi Afternoon (still haven't seen a morning)

Beautiful, isn't it?

Last night we went to La Ravalle for some Catalonian cuisine. I had a watermelon and cava soup, followed by pork with bananas and, um, ham. Delicious, although the same really couldn't be said for the house red. Dinner around here, by the way, doesn't start until after 9 pm. After dinner we met up with some Americans and Brits for deep philosophical discussions of language, music, and culture. Good times.

And when that broke up Ian and I, along with the few remaining drinkers (UK represent!), went back to the Plaza Real for more drinking and conversation. Bars seem to kinda sorta close around 3 here, and after we were shown the door our new friends went home, so Ian and I bought some more street beer (by the way, those of you paying attention may well wonder how a guy standing on the street illegally selling cans of beer manages to keep them so cold. I know I did. But this Scot tells me she's seen them pull a sixer out of the drain, as in the sewer, and that's how they do it. Go ahead and guess if that knowledge has stopped me from drinking it.), fought our way through the prostitutes, and finally made it back to the flat to debate moral relativism. (Which is the nice way to say it. My sponsors have been expressing difficulties with the candor of my work. But rest assured, dear reader, I would never sacrifice my journalistic integrity for someone else's reputation. Now mine, on the other hand...)

I'm starting to come to the realization that Barcelona is really a destination kind of town, with Europeans from all over headed down every weekend of the summer for sun and fun. Which is cool, but it just doesn't have the same quiet calm of the Whit Stillman movie of the same name. I guess because of the Olympics.

So today I leaped out of bed at the crack of 2, hopped in the cold shower (Ah, Europe!) and we headed out to see the masterpiece.



It really is quite remarkable. La Sagrada Familia was designed by Gaudi and he spent a good forty years working on it. When he died in 1926, they were still working on it. Evidently, they've been working on it ever since, and continue to be finishing it, planning (hoping) to be done by 2026, though as Gaudi once joked, "My client is not in a hurry." We didn't go inside because of all the construction, but check out these hyperboloids!



Like living sinews, aren't they?

Anyways, no picture I could take is going to do it justice, you just have to experience it for yourself. What struck me was how I could look away and look back over and over again and still see something new each time. The detail is just incredible, and I was really into his human forms. Go see it. It's worth it.



Ian, in one of Barcelona's many sidewalk cafes, no doubt enjoying my witty repartee as much as his atún salad.

After brinner, Ian had some work to do so I headed north to check out Parc Güell, the public park designed by...class? That's right, Antonin Gaudi! Gold stars all around. It's all windy walking trails and breathtaking vistas, although the weather could have been better.



Hey, what's that crazy building in the middle there?

So I got a little lost wandering around the park, but eventually I followed the crowds and found the Gaudi house, where he had lived and is now a museum. I didn't go in, but the place is littered with his sculptures and designs.



Walking around the grounds I caught these two old Spaniards discussing the construction of this viaduct.



Nice place!


The porter's cottage of the house, and in fact many of the fountains and rooftops in Gaudi's work, use this technique of broken ceramic mosaics, called trencadís.



Here's another example on the salamander fountain, one of BCN's adopted symbols.



It's pretty cool, check out the tiles around this window:



And in detail:



Anyways, enough gaudiness, no? Time for tapas!



This place is called La Vasa de Oro, and it's wonderful. Tiny yet filling plates of all kinds of goodies, tall beers and a staff that whips around behind the bar, cooking and slicing and yelling at each other...Fantastico!



And some of them wear epaulets, for some reason. Maybe tapa chef is a rank in the Spanish Army.

Now we're back home, making it an early night (it's only one!) as we have big plans for tomorrow (Mont-Juic, funiculae, Miró, beaches, barbecue) and it will be our last full day here.



Is this some/thing?

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.