Hello from Barcelona!

Hello from Barcelona! We've been here since Wednesday. We're staying in an adorable Airbnb close to Las Ramblas owned by a beautiful, honey-skinned, maple-eyed girl named Maria. Her little apartment is furnished with retro decor: a red couch, black coffee table, white footstool, and plenty of funny/inspirational quotes on the walls. A smile is the best make-up any girl can wear!, Marilyn Monroe is purported to have said, according to the quote beside the bed. A large print of a bright red lipstick kiss accents this quote. The bedspread is a paisley print that is, for the most part, navy blue. The entryway reminds me that If you believe in yourself, anything is possible. A flutter of black butterflies is stuccoed to the wall behind the television.

This neighborhood is vibrant. Immediately downstairs are a dozen restaurants, including a Muslim bakery and a pizza/beer joint called Caleuche, el Horno Patagónico. Children play ball in the courtyards and squeal on the swingsets, dogs waltz jauntily ahead of their owners, beautiful women cross the street in bright Muslim dresses. Anytime after midnight, this place is bustling with nightlife; anytime before noon, it is a sweet, sleepy neighborhood. Someone wakes earlier than the rest of us who evidently likes to make bacon for breakfast. I've woken up to that smell every day here. 

Las Ramblas is more packed with tourists than any street I saw in Paris while we were there, and it does not interest me half as much as I thought it would. This street culminates in the Port of Barcelona, which is beautiful in itself, but which creepily contains a floating shopping mall -- I mean, with a Victoria's Secret and everything. Let's face it. American corporations have conquered the globe. I think it will one day be possible to visit the moon and restock on your favorite shade of Sephora lipstick while you're up there.

The World Cup was on tonight. Much as my father predicted, the bars in Barcelona were full. Michael magically slept through the buzz of televisions and roar of the screaming soccer fans. I should know by now who won the game, but I don't. My father will fill me in. 

A lot has happened already in Barcelona. But first, I must finish my chronicles of Madrid. 

MADRID, last week. 

In Madrid, the cold defeated us every morning. We used the stove to heat up the apartment. We made coffee "the Salvadorian way," as I like to say -- by boiling water in a pot, dumping in the grounds, letting them sit for a few minutes, and then pouring the coffee very slowly into our teacups. No strainer, no coffee filter, no fancy French Press. Just coffee and hot water. 

The locals assured us that the cold climate was abnormal for Madrid. In June? In a typical June, you wouldn't be buying this pullover, the shopgirl said to us, while we paid for Papi's new, cabled blue sweater. I bought a black sweater for myself and pulled it over the two long-sleeved tops I was already wearing. (Karen, if you read this. I know, my friend. I know). Papi and I are warm-weather weaklings; we just can't cope with 57 degrees. Anything under 60, and we're bundling ourselves up in fleece blankets. The Madrileños seemed to agree with us, anyway: the city was cold! 

We didn't get to sit in terraces, so we sat at bars like we do in Florida. We drank beer and wasted time like we do in Florida. 

In Chueca, Madrid's gay neighborhood, we dined at the wonderful La Cocina Del Desierto (thanks for the suggestion, Miguelito!), and we stumbled upon La Chuequita, where we ate even more tapas, drank even more Estrella, and fell in love with a female bartender named Lorena. Her hair was boy-short and lavender. When Michael asked Lorena where we could eat tripe; she said that she did not know Madrid very well; that she was originally from a small town in Spain donde se crían los cerdos. Lorena told us she wants to visit Miami. She has a friend there who bueno, se casó con una Venelozana, y pues, allí se quedo... Lorena's delicate shoulders shrugged in what looked like a happy, full-body smile. Así es el amor, Lorena pronounced, and we all nodded in unison. Love shatters every compass. Shit. Love becomes the compass. 

Lorena was alone in La Chuequita with one other bartender. They alone worked the patio, the bar, and the dining room in the basement. They poured the drinks, they served the chips, and they composed the paella. A lot of work for only two kids. Lorena's co-worker told us he too, wanted to visit Florida, but Orlando, specifically, to see Mickey, you know.  Lorena's friend, whose name I cannot remember, was patronizing the bar. She was much louder than Lorena and equally jovial. Michael's liquor choices -- tequila or whiskey --  seemed to horrify her. 

"Uy, no, Lorena! No les des eso!" she kept exclaiming, while she tried to convince Papi that that stuff is too strong, too dry, too... uuuy! Her long brown hair was up in a floppy bun; her brown almond eyes were large and full of mirth. "Don't you like Baileys?" she asked us. (We don't).  And, "Oh no!" she said, "I could never drink tequila! Who drinks tequila!"

We do!

That night in La Chuequita was one of our sweetest nights in Madrid. 

We had imperfect nights, too. We got turned away from a club for the first time ever. I walked up to the door in my silver heels, but still wearing my jeans and sweatshirt, because what woman in her right mind is going to walk the streets of Madrid (or any city, really) in a Nasty Gal club dress? I have a dress in my purse, I said to the bouncer, that I will be changing into, but he gave us this long-winded I have to ask el jefe, oh wait the jefe is too busy! story, and who wants to patronize a night club after that, or a night club that discriminates like that? We moved on. 

Our last days in Madrid saw warmer weather. Because we could not shake off the sense of not having seen enough Goya, we went back to the Prado Museum to see Las Pinturas Negras. (In part, we owe this inspiration to our friend, Paul Fletcher -- thanks, Paul!). Man, we are so glad we did.  We sat transfixed across from Saturn. "There is despair in those eyes," Michael said, "not so much terror, but despair." We spent a long time in that room. I bought a notebook from El Prado to take notes in. Ironically, this little golden notebook has El Baño Turco on the cover, a painting by Jean-Auguste-Ingres that is not kept in the Prado, but the Louvre. (Go figure!). Anyway, I was using this little golden notebook and taking notes on many Goya paintings with a plain pink pen that I bought in Boca that has the words, "the pen is mightier," inscribed on it. Well! My mighty, pink pen fell to the floor while I was writing something down about The Drowning Dog, and the tip broke off. Pretty mighty, pretty pink pen. Pretty mighty indeed!

But the best part of the Prado. Oh my God. Someone wiser and more knowledgeable than myself needed to tell me that the Prado had Bosch's triptych painting The Garden of Earthly Delights (1505-1510). I love this painting! It is also a painting that my husband taught me when I was his student. He taught us the Bosch painting, and in his Medieval Cultures class, he taught us the triptych structure which is also evident in stories like Chrétien de Troye's Erec and Enide. 

"This is definitely the most captivating painting in this building," I said to Michael, when I was done listening to the audioguide. I am not sure why it enthralls me so much. I'd have to think and write more about this, and make this the subject of a completely new journal entry. 

I meant to write more tonight, but it is time to go to bed. I will write tomorrow.

6/15/18