Oxford. And, the end.

Against the hundreds and probably thousands of books, short stories, poems, letters, and journal entries on the subject of Oxford, I submit this claim:

The place is impossible to describe.

So much simultaneous reality exists here, that attempting a coherent description feels a bit like trying to explain all the meanings of a constellation or celestial phenomenon. It is a thing that has been discovered, interpreted and imagined so differently and so many millions of times, I'm amazed the buildings don't just give up and collapse under the weight of all the things that have been said and told and imagined about them. It must be exhausting, actually, to be Oxford. Such a small place, but making up in imaginative density whatever it lacks in size. Love it, hate it, or ignore it as you will, the incredible unreality of the place can't be denied. After a couple thousand years of continual intellectual and imaginative excavation, of being combed through and through by all the fine-tooth combs of all the visitors and scholars, what else could be expected but a slow and steady slide into the incomprehensible, unreal, and indescribable?

So, I won't try to tell you about Oxford. You'll just have to go and imagine it for yourselves.

And in a way, there isn't much to tell about my last 10 days there, except that they were (like Mary Poppins) practically perfect in every way. I had forgotten, I think, that I have a pretty much fully functioning life waiting for me there, with many lovely and often ridiculously impressive people to see and talk things over with over tea, or coffee, or any number of delicious things that are really bad for me and really, really good. A life that, I now perceive, was even fuller than I realized while living it every day (of course). Distracted as I was by... well... learning things, and by the unnecessary stress of worrying that I wasn't making the most of my time.

Being a former student is, I now see, a better way to experience the true Oxonian's Oxford. Hanging one's hat there for a while as a traveler and a dilettante (without the burdensome distraction of actual study or scholarly exertion) is just the thing, I suspect, that Oxford was designed for. Despite its claims of being a serious institution of higher learning, I think (maybe not now, but for much of its history, and on this trip, for me) Oxford might be better described as a serious institution of higher dabbling. Some would even say 'procrastinating,' but I think the non-work being done at Oxford deserves a more flattering title. It is perfectly acceptable, in other words, when someone asks you what you are doing, to gently slip a leaf out from Christopher Robin's book and say "Oh, nothing," while wandering away into the University Parks, or drifting down the river on a punt. 'Nothing' is a very much respected activity in some Oxford circles, and it is certainly practiced to perfection among the graduate students in the English faculty.

And now, sitting at Briana Harper's desk in her lovely apartment in Brooklyn, I am searching for a way to draw this teensy little project to a close. Here, in the borough where it was born, I see the extreme Spanish tan already fading from my toes, and look over at all the traveller's loot spilling from the suitcase I was forced to buy yesterday in London (the backpack lasted through almost everything, but packed with cider, olive oil, and honey as it was, I just couldn't bring myself to check it unprotected onto an international flight).

And, even as I wrap things up and put them away, I'm sure I'll make use of this space in the future, as I have more semi-exciting things to report. I will, after all, be moving to California in August, and no doubt there will be some describing to do.

But until then, I am so very happy to abandon this awkward and incomplete mode of communication, to release myself from the strange world of the blog, and to hop on the subway (and in two weeks, on another plane home) and come and see you. For REAL. At last.

All my love,

Amelia

Overnight trains, la France, and channel crossings

Sarah had, very generously, loaded me down with olive oil and honey from the farm, and so I decided to forfeit my €12 RyanAir ticket from Barcelona to Paris and take the twelve hour overnight train instead. It was, as very affordable overnight train experiences go, relatively painless. But my initial joy at discovering one of my cabin-mates to be an adorable French kindergartener was somewhat dimished after she spent the first few hours of the ride throwing up on everything. Her mother, very apologetic, was of course unable to actually DO anything about the smelly and unfortunate situation. Although she argued convincingly with one of the conductors that it was really necessary to find me another place to sleep, he pointed out that the train was fully booked and unless I wanted to drag one of the absolutely immovable train mattresses out into the hallway, there was no possibility of resting my weary head elsewhere.

Needless to say, I spent much of the ride staring out the window in the dining car at derelict towns through northern Spain, and then watching the sun come up over French fields while sipping icky train espresso in the cafe. In retrospect, however, I think sleeping comfortably through the journey would have been a bit of a cop-out travel adventure wise, not to mention I would have entirely missed the loud, lewd, and slightly embarrassing exploits of what appeared to be an entire American high school on a trip through Europe. They had, obviously, all watched that terrible movie right before setting out on a whirlwind tour of the continent, and unanimously decided to re-enact it as faithfully as possible (in a massive crowd under the close supervision of exhausted parents and an array of harrowed teachers).

I arrived at last in Paris, and with Nushien's directions to her Montparnasse apartment written clearly on the back of my left hand, made my way from Gare de Austerlitz into the city. In no time at all, I was installed in her beautiful one-bedroom, washing off the train smell, and trying to decide what to do with my very first day back in civilization. Since this was my third visit to the French capital, I didn't really feel the need to hit major tourist destinations, but there were a few absolutely necessary stops to be made: at the Musee d'Orsay to see the Manet exhibit, at the Rodin Museum to finally see the museum itself, and stopping in...oh, about a thousand cafes.

None of this, however, felt especially pressing on my first of seven full days, so I put on my city shoes, strolled over to the Jardin du Luxembourg, and watched Parisiens play doubles tennis. Then, meeting Nushien and friends for dinner in the 15th, I set the tone for the whole week by consuming the absolute most delicious Burgundian cuisine, wandering home past the sparkling Eiffel tower light show, and collapsing at an absurdly early hour.

It seems wrong, ungrateful even, to make disparaging comments about a city like Paris, but the summmer crowds, metro-travel, and overall commercialism was such a shock after a month in the middle of nowhere, that I found I couldn't take too much of the city at once. Since Nushien was heading to Venice for a few days and I had the apartment to myself, I'm afraid I took my days rather slowly and with very little ambition, wandering out mid or late morning, ticking a couple of things off my short list, and retiring early. It did feel, though, as I observed hoardes of tourists rushing to and fro frantically between the Louvre and Sacre Cour, that I was pacing myself more like a normal human being and less like a hamster.

But alas, Paris can make hamsters of us all, and as the days went by I found myself scurrying more and more between things, fitting more and more things in, seeing more sights, going into yet more unnecessary shops... and I was a slight wreck as I sank into the cushioned seat on my train from Gare St. Lazare to Bernay (having almost missed the train by being wayyy too confident) and managed to convince the ticket collector in broken French that I didn't have my ticket because the printing machines at the station weren't working properly, and to please, please accept my reservation number instead.

Either I succeeded in being so winningly charming that he let me ride the train with no ticket, or he was just tired of trying to understand the ramblings of a crazy American, but either way he eventually waved his hand at me and wandered away to check the tickets of those passengers serene and Parisien enough to make it to the station on time and sedately print out their tickets. I rolled smoothly into Bernay a short hour and twenty minutes later, where Jeremy and Marlene waited for me in their new Fiat, and transported me to their beautiful new home in the outskirts of the small village of Serquigney.

I have just put up the few pictures I took during my time with them in Normandy, and I'm afraid the photos themselves will have to suffice as description (http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.930633460922.2432472.107441). All I can say, in complete honesty and with full knowledge of how ridiculously sentimental I will sound, is that it was an absolute honour and a privilege to witness and (briefly) be a part of the calm, considered, and beautiful life they are building up. Of course, when I see you all in the coming weeks I'll be able to tell more about our trips to nearby markets and Abbeys, the cherry trees and sunsets, and walks and bike rides through neighboring woods and fields, but at present I have time for only one final comment and vital piece of advice:

When travelling from Upper Normandy (where you should go as soon as humanly possible) to England (oh lovely England! I'll tell you about her soon), never, ever, EVER take the ferry. Especially if you have just enthusiastically consumed a delicious picnic lunch, left your friends behind on the dock and are by yourself, and have no one to watch your belongings while you spend the entire journey in the bathroom, powerfully sympathizing with that poor little French girl from your overnight train. Sigh.

Getting used to paradise

A thousand apologies for the long absence! My only and (I think) pretty decent defense is that I have been a little caught up in the traveling bit of travel writing, and have not actually had much time to sit down in front of a computer to do the writing bit. But I have to admit, I also floated away because I suspected the project might be falling on deaf ears... Thank you, those who wrote me admonishing emails, for convincing me otherwise, and now that I find myself in the most familiar of all places on this journey (lovely, leafy Oxford) I feel not at all guilty about shifting exploration energy toward some serious computer time.

Unfortunately, no length of computer time could adequately capture the last days of Carrasco or the incredible people and things seen since I left Spain. I did, however, write things down when they seemed especially important, and am very glad to finally be able to share some of them with you. No doubt these discrete moments will, strung together so clumsily, all appear very disjointed and make very little sense. But consider them teasers, pre-views, or preparations, if you will, for the long, far superior conversations we will have upon my return (next week!).

Somewhat of a 'party week' at Carrasco began with the arrival of Jess and Emma, two twenty-something surfers from Cornwall enjoying a weekend away. The two of them, George, and I took their rental car to the beach for a long Sunday, hoping to evade a short spell of mountain cloudiness and catch a glimpse of weekend life in a Catalunyan fishing village. We were not disappointed. In gorgeous direct sunlight, we watched perfectly picturesque naked children play in the sand, backpackers strip as they climbed down from coastal paths to collapse gratefully in Mediterranean waters, and a rosy, round Catalonian grandmother settling herself on the sand to bare all to the mid-day sun. Mostly for the benefit of my British companions, who giggled almost non-stop throughout the afternoon of nudes, I did not join the topless crowd. But, seeing the sweet abandon with which Grandma Catalynua sunned herself, I was pretty sorely tempted.

Jess and Emma were soon joined by Dave, a 40-something electrician slash pub performer from Liverpool, and then replaced by Emir (a nutritionist from Ireland's west coast), Lucy (a historian from northern England) and Simone (a teacher from Melbourne). Emir, a solo traveller, seemed primarily interested in getting a tan, and Lucy and Simone (who had met on an 8-week overland trip through west Africa earlier this year) were taking a break from high-energy travels before continuing another 6 weeks or so through Spain. Of everyone I met at Carrasco, these two had by far the most impressive travel itinerary (although George's three consecutive gap years put together might bump him up the list). After the overland trip, Lucy stayed on in Senegal to work with abandoned children and live in a home-stay, and Simone had continued on for another 8 weeks (or was it 14?) of overlanding through central Asia. There are few travel experiences more impressive, I would think, than camping in Kazakhstan.

It was pretty evident that these travellers were more interested in relaxation through food, drink and conversation than through the many benefits of a regular yoga practice. George and I, who by that point were feeling a little overly-relaxed, were only too happy to trade quiet contemplative evenings for somewhat raucous ones, and to help the newcomers work their way through a good portion of Sarah's wine store within a few days. It helped, of course, that all of these new guests were very interesting people, with more to discuss than we would ever have time for. And when both the conversation and the wine is pretty much bottomless, only one kind of atmosphere can flourish (hint: it is not the kind of atmosphere that makes you happy about 7am yoga).

By the end of the week, I had learned a new dice game (called, of course, 'Chicago' and taught to Lucy by a farmer in New Zealand), several new Irish songs and phrases, and decided confidently on a career as a high school teacher in Australia, where they give you 7 months of paid leave after a few consecutive years of teaching (during which you are of course entitled to 3 months of paid leave per year anyway. If anyone knows how to get me an Australian passport, please let me know). As this little group disbanded, it felt a little like the end of summer camp- I can only imagine, never having been to summer camp myself. My faithful volunteering companion George was also leaving to return to England, and we all spent an evening exchanging email addresses and phone numbers, pretty confident that they would never be used, but feeling obligated to at least suggest the continuation of friendships so obviously tied to a particular time and place. Although, as one of my favorite fictional characters concludes, 'many friendships are born and maintained for purely geographical reasons,' it does not necessarily follow that they are inferior to those that extend through space and time. Brief collisions of this kind are, I think, full of their own rewards, and are certainly one of the jewels in the crown of frequent travel and changes of scene. Simone, who at 39 has just bought her first apartment, has pledged to sell it the moment private property interferes with the all-important sense of traveler's freedom. She plans to summit Kilimanjaro with some friends next year, and considers it a first test of her ability to resist the dangerous side effects of real estate.

My last week at the retreat was full of teaching, walking, and taking pictures (which are now up on facebook if you care to peruse). New guests arrived, as well as a new volunteer (full of celebrity-sighting stories from her week at Cannes), and a new kitten. Duly named Pedro (though I suspect it is a female), the kitten monopolized lots of our attention as it slowly became very brave, at one point pouncing on a stink bug and receiving a full blast of its spray in the face. And, as if to dispel any feelings of familiarity I had developed in the area surrounding the retreat, I experienced my own animal attack in the form of a dog bite while out on a run. Fortunately, we knew the dog and the owner, and I was not subjected to a rabies vaccination (which, by the way, would have been absolutely free in Spain under their excellent health care system), but I can now report from personal experience that there is nothing like the adrenaline of a dog bite to make you finish a 4 mile run in really good time. Stella, Martin's dog, accompanied me on all successive hikes and runs, which is why she features so adorably in many photos.

Stay tuned for tales of overnight trains, Paris, Normandy, and channel crossings on the ferry. Much love to you all!

Yoga, ex-pats, and fuzzy almonds

On my first morning at Casa de Carrasco, I overslept. Waking a little after eight to the sound of Sarah's yoga-instructing voice in the distance, I quietly unzipped my little green tent and looked out on the sun-soaked and unbelievably fresh mountain morning. Not wanting interrupt the class, I crept over to the shower block to brush my teeth, and then sat cross-legged in the morning sun listening to Sarah give instruction and watching little speedy birds dive into the swimming pool, fishing for water bugs. The two dogs I had met the evening before (Daisy, Sarah´s rescued black lab, and Stella, her boyfriend's dog of unknown breed and closely resembling a kangaroo) plopped down beside me and kept me company while the humans finished their class.

In the light of day, the last dregs of my mini-panic melted away. Over a shared breakfast of muesli, tea, oranges, and (of course) more cherries, the other guests discussed their favorite hikes around the retreat, and Magdalena gave Luna and Andreas suggestions on how to fill their time in Barcelona, where she is studying and where they are heading after a week in the Pyrenees. After breakfast, George and I got to know each other a little better while doing the breakfast dishes, clearing the common areas, running the generator, pumping water up to the storage tanks, and cleaning the pool (tasks with which I would become very familiar). He is currently in his third 'gap year,' still deciding whether or not to go to college (although he always says he hasn't gone to university 'yet' when people ask), and traveling the world volunteering, surfing, and exploring in the meantime. Our friendship was sealed when I taught him how to do a back-walkover later that morning. Those years of gymnastics definitely come in handy.

Suddenly, the morning was over, my 'work' was done, and the rest of the day was mine. Sarah made us lunch, and we all cooled off in the shade of her small and comfortable living room that looks out over the peaks to the west. She informed me that the fuzzy green pods growing on the low tree next to my tent are almonds, and that all the almond trees will be harvested in September, two months before the olive harvest in November/December. Some brown pods on the trees (much more recognizable as almonds) are left over from last year, when they didn't have time to harvest them all, and are still good to eat. The olive trees, I also learn, may need to be pruned while I'm here, but otherwise there is not much work to be done on the agricultural front (I realize that I'll probably have to pick up my organic farming skills some other time and place, but I'm not too upset about it). Another possible project is the extension of one of the hiking trails up higher into the hills. Sarah and Martin have been opening the 'Red Trail' up towards one of the highest peaks in the area, towards an abandoned monastery that will shortly be converted into a spa. Depending on who you talk to, this spa is either the best or the worst thing ever to happen to the area.

That evening, Elaine and Magdalena left the retreat, and Luna and Andreas grilled fresh fish and potatoes with rosemary they picked from the hillside. As I sat for hours around the table with these holders of U.K. and E.U. passports (George hails from a farm in Worcester, Luna from a small town in Germany, and Andreas from Switzerland), I sent a little message of thanks out to the universe for getting me on this trip, even if my cosmic repayment means periodically being grilled on the absolutely insane state of so many things in the U.S. of A. Conversations with Charles in Madrid, Luna and Andreas in that little kitchen in the hills, and (most recently) bar-owner and Barcelona native, Franc, have each ended with the European party declaring that I'd better defect as soon as possible, get a visa for anywhere in Europe, and start to live life for real on the better side of the Atlantic. So far, I'm inclined to agree.

On the subject of ex-pats, I should mention that the olive groves and farms in the hills of this part of Cataluña are surprisingly and overwhelmingly filled with British families, living British lives and creating very British communities. Likewise, the bookshelves are filled with the works of Chris Stewart (Driving Over Lemons), Jason Webster (Duende and Guerra), and Tim Moore (Travels With My Donkey), all Brits who came to this country to live out their fantasy lives by doing really unnecessarily difficult things (like, learning to play flamenco guitar, building a house and a life from scratch, or walking 800km on a pilgrimmage with a donkey). Staying here in the beautiful place Sarah has built from a decaying and long-abandoned farm, I have mixed feelings about the veritable land-grab that occured post-Franco, when farming families were free (for the first time in half a century) to move into sea-side towns and cities. Sarah is, for lack of better and less pop-lit comparisons, like a lumberjack Frances Mayes, or a British, stiff-upper-lip Elizabeth Gilbert. Following an ugly divorce, this park ranger, Sivananda yoga instructor, organic farmer moved to rural Cataluña to build a beautiful and fully functioning retreat center, revitalize acres of organic olives, and meet a nice, handy, helpful guy who doesn't try to steal her property or sense of well-being. Hard to judge or begrudge any foreigner who chooses to relocate life and, very often, extended family to this beautiful place, where (as I promise to explain in more detail next time), an impossibly bright full moon shines over deep and fertile valleys, the tinkling of bell-clad goats chimes through long afternoons, and a young American can come to practice yoga, wander in the hills, and scribble in a notebook.

Long Overdue

Finally, the main attraction. The longest, most challenging, and most difficult to explain part of the trip which, luckily, I began chronicling on paper as soon as I arrived (there is no cell phone reception or, of course, WiFi at the yoga retreat). For your reading (or, procrastinating at work) pleasure, here is a real-time excerpt from the moleskin, penned almost two weeks ago:

May 14th
I think I hear the clanging of bell-clad goats as they move up the mountainside above me. What particular peak they might be headed toward I can only guess, as the hammock I am currently lying in is ringed around with peaks covered in scrubby low-lying plants and the occasional group of rugged pine trees. I arrived in the fishing village of l´Ampolla last night, and after a short but slightly anxious wait at the train station (a tiny two-platforms plus bar, filled to the brim with gruff looking fishermen drinking and smoking as they watch awkward backpackers arrive and wait around nervously), I was collected by Sarah, blonde and tall, in a hardy and dust-covered 4 x 4 that smelled gently of some of my favorite plants.

As we drove up the mountain to the retreat, she informed me that the day had been spent at a neighbor´s cherry orchard, and that she, George (the other volunteer) and four guests had collectively picked 19 kilos of cherries. Not wanting them to go bad, they spent the evening making cherry tart, cherry cake, cherry jam, and cherry salad (recipes to follow), all of which awaited my no doubt hungry arrival. Meeting Luna, Andrea, Magdalena, and Elaine over all the aformentioned dishes was an idyllic beginning, but slightly self-conscious, exhausted, and disoriented, I experienced a moment of genuine panic when Sarah guided me over to my sleeping arrangements. Expecting a spacious bell tent all to myself (like I saw on the website), I discovered that those were, in fact, for the highest paying guests, and that George and I each had our own little Quechua camping tent up behind the house.

Now, for all my supposedly outdoor-sy inclinations, I must confess that I have never actually lived in a tent. Alarm bells went off in my head as I started to unpack and awkwardly try to arrange my stuff inside it, and thoughts of 'You agreed to stay here for a MONTH!!!' buzzing around my head like mosquitoes. But, after a few minutes of organizing, I found that it was really a manageable space, and down the hill towards the swimming pool there was a sturdy and very clean building with two sinks, toilets, and, most importantly, hot showers. (There were also two little ornate mirrors, which I imagine are only used by the guests to keep tabs on just how wild and unkempt we are all looking as the days go by.) I also remembered that I HAD remembered to pack a small flashlight and warm socks, and found that, after a piece of cherry cake, and a little star-gazing, I was able to curl up in my little green tent on the side of a mountain and sleep, like a stone, for nine hours.

More to follow!

Valencia

My five hours in Valencia were over a week ago, but here are some recollections/excerpts from moleskin note-taking :)

Sitting in the botanic garden in Valencia, I cannot understand why my guidebook tried to disuade me from visiting the city. Describing its 'charm' as 'somewhat debated' and the city as 'drab, provincial, and industrial,' Frommers suggested I spend my interim day at the beach instead. True, many of the streets around the train station are populated by chain restaurants and drug stores (and lined--of course--with cheap souvenirs), and the ride in from Madrid shows off the somewhat crumbling and grafitti-splashed factory areas, but just a five minute walk north of the main station and I found myself in the beautiful and impressive Plaza del Ayuntamiento (I haven't figured out how to get pictures on here yet, but I will post proof of the town square´s beauty as soon as I stop being so pathetically technologically challenged).

Sure, Valencia is kinda dirty (from what I saw--I mean I didn't make it to the huge and iper-modern Cuidad de las Artes y las Ciencias south of the city, which is supposedly spotless), but it´s Europe! It is an old and fascinating city, from the little I saw and learned, and even the ickiest little back streets convine you that age always comes before beauty in a city like this. Not that, in the least, Valencia is lacking in beauty (again, pictures pending...but I'm sure there are better ones online already).

After wandering a bit, I headed to the outdoor Mercado to pick up some lunch. I expected, foolishly, a tented marketplace full of little stalls selling fruits and vegetables, and maybe the occasional local delicacy and paella. Instead, I found a GIANT market housed in a train-station-sized and gorgeously built, decorated and domed building, an entire wing of which was dedicated to every kind of sea food you can imagine (and smelling like it, too), enough jamon to feed an army hanging from the ceilings, and the most incredibly delicious looking produce I have ever seen. I spent maybe ten minutes taking pictures of the Valencia oranges, and an hour just wandering around wondering how in the world people who go to Valencia for the day decide what to buy.

After being seduced by the oranges and strawberries, I thought I would be really nice and buy some dried fruit from a fairly neglected stall, supervised by a really sweet looking older man who didn't look like he got a lot of customers. There was a good reason for this, as I discovered almost immediately, as he was the absolute meanest person I have met on the trip so far, and I practically had to beg for my dried peaches. They turned out to be worth it, though...and for any of you who wish to avoid arguments with crotchety old men in Valenican markets in the future, peaches are melocotones and presseguer in Spanish and Catalan (he made sure I learned these words and could say them correctly before he handed the fruit over).

As the day was getting hot, and I would be spending a lot of it sitting on trains, I decided to take my Mercado loot and sit in Valencia's Jardin Botanico, which even my Valencia-hating guide book admitted was worth seeing. The garden is beautiful, and unique: while Madrid's lush botanic garden was intoxicating, full of giant multi-colored irises, looming pine trees, and fragrant vines, Valencia's is relaxing, rejuvenating...a retreat. Actually, as I read on the very informative board at the entrance, it was started in 1567 by la Universitat de Valencia as an orchard exclusively for medicinal plants, and remained so for over 200 years. And while most of the garden has been redesigned along more aesthetic principles, it still bears a studious, pragmatic, and slightly utilitarian look in some places. I sat in the back part of the garden on a bench in the shade, near an old fountain where I observed many visitors washing their hands and feet, and cats lapping up water (the garden is home to a pack of cats who wander around very aware of how adorable they are and how much attention they deserve, and being fed and cared for by the gardeners. One posed very nicely for a photo shoot in the sun, and three or four prowled around me the whole time I sat there eating lunch).

My day in Valencia passed so quickly, and therefore had me slightly worrying about the passage of time on the rest of the trip. In just a few hours I would be installed at the yoga retreat, the 'main attraction' and biggest unknown of the trip, and leaving Valencia I started to get the smallest nagging little doubts about just what the heck I thought I was going to do in the mountainous Catalunyan countryside for a MONTH, when there was so much more of Spain to see and so little time to see it. Passing, on the second stage of my train journey from Valencia to lÀmpolla, the dry red earth, low rolling fields, scrubby olive and orange trees, and increasingly impressive clefted mountain peaks of the Costa Daurada, little waves of nervousness ebbed around me, not at all helped by the fact that Renfe Regional trains do not announce their stops (nor do the train doors open automatically or for very long), and as my arrival time drew near I was constantly craning my neck in all directions trying to figure out where we were.

Views of the ocean helped to calm me down, as did the gorgeous rows of Italian cypress lining hillsides. Completely incongruous little factory towns (complete with big industrial buildings, tons of billboards, even what looked like a nuclear plant) appeared occasionally, looking so out of place, and I would soon be finding out a lot (from my host, Sarah, and her mom, Cherry) about the lives and history of the Catalunyans who live in them.

But those stories, and first impressions of the campo, will have to wait until next time.
Adeu, my friends, que vagi bé.

Si, Madrid es la hostia

This phrase, Jeremy tells me, literally translates to: ´Madrid is the communion wafer.´ It is used by Madrileños, however, and by people who are smart enough to recognize the city´s greatness, to pretty much mean ´Madrid is the bomb.´I was so excited when he explained this phrase to me, because I thought for a second that my Madrid-as-hostess description was going to prove me both travel-savvy and also psychic. But I´ll settle for being a tourist who just gets it. Since I left Madrid almost a week ago, but faithfully wrote lots of stuff down on paper, you´re going to get an interesting and possibly incomprehensible mix of real-time and reflection writing, but I hope you´ll just skip anything you find too boring and let the good parts convince you to abandon your various posts in the world and head to España as soon as humanly possible.

It is almost impossible to miss how passionate Madrileños are about their city. Everyone, it seemed, was just enjoying it. Walking around, sitting around at outdoor cafe tables or in the park... so many places where I expected to find tourists, I found locals. Running into a massive crowd in Pl. del Sol on my way to the Prado from the Palace, I discovered that Real Madrid (the city´s football team) had crushed last night´s opponent 4-0 and was now parading off a bus in the middle of the square cheered by hundeds of fans who just showed up, in the middle of a Wednesday, to stand around for a couple hours and see them walk off a bus and into a building, which took approximately 3 minutes. Just as I was starting to get the feeling that spending 5 hours in a museum was possibly not the best way to enjoy this auspicious afternoon, I was invited to lunch with Daphne, Wendy and Panagiotis (please forgive me, dear friends, if I spelled that wrong) and got to spend the mid-day hours the way any respectable Madrileña would: that is, sitting around eating delicious tapas and enjoying equally delicious conversation. I would never have survived the Prado without it.

On the subject of massive museums:
If I ever get to design one, I have decided to simply line all the gallery floors with mattresses and pillows, and tilt all the paintings floorward (sculptures, I understand, may present a problem, but I´m sure we could figure it out). This way, visitors could simply roll from painting to painting, avoiding the sore feet and back-aches that unfortunately accompany great art these days, and no doubt discourage many people from visiting museums. Additionally, if like me you prefer to wander until something in the collection floors you, there would be a nice soft surface to break your fall and allow you to lie there in a stunned daze staring at whatever it is... until, inevitably, someone either rolls into you or falls on top of you, somewhat breaking the spell.

Clearly there are a few design flaws to be worked out.

But something tells me people would get on board with this idea, not only because it would be really fun, but also because there is a real need for some kind of cushioning when a true connoisseur steps in front of a work of genius. Phil, sadly, had to resort to a sort of crouch on the floor of the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum the day following my trip to the Prado, after a pure, unadulterated bolt of German Impressionism shot through him with not even a bench in sight.

More than any other museum, I think, the Thyssen should consider the mattress idea. Not only because (like many museums) it is absolutely stuffed with incredible pieces perfectly capable of making anyone lose the strength to stand, but also because it is organized chronologically (instead of by genre, which is only partially chronological) and visitors are meant to travel through the building almost like a chess piece moving across the board. Whether you are a diagonally inclined bishop or a skip-two-and-look-at-one-to-the-left knight, the other side of the board is everyone´s collective goal, and you get there pretty much regardless of what your path looks like (or whether the museum attendents have to forcibly remove you as the place is closing). The relaxed, reclining style of mattress viewing would also be perfectly compatible with the feel of the collection, which comes from one family´s estate. It is easy to get the feeling that every single piece you see was once someone´s favorite thing to look at in the whole world. And that´s why they bought it, and that´s why you get to see it in the museum today. Although ´The Worker Photography Movement, 1926-1939´ in the Reina Sofia won the prize for most mind-blowing Madrid museum experience on this trip, I think, like Wendy, I would prefer to visit the Thyssen again and again... especially once they install the mattresses.

Stay tuned for more about a night out with Charles (my Couchsurfing host), Venezuelan soap stars, and 5 hours in Valencia.

Tales of the Costa Daurada, (including goats, olive groves, and Ayurvedic healing) to follow.