Bvar-theh-lonaaaaaah

I´m done On the Road. I´m completely lost. Where are you now Dean Moriarty? What antics have you in store for the adventuresome? Sal I need direction? East, West, or South? Abandonment is a heavy situation.

We moved from the Cote westward to the "Meeting place of the world", Marseille. Drowning in culture and energetic streets Marseille does not represent the south of France, in fact Marseille is unique to Europe. If a change is what you seek, then the African rich shops, and the Arabic cuisin of this busy city is what you need. "Dude, did you read that before you booked us in here?" is Neil´s first question after I hit him with the Let´s Go Travel Guide´s intro to Marseille. He is not quite sure how he feels about this new vibe. I think a day and a half was all he needed to soak up all the culture he can deal with for a while.

Montpellier was another new twist. From the beaches of the Riviera, to the hot streets of Marseille, there was no preparing us for the comfort of Montpellier. With little shops of all kinds and wide pedestrian walkways between sites within the old city, Neil and I took an instant liking to this beautiful town. We spent almost all our time wandering the streets and digging the whole scene. When we left for the train at 6:30, the city was still asleep and we strolled down the center of the streets like we owned the place. Sure the sun was rising, but who could comment on that when we had the whole city to ourselves.

We left France too quickly. Although we stalked up on fresh bread and croissants, not even a late lunch of delicate baguette could ease the pain of leaving the country of love. I speak french, and after a week of traveling the streets, I could speak it quite well (I was still working on my France accent, but accent or not, I loved the whole second language experiment all the same). I understood train announcements for the first time since London´s tube, I could read menus, order drinks, and convers with locals. It was my country to enjoy after only a week, and I enjoyed it in a totally new "complete" way.

I speak a little Spanish. Un Poquito. I even hablo some as well. But what ever they speak here, in Barcelona (say it with me: Bvar-theh-lonaaaaah), it´s not the same spanish I´ve been learning. They speak so quickly, I´m usually just realizing I´m in a conversation when they´ve already come to understand I have no idea what they are saying. I can pick up every 5th to 10th word. I catch some of th"Attencion" announcements, and I order the odd item (with help from the old "that one, that one there" kind of point), but in the end, I am an English speaking tourist again. Travel Tip number 3: Learn the language of the natives, be one with the foreign tongue.

So we land in Barcelona and find that the West has found this city. Like home, the streets of Barcelona feel under control with more cars, less scouter, and rules of the road that appear to be more then simple suggestions. No close calls yet, the pedestrians still live. So we went through our normal routine; arrive, get lost, return to start, get lost, find the hostel, cheer and dance around like idiots, settle in, meet the neighbours, and take to the streets with a map and the thrill of a new town. As far as I can tell (this became apparent to me after half an hour of feeling the place out), Barcelona treasures two heroes; Gaudi, and Ronaldinho. Everywhere you turn there are Ronaldinho jerseys. Number 10 is wandering every street. The guy is in freakin day care adds. But I´ll get back to the Futbol jerseys in this town. Gaudi is as to Barcelona, as Ari is to Entourage. Without Gaudi, I don´t know what this place would be. Each street seems to have been touched by his hand. The Temple de la Sagrada Familia. This architectural wonder stands high above the surrounding buildings and seems to anchor the city, feeding it power and giving it character. Now if you have been lucky enough to see this Temple, and admire its glorious facades. If you have marveled at its unique design and appreciated its bond between art and engineering, that look no further. Don´t ask any more questions. Stop reading. Because this monument is under construction. No, no, not like every other monument that we have visited. No this building is not being repaired, or restored (which is the word of choice for these situations). This masterpiece, the legacy of Gaudi is not yet complete. Since 1882, they have been building this monsterous design. And after more then 125 years they have finally, just recently, made the last additions, to complete the project... to the point of just over 50 percent. They are half done. Neil just stood there in awe. "What 50% done?", "What are they doing?", "Who´s in charge here?" I´m most impressed with their patients. It seems that at no time, any of the hundreds of thousands of people involved with the work has said "Ok, umm, I think we need to kick it up a notch, I´m not going to name names but these last two or three decades some of you have been slacking..." They have yet to reach tha"Get'r done" stage, and I love it. I´ve been going on and on about how Masterpieces just aren´t made any more, how everything is a McMansion, and it´s all functionality. But here is a true piece of architecture, and to have been a part of its creation (okay, I only walked through it and took pictures, but still), to be around during its development... That´s history right there. I love it.

We visited the Museo Picasso, and I suddenly had a flash back from my grade 5 art class. I didn´t understand Cubism then, and I don´t understand it now. But the Pablo definitely was on to something. Turns out, P. Picasso did more then just the abstract art of his impressionism. The guy dabbled in everything, landscapes, oil portraits, ceramics, the works. A life time of creation. Oddly enough, in one of the 20 rooms in the Museum, Picasso´s work centered around Pornograph. That´s right, everything from doodles to complete brush strokes, and it was pretty vivid stuff. A lot of people passed through and kept their sam"Ahhh, yessssss, I enjoy the intensity of this subject, the short strokes bring out a certain...", while others just couldn´t hold back and started giggling like little school girls (or 20 something boys...). Neil and I quite enjoyed the "Man with Chicken, enjoying himself, while relieving himself" but of course it´s art, it´s not for everyone.

Las Ramblas is a favorite local for the two of us. At night the street preformers gather their crowds and awe the masses. Whether it´s the slight of hand of a smiling magician, or the intense attitude of a latin dancer, there is someting for everyone. Neil and I have trouble being confined to a bar, when the real party is in the streets. We roam the roads from our hostel to the beach and dig the whole scene. Barcelona is going to be hard to leave. Barcelona is a favorite.

Some other highlights:

Neil vs the Pigeons - little brother makes contact with an accidental kick, seconds later he is pooed on... I just laughed, and laughed.

Couple has sex - I´m awake, on my top bunk, downloading pictures onto my dream device (Archos 604WiFi, a must for any gaget guru) and below me, one bed over, a couple is waking up with a little morning exercise. I don´t know how I feel about this. I think there is something wrong with the whole situation, but then again, I didn´t even realize it was going down until Neil told me about it an hour later. Hostels, you really can´t go wrong.

Angry woman vs the train - Why was this woman so angry we will never know. All I can say is I´m thankful I can understand French, because the ridiculousness of this woman´s complaints were worth the cost of my entire Eurail pass. She needed a hug, but I couldn´t bring myself to end the entertainment.

The Country´s best - Germany´s Brats, Italy´s pasta, Greece´s sea food, France´s bread, England´s Fish and Chips; it´s tough to make a call on what my favorite is, but one thing for sure is Spain can cook a mean Paella. Wow.

Scams. Everyone loves their scams here in Europe. You can get a fake anything, and you can pay anything for it, because not only is it fake, but it´s probably stolen. Along the way, I have been collecting soccer jerseys. One for each country. I pick one of my favorite Footballers, and I search for a deal. Yesterday I cam across a Torres jersey. The spanish red, the number 9, it was perfect. I ask how much for the jerseys, the guy says 15 euro. This is good, not great, but definitely what I´m ready to spend to keep my series alive. I return today to the same shop, after passes several other stores pushing the Barcelona number 10 of Ronaldinho, I realize that this 15 euro deal is a real steal (and I rhyme that little diddy off to Neil with excitement). I´m in the store, I find my size (a medium), and the guy wraps it up for me and asks for 39€. Uhhh, I just stand there dumbfounded. I, uhhhh. That´s all I´ve got. I finally pull myself together, accept the reality of no jersey in my immediate future, and I tell him I´m going to need to go get more money. 35€ he says. Uhhhhh, I, aaaa... What did you want to pay for it, he asks me. I tell him someone (it was him) had told me they were 15, and that I only had a 20 (this was not true, but who can afford 40 euro on a jersey, when they have only budgetted 10 on food for the whole day). He can´t believe it. 15! he says with a genuin disbelief. He pulls out a different red Torres, and hands it to me. This one is a piece of garbage. It´s last years jersey, it´s a large and it´s 29, he tells me. This doesn´t matter to me, or my story of 20 euro in the pocket. I try it on, it really, really looks bad. I ask if he has a medium. He brings out a different player all together and tries to sell this new piece of garbage to me, without letting me see it. I ask for a medium Torres (I need my Fernado Torres, forget this other smuck that this guy wants to get rid of). He gets a medium, number 9 Torres, and I try it on, it´s great, it´s also the first jersey he gave me, and it´s still 39 euro. I tell him all I have is the 20 euro bill I was going to use for the 15 euro jersey that no longer exists. He brings it down to 35, 32, and 30. My story sticks, I show him the bill, and he pauses. He picks up the phone, and frantically spills out some Spanish jumble. He tells me he can get me a medium, Torres, from last year and he can give it to me for 27. I stare at him. 25. I pull out the 20, and tell him I will need to go get another five. He doesn´t want me to leave. He tells me he can do 22, and he runs out of the store. He comes back 2 minutes later, out of breath. He has a medium beauty that I try on. It´s great. He packages it up. I pull out the twenty, and a handful of no more then 60 cents in 5s and 10s. I tell him I can go get the other 2 euro, but this is all I came with. (I had fished the twenty out of my money belt while he was in the back, hoping that the 3 50s and the other 20 that it was folded into wouldn´t come exploding out. I also had to grab the change without revealing the 5 bill that I still had for today´s dinner). He looks down at the 20, then the coins. He looks up at me, and I spill out the oscar "I´m sorry brotha", and he grabs it all, acting and everything, and I´m out the door with my jersey. Scaming the Scamster. All in a days work. Do I feel bad. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I think I saw the same jersey in Florence for 10 euro, and maybe I think he was getting what he deserved. John 1, silly Spanish kyosk guy 20euro and dirty change...

Bvar-theh-lonaaaah has been a blast. Time for one more Las Ramblas tour with the sunsetting and the wild night life coming up for air.