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Viva la Barcelona

The thing about having crap accomodations is that, instead of returning to the hotel room to relax, you make more stops for beer. That is, if you’re us. What happened—you may ask—to all that red, red rioja you were intending to consume on your Spanish vacation, Irene? It’s not served cold. Beer is served cold. Sangria is served cold (and with ice!) Wine is served as it should be: at room temp. The temp for us visiting Seattleites is Hot. Actually, Bacelona is refreshingly cooler than the south of Spain proved to be. Still we are seeking the shade and religiously applying our sunsceen daily. But cold beer helps, too.

We have an Art Pass. Like gluttons at an all-you-can-eat buffet, we are out to get our money’s worth. This afternoon’s cerveca was tapped at the Joan Miró museum, at which (even before the beer) I gained a modicum of respect for him and his work.

Yesterday was spent in the company of Gaudi (Sagrada Familia and the Park Güell) and Picasso (Picasso Museum). I’d like to think everyone appreciates the work of these artists. Visiting Barcelona feels a little like a pilgrimage, for Gaudi’s sake! But visiting these places reminded me how true artistry can come off as obvious and easy-looking while it is based on a profound mastery of one’s craft. Miró, it seemed, never excelled at representational art before turning his visual language into play. I don’t know if this has anything to do with how I’m just not into him. But this is what I think—of those who respond to practical questions about their work, their health, their relationships, “…you just don’t understand! I’m an ARTIST!”—they’re full of shite. You got to know your craft. Artists are craftsmen. And craft means discipline. That said…It’s their whimsey that moves. And, after our lineup with the Art Pass, I’m inspired to play.

But right now, I’m inspired to sit. Still composing this little ditty of a blog entry, I’m sitting with Ken now in the evening waiting for the Font Màgica to do its Thing. We walked (till our legs nearly mutinied) to land at the only indoor eatery within blocks and blocks and blocks to offer a bright and inviting, nonsmoking space in which the waitstaff looks at us funny when we even attempt Spanish. In the cool of the evening in this air condiditioned place, we order Rioja, and it comes ice cold. After the show at the Magic Fountain, we’ll take the metro back to our hyper cool neighborhood (The Born) to our hovel of a hostel, check in with the world via wifi, and pass out in our unairconditioned room while the locals start their evening meals. Viva la Barcelona! We love you. Sincerely, me.

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