the rain in spain stays mainly in the plain

As I swung the door wide open, balancing on my right foot and extending my left toe to act as a door stopper, I was smacked in the face by the cold, dark, and damp London morning air. The smell of the park juxtaposed with the stench of diesel exhaust from the buses caused my nose to crinkle in disgust. A light hint of garbage wafted from the dumpster as I rolled my obese luggage over the gum stained sidewalk towards the Gloucester underground station. There were a few people out on the street, but not many. I felt like a grunge-muffin as I passed a slender women clad in a designer suit, balancing on 3 inch spike-heeled black leather boots. Lugging my baggage behind me, I mentally reviewed the route to London City Airport: Circle/District line to Westminster, change over to the Jubilee line, get off at Canning Town and change over to the DLR towards Woolwich Arsenal, and eventually, after 1 hour and 15 minutes of travel, get off at London City Airport, sweaty, exhausted, and still puffy around the eyes. Making sure to smile abundantly, I try to radiate friendly, happy vibes at the airport staff, hoping they'll be so overwhelmed they don't realize that my "carry-on plus laptop bag" are seriously over-sized and overweight. I finally make it onto the plane, take enough items off out of my bag to squeeze it into the overhead storage locker, and fall asleep, a pile of shoes and the Brita on my lap....

From my slumber, a soft and bright light beckoned me awake. Drawing back my eyelids, I peeked through the shutters of my lashes and a breathtaking scene came into focus beneath me. I was soaring over majestic blue mountains which gave way to lush valleys, cradling small villages with terracotta roofs between them. This was my first sight of Spain, amor a primera vista. After frantically re-stuffing my bag with my "necessities" I waited anxiously in the aisle to disembark the plane. Emerging into the Barcelona morning, I was overwhelmed by Spanish sunlight, it's warmth caressing my skin, filling my pores with it's golden liquid. I had the sensation of being reborn, infantile in my experience, with a childish sense of wonder; I felt the fullness of youth and embraced it. I watched as Barcelona laid herself before me, at each turn raising her skirt a little higher, practicing the ancient secrets of daring coquettes. I blushed, and was dumbfound that no one else on the bus from the airport to Placa Catalunya was as bashful as I was, watching as Barcelona revealed herself bit by bit to us all. 
But her strip-tease was never ending, and like a true professional, she always kept me wanting more. Her beautiful gothic buildings were just enough to satiate the eye, but her coy alleys which wound away from view like a "come hither" finger were enough temptation to never fully satisfy my appetite. 

"Proxima estacion, Placa Catalunya" where the pigeons outnumber people tres a uno, and at a single snap of a castanet, a thousand white wings flutter into the air like the swishing skirt of a flamenco dancer.

       
 Sin mapa, I was desperate for some directions to my hotel. Seven years of study culminated in a single phrase "Que direccion a la Aveinda Republica?" The r's rolled and thudded off my tongue, the "a" flowed into the "la", and the "v" sounded like a soft "b." "Necesitas caminar a la calle alla, y a la izquirda es Avenida Laietana. Camina en Laietana hasta Avenida Republica" Success, I had effectively communicated. Senor Stark, Senora Aslakson, Senora Dubil, Senor Cruz, and Senor Raguso would be so proud! With the gait of a triumphant and fulfilled woman I strutted down Laietana, trying ever so hard to haul my luggage down the cobblestone sidewalk with grace and strength. Following Barcelona's example, I plumped my lips with a flirtatious smile as I passed a group of loitering Spanish men, receiving a hailstorm of whistles and "oy, bella"s. Even after I tripped on a protruding stone and nearly ate-shit on the sidewalk, I still held my head high, invigorated by Barcelona's potent air. As I turned the corner on Avenida Republica, a beautiful gothic cathedral came into view.

"Senorita, no tengo una reservacion por el 25 de febrero, solamente por el 25 de marzo" Expedia, the internet, or the universe, had messed up my booking, but I didn't let that minor setback bring me down from my euphoric high. I asked where the nearest hostel was, saved myself 80 euro, and slept in a 12 person room for 17.50. My first day there, Barcelona led me through her streets, into her shops and cafes, and surrounded me with her sounds. She lured me to Las Ramblas, the bustling calle where street vendors peddle everything from birds and paintings to shot glasses and flowers, all while locals dance suavely around ambling tourists. Tucked away between two antique buildings, La Boqueria (Mercado de St. Josep)  buzzed with the intricate orgy of a bee hive. Flanked by two disturbing meat stands, I entered el mercado not fully knowing what to expect. Luscious fruits and vegetables overwhelmed tiny grocery stands, and in the center, all of the "fruits of the sea" were piled atop one another, staring blankly at their would-be predators with flat glassy eyes. The stench of the fish drove me into the back corner of the market, where the most precious of all stands were harbored: vibrant smoothies, heaps of ice cream, and alluring chocolates filled my eyes with awe and my mouth with water.            

 

And so I kissed Barcelona; I tasted the coacoa powder on her lips, and the sweetness of guava on her breath, and in a seemingly endless ecstasy I let her ambrosial flavor flood my mouth. I floated, dreamily, out of La Boqueria, down Las Ramblas, and sat by the marina to muse about my hedonistic pleasure, watching the seagulls flit about the board walk, squawking a wake-up call which I reverently ignored. Barcelona soon but on her cloak of dark colors, and I strolled back to the plaza and sat in front of the fountain, waiting for my rendezvous with Gabriel, a Barcelonian acquaintance I had made while drunk on a pub crawl in Edinburgh. After several minutes of losing ourselves in translation, Gabriel and I found one another and set off on our nocturnal adventure. Gabi introduced me to parts Barcelona I had not yet seen or noticed, lending me the knowledge and tricks which only a longtime lover of Barcelona would know. Winding through her bosom, we climbed to the heights of Mount Tibidabo to view Barcelona in her evening gown, sparkling with a thousand jewels.

As any wise Barcelones knows, the fiesta does not begin until at least midnight, and no one goes home until the sun begins to peak its head over the mountains around 6:00. By 4 am, the perpetual beauty and novelty of Barcelona had made me sleepy, my energies expended from a long day of love making. Lulled by the noises of the night, with two kisses, one on the left cheek, one on the right, Gabi sent me off to bed and I slept, breathing in the sweet air of my new love, coloring my dreams with vivid scenes of la naturaleza y pasion. And in this state of superb intoxication, I awoke again, infinitely grateful to spend another day with the gorgeous and alluring Barcelona.