Barce-LONER

A travel blog? Who me?! Yes! I’m an i-n-f-l-u-e-n-c-e-r now. Follow my lead. I’m harbouring a small yacht called adventure ready to sail into the Great Known because I know it all. I am young and bulletproof! I can imagine a lot of this content will sprawl haphazardly like a broken egg on cobblestones. This may be attributed to a) Lack of patience, b) there’s too much fun to be had or c) I am a lunatic. In this next sentence I’m going to use my least favourite phrase because this is MY BLOG and I’ll do what I want. Without further ado, here we go bitches.

Airborne passengers are united in various states of discomfort and denial. Three quarters asleep and still these stanzas creep along spider pathways. Only mildly high and within atmospheric bounds, my crusty dust-caked brain cells are straining. Engulfed in plastic-wrapped blankets and webs of headphone cables, their human necks are contorted like origami. They wish they were swans.

Almost annoyingly analog, what’s my novel doing in a place like this? There’s heaps of leg room and the only rhyme I can think of is egg moon. Watch me stretch you wretched cretin, stop banging on my seat and give back my vegetarian meal. I’m waiting for apparition to become real.

Alas I arrive, bleary but unnervingly on edge (see above portrait). Wondering how I’m meant to carry a conversation when it’s much heavier than a watermelon and more unstable than Baby during the big lift. I’ve taken to involuntarily scolding myself for having thoughts in English, translating everything on impulse. Between power naps in the park, I google “how to be funny in Spanish.” I’m worried my unique dance moves might not cut it.

This inexplicable urge to plunge myself straight into the deep end leads to one very leaky submarine. Initial hopes of seamlessly assimilating to Spanish life are tucked into that pocket of my backpack I always forget to open. (Oh HEY sim card from 2017). I walk up the right side of the wrong street, my robot brain continuing to force me left. Honestly how many times can I get lost in a day? I reckon if I start a tally up my leg, when it reaches my face I’ll either be outside the country or right back where I started.

I guess I can point fingers at everyone staring at the doofus in a bucket hat walking circles but I’m staring back just as hard. At the lights, I’m anxious for some indication of an alien civilisation, a sudden snatch or altercation. Unfortunately this is still planet earth, people are still people and there’s a blister swelling on my foot.

Here are some words to describe Casa Vicens, even though I have none. It’s vibrant in its miscellaneous eccentricity, silent inside but the patterns seem to make music. There are wide open rooms and geometric sunlight dappled by wooden doors. An adventure at every turn! It’s easy to imagine Gaudí reclining on the balcony or draped in afternoon glow poring over drafts. There are raspberries on the ceiling. I want everyone to leave so I can lie face up on the floor and examine them properly. Somehow I don’t think my 12€ ticket covers that.

Pulled up at La Sagrada Familia and out escapes a loud Oh Fuck. That’s all I really have to say about it. A brief scan of the tourist pool surprises me as I didn’t realise duck faces were still a thing. Paris Hilton did it better. Side note, apparently low waisted crop pants are Fashion Baby. I might start writing my blog entries like this: Today I went to the beach. It was hot. I saw some nice buildings with lots of colours. I hated writing that only marginally less than you hated reading it.

Frase del día: Una mesa solo para mi, por favor.

Musica del lugar: Glória Ao Rei Dos Confines Do Alem - Os Mutantes

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