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I wrote a letter to a friend detailing a few weeks I spent in Spain.                             

Follow the links to pictures and other relevant pages.


(This page scrolls for a long time. The little man who separates sections will bring you back HOME.)

       FIRST DAY IN SPAIN

      Because I didn't know anybody else in the country I figured I should make every effort to be friendly. I crossed the street from bus stop to train station to find the Metro. I hadn't consulted any guide books--I always thought that was cheating. Besides, winging it is much more fun.
      In the large modern station I listened for English. An Australian named Chloe told me of a youth hostel in the gothic quarter; she gave me directions but then decided to take me there herself. The Metro cost 150 pesetas, something like 75 cents, which seemed like a lot after Buy amoxicillin 875 mg online. Instead of turnstiles, the exits had metal gates which swung back on springed hinges with resounding metallic whacks - almost as loud as the orange-propane-tank men who announce themselves by banging their wrenches against the empties as they push their handtrucks through the narrow streets. The sound of the backwhacking gates was tied to the rhythm of arriving trainloads of anxious commuters herding themselves through to a great clackerous accompaniment of murmuring feet, backthwacking gates and departing trains.The interim silence broken by the lone thwack of a jilted lover who, after watching twenty trains arrive expecting each time to meet his date, finally left dejected, the bouquet in his hands now pointed at the ground.

      My first day—tho' I'd spent 27 hours on the bus from Prague with little sleep—I decided to walk over to Antonio Gaudi's Parc Guell because my roommate (four bunks to a room, tiny balcony on which I hung socks and underwear washed in the bathroom sink) had just returned with a postcard on which he pointed out where he'd eaten lunch. Armed with an inadequate tour bus map (free at the check-in desk) I set off, passed the Triumphal Arch and Sagrada Familia along the way, got a little lost, bought some bananas, finally found the park after seeing some groovy graffiti; was awed by it all. Overheard an American college girl say under the rough-hewn colonnade: "It's like he was on acid or something." I thought that was a stupid thing to say, but truth is I'd thought the same; walking Parc Guell was an unguided tour through Gaudi's brain.

     It was hard to tell where Gaudi left off and nature began. Unfamiliar with the layout, I decided the safest course was up. Up and up, an overhead view of purple vs. green on a yellow soccer field, the shadow of the ball sharp racing along the ground. Past that the people washing their cars with Barcelona at their feet stretching to the sea. Past even this to rugged terrain; what at first I thought was a winding path was a watercourse; I picked wildflowers, even thistles because its flower is so pretty, thinking of the postcard I'd write to Libby in which I'd write 'I picked wildflowers and thought of you,' which was absolutely true and over the phone on her birthday two weeks later she said that had been the line she liked best.

     Got to the top feeling satisfied, bouquet in my hands but no one, nothing else at the top of Barcelona but a geologic survey disk stuck in the ground. Loving the solitude, writing in red vis-a-vis marker on my remaining banana for want of paper, I was joined by a man, a little boy, and their tiny dog with a red ribbon in its hair that sought the shade of my leg on that exposed peak. After six hours of walking I was ready to retrace my steps to the hostel, went back along Las Ramblas with its human statues, prostitutes and gypsy cigarette salesmen. Remembered so far as the Placa Royale but got lost after that, searched for Placa Palau when what I really wanted was Caller de Palau about half a mile away, but after two more hours of soulful wandering I made it back, ate some beans and fell asleep.

MONTSERRAT

     I still didn't know anybody so the next morning I asked, "Mind if I sit here?" to the red-headed woman in the hostel dining room even though all the other tables were free. There is nothing unusual with wanting to share your table even when the option is there to have your own. Who wants to be alone?

      Liz was from London. She was talented, fearless and free. She'd come down to relax for a week after finishing a screenplay. She did wardrobe for the Shamen on a two-month US tour, which meant that she procured the medicine which they used to get in touch with the Great Spirit, she explained. They'd been introduced at a party; they wanted to get their hands on a dream machine' which as she put it 'was invented by one of your beat fellows; he was failing asleep on a bus, the sunlight flashing through the trees put him into a trance; I knew where to get two of the machines." (Sure beats tweaking your resume as a way to get a job.) She was going to Montserrat, billed as the most beautiful natural site in Spain, home to an ancient monastery whose hermits were hunted for sport by Napoleon's troops; the inspiration of Dali, Gaudi, Miro, Picasso (not to mention Hemingway), only 45 minutes and 1500 pesetas outside of Barcelona. It was the first I'd heard of it, and I agreed to go.

     So did Jen, an American studying in Germany who grudgingly lent me ticket money because I only had cheques and the cash machine didn't work because I hadn't thought to get a European PIN and time was tight so we caught our train just in time. There was a long line to see the chapel so we skipped that--which I'd wanted to skip anyway because I'm not impressed by the fruits of slavery--and opted for the mountainous hiking paths. Jen bailed early, forever angry with me for 'stiffing' her with a twenty USD when although it was more than 1500 pesetas in Spain, she wouldn't change until she got to Germany where the mark was much stronger; I offered to mail the rest to her but she just left. Liz and I smoked and walked on. She wanted to join the rockclimbers but they didn't have the right size shoes to lend her so we took a detour in search of shoes, which proved fruitless, much to my relief because at the time I was still a little reticent about trying new things. On and up the peak; when we crested the northeast ridge we saw the mountainside of blackened trees, evidence of the fires in 1986.

     Liz had a cumbersome bag slung across her body but it didn't affect her balance. "There's a path. Walk with your