NOVEMBER 19 - DECEMBER 7, 2001: Spain: It Doth Rock. 

We start in Barcelona, where we arrive at about midnight. "Just in time for Tapas" the hotel clerk says. And so, partly to avoid the shame of retiring immediately, we head out. It's a great city, alive at midnight with the sense that it has only just awoken. We are staying right on the Ramblas, near the Bari Gothic. The next day is Heather's birthday. After the obligatory laptop computer-provided slide show of all of our Oakley pictures, we head out to Gaudi´s Casa Battlo and La Pedera. Those of you who do not know the work of the architect Anton Gaudi, GO DIRECTLY TO BARCA. I admit that my feeble little consciousness was not up to the task. It's simply amazing stuff: exteriors like water moving over rocks; interiors like the inside of the human body. I am just speechless. I am glad my hallucinogenic drug phase is long passed (venerable older generation: this is just a joke. Probably). And I am a little amazed that Tim Burton stole all this stuff for the first Batman movie (the only good one). We finish the day with an excellent meal at a restaurant recommended by some friends of the Lamms. And these friends, who I won't name for fear you will all descend on them, and I apologize to them in advance for the few that read between the lines and do, make Barca feel like home. Well, a little better than home, since they escort us to a meal the second night (also excellent), give us a guided tour of the Romanesque exhibit in the National Catalan Museum (completely fascinating), invite us to a Thanksgiving meal, and suggest itineraries for our week (which all turn out marvelously). 

We also manage to squeeze in the Sagrada Famila (Gaudi in a whole different way), the Miro museum, Palace Guell, Park Guell, and lots of wandering around the Bari Gothic. We also go to the Picasso museum, which has two exhibits. The first is the permanent Picasso collection, very early paintings that only a mother could love. She did, and saved them all, and Picasso donated them to Barcelona. They are unspeakably mediocre. The second exhibit is of Picasso's Erotic Drawings, which had been reviewed in the New Yorker, and beats the hell out of the old Times Square (or, er, so I'm told). Oddly, this exhibit is mobbed by a gaggle of 50+ Spanish women, who gibber and twitter so loudly the guard, roused from his slumber, yells at them twice. I have great concern for the husbands. 

Our last day in Barca we head to the market, and even sneak in a lunch with our friend Chris Ryan, who seems a little stunned to be both awake and outside in daylight. We drive from Barcelona, stopping for a night in Morella, then for a hike at splendid rock jutting out from the coast at Calpe, one night in Almonte, a quick look at the cave dwellings in Gaudix, and ending up in Granada. Also wonderful: we are in a university area, alive with bars and music we recognize. We spend a day at the Alhambra, which is one of the few things that could emerge intact from Gaudi's shadow. We also hike in the Sierra Nevadas, up to a ski resort where they are making snow. An evening in the Little Morocco section follows. It is magical, helped by the food. Here's just a little tidbit: Goose Pate in Armagnac. Did you get that? GOOSE PATE IN ARMAGNAC (note to families: presents should be a size or two larger). I also have seized revenge for Heather's thirty-plus pictures of doors by taking pictures of Vespas (motor scooters - I used to own one). 

The southern coast of Spain (Costa del Sol) is very modern and, while sunny, not overly inviting. The local symbol seems to be the construction crane: on one stop, looking out at an attractive vista, I count eight of them, poised. We push on to a number of splendid small towns: Jaen, where we stay in the majestic parador; then two days at Priego de Cordoba, at a wonderful hotel that just happens to be hosting a conference of local Spanish managers. Part of their time includes a bicycle race. We are, of course, used to seeing some Schwag from certain internet confabs in the past, so we are now the proud owners of a "Managers On Bikes" fleece jacket. Other towns: Ronda (which nobody understands unless it is pronounced ¨Rrrrrrrrrrronda¨) where we walk around the field in the magnificent bullring (guess which one of us gets to be the bull), Montejaque and Arcos de la Frontera. In this last town, we have a wonderful room with a balcony as big as our old apartment in LA. So we mark the occasion by buying a couple of 40s (esteemed older generation: really big beers usually drunk in a paper bag on the street) from the local liquor store. In between hearty slugs, Heather does lunges. 

In these quiet southern towns of Andalusia we are mostly alone. One of the few disappointments of the trip is that we do not meet other people our age -- who seem to be holding jobs, or reproducing, or some silly responsibility-laden thing. This means we have to amuse each other over each and every meal. This suffers a total breakdown at about night 62, where we find ourselves trying to have a conversation entirely from pop music titles from the 80s (this is easier than you think it is, or maybe it is the wine), and finally simply sticking to Culture Club songs (respected older generation: imagine lyrics from The Monkeys instead). A sample: 

HE: You are a karma, karma, KARMA chameleon. You come and go. You come and go. 

SHE: Okay, fine. Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry? 

HE: Don´t cry Baby. I´ll tumble for ya. I´ll tumble for ya. I´ll tummmmbbblle for you. 

We are quite glad that the sole Spanish waiter lurking about can not translate this. 

Then Sevilla. This last city is stunning: we are here on a holiday weekend, and the city is teaming with people. The cathedral, Plaza Espana, and Maria Luisa Park in the morning, beers in the afternoon, tapas all day, and soon we too are practicing the Spanish siesta. One evening we head to a bar where our Lonely Planet guidebook says "breaks out in spontaneous flamenco." When we get there, it appears to be other readers of Lonely Planet, all waiting for something to happen, spontaneously or not. But sure enough, a man sits at the piano, another beats a box-like drum, and a woman sings (flamenco is more sung than danced, unless you are at a silly tourist place, or so we are told, deciding not to point out the contradiction that our presence makes it likely to be a silly tourist place). It is haunting and magical, one hears (or maybe this is the silly tourist again) the minor key influence of middle eastern music from the moors. 

We wander back out into the night, amidst groups of men dressed as troubadours, carrying instruments and singing (followed by a little tapas, a little beer). It is magic. One long day, after touring the gorgeous ceramics factories Tavira, we break down, and later that night, unable to get into most restaurants (the holiday) we find refuge in a Tex-Mex place up the street. It's not good, but Heather gets some guacamole, and I pursue a jalapeno, which seems pretty good. We leave, the next day, for Portugal. 

on to portugal...