Hola from Barcelona.
I'd forgotten what an... infectious... city this was. I've been here since Friday lunchtime, at which point I spilled out of an aircraft from my London life into the heat, bustle and irreverent wild swirl that seems practically imposed upon you here. I'm here for a few days before taking the short flight to Palma on Monday afternoon. The idea was to get into the holiday mode by doing a Barca city break for a long weekend then hitting the island having danced our cares away, had a little urbanness, done a Spanish lifestyle crashcourse and been even more in the mode for a total break than had been before, if such a thing was possible.
Another reason for being here is that back in miserable London February, I had gone to see Woody Allen's Vicky Cristina Barcelona on the Fulham Road and been sodden on my run back to the car in unexpected and un-prepared-for horizontal slashing rain. I had enjoyed the film, but enjoyed the blast of warm air that came off the cinema screen into my winter and resolved to come back. Sometimes it really is that simple. I think I must have booked this trip the next week. I haven't been here for a few years and I think on the last trip I didn't spend that much time in the city as I was visiting friends who live on the coast about an hour north of here.
Yesterday was full, in an effortless sort of way. I'm here with JA, a friend who is also with me all next week (we're joined by another special guest star fellow passenger on arrival in Palma) and he was keen we go to the Boqueria market. No problem. Have breakfast near by. Of course. And that we wander aimlessly through the Gothic quarter. Perfect. A late-afternoon stint on the gay bit of Barcelona beach.Yesssss. Drinks=dinner=dancing till late. What a traveling companion. All his suggestions would have been mine.