Surrealistic Tits

I'm back from Barcelona. What a trip. I don't even know where to begin. We were gone for eleven days. So much happened. There was a crucifixion procession in a medieval village, full of child members of the Klu Klux Klan. I joined a marijuana collective. A demonic cat tried to force itself on me as we slept in the remote mountain wilderness of the Catalonia. I ate some of the best food of my life. Should I start by talking about praying while stoned off of THC gummybears in La Sagrada Familia? Maybe about a drunk restauranteer who tried to steal Asia from my arm with offers of luxury travels to exotic, far away lands? Or Michael, a drunk Austrian who, one night at a hostel in Figueres, regaled us with stories of the fabulous Napoli-style pizza ovens inside Auschwitz?

Where does any story start, if not at the beginning? I arrived in Catalonia in the same state I would later leave: sleep deprived to the point of certifiable mental retardation. The night before my trip I was out at a show watching legendary Ethiopian Jazz musician, Hailu Mergia. Because of this, I didn't get home until late and found myself landing in Barcelona with only three hours sleep in my fuel-tank. Once I exited the plane, I stumbled into the airport bathroom, fumbled for my zipper, pulled out my average-sized penis, and took a steamy shit in my trousers in front of the urinal. Surely sitting in a bathroom stall would have been a far better venue for this type of procedure, don't you think? Well, I didn't think. I was incapable of thinking. Instead I drooled idly onto my shirt and stared blankly in the mirror. Reaching in through the open zipper of my pants, I grabbed a fistful of feces from my soiled undergarments like an elephant reaching with it's trunk into the anus of a neighbouring elephant for untold chocolatey treasures. Twisted and contorted at comic angles, I finally freed the feces from the clutches of my underwear, but the story didn't stop here. Had I deposited the shit into the garbage can like I thought I had, the story may have had a somewhat happy ending. Instead, a loud whirring sound told me that I'd placed the booty balm into the Dyson hand dryer. I watched with demented, mute horror as chunks of poo erupted from the device like the initial wet warning farts of an active volcano. Later on in our trip we would descend to the bottom of a volcano where an old church sat. In this moment, though, there was nothing holy about this shit.

I scuttled from the bathroom and made my way to a cash machine. I needed new pants, you see. After agreeing to the petty 5-Euro robbery necessary to withdraw money from the ATM, I took a few hundred out thinking I'd have some cash in me in the event I needed to buy some speed or bribe a police officer. With my bloated wallet I boarded the bus to Barcelona and stashed my bag in a seedy carpark. Why I expected my belongings to be placed inside a locker, or some kind of safe, I am unsure. What happened in place of this was an exchange of 2-Euros for a greasy-haired Spaniard to throw my bag into nearby janitor's closet. I had the comforting feeling that my valuables would certainly be insured should any of them go missing, but when I tried to confirm this with the man, he suddenly seemed to forget the English he was fluently speaking only moments ago. He smiled and said, no comprendo amigo, no worry. He put my mind at ease and I bid him a good day. I ventured out into the sunny streets of Barcelona where the trees were bristling on the warm breeze. Now that my bag was gone I was free to wander around the city unencumbered.

I killed an hour or two by strolling through Eixample and then grabbing lunch at a popular restaurant serving Peruvian ceviche. I ordered a bunch of food and as I sat waiting I felt a wave of fatigue wash over me. To keep myself awake I took another look at the menu. Upon closer inspection I found all of the V's had been replaced with B's. Ceviche had been conspicuously renamed to cebiche. Immediately I wondered if I was at the right restaurant. Was this some cheap imitation? Were knockoff restaurants a thing in Spain? When I confronted the waiter, who was previously very cordial, he scratched his head and struggled to find words in English. He began speaking in quick Spanish sentences that ran off his lips in staccato flourishes that I couldn't make sense of. Asking him to slow down proved to be of no use and so I focused instead of the cocktail he had placed in front of me. Soon the food arrived and I ate incomprehensibly tasty sea urchin cebiche. Then something I don't remember the name of but was the nicest, lightest fish I've ever had. After that a classic cebiche full of onions and tiger milk was brought out to me. Once more I was dazzled by the deliciousness of the fish. I paid, told the waiter eberything was bery good, and left.

Back at the carpark I picked up my bag. I must have been a little drunk from the cocktail because my bag felt so much lighter now. On the next block I met my Airbnb host and he escorted me to the top of the building where our room would be, in the attic. I dropped my bag in front of the balcony window and gazed out at the city. Then I collapsed onto the bed and woke up a few hours later. Before strolling out to dinner I stopped by a local florist to get Asia some flowers to welcome her with. The florist was a kind old woman with warm eyes and strong hands. She expertly cut up a fresh bouquet of mixed flowers and turned it into a truly beautiful, artful arrangement as she made dinner recommendations. She even spritzed the flowers down with some water to give them a sparkly, littered with diamonds sort of look. It was stunning. I was so moved by her work that tried to tip her but she wouldn't allow me. I bid her farewell and walked through El Raval and into the Gothic Quarter. In front of the Cathedral of Barcelona I saw a street performer play a beautiful rendition of a Bob Dylan song as the sun painted the face of the old building in glowing orange light. Everyone stopped and stared at the architecture, took pictures, kissed and hugged to celebrate the spectacular aesthetic splendor of the scene.

Next I found myself in front of the Picasso museum. A tapas restaurant was just opening and it was causing quite a queue to form. I happened to be standing in the queue, very near to the front, so I didn't move. When I looked behind me a few minutes later the line had quadrupled. This is where I would have dinner. Because I was alone, I was put at a table by myself, but only for a moment. A young, college-aged Korean girl joined me. I greeted her as we each looked at the menu on the table that neither of us could read. When the waiter returned he asked me if I ate fish and meat and I told him I did. He proceeded to bring out the most delectable foods I'd ever tasted. To pair it, I ordered a glass of Estrella Damm and washed it down. The Korean and I had some light conversation. She was only in Barcelona for two days. Today was her first. She was studying in the south of Spain and wanted to see Barcelona and then Paris for her Easter break. She was nice, but the interaction was a little strained because of a hyper-politeness on her part - combined with a slight language barrier - which made anything but brief, shallow exchanges difficult. Eventually she left and then so did I. I followed her and smothered her with my soiled underwear in the shadows of a deserted alley.

From the restaurant I travelled to a local bar to kill a little bit of time before I'd catch the bus I would need to take to the airport to meet Asia. I had a vermut and then got on the bus. The ride was pleasant and mostly empty, except for two young girls who spoke surreptitiously of sex or something like it. When I got to the airport my body must have remembered the earlier incident and I had to sprint to the bathroom to avoid depositing another muddy mess in my pantaloons. Soon after this Asia had landed. We took the bus back to our rooftop apartment and got some much needed sleep.

...I'll write more tomorrow, my computer is dying and it's getting late.