sweet home barcelona

Watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona on Monday night, I was bitten by the travel bug for what must be the nineteen hundredth time in my life. Not exaggerating.

If you ever have the chance to go to Barcelona, go.

I should probably preface that by saying that it isn't a particularly clean city... in fact, it's more like a Spanish New York with a crowded public beach. But the seafood, the salt air, the colors, the sangria, the language, the beautiful tanned people, the markets, the architecture — it's all so damn hypnotic and dazzling that you won't want to leave.


It's the kind of city where you look around and think, I could be homeless here. In fact there have been several occasions where I've tried to convince a best friend & former roomie, Becca, to move there with me to do just that. (Not that my other friends wouldn't be welcome, I just think she's the most likely candidate. I take that back — Danna might actually do it before Becca would.)


We could wander the city all day, learn Spanish from the natives, write poetry in coffee shops, eat exotic fruit from the market, sleep on the beach and grow dreadlocks... and look like this chick. We'd probably smell terrible, but it's Europe — no one would care.