picking favorites

The air in Barcelona smells like a bakery as it is shutting down for the day. It is warmish, and slightly sweet, and there is a sense of familiarity in the breeze. Spain. I went to Spain this weekend. I never in my life thought I would be able to say that, yet, there it is.

I'm back in Ireland now, and I feel a sense of familiarity here as well, but it is different somehow. I can't quite put my finger on it. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's the difference in how the landscape is cultivated. I know they are distinctly different countries, but they both become generalized as "Foreign" countries in my mind, because I am, after all, an American. I admit, I am a city mouse, and Barcelona felt more comfortable to me, with its trains, dense population, apartments, streets and architecture. But I am happy to be back in Ireland. I feel less anxious here, less guarded. It's a feeling I don't often get when I'm in America.

I am reminded of a phrase I read once: You can't pick a favorite place until you've been to them all.

Well, I might not be able to say Ireland or Spain are my favorite places, but I will say that they're pretty high on my list, so far.

In Barcelona, I felt exhilarated, like how I felt when I first realized that I wanted to live in Chicago. Today, I say that I want to live in Barcelona, the way a child says they want a new toy. Saying that, I finally begin to realize just how very American I really am. "I want to live in Barcelona! I KNOW I have Ireland, but I want Barcelona now. Give it to me or I will stomp my feet, tell the teacher, and slam my bedroom door."

Maybe that is the difference between my identifications. I AM an American. I WANT Barcelona. But Ireland actually has ME. I loved Barcelona. It was brilliant. I could describe the sounds, the food, the sea, the scent, the views, the way the city looked like an intricate collage from the top of a mountain, but I wasn't there long enough to describe it in useful terms. I can't describe what a mundane day might be like in Barcelona, because I didn't have one. I went to museums, and tourist-spots. I ate and drank and saw the things that tourists eat and drink and see. I did not want for anything during my time there, and my time there was brief.

I think I love Barcelona, but I can't really be sure. I only got to see it, as a child sees a new toy from a shop window. As this child, I go back to my room, and look at the things I already have: I have America. I have Pakistan. I have Ireland. I recall wistfully the colors of Barcelona, and wonder if I will ever see it again.

Picasso's work.
Gaudi's architecture.
A Flamenco dancer's skirts.
The beach in the moonlight.
The various nibblings in the market.
Gothic cathedral spires far up in the sky.
The impossible Catalan language; French and Spanish.

While I was in La Pedrera, Gaudi's famous apartments, now a tourist spot, I was approached and interviewed by some folks from Hong Kong about my views on Gaudi's work and it's relationship to the city. I'm usually terrible when it comes to impromptu answers, but I think I summed it up fairly well. I said, "Normally an artist is inspired by their surroundings, but in this case, I think the city has been inspired by the artist."

Gaudi's work is fantastic, in every sense of the word. It is dreamlike and unreal. That is how I see Barcelona and how I will remember it.