gaudy or gaudi?

Today was my Gaudi day. Everyday is my gaudy day.

A visit to Barcelona has almost become synonymous with a visit to Gaudi's architectural pieces, so that was my focus today. As I am not an expert in architecture, nor can I retain any historical data in my brain for longer than a day (sometimes less), I will not embarrass myself with any sort of pretense in understanding his art. However, what I can say that his work is one-of-a-kind and leaves an everlasting impression; therefore, by my definition of an artist, he has succeeded.

A quick internet search told me that the word gaudy dates back to 1582. I wonder if there is any correlation between the adjective and his name.

I took advantage of my trip on foot to Gaudi's various buildings to get lost. Please notice how I made getting lost sound almost intentional. I was generously awarded gastronomically. My yet-unfulfilled mission in search of amazing culinary satifaction in Barcelona came to an end.

I had visited a few travel guide-recommended tapas restaurants in the city, but none were spectacular. Today I wondered as I wandered, and I came across this little restaurant on a random street near Sagrada Familia. I ordered fried calamari and tripe. I almost died.

The tripe was braised with chunks of pork that were mostly just fat. It was an amazing combination. They must raise pigs differently in Spain. Why is it Americans insist on engineering our food to make them tasteless, unhealthy globs of nonsense is beyond me. I had never had pork fat like this - chewy, not greasy, with tons of flavor. I devoured both servings of food, short of licking every bit of juice off the utensils and plates. I wanted to cry.

I don't know if the six hours of walking I did today was enough to balance the amount of food I ate, but I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

I'm praying my heart will beat for a long time to come.

embracing fear

On the train from Valencia back to Barcelona today, I met a man.

A man from Orange County, California.

He had been laid off, so he decided to take the opportunity to do something he had always dreamed of doing - living and traveling in Europe. He made Valencia his home base - learning Spanish and making new friends. He also made his way all over Europe - on planes, trains, cars, bicycles, and foot. He would make random stops in small towns never mentioned in travel guides. That's how he met this Scot.

He didn't remember the name of this young man, nor do I that of my storyteller. Our young Scot decided to make the same trip - to spends months in Europe. But there was one important difference - he did so without a single shilling. He hitchhiked everywhere and made friends every stop along the way to ensure survival. "What else could you possibly fear after that," said the man from Orange County.

In some ways this trip of mine is also some form of confronting my fears - fear of the inability to communicate with people, fear of being ignored, fear of rejection, fear of humid weather. I can't say that I have or will overcome all of them...

That's all... What? Were you expecting something profound after that sentence?

calatrava, paella, orchata, oh my!

What is Valencia known for?

I think most Americans would say oranges. Sure, there's that, but if you read my entry from yesterday, you might have also said Santiago Calatrava. But I bet most of you didn't know that Valencia is where the classic Spanish dish paella was born.

Andrés is very proud of this fact, so he took me out on a trip to the beach to enjoy some local cuisine. A caveat, he added, was that we would not be having the best paella in town, for we had to sacrifice the best quality for a beautiful ocean view.

I could live with that.

For the paella to be perfect, the ingredients had to be perfect, just like making any other classic dish in the world. Even the water used to cook the rice is important. If my memory serves me right (this is my Iron Chef moment again), I believe Andrés mentioned something about the higher concentration of calcium in Valencia's water that makes its paella perfect.

I could believe that.

For a delicious lunch of authentic, but not the best, paella and another classic Valencia specialty of small, fried fish, the only thing we could think of was to have dessert. And, of course, we were on course to try another Valencian specialty - the orchata. Never heard of it? How about horchata? Or orxata? It's a milk-like drink made with small, hard nuts, which I later found out were called tigernuts. And by later I meant 5 minutes when I googled orchata. It was 4 o'clock in the afternoon; we were sitting in a restaurant-like café filled with people tasting this special treat. Andrés got a couple of glasses for me (they go down fast) in the slushy form, and I was hooked. Subtly sweet, with a gentle, nutty aroma. Nothing overpowering. Everything you want in a dessert. Anything to have another glass.

I could go on like that.

somewhere between b and v

Exactly one year ago, on September 13, 2008, I was performing in San Francisco with the Bay Area Rainbow Symphony.

In the audience was Andrés, a teacher from Valencia, Spain whom I met through tennis. He was spending a three-month sabbatical in San Francisco to flee the routine and reflect on his life. I might have done something like that myself. I might have done it twice.

Now, a year later, we are in Valencia together, one day after I watched him play in a tennis tournament in Barcelona.

My first impression as we entered Valencia was that this was a town much like Taipei. The colors and height of the buildings, the street-level store fronts and the higher story apartments, and the width of the streets - everything made me feel as if I had returned to Taipei. It was a good feeling.

The main attraction in Valencia is without a doubt Ciutat de las Arts y las Ciènces, City of the Arts and Sciences, designed by Santiago Calatrava. Now I have heard of the name Calatrava, but I had no idea he was from Valencia. Andrés took me to La Ciutat, and it truly took my breath. You'll understand why once I get my lazy ass working and post some pictures for you. In La Ciutat, one finds an opera house, an Imax theatre, an oceanographic park - all housed in unique architecture that reminds me at once of spaceships and of vertebrae: it's that cool!

In the evening, Andrés and I strolled through the old part of Valencia in light rain. Suddenly, I've left the future and returned to the past. There were towers, cobblestone roads, and draw bridges. I felt hundreds of years younger. The one odd thing was that it was exceptionally bright at night. There were some high-wattage lights placed every few meters on all the streets. Andrés explained that the lesbian mayor ordered these lights installed to make Valencia safer at night. Does she think that bad things don't happen in broad daylight? She must have never visited Wall Street.

Somewhere along Calatrava's Umbracle and Lesbian Mayor's crime-free fantasy land, Andrés gave me a quick lesson in Spanish: there is no v sound in Spanish. The v is pronounced somewhere between the English b and v. The sound arises out of nowhere.

Sort of like far-away friends.

advantage: me

Today I left Madrid for Barcelona.

What got me there was an airline called Vueling, which I suppose is something like Southwest here in the U.S. The company color was a pleasant yellow, represented nicely as a scarf around each attendant's neck. I was pleasantly suprised by its multi-lingual announcements: I wouldn't have known how to grab an oxygen mask had they not given emergency details in English.

The flight was disappointingly uneventful - no drunken passengers making a pass at me, no screaming children with screaming parents, and no odorous, obese man trying to fit every centimeter (I'm in Europe now - we use the metric system here) of his pannus into a seat meant for people weighing less than 80 kilograms. No, none of that. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm begging for drama. But ever since the airlines started charging for earphones, when it's a flight that short (an hour), I wouldn't mind just a little bit of soap as my free, in-flight entertainment. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. The flight ended with the smoothest landing I had ever experienced.

When I walked into the airport, I suddenly had a surprisingly pleasant feeling. I felt like I was returning home to a place filled with fond memories - I just couldn't remember what those memories were - and at the same time like a wondrous place I had never been to was welcoming me with its warm mysteries. It was almost a jéjà vu kind of thing. And instead of rushing to the bus station to get into town like I normally would, I felt the desire, the need, to stay and have breakfast. That was my first Barcelona experience.

I know the one question on your mind now: what does one eat for breakfast in a moment like this. Well, I was craving for chocolate, so the first thing I grabbed in the airport café was a bottle of chocolate milk that looked richer than Bill Gates' bank account. As if that weren't enough, I then got me a piece of a delicious-looking morsel of pastry that would have been called pain au chocolate in France. In Spain? Who knows. What's the Spanish for bread with chocolate? I needed something different to accompany all this bitter sweetness. I looked around. That's when I saw the answer - the perfect accompaniment to my chocolaty, first Barcelona meal - stewed tripe. Yes, you read correctly: tripe. And know, you're not the only one staring. Boy, was it good.

My stay in Barcelona this first time around would be short, as my plans were to meet my amigo Andres, then drive down tomorrow to his home in Valencia. Andres is here for the Panteres Tennis Tournament, which is Barcelona's version of the US Gay Open. The tournament is taking place at the Club de Tenis - Barcelona Tennis Olimpic, which was the site of the tennis matches during the 1992 Olympics. As Andres was quick to point out, this was where Jennifer Capriati won the gold medal.

So there I was, at a tennis tournament, surrounded by beautiful European men. What was I to do? I watched tennis. Then I watched the boys watching tennis. It was a pleasant afternoon.

My first impressions of Barcelona? If you've ever seen the movie L'auberge espagnole, you would understand immediately, as my bus arriving at Plaza de Catalunya was exactly like in the movie. Barcelona really is a beautiful city. It's large, spacious, not over-crowded like Madrid, and its architecture is definitely its defining element. It's like meeting a strange-looking man, but being impressed and assured by his pleasant and amiable demeanor. That's Barcelona.

Tomorrow I leave Barcelona for Valencia.

lost and found

One of the things I really want to do - really, really want to do - while in Spain is to attend a Flamenco performance.

I am not certain whence stemmed this interest, but I think it's from watching some very memorable moments watching skating competitions. And no, I cannot blame this lack of precise memory on age, as my friends can attest to the fact that I've always been deficient in this department.

What I specifically want to experience is not the Flamenco dance itself, but the performance of the guitar. Another haunting image embedded in my insufficient memory is of a mesmerizing guitar performance in the fantastic movie Talk to Her, or rather Hable con elle. But, since I'm already here in Spain, why not enjoy this captivating tradition to its fullest. When in Spain, do as the... tourists do?

Here's the problem - I can't seem to find anyone who can tell me where to go. Not the manager of the bed and breakfast where I'm staying, not the waitress where I had the most delicious Iberico ham, not the hooker (don't get excited, it was a she) who tapped my shoulder and stopped me on the street. Everyone said these performances are everywhere, but no one seems to know exactly where: sort of like love... happiness... and great deals on flights.

And so it happens that while returning from the Reina Sofia Museum the other night, I wanted to find a shortcut home but ended up getting lost. No surprise there, it's 100% guaranteed that I get lost every time I seek alternate routes - anywhere. But as I've said before, good things happen when you get lost - except when you're in a hurry; then you just end up being lost and late. While I meandered the tiny streets of Madrid, I passed by many shops and restaurants that I otherwise would not have encountered had I not gotten lost. I walked by this cozy Tapas restaurant and made a mental note to return the next day, as enjoying an authentic Tapas meal was another important item on my to-do list.

Today, I retraced my wandering steps from the other night back to the Tapas restaurant, only to discover that it was closed. Darn it - looks like I would have to get my tripe elsewhere. Walking back, I was stopped three storefronts away by a Spanish man handing out flyers. He was obviously targeting tourists, since he spoke English to me from the start. Guess what - it turned out that he was handing out flyers for a Flamenco show tonight. Imagine that. While looking for a shortcut, I got lost. While getting lost, I found a Tapas restaurant. While going to the restaurant, I found a Flamenco venue. Or, rather, it found me. Each un-success leads to an unexpected success. Must remember that one.

Thus I was able to enjoy my first Flamenco performance tonight. The host had reserved for me a table-for-one near the front corner. It was set up higher, so I had the best view of the house. Every now and then, I took the time to study the faces of the vocalists, guitarists, and dancers. What I discovered was that the face of a person focused with great intensity is really one of pain. I suppose there really is some truth to the saying: no pain, no gain. The concentration required to present any artistic endeavor is immeasurable. And in the end, it's all about telling a story, no matter the art form. I know I lack this focus; I have this undesirable nature to want to do everything - it's my curse, really. But I do realize that if I want to achieve my goals, the journey will be one filled with sacrifices and pain.

Oh, I'm getting a headache thinking about it. Does that count as pain?

moving on

As I was saying yesterday, I noticed these Chinese people hanging around on street corners and in plazas every evening well into the morning hours of Madrid.

Now since I can count the number of Spanish words I know with one hand, I couldn't tell what they were saying. I could only tell that they're from Mainland China by what they said when they came across each other as they paced in the plaza. So I watched them walk back and forth with their backpacks in the plaza and sit idly behind their cardboard boxes on street corners all over central Madrid.

Finally, I saw. I witnessed a transaction. No, not drugs. Beverages. They were selling drinks to pedestrians and folks hanging out in plazas. How uninteresting, I thought. How strange... How sad.

The longer I watched their expressionless faces the more curious I became. How could selling drinks on street corners in a foreign land where you could easily be discriminated against be a better life than what you had in your native land? I immediately knew how naive and how privileged I am to not know the answer to such a question. I wondered about their lives in China. Various possibilities came to mind - none satisfied my curiosity.

Then I reflected on the new Chinese immigrants I've encountered in each of the cities to which I've traveled: New York, Paris, Vancouver, Sydney, and now Madrid. They worked in restaurants, they sold newspaper on street corners, they owned grocery stores, they opened laundromats. These were jobs that required little language skill; but still, selling bottles of water at 4 a.m.? I didn't understand.

Days later, when I joined with my friend Andrés in Valencia, he would attempt to explain by telling me that immigration is a relatively new concept in Spain. As these hopeful foreigners arrive, they have no choice but pick up any job they can find, however undesirable (I understand that is completely subjective). Sometimes, they have to create new work - whatever it takes to survive.

So is this what people mean when they say "welcome to the real world"? Yes, there is a world where people labor, work, compromise, and sacrifice to make a living counted in pennies. There is also another real world where money isn't counted in dollars but in thousands of dollars.

I live in neither. I can't imagine either.

Perhaps that's one reason I travel. To see. To learn. To love.