¡hola!

I was really excited to go to Italy, and I will tell you that most of the country lives up to its remarkable reputation. As in, the tower really leans, Rome is a little bit boring, and Florence really does take your breath away. Despite this, I was really anticipating my trip to Barcelona a lot. Not only would I be staying with a friend of a friend, and I would be closer to the ultimate goal of getting to England for the wedding, going to Spain meant that I would be able to showcase my mastery of the Spanish language. After all, all that I know of the language I learned from the best names in Spanish education - Bednardski, Bond, Malkovich. I got stuck in an airport in Rome for ten hours, waiting to fly to Barcelona. During my wait, I rehearsed scenarios in which I proudly approached waiters, beaming, saying ¨Quiero numero tres con papas fritas, por favor.¨ In my daydreams, they would look back at me, stunned, surprised, affirming of my handle on such a complex language.

This did not happen. It did not happen this way because, in reality, my Spanish is terrible.

My hosts are absolutely lovely and generous and hospitable, but we have maybe said about five words to each other. One interaction went like this:

Mr. Arroyo: Obama.
Me: Yes? Barack Obama?
Mr. Arroyo: Obama. Me.
Me: No comprendo.
Mr. Arroyo: Obama. Mujer.
Me: Oh. Michelle Obama?
Mr. Arroyo: Si.

El fin.

Luckily their daughter Paula speaks very good English since she spent time in America with friends of mine in Philadelphia. She has been very nice and able to translate and take me around to see the pretty cathedrals. They are everywhere. I am in Barcelona now, and I can say with all honesty that, somehow, this city is alive. It has a pulse, it breathes, it moves with energy. Several of these buildings look like they are right off the set of a 1990´s Tim Burton film. There is an incredible amount of things to do, sights to see, but I have been a little sick. Since I quit my job in order to make this trip possible, my health care benefits expired as of July 31, and I had been joking that I would probably get sick while overseas. This happened, of course, literally as July 31 turned into August 1. I went to bed a bit after midnight feeling a little scratchy, and woke up on August 1 with no voice. It is now August 4, and I am beginning to mend. Of course, everytime I lay in bed and cough a bit, I hear Mrs. Arroyo, rushing through her sentences with fury about my sickness. I try to tell her I am fine, estoy bien. She nods. She wants so desperately to speak some English for me, almost as much as I wish I could speak fluent Spanish with her. She asked me at dinner yesterday if I believed in Sarah Palin. The wording took me by surprise and I laughed a little bit, to which she tilted her head to the side like a puzzled dog. I simply replied, Si, creo en Sarah Palin. I intentionally uttered a lie in another language to a lovely woman. Oops.

I am here for another day or two, then I will travel to Northern Ireland, which will be a relief in many ways. It is sort of a home away from home, the only country I have visited more than once (this will be my third time). Also, people there speak English. It is a weird English, with bizarre vocabulary words, but it is English nonetheless. I will also be just so close to being in England, the whole point of this trip, to see one of my closest friends get married. I have enjoyed the sunsets in Florence, the bike rides through Chianti, the strolls down La Rambla, but more than anything, I want to sit in a living room with Michelle, Elliott, Kat, MG and Robby, having drinks and touring the small town of Tewkesbury. I won´t do much sightseeing, I will probably sleep a lot. But I will bask in it, enjoy the English, the companionship, the occasion, the understanding that I am almost home, where I will watch 30 Rock, eat chicken wings and try to find a job or something. But until then, adios & pax.