A writer's criteria.

To be lying on the sidewalk of Passeig de Gracia (the equivalent of Saks 5^th) in pajamas and ripped boots, with nothing but a plastic bag full of apple juice and a cigarette you don’t know how to smoke.

To go out with a pair of heels, and come home with one, the only clue of its whereabouts being sand in your purse.

To be broke for 3 out of the 4 months in a strange country, and to resort to begging for metro rides from sometimes merciful strangers who shoot you the “Stupid American” look.

To not shaving your legs for days and exposing them to the world, only to notice a cute guy staring at them in horror. Twice.

To use your intermediate knowledge of a language and attempt to conduct an entire visit to the dentist (which you were promised would be in English), in Spanish. Only to find out your wisdom tooth is growing in infected, and to therefore be on 3 drugs for 8 days - 2 days before you fly out of Barcelona. To fly into the new city, to have no choice but to then mix this medicine with other substances and to…

To somehow fall asleep when you are no more than 30 seconds away from your bus stop, and walk backwards to get home.

To turn the 3-second rule to the 20-second rule, or sometimes to the finders-keepers-I’m-eating-it-anyway rule.

To be groped by an old man when you are trying to read a book in the park, and to sprint up the mountain to get home and away, thanking yourself for whipping out your go-to outfit of sneakers and gym shorts that morning. To sticking true to yourself and your style.

To be lost in translation one night, and accidentally tell your host mother you are sexually aroused instead of regularly excited. And to subsequently never hear the end of it.

To faceplant on the daily trek you thought you had by now mastered, breaking your favorite ring and creating feminine-looking gashes in your legs and arms.

To try and pour the water out of the top of your yogurt, and end up dropping the whole lump in the trash. To realize that was your food for the next 6 hours.

To know that these happenings are beneficial – no – necessary, to your life abroad. For if each bruise came without a story, you would never be an interesting enough character for one.

Still my favorite poem.

One Art

BY ELIZABETH BISHOP

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Dwindling...

Each day I freak out a little more about leaving this place I've learned to call home. I was stressed about this feeling the minute I booked my ticket to Spain, and I (as I always do) tried to run away from it for as long as I could. But now, as the countdown hits the low 30's, I have to snarl at my departure with gritted teeth.

But. What lets me stop the fight I put up with my eyelids each night (not wanting to miss another minute of this city), is thinking back on all that I've seen. What's interesting though, is that I am more smitten by the spontaneity of each little day-to-day pleasure, than by the grandeur and touristy attractions.

I hadn't realized that until today. After what felt like a wasted Saturday followed by amplified antsy-ness of not having many more nights to waste, I was taken back to my first few weeks in Barcelona. I stumbled on a plaza I hadn't yet seen, talked to an old couple that made my heart as warm as the Starbucks holiday drink in my hand, made perfect time to sit in on a mass, somehow found a SICK break-dancing show, ran into a friend on the streets, and stuffed my face with arguably the best waffle I've ever had.

It's things like this, that they don't show you in the pamphlets and the guided tours and the websites, that make Spain what it is. An open-armed hidden gem with a funky air that's just a little bit lighter than what you breathe back home.

Please, don't make me cut the umbilical cord.

A weak (wo -)man's crime.

Guy and guy on guy. He was jamming, enjoying Barca's notorious nightlife, when things suddenly took a turn. He walked outside the club to find his friends, excited to up the evening's ante. Within the 10-minute door-to-door time span from beach to club, two seemingly friendly guys came up to teach the crew how to "salsa." One was loud, the other was smooth. Soon enough, but not realizing soon enough, his wallet was gone.

Girl and girl on girl. She tried enjoying some Starbucks when alleged petitioners waltzed in and begged for a signature. One screamed to look at the paper, the other put her paper down over the iPhone. Soon enough, her iPhone was (almost) gone. She noticed immediately, and caught up to them as they cowardly threw it to the ground and kept running. Upon her return, patrons were clapping as her adrenaline slowly retreated from her flushed face.

Guy on girl. She bid her friend farewell in the metro, and casually took the 5 steps onto the moving walkway, about to play a song on her iPod. As soon as she stopped moving, a man walked past her mumbling. She felt compelled to look behind her, immediately seeing another man's hand pull away from her backpack. Quickly checking, she notices the zipper has been opened. Whipping back around, she catches the first man exchanging glances with the one behind her. After a dirty and knowing look, a sigh of relief ensued when she sees that they didn't anticipate a zipper within a zipper. Relief replaced by repulsion when she looks back to see the two step off the walkway, only to get back on another walkway headed in the opposite direction. Chills. This was their cyclical sick career.

A stolen glance? Yes.
A stolen heart? Yes.

ROBBERY, no.

Put that much thought and creativity into the job hunt, and you just might be a sliver of a human being, instead of the disgusting animal you have made yourself into.

Barca, I love you. But if this is going to work, we're really going to have to work on the whole pickpocketing scene.

Update, long overdue.

Traveling for 3 weekends in a row really takes it out of you! (Read: abroad problems)

Valencia. I'd say it's my second favorite city in Spain to Barcelona. Just like my current hood, it has such a varied ambiance. There's a city center that is clean and regal, a charming old area filled with history, serene parks, and a symbolic bridge that crosses over to what might be the coolest looking futuristic town I've ever seen. You know a city is truly magnificent when, even through a day of rain, its beauty shines through. The most surprising part of the trip was the new bonding with old friends, that taught me things I never knew about myself, both good and bad. That's the best kind of knowledge though, isn't it? When it's imparted unintentionally, and catches you completely off guard. Weaving through our pasts, I had a sudden thought that I blurted out before even digesting it - a thousand "what ifs" will never add up to "what is." I couldn't tell you how I pulled that out of my butt (sorry, too many endocrine system references), but it's something I'd like to live by.

Portugal was so different than any of my trips thusfar. First of all, I've never felt such strong emotions towards a language. I didn't understand how people loved the way a language sounded, until I heard Portuguese. To me, it is literally the perfect combination between Spanish and French. What makes it even sexier is how it transforms from what's written on the page to what is spoken - like a beautiful mystery you have to decode.

We were able to navigate ourselves around Lagos within a day (which is saying a lot for my directionally-challenged self) but it was too stunning to get bored of. Climbing through the beach caves and marveling at the city's point was my favorite. I went from being amazed at manmade, totally funky buildings in Valencia to being reminded of the most skilled architect of all - Mother Nature. How these rocks formed with so many colors and such a striking appearance is beyond me. Knowing nothing about this area of science, I found myself jealous of those who were acquainted with such a marvelous process. In cases like this, Ross is right - Geology Rocks!

Lisbon made me feel comfortable. Like a livable, lovable city that hugged me as I walked around. I couldn't place my finger on how I was feeling or why, which was a new sensation for me, but I just let it happen. I realized one of things I will miss the most about these travels is not having a plan. Just spontaneously plopping myself into a place, getting lost, stumbling on something beautiful, and feeling it. No schedules, no goals, no explanations. For me, it's where being a tourist ends and being a resident (albeit a temporary resident), begins.

El sueño de la razón produce monstruos

"The price to be paid for this artistic genius, therefore, could be high indeed; in times of war, civic strife, or emotional distress, it could include madness. In the "Sleep of Reason," Goya announces that he is prepared to pay this price. Imagination, he claims, is wed to Nightmare; Science, he fears, resurrects Ignorance; Reason itself engenders Monsters."

I knew Spain would be the right place to take my first art class.