Travel time: Italia y Espana

Being a writer is a lot like playing the guitar. For years upon years, countless guitarists have lauded the creative benefits of taking a playing sabbatical. When a musician’s ears hear his fingers playing the same tired phrases, chords, songs, etc, it’s time to step away so creativity can restore itself. David Gilmour of Pink Floyd was the first guitarist I’d heard of who set his instrument down, for months at a time, to stifle the repetitiveness in his playing, and John Mayer the most recent. Wordsmiths can reap a similar benefit by capping the pen or closing a laptop.

So, after pitching a handful of ideas in hopes of getting paid to write about the trip I took to Spain and Italy last week, and not finding any accepting editors, I stepped away from the words. I decided to enjoy the trip for what is was and not find anything especially poignant to write about (a choice made easier by the rapidity of visiting two countries in seven days). But a note of such a fun trip had to be made—ripe with a revisit of Venezia (Venice) and virgin exploration of Barcelona.

I’ll keep it brief.

Venice:

We water taxied—about a 40 minute ride from the airport to town—to our lodging, the Centro Culturale Don Orione Artigianelli Religious Guest House, a contemporarily updated monastery now employed as a lodge on the southwest edge of Venice. Pope Giovanni Paolo II (JP2) proclaimed the namesake, born Luigi Orione, a saint on May 16, 2004. (After learning of his death in March 1940, Pop Pius XII called Orione “the father of the poor and eminent benefactor of suffering and abandoned humanity.” Sounds like a good guy.) The staff was very cool and free of Catholic proselytizing; they even spoke moderate English. San Marco and Rialto are both within 15 minutes by foot.

Days were spent shopping (which happens when you’re with fashionistic ladies) and taking in all of the Carnavale events. Masks, knickers, wigs, and more masks. It’s quite a sight. If you’re there during the three-week event preceding Ash Wednesday (signifying the Lenten fasting season), be sure to check out some of the mask makers. It’s a very detailed and skillful trade that’s unique to Venice. Oh, and eat…a lot. It’s Italy; there is no shortage of incredible dining (or carbs). Besides, there are no roads; you have no alternative but to walk it off.

Barcelona:

September 11th carries a different and historically steeped significance in northern Spain. Barcelonans commemorate Catalan Independence—a reverse of July 4th, the date signifies the day they lost their freedom and were absorbed by Spain. A short shot of history.


Contemporary, historic, fast, easy, warm, and comprised of some Earth’s most beautiful women: Barcelona. We stayed in the quaint Hotel Sant Agusti, just a block off of Passeig de La Rambla, the main stretch of tourism in the city’s downtown. If you’re in the mood for young, African prostitutes, shitty paella, and Irish Car Bomb shots, then La Rambla is your place. But the city is filled with historic nooks and contemporary crannies—a city that celebrates its roots, but hasn’t allowed them to strangle any advances towards modernity. The subway is only difficult for idiots. Cabbies are generally friendly and not overly expensive. Catalans would rather be shot than call themselves Spanish. All the signs and menus are posted in Catalan, Spanish, and English. Eat paella and drink Sangria…often and far from La Rambla. La Sagrada Familia is epic, if weirdly surrounded by apartment buildings. The Anelia Olympica was built before the 1992 summer games. It’s a liberal city—boozehounds stumble along the sidewalks crop-dusting bystanders in plumes of pot smoke; there is no “Second Amendment”; and cars have the value taxed right out of them. The weather is fantastic; Barcelona is a European San Diego with shittier waves but a convivial pedestrian spirit.

Just amazing.

Go. Now. Just come back before I denounce my U.S. citizenship and start speaking Catalan. And before you go, sign up for one of the tours offered by Spanish Trails Day Tours. We spent a day horseback riding through Catalonia country with Charles, our guide, and Pau, the rancher—by far, two of the coolest dudes I have ever met.