MEDITATIONS ON RETURNING

Listening to Robert Wyatt and attempting to generate a cross-breeze by keeping all doors open and the fan going, i am less than a week returned after over six away. It has all slipped back on like an old glove or an old coat. The forty degree heat seemed normal, the coffees at the new cafe up the road (hallelujah! A good cafe nearby that opens on Sundays!) felt like ones had at an old local I'd been going to for years, the catch ups with friends seemed like we only saw each other yesterday, the swims at Bronte beach seemed every day. I wonder how it is that i was away for so long and yet not away at all.

Returning is always nostalgic and full of longing and sadness for me. The goodbyes at the airport (let it be known Frankfurt airport is devoid of hidden nooks and crannies in which to canoodle with one's lover), the boarding, the timeless void you enter between customs and security check in one city and baggage collection in another, all make me incredibly melancholic. That kind of delicious melancholia that surrounds you and somehow feels like the sweet stickiness of drinking a montenegro on ice, or if i were a cognac drinker, i'd say that.

I actually longed for the flight to be longer, i needed the extra time to process the previous weeks. I wanted to linger in the air and be enclosed and confined for another 8 hours at least. Maybe it was because i was upgraded to business class and they gave me that yummy wool blanket with the stitched in cotton sheet on one side (one day i will get enough courage up to steal this away in my hand luggage). I love the blackness out the window. The sound of the engines changing gear from take off to cruising. I love the wondering what it will be like getting off the plane and seeing friends and family again. Will i have changed? Will they have changed? What have I learnt on this trip? What did i do? Where did i go? When will I go again? Because returning always brings up that question, when will i return to where i've just left?


It took me 15 years or more to return to Barcelona, so when will i next return? Will I ever walk through Park Guell again? Will i ever see the Sagrada Familia again, will i see the Placa de San Felip Neri again?





When will I see the Mercat de la Boqueria again?





Will I eat flan in a cafe across from the Jardins Doctor Fleming again?


Will I ever get to go to all the places that i didn't make it to this time? Will I return?

And the melancholia becomes excitement and anticipation as i start to plan the next trip in my head. I hear the song in my head and it feels right for this moment...
"I have my senses and my sense of having senses. Do I guide them? Or they me?"

FLUSHED IN THE FACE

Drinking and me have never quite worked out. Aside from coffee and sugar, it is the only drug that I do with any kind of regularity and it is only done to keep me from being a dull human being.

I was trying to NOT be a dull human being on my second night here in Barcelona, playing with the dancers whose tour I have crashed - yes, i be the groupie of a sound man (and a Sound Man he is) - and getting to know them over dinner and red wine followed by several shots of tequila gold served with cinnamon and slices of orange. The canela y naranja caused many a raised eyebrow in the London Bar and a smirk or two in La Confiteria, where i also broke a glass. Oops.


But this drink comes to me from a New Yorker. It makes for good bonding with people you barely know. We first did them in some dark bar in Berlin and then again in some smoky bar in Brussels. We eventually traded shots - she gave me this and i gave her Russian Cocaine in Amsterdam on New Year's Eve. Vodka and a lemon wedge dipped in sugar and coffee grinds. When we started on these the party we were at suddenly woke up and was able to match the warzone of fireworks outside.




The hangover from that night prompted a New Year's Day Yum Cha at the Oriental Palace in Amsterdam. Whereas the hangover from a night of tequila in Barca prompted a day of throwing up and sleeping. I didn't leave the hotel, I watched Hilary Clinton address the Senate Hearing, and George Bush give Blair and that weasel Johnnie their medals. It all blurred with dreams of finding the right fridge door - the bright yellow one - in a sea of fridge doors. I could barely keep down a glass of water. I listened to the street below as it woke up from its siesta and as it went to dinner and as it partied into the night. A lost day. I've had these before and they kill me, but i know that i come back from the dead and that sure enough some time again i'll be back here trying to not be so dull.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES.... 24 HOURS OF CULINARY DELIGHTS. FROM MINUS 10 IN BRUSSELS TO 16 DEGREES IN BARCELONA.

THE LAST MEAL IN BRUSSELS. A LOCAL SPECIALITY. Frietjes drowned in gravy. I tasted, but didn't order these. For me, something a little simpler was needed. Plain frietjes and mayonnaise.



WE HAVE ARRIVED IN BARCELONA. A DECENT COFFEE AT LAST. Taken at the Flea Market Els Encants Vells at the cafe frequented by the stall holders called El Palmeria. These two ladies (only one pictured- and she is making my bocadillo!) had the whole market place covered.



BOCADILLO CON CHORIZO DE PUEBLO. Heaven. So happy to be here. I am not sure why this appeals to me more than the frietjes - probably same amount of heart-attack material here, but for some reason, so much tastier. Being back in Spain for the first time since 1992 (!!!!!) makes me realise my love for southern europe. As much as I have been diggin on the northern euro vibe a lot over the past two years the life here is damn appealing.