Alright, I'm back blogging again.
It was a beautiful, very spring day here in Barcelona. I spent it wandering aimlessly, watching and observing, laying on the beach reading a book, then wandering back to my apartment for a nap with my balcony doors wide open. Perfect. Here were a few highlights:
I was walking down La Rambla, minding my own business, when I see a child coming toward me, completely unaccompanied. He couldn't have been more than five, though probably even less. He had a platinum blonde, wavy mullet and wore a Winnie the Pooh shirt that said "Hanging Out". And he wasn't happy. As he approached, I was blatantly staring at him, trying to put all these wonderful pieces together in my mind, and thankful for my very dark sunglasses, even though staring is entirely socially acceptable in this country. Then, as he passes by my right side, I see his frown deepen to a disapproving scowl and the little punk tried to kick me, right in the leg. He narrowly missed, as we were walking in opposite directions, but the damage was done. He is clearly a troubled child, tormented daily by the unfortunate and conflicting hair and wardrobe decisions of his parents. Now he's gone so far as to take his aggression out on others, hoping this will ease the pain of his constant punishment. Poor, poor child.
Next, on my way to the beach, I was walking along the port, through an area frequently used for promotional events. As usual, workers were setting up a bouncer and various carts for a BBVA (a Spanish bank) extravaganza. Suddenly, I was struck by a particularly pungent, and oddly familiar odor. Strong, clean, minty with a hint of lemon...It smelled just like the horse shampoo my aunt and cousin used when I was a kid! I hadn't thought of that in years, but suddenly I was remembering being five years old, walking around the ranch, riding the horses, getting stung by bees and trying to build tree houses. I love that scents have the ability to bring back even the faintest memories.
Finally, although Polio has nearly been eradicated, it's crutch remains. While in the United States, any sprained ankle, severely stubbed toe, or even paralyzed leg will warrant the use of underarm crutches, Europe is different. Here, they issue the forearm variety, and while I understand it is just one more cultural difference, I can't help but laugh a little every time I see them, and think of them as Polio crutches--which shouldn't even be funny! But I don't think I'm alone in this. Some of my fellow Americans here find it equally bizarre and humorous.
