I could open up lightroom and find out how many sub folders I have for the city of Barcelona, but that would take time. Time better spent NOT finding out. It’s the ability to make these tough calls that grants me the title of Kevin Welch. Now, about Barcelona.

It was hot in the city of the Catalans. Hot the way the little trey of apple stuff in the microwave dinner is hot when you pull it out of the microwave for dinner. That is to say, the city was molten and sticky, and… apple flavored.

Here’s the pics. The post continues after the jump.

// WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS REFERENCES TO, AND A DISTURBING LOOK INTO, THE MIND OF SOMEONE YOU MAY KNOW OR WORK WITH. NOT SUITABLE FOR PEOPLE WHO  THINK KEVIN IS NORMAL WARNING //

The flight over was uneventful for the majority of the passengers, but in my mind the world was reeling. They sat me next to a tosser from the norther midwest. Sorry I can’t narrow it down much. I know that most of the people from the norther midwest are tossers.  It was here that the trouble began.

You see, I have a problem with trans oceanic flights at night. I hate them. In the day time, you can see for miles all around. And over land at night, you can see the specs of cities below you. But at night, over the ocean, there’s nothing. You’re stuck in a tin tube of white noise that happens to be surrounded by inky black void. I have a hard time reminding (or is it convincing?) myself that the world still exists. That there is water down there, and that some where in the distance there is land. It’s cold and dry in this feeble jet, and if I happen to fall asleep, this last cloister, this tiny island of steel and humanity and vodka will slip away from my sight as well, and, in sliding from sight and sound and mind, it may just slide out of existence.

I keep telling people I’m crazy, but the only person listening is me, and he’s as nuts as I am.

So I’m stuck next to tosser Tim (I think that name works) whose mother happens to use the same detergent and fabric softener as this girl I know uses. Not only has the world ceased to exist outside, but now there’s a guy clinging to sanity on a transatlantic flight having weird dreams that this chick (detergent smell, remember) is sitting next to him trying to sell shots of wildly overpriced airline bourbon that smells like rotting wood and shit.

I hate trans atlantic flights at night.

Arriving at the airport in Spain, I am greeted by some guy who, for reasons unknown, is wearing the remains of a moled ferret on his face. He insists it’s a beard. I think it just looks pitiful. The ferret didn’t even have enough fur left to cover his upper lip or all of the right side of his face. But I digress.

I got to spend the next five hours wandering the city. Lost in the Gothic district, All I knew was was that the ocean was south, and that that Nathan’s place wasn’t. It didn’t matter though. I wasn’t here to relax in my room while a liveried votary fetched my bottle of ’47 Bordeaux. I was here to get dirty. I was here to get lost. I was here, to get drunk.

I got dirty, and I got lost, and as Nathan, and the jerk who cut me off in the crown room, will attest, I got a little drunk.

They take their beer seriously in Europe. None of the beer by the pitcher bs. They do it by the liter, and it’s on tap at your table. Not only that, they have a score board so you can see which table is drinking the most. Salud!

I expected a late night on my first day there. I figured we’d grab dinner around 9-ish, and then maybe hang out so I could recover from my flight. Instead, we went to a club at 2 in the mornig for a ninja tunes set featuring Bonobo. He started his set at 3:30 am. We stumbled home around sun rise.

Nathan headed to class the following afternoon. I got lost again. This time, I stumbled onto a movie shoot. Actually, I tripped over some camera track. It was while I was trying to puzzle out the reason for track to by laying in the middle of the street that I discovered a camera dolly, 2 grips and a director. I also got to watch a couple of rehersals and 2 takes of the scene they were shooting. The lady in red was chasing after some guy. I don’t know what she wanted, but I think it had something to do with late rent.

I’m a little tired, so I’m not going to go into the UGA Connection, or the Wen Wen situation, or the sonar night. I’ll save some of those for the other two Barcelona posts titled, respectively, Barcelona 2 of 3, and Barcelona 3 of 3.

later, beautiful. stay brilliant

This entry was posted on Wednesday, July 9th, 2008 at 9:45 pm. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.