Dear Barcelona—
I cannot thank you enough for letting me roam your streets, drink your cava, eat your bread, listen to your church bells, sit in your cafes drinking cafe con leches, and walk alongside your ocean for six weeks, unmolested. Which was one week more than I planned, due to sad and very unforeseen circumstances. Still, I cannot thank you enough for being, as most everyone concurs, Like Paris But Better Than Paris. I am writing this drunk on cava and white wine, having come from a restaurant at which you stare at whatever fish you want to eat on ice, point at it, have the counter guy wrap it in a paper cone, then send it back to be cooked. I ate mussels Marinara, baby cockles in butter and herbs, perfectly fried baby squid, and the salad that you insist on sprinkling with corn kernels. It was just this side of too much, which is how I have experienced you. Just this side of too much. Just real enough, just human and shit-streaked enough, to keep people from dissolving into blubbering tears at your beauty. You have us where you want us, those of us who would be slayed by the undiluted sublime. Drunk texting Barcelona! Whoops. I hope you will still take my calls.
