That last afternoon: a major lunch, utterly Catalan food, in a fascinating but frankly rather bizarre restaurant. No wonder, maybe, that Dalí was Catalan – this was indeed surreal at many points – from the sausage tree (actually a grapevine, shellacked, with a selection of local sausages hanging from the branches) to the garlic soup, the rabbit and snail stew, the sweet wine to be squirted down the throat rather than poured into a glass.
Afterward, I was a wreck – what a meal, though.
Packing, especially all those peculiar purchases, liqueurs, food oddities – hope for me that they all make it home without damage or significant customs interruptions.
And this last night, at four in the morning: the bar next door lets out a wave of men into the street – and a wave of chattering, cheerful noise up the shaft into my darkened apartment; I'm still a wreck, but it's a great sound – and a short burst of rain punctuates it.
Now that I'm getting ready to go, of course it seems way too soon – what will I miss? Balconies. The possibility of that chaotic touch. Strange food to some extent, but even more normal Spanish tapas (sorry about the Catalan food, some of it was frankly more of An Experience than it was really good dining). The lazy wave of the day between large, vaguely labeled sections – in fact the evaporation of so many limits and restrictions and formalities into the sky, where they belong. Susan, and Rob, and Sebastian. The chatter of languages. Sitting by the sea in a restaurant, talking to friends, at midnight, hearing the waves. Walking around in sandals and shorts. The open windows of this apartment, opening out on to – balconies....
•••
And home.
Thanks to all the gods of bubble wrap, everything made it home – liqueurs, candy, bowls, food.
An acquisitive trip: and a strange one for Sitges, as I spent virtually no time in the gay social world nor at the beach. But I enjoyed things, and the break was good.
Now to rest a bit....
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