the size of my smile is directly correlated to my love for the moto.

caution parents: I may be getting one someday


I'd only been on a moto* once before, so possibly I should have been a bit more cautious. I remembered, as soon as I got on, that girls are supposed to put our arms around the guy driving the bike because 1) it's more secure and 2) we don't have any macho street cred to lose. Then I remembered how, back last time I rode on a moto (the same one, in fact), Ramón, the other dude in our pack of three, had made a big deal about NOT putting his arms around the driver. It was less secure, but he was a police sergeant and a dude. He had his macho street cred to think of.

And so there I was, four years later, on that same bike, flashing back to the "how girls vs. guys ride a moto" discussion, when I got a wild hair. I wasn't going to do this the girly way this time. I must seize this moment to be a badass, at least as badass as a Catalan police sergeant. I waited until we reached a stoplight, then I let go of my friend driving. I grasped the handles next to my seat, and we were off again.

It was less secure. It was also more exciting - the sense that I, holding on, was the only thing keeping myself from flying off the back of the machine into oncoming Barcelona traffic. The responsibility added a level of thrill to the ride.

Of course, this was my responsible friend driving. We went fast around exactly zero curves, and I doubt we ever exceeded more than about 30 miles an hour. But no matter: I may be incapable of consuming more than one alcoholic beverage in a sitting or facing down baddies in the streets or even living alone in a foreign country without calling my parents on a weekly basis, but when it comes to being a moto passenger, I know the truth. I am a certified badass.


*read: more scooter than motorcycle, designed and used especially for zipping around European cities.

so worth the pickpocket risk factor

It's routine for every visitor to Barcelona, really: take bus to Parc Güell; dismount bus; wander around; be amazed; take photo with the lizard-dragon thing. Also, possibly have pockets picked in the crowds. Petty theft is big in Barcelona.

So yes, basically, it's a tourist trap. But here's the thing: sometimes tourist traps are for a reason. The reasons here:

Columns of rocks rising up to create half-formed caves.



A wildly elaborate tile bench, winding its way across the top of the park.



A covered palace of white columns where you look up and are greeted by fantastical starfish in a sea of white tile.



And that lizard. He's beautiful, really.

la boquería market, barcelona

My loot from the market: raspberries, strawberries and lychees. none of these were grown in Catalunya.


So about Food People: there are certain "buzz words" that have a tendency to make us go weak in the knees. "Playfully combined texture/flavor" is one; another is "fresh local produce." By golly, do Food People love Fresh Local Produce. That sounded ironic, but it wasn't. I truly do love me some FLP.

La Boquería, Barcelona's famous indoor food market, is not primarily about Fresh Local Produce. La Boqueria is about So Much Variety It Makes Your Head Spin.

Did you want some cherries? Got those from Chile. Mexican Habañero peppers? Got 'em. Strawberries come from Huelva, lychees from Madagascar, durian fruit from Thailand. Dragon fruit, papaya, kiwi, coconut, sweet potatoes, every dried chili you could want.

My Iberian friends and I have had this discussion a few times - which is better, the "Spanish" way (cheap and good quality, but mostly only what's good locally at the time) or the "American" way (the more variety the better, cost and quality - to a certain extent - be darned). After last night in La Boquería, my senses entirely flooded with so many colors, smells and flavors from so many places, I'm not sure I can bring myself to decide which I prefer. Maybe I won't choose at all. Maybe I'll enjoy my FLP here in Bilbao but revel in the memories of the dizziness-inducing multitudes of treats on display this past weekend.