Right now I'm curled up on a fold-out couch in Paris. I am somehow avoiding the tourist traps that travelling seems to offer. Seeing Patricia again in this city; figuring out ways to feel satisfied in contexts other than thte broken record-playing community of Mac is making me optimistic about going back there and beyond. I can't remember if I wrote about this before, but I landed the job of running the Macalester bicycle cooperative next year. I'd like to think that my lack of mechanics skills is a testament to my ability to charm the pants off of biker dudes via phone interviews, but I think it is more indicative of the lack of applicants. Nevertheless, I think I'm in for something new. At the very least, I'll have perma-grease all over me for a good long while..

This past week I spent traveling by myself through the south of Spain to Portugal. It's been great, and I haven't spent any time alone at all. In Granada I met a group of guys from Tazmania, two of whom were cycling the entire way around the Mediterranean. They started in Libya, went through Egypt and Lebanon and Syria and Turkey, Macedonia, the whole shbang. Their point, it seemed, was to prove that the barrier between there and here is only a mental one; and we're the ones that are missing out. It was a little strange--two of them were financial planners who hated their jobs most of the time. I was sitting there thinking "now these are people who live life to the fullest" - and who is to say otherwise, I guess...but there's more than one way to skin a cat.

...what? Did that make any sense? I've become pretty fond of people who throw out completely irrelevant proverbs at awkward moments in conversation; obliging everyone else to nod in a "youv'e got that right" kind of way.

Somehow the feeling of the hostel in Lisbon really stirred me up and made me enthused about meeting people once again. Beforehand I'd grown kind of tired of having the same kinds of trite interactions with travelers at other hostels...where are you going...where have you been...gosh how do those women wear heels on the cobblestone...oh really? i like pink floyd, too....but in Lisbon, the hostel was fantastic and Australians had taken over like a plague of frogs. I think the water in the toilets started to flush the opposite direction.

The trip to Barcelona was everything that a trip to Barcelona might promise. Jesus that was a whole month ago. What have I been doing with myself? We watched a flamenco show and went dancing with a Polish guy who has some mysterious desk job with the European Commission, as well as three very jolly French physical therapists. Irmak and I got along swell; somehow we manage not to offend eachother even as roommates--snooze alarms, odorific tennis shoes, phone conversations with pets, and all. When I'm with her people often think she's American, which is somewhat unfortunate, I guess...we heard a tale about George Bush's "weather machine" that he'd used to sic the hurricane on New Orleans. Park Guell, a Park designed by Gaudi overlooking the city that consistst of winding paths through a forest dotted with enormous accompishments of architecture and mosaics and quirky people...it's so great that there are people out there who see so many possibilities in such detail....I gained a lobster-worthy coloring on only one side of my body after I fell asleep on the public beach. We were conned into buying tickets to a show--we saw Deep Dish at Pacha--apparently the best DJ in the world at the best club in the world, and I have to admit that both lived up to their reputations.