Spring is my undisputed favorite time of year.  There is something magical about being in a close community that loves being outside and social.

Barcelona and New York are my favorite cities and are completely opposite in many ways.  While both have amazing awakenings when the weather warms, they behave differently but I feel the same sense of possibilities.

Last night I wandered through the urban beach which sits only a few block from my tiny apartment and then through the tourist and Catalan cafés. Early season tourists from the cold Northern countries reveled in the tee-shirt weather and the calm Mediterranean while sipping sangria next to fancy gas heaters. Catalan children mingled with the tourist children in the international language of kicking a football around in a square.  The micro-sized Catalan cafés, with their bad florescent lighting, burst at capacity and onto the sidewalks with locals debating the virtues and shortcomings of the local football teams, Barça and Espanyol.  Drunken conversations roared away from them trying to get a view of the small TV’s blaring sports.

I joke about Barcelona only having 3 weeks of winter, but it is a winter and it is miserable.  New York winters are deep and long and miserable.  The awakenings feel the same because Catalonia is a culture of being at outside cafés and bars.  Those three weeks are a bit of torture for those whose lives revolve around the local parks, beaches, bars and coffee shops. New Yorkers seem to flee their overheated apartments so they can experience a bit of sun and Central Park.  But everyone is so, soexcitedand just plain happy to be about.

My dog has this habit of picking kibble out of the bowl and eating it on the couch, the carpet, my bed.  Actually a lot of dogs do this, but many of those canines have a broader attention-span than my poofy little pom.

I decided to celebrate getting a butt-load of stuff done with a little din-din and a 80’s dance block.  Unfortunately, this disrupted Dickens’ supper time and now I have to comb the flat for bits of kibble.

86 minutes into the FC Barcelona v AC Milan match.

ME: They’re just mucking about, now, aren’t they.

BOYFRIEND: That’s not good football, is it?

ME: No it’s not. I guess it’s early in the season and they are conserving energy.

I’ve seen this too many times. The team with the edge starts substituting players just to run down the clock. Barça is passing a lot, normal, but not putting forth any energy, annoying.  Poyul comes on the pitch and the whole bar cheers, but not for long.

GOOOOOAAAALLLLL!! Wait! That was Milan. Crap.

I’m quite disgusted with my team.  That’s not how Barça plays. Boyfriend has already put another glass of plonk in line behind my half finished glass.  His friends tease him because he doesn’t need to get me drunk.  His friends tease me that I still drink Spanish plonk.

But I had to wash down that falafel. Or, at least, numb myself to the hair I found in it.

BTW I wrote a review of El Meu Poble complete with hair.  It was a great place to watch the match, though.

I also noticed something unrelated to the rest of the match. Everyone was patting Messi’s bum. The Milan keeper, the ref, ect. No one else, just Messi. I mean, I get it. He’s Messi.  It got to a point, however, where I expected him to turn around and say something to the effect, “It doesn’t rub off, you know. Leave my ass alone!”

I’m being subjugated to Dr. Who.  Actually I am sure I would love it, but I believe it’s been so contextualized that the recent episodes are pretty meaningless to a newbie. Strangely enough, I didn’t get the early shows in ARMPITOFAMERICA, Nevada whilst growing up.  I had to read my Sci-fi.

Apparently, I’m not a proper geek. I am not only disturbed that I am not viewed as a geek, but that Boyfriend is making this a competition.

I have this on 12” vinyl, so grok that, bitches!