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On 2002-06-11 at 1:45 a.m.... Itīs 1.45 in the morning, and Iīm in Barcelona. I really donīt understand how these things happen. Well, except that itīs something to do with EasyJet and the sentence īhey, letīs go to Barcelonaī. Itīs amazing here. The streets are narrow, things often loom, and someone named Gaudi seems to have been given worryingly free reign to do pretty much what he wanted. Saying that, however, if you were the person who built the Sagrada Familia, Iīd give you my first born. Itīs absolutely the best building ever (even though thereīs a considerable amount of height involved) and scuppers the idea that absolutely nothing good can come of organised religion. Also, itīs everything good about Modernist architecture, which I tend to loathe because Iīm from England where itīs basically just taken as license to build concrete square things. Also, Spanish men are hot. Itīs all good. We get here late last night, and staggered into beds which were noisy but more than fulfilling of their basic requirement of horizontality. I will definitely not miss wanky Soho establishments to which entry costs 5 pounds, two drinks are 12, and the (frankly, shit) arty photos on the wall may or may not be post-post-post ironic. Itīs some peculiar continental time of the morning, so Iīm going to find a bed. Iīll leave you with some of the jazzier things one can achieve with a Spanish keyboard: ó ŋ ? Š š Į Iīm so much fun it hurts.
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