I think a lot about how lucky I am, and right now I’m thinking particularly about Lala. I’m the one in the relationship who likes to Get Things Done. I’m the list maker and the do–er. Lala is happy to sit around and enjoy things, and I learn so much from her about this way of life. I get serious joy from being a control freak, though loosening the reins in my hand is always something I’m trying to do. But I know that Lala likes that I got to Barcelona first and got the lay of the land (I know this because she said so). She appreciates that I figured out the bus system so we can use it every day and she doesn’t have to worry about it. She likes that I go out in the morning and buy our coffee and talk to vendors about cheese and jamon. I make the bike tour booking, and I lead us there on the foreign streets. I tip the people who get tipped. These are things I love to do. They give me pleasure.
But when I’m fighting a migraine in a foreign country, I adore the fact that I can wake up and think, “Oh, Lala will handle this now.” When I say, “I’m feeling terrible. Can you go to four different stores and get me a coffee from the cafe, some bananas from the fruit vendor, some eggs from the meat market, and some Vichy Catalan from the convenience store?” she says, “Absolutely. I’m on it.” She puts on her handsome jacket and her newsboy cap. She grins and goes out. I get to rest, to type here in this bed four floors above Carerr de Villaroel, listening to the buses wheeze past, to the motorbikes buzz down the street, knowing she’s on her shopping-way to take care of me.
To have chosen to marry her is the best thing I’ve done in my life, and the fact that she chose to marry me back (quite convenient for me) is just sheer good luck. At the end of this month, we’ll have been married for twelve years, together for fourteen. I’m so full of gratitude for her, even on the days when I’m grumpy and ill–suited for company and grateful about very little.
We went to Sagrada Familia!
We learned as soon as we went in that the particular ticket we’d bought wasn’t going to be honored – we wouldn’t be able to go up the tower because of wind, which was terribly disappointing. It turned out to be a weird kind of nice thing, though. Because we weren’t going up, we didn’t worry about going up. We took time with the audioguide, and looked at the museum and all the things, but mostly: We just spent time in the space.
It was built to be a forest of light, and the stained glass, which only went in in 1999, makes it a living, breathing space. From the blues and greens that light the place in the morning, to the reds and oranges that fill the space in the afternoon as the sun sets, it’s as close to heaven as I’ve ever seen. The religious shit isn’t too—well, for a church it isn’t bad. Lala noted that the stations of the cross aren’t evident, and few of the saints are looking pained, except on the bleak passion side, and even they are gorgeous in their despair.
But the light—the light! I want to someday arrive in the morning and stay all day, just watching. I bet people do that, pack a lunch and stay for hours. Watch the colors change, watch the tourists mill through, ants crawling below the glory.
Instagram pics HERE, one for reference on this page.
Boy, am I one lucky woman.
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