I have recently escaped from a souvenir shop across from the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. A family (not sagrada, to be sure) of Danes (or their ilk--I didn´t hear enough to be sure) had me more or less pinned to a display shelf as they surrounded me in order to get a better look at the tchotchkes on offer.
We will soon endeavor to escape from these madding crowds, from the umbrella vendors and the ponchoed tour groups and the buses belching up diesel fumes. Barcelona is an amazing city, but this is not the best perspective from which to see it. (Standing hunched under an awning last night while the city exploded in rain and the street lights snapped off was a better, if still imperfect, vantage point.) I want quiet alleyways and restaurants that aren´t used to tourists and sites where the queue to enter does not snake around the corner (no queue at all would be even better). That´s the afternoon goal.
I´m losing track of days--was yesterday morning Bize Minervois? When did we leave Nice? Where in our journey did the Pyrenees fall?--but in a pleasant way. One more week of these shape-shifting days, these unstructured hours, and then it´s back to caring about the time. But I don´t need to think about that yet, not while there´s still the chance to let the days come and go as they will.
And this one, celui-ci, is not nearly done.