Barcelona, Where Life Is Too Exciting to Write

Here are a few photos instead.

Much has been said about Barcelona. I hadn’t heard of Irish writer Colm Tóibín, but he apparently said, “I wrote every day between the ages of 12 and 20 when I stopped because I went to Barcelona, where life was too exciting to write.”

My life certainly has been for the past week. First, I was getting ready to head to Barcelona. Then, I arrived here Thursday afternoon. This morning, I leave for France. In between, I saw a lot of things. So this week, I give you a break from reading with a few images.

La Sagrada Familia is an impressive sight to see when emerging from the metro. They started building it in 1882, just a couple months after Virginia Woolf was born. They say they’ll finish in two years, but no one here believes that.

Barcelona is not just about Gaudi, but I have a thing for him. This time I went to Casa Milà, aka La Pedrera. It has these cool things on the roof:

My favorite is still Casa Batlló. Although not awe-inspiring like La Sagrada Familia, it’s a house I can imagine living in. Maybe it’s because it has that groovy, hippie vibe:

And now, to adjust to a more “normal” schedule. I don’t think I could ever live here; though I’m not a morning person, I’m also not a night owl. As Ernest Hemingway apparently said, “There is no nightlife in Spain. They stay up late but they get up late. That is not nightlife. That is delaying the day.”