I was planning on taking a train trip down the coast to Tarragona today, but I found absinthe last night. Spent a weird night filled with the strangest dreams, with people oozing out of building facades and such. I don’t know if the absinthe was responsible for the vivid imagery, or if it was just the result of spending the day looking at weird buildings. But in any case, I slept in today, postponing the trip to tomorrow.

Took in the Miró museum today (awesome) and the seaside. More sangría too, of course.

Did a walking tour of the city’s incredible architecture today, guided by my trusty Lonely Planet. Walked so much, I’m beat. This is a travel day like I like them.

Destroyed. Now gotta take care of the basics: blogging, then food.

. an internet cafe that sells live chickens
. a guy with piercings all over his face with lights on them
. the most beautiful network of little alleyways and unexpected little squares
. the best sangria i’ve ever had

Wish you were all here.

Today is my last day of work before my vacation. I’m going to Barcelona for a week, attending a class reunion.

This trip is a little surreal to me. Normally when I’m traveling, even when it’s for work, I like to do a lot of research into the destination before I get there. Although I like a culture shock, I also like to be aware of things such as the layout of the neighborhood where I’ll be staying, ahead of time. I like to be the smartass know where I’m going.

This time I didn’t choose the destination, and I have to admit I hardly know anything about it. I’ve bought the Lonely Planet guide* to Barcelona, but I haven’t even opened it yet. I’ll probably read something about Gaudí on the plane there, but that’s it. I just haven’t gotten myself into a full Barcelona-frenzy. This might have to do with not having chosen the place, but I’ve also just been busy with dancing and other stuff.

Now that the departure draws near, however, the trip has to command some of my attention. All of a sudden I realize, oh my God I’m going somewhere strange. Paradoxically, there’s something new and exciting about completely winging it, not knowing anything about what to expect.

So okay, Spain, I’m on my way. Surprise me.

* Note this on your next vacation: Lonely Planet guidebooks are bar none the absolute most useful, usable and well-written guidebooks around, by a lot. Take it from someone who’s tried Let’s Go, the Rough Guide and Le Routard. I swear by Lonely Planet.

Vanity - post your personal musings and flatter yourself by thinking that everyone will read it.
Okay, this is just between you and me: I actually plot daily hits in an Excel spreadsheet. Ah, come on, it only takes 30 seconds a day, and it looks like work.

Vanity x 2 - obsessively check other blogs to find out what they’ve written about you.
It’s not that bad, I’ve actually stopped obsessively dotting my world map with the location of each visitor.

See how the other half live - blogs are so hot, even celebrities want one.
Check out Melanie Griffith’s. Mel, please send me several hits of whatever you’re on…

Make friends - link to their blogs to show off how many virtual friends you have.
Actually been too lazy to update the links list, and am thus notably missing Michel on it.

Alternative news source.
Check. Case in point, Martine today.

Find out what’s cool - peruse the movies and books on your fave blogger’s wishlist, then you’ll know what you have to have.
Beyond my admiration, what could my fave blogger wish for?

Surrealism - posts on the Middle East rubbing elbows with posts on the poor health of your cat? Dali would be proud.
Actually sort of. The best source of blog surrealism comes from the comments. You can post about cereal and end up with 37 comments about skin tight latex outfits (you know who you are).

Popularity contest - see how many people comment on your posts.
Well, in an area so close to the bodacious boobage of Bill the babe, there is no contest.

Feel more important - don’t have a blog? Read other people’s ramblings, and be happy you have something better to do. Like watching Fear Factor.
Nah. Blogs beget blogs.

Actually, we haven’t the faintest clue - personal musings that everyone will read? Just buy a diary and get some roommates.
What do you say guys, shall we solve the housing crisis and all move in together?

Lightspeedmom had some news for me yesterday.

My father’s mother, my only surviving grandparent, is moving in with them. Apparently, the home where she was heretofore living has recently started admitting mental patients and this is scaring her. She would no longer leave her room to go to the washroom at night. My grandmother’s meager resources makes finding another nursing home difficult.

This is the second “what to do with the seniors” crisis my family has faced. Before my grandfather died, my parents had the heart-rending task of separating him from his wife of forty years and placing him in a nursing home, because providing the level of care he needed would have in turn destroyed her health.

Moving in with my folks is a good thing for my grandmother, but I’m really sad for my mother in all this. She and my father retired hand-in-hand in April. At 53 and 55 respectively, they still have a lot of energy and time left to enjoy life, and dreams to pursue. Up to a few years ago, they were dedicated to spoiling their only child. Now it was finally going to be their much-deserved time, and I couldn’t have been happier. I fear that with this new development, the party’s already over. That they’ll not dare leave for weekends and trips, something they’re always doing.

I talk to anyone about this, and everyone seems to have a horror story about something relating to this issue.

Well, wasn’t that dull and depressing! I’ll post something funny later on.

Yesterday, Michel was talking about accident experiences. It reminded of one of mine that I hadn’t thought about in a while. The story also qualifies as yet another “bad date in Sweden” story, hence the title.

So when I was in Sweden, my friend Martin, whom I had a big crush on, heard that I hadn’t yet been to his hometown and invited me to spend the weekend there with him. This was of course very exciting. I was very much looking forward to this and promised my friends all the details.

On the auspicious day of our departure for Mölnlycke (the toilet-paper-holder capital of Sweden), he and I got separated at the train station and I eventually got on the train without him, figuring he’d be on it. The train started moving and I still hadn’t caught sight of him, on or off the train. Finally, I spotted him on the platform, wildly looking for me. I called out to him and held the door open as he sprinted towards the leaving train, but finally he didn’t make it. Realizing he had the tickets with him, I threw my bag off the train then jumped off.

Now, if a train leaves Lund with speed X and Jo leaves the train (thus initially travelling through air also at speed X) and meets the pavement (speed zero) with her face, what do you get?

My legs hit the pavement, but bounced and the next thing I saw was the pavement very up close. I realized I’d hit my forehead and there was suddenly something really wrong with the way it felt. From somewhere, Marty was giving me a tirade of Swedish swears and admonitions, because apparently I had missed a pole flanking the track by inches. When I looked up at him, he turned white and shut up, and I knew something was wrong with my face. Turns out I simply had a swollen forehead. I iced it and we caught the next train.

The next morning I woke up and couldn’t see out of my right eye. I looked in the mirror and jumped. One side of my face was black, purple and yellow, and my eye was swollen shut. Then I realized we had to meet Marty’s entire extended family that day.

I was disfigured for weeks. I’m sure Martin also tells the story as his “most embarrassing moment”, for he had to show me around town all weekend. And the only thing worse than being a woman with a black eye is being the man standing next to her.

Friday
Had a fun dinner and drinks with Paul, who’s finally made it back from his trip out west. Thought I’d alleviate his homesickness with a porcelain Loch Ness monster I found at Toast’s old place (thanks, Toast and Marmalade). The porcelain Nessie even has a cork on its head so that she can carry scotch. Although Paul didn’t seem all that impressed with my gift, the staff at Brutopia loved it. We were briefly joined by Paul’s roommate and had a great time.

Afterwards I was way too tipsy for swing dancing, so I caught a movie (Québec-Montréal) at the Quartier Latin next to the swing place.

Saturday
Attended a Balboa swing seminar with the great folks at the Swinging Air Force. After dancing all day, I walked home from downtown, which completely finished off my feet. Had good intentions for the evening, but ended up dying on the couch around nine, soaking in a happy soreness.

Sunday
Iris needed to get out and re-enter the country to get papers stamped and complete the process of becoming a landed immigrant. So she and I, Gord and T went to Lake Placid for some walking and shopping. Ate some bad salad in good company on the edge of the beautiful lake, and returned home in the evening. The happy and important process of becoming a landed immigrant seemed to me strangely lacking in ceremony, sort of like witnessing a wedding at the Laval town hall. It involved a lot of waiting around and was concluded by a cursory search of the car. Oh well.

But back in Montreal, we were joined by Dotan and had a lovely celebratory dinner at Ouzeri on St-Denis. Again had fun plans for the evening, and again died, this time of a food coma.

I am blessed with a great big, nicely groomed backyard, a miracle to have on the Plateau. There are flowers all around and even a herb garden. At night, however, my backyard becomes both bawdy house and gladiatorial arena to the neighborhood cats. Every third night or so I am awakened by the clamor of unabashed feline love or hate. I can usually tell which by the sound.

What my upstairs neighbors are up to, however, is not so easy to figure out. See, every once in a while I hear the voices of at least two people of each gender, loudly… uh, well having a great time. Generally, I’d be thinking that they’re simply having your normal, run-of-the-mill orgy, were it not for one funny little fact: whenever they go at it, they can also simultaneously be heard running quickly from one end of the apartment to the other, back and forth. Makes for one hell of a racket, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s going on up there.

I told a friend about this and he suggested that next time I hear it, I simply go upstairs with a smile and a bottle of wine, and see what happens. Europeans.

My mother ripped her calf muscle playing baseball this week.

I got into an argument (again) with my father about whether Carrie-Anne Moss had enough of a rack to play Wonder Woman in the upcoming movie.

Aren’t they cool?