|Eggs. The building is covered|
Sunday morning we felt nearly as bad as the late-night football partiers. Possibly worse, because I think they were still sleeping.
We'd looked up the train information the night before, but I think the combination of wine and sleepiness didn't really work well together, because we misjudged the train time, and we got to Placa Catalunya, bought our 33 euro ticket, caught the train to Sants station and missed the Figueres train by 5 minutes. That would be the train that runs about once every 90 minutes on Sundays, so we spent over an hour of a gorgeous day sitting underground. Waiting to take a 2 hour train ride to see a museum in a town that we were warned had nothing else to recommend it, especially on a Sunday.
|Upside down boat with tears|
By the time the train arrived, it was nearly 3 p.m.
I'd had almost no sleep the night before -- standard weekend partying plus football meant voices and drums and shouting literally all night. I heard people saying "good night, good morning" at dawn when they started home. Visions of Singing in the Rain wandered into my fevered brain . . . "I don't want to say good night." "So say good morning!" Delirious, that's what I was.
There's not much in Figueres but Dali, but when you get there, he's worth it. In a way completely different from Gaudi, he's a silencer. There's just so much going on, so much over-the-top creativity, so much incomprehensible, beautiful, just slightly insane art that you just have to open your eyes, shut off your brain and go with it..
|Dali ascending to heaven|
When asked if he was on drugs, Dali famously said, "I am the drug. Take me!"
I feel like I did.
We saw everything there was to see, and then some. The train back to Barcelona was shorter, but felt longer, because we were now physically tired, mentally wrung out and, of course, HUNGRY. Again.
We got off at the Passeig de Gracia because it was closer to the apartment than the end of the train line, and started walking. As a final treat, we ran smack into Casa Batllo, a Gaudi building that was on my list. One photo, and my camera died, but I stood there in the dark looking at its lit windows and glittering tile roof and just smiling.
|Squint, and it's Lincoln. Don't, and|
it's a rear view of Dali's wife.
After a brief rest and a glass of wine, we went back to Placa Reial and tried a different restaurant. Patatas bravas again, to restore us while we waited for our paella. It's always nice finding a new way to eat potatoes. Mixed paella this time, seafood, beef, sausage and chicken. It worked better than I expected, but I think I still like plain seafood best.
|Looks like an interesting conversation|
Sunday night was quiet. The bar on the corner was closed by the time we got back, and the other one shut down by midnight.
Sleep, without earplugs. Bliss.
|The bottom fringe is . . . espadrilles.|
|The Mae West installation|
|Doesn't everyone have this in their|
|The man himself|