And in the brief time I´ve spent in Barcelona, these moments have occurred dangerously often. Why dangerous? Ask Gravity.
I came here to straighten bearings, hardly knowing where I´ve been or where I´m going. Someday, I´ll invent a life compass for people like me...it´s just that I don´t have time for the 8-9 days it would take to develop and perfect the concept, put it into production and walk away with the Nobel Prize. Yet. I came to find a beach, many beaches...spend many hours doing little and in one way or another, find self.
Pick a spot and drop anchor. It´s what you do at the beach, customary in many countries. It is not customary, however, to ride your bike onto the sand, stop mere feet from virgin Americans (yes, I am), peel shirt and spandex shorts to prep for a playful frolic and flop(junk swingin´) into the Mediterranean. Trust me...on THIS beach, I was speaking for the heavy majority.
When the man I named - Hey, These Are The 00´s...We Clean That Up - made it back up onto the beach, feet from MY anchor, he made a delightful personal election to air dry - standing...as if his survival relied on photosynthesis. I drifted off to sleep with dreams of waking to find that he had continued onward - his Tour De Offensive. Then, I woke-
"Masaje!?"
Well, if it isn´t a Spanish beach entrepeneur...who obviously loves New York as per her outrageously original T...
"What, que?"
"Masaje!?"
"Oh, masaje. No, gracias. Otro tiempo."
She hesitated, pulled her bag of ointments and contraptions before cowering into a slow retreat. I looked over to find that Cockman had also opted for retreat. This time, I drifted into a peaceful sleep...
"Masaje! Masaje, Senor!?"
"What, Que?"
"Masa-!"
"No, no. Dormiendo."
"Masaje!"
I dropped my head and fell asleep, lightly. It couldn´t have been more than a half hour. Startled and a little pissed, I closed my eyes, eventually sensing her approach in the curdling sand. It was like feeding stray cats in North Carolina...and this persistent little bitch who certainly must have been suffering from a bout of solar induced brain damage was clinging tight. I have patience...and courtesy. Both were spent.
"Masaje, Senor?...Masaje, Senor!...Senor! Masaje!!!"
"No!"
"Si, masaje."
"Hand job."
"Masaje."
"No, no. Hand Job o nada. Aqui...enfrente de todos. No tiene miedo."
Still lacking multilingual clarity, I turned to sign language...which she understood, splendidly, finally...and left me alone for the rest of the day.
And no, neither of these moments qualify as such I was previously speaking...
...
It was the first night I arrived...walking, wandering. The pink sky turned red to purple to gray to black, starless. The warm winds began to blow cool as I walked the harbor. Soon though, they grew angry...enough to blow settled fragments of trees onto the ground surrounding my steps. As if the rest of the city knew a secret that wasn´t to be told, I was quickly alone, standing naked foot on the sand...looking out onto the Mediterranean. When the first drops hit, they were cold and alarming. After the first hundred, they were welcome.
The sky began to light in silent flashes - lightning buried beneath the thick clouds. When the bolts came clear, I took a seat on the sand, imagined setting sail from the millions taking shelter in the city over my shoulders. I imagined drifting in the middle of the sea, fighting murderous waves until the fraction of a moment before it...and they claim life. In that moment, just as my eyes taste clarity for the last time, lighting falls from the sky, freezing the rolling sea into an endlessly stretching empire of black marble. Silence...
The sky would be scorched by an army of stars. The only remaining echo, my breath. I would climb into the boat, wrap my shirt into a pillow and fall back to rest a weary body and mind...drifting forever without ever moving or falling asleep, waiting out eternity for lighting to strike again, the same place...a second time.
