La plage dans mon coeur:

Dear Barcelona is treating us, thus far, like queens afresh. This is a city that embraces you like an old, old friend or perhaps an eager child...I do believe it likes us. Warmth prevails...and my intention is to savour every second of flowered light, as there are a mere few days remaining before I am back in the presence of snow and wind and ice. Current blessings: COUNTED and cherished.
Yesterday afternoon, we followed our pulsating hearts towards water...and found ourselves in a heaven of sorts. The lanky expanse of beach became our own personal Eden for a blissfully contented few hours. Upon lighting feet on sand, we ripped boots and socks from our feet (mine, at this point, looking like emaciated bird claws--backpacking is murder on les pieds), hiked our jeans sky-high, and ran with ash-pale legs over the cool stretch of beach. There was, admittedly, a fair share of shrieking involved. The Mediterranean Sea is striking--green blue gray black clear, as the light happens to strike, and we took in its liquid loveliness with hungry eyes. We waded and splashed like feverish five-year-olds until our skin was drained of all discernable sensation (it IS December, after all). I cannot remember the last time I played as freely as that, though it was probably when I was fourteen (or sixteen...) years of age and still catching frogs and scaling trees with my brothers. Scandalously late bloomer alert, oui?!
Either way. Laying in the sand, basking like cats, we remained still and exhilerated for a senseless amount of time. It felt right and pure and far too euphoric to be real...yet it was; it was. I was almost afraid to move, to breathe, for fear of it all slipping from my fingers, whisper-thin as a ghost or some all-too-lustrous illusion. Those hours were richer than many and most.
Last night spun itself out as a dreamy finish to the jewel of all days. Kit and I donned our prettiest selves, and set out on foot in hopes of finding Club Bikini. The night air like the softest fingers on our skin, we wandered like waifs until we found ourselves at the threshold of this elusive bar...incidentally, it was an underground cavern; nothing more on the eyes than a grimy parkade from the surface. We glided in, uninhibited by the seeming trifeness, and found ourselves immersed within moments in a lower-level den of goodness. Firstly, the boy manning the door opted to let us in without shedding a single euro each, which was mental. God knows why he decided to throw us such a bone, but Dange and I pounced like starving wolves on the opportunity. And so we moved inwards and downards...weaving down steps, through sleek stone tunnels, and into a scene ablaze. Sensual sound moved through the darkened room like unseen energy, smoke hung like a gauze in the heat-streaked air, throngs of appetizing young Spaniards swayed wildly in dance, and Mos Def flooded the room (which was crammed to the edges, and beyond) with his melting voice and jaw-dropping beauty. Astounding. Us two sipped stiffened cocktails (the Spanish, evidently, fail to mess around when it comes to hard alcohol--one drink=the force of at least three), and feasted our eyes and ears on all that was around us. We left, hours later, as the night dwindled to a close, walking on air; walking ourselves home to bed through the sleeping city streets.
Shall I count the ways this meshed to form my sweetest of days? Au contraire, think I will leave it lingering simply at that.
In my hands, an array of crushed stars.
I'll see you soon...
R.