Barcelona is a feast for the eyes. Color is riotous and lines are fractured everywhere in the Modernist style made famous by Gaudi.

Years ago Lorenzo had a glossy book from Acres of Books in Long Beach and he carved it up to paste the plates on his bedroom wall. At the time, I didn’t know these were photos of glorious facades and interiors were of sites of Barcelona. Hey, when you don’t know, you don’t know.

Yesterday, we wandered through the gothic alleys and made our way out to the Columbus statue. We rambled up Las Ramblas. Late afternoon, we took a bus from our lodgings next to Placa Catalunya to Parc Guell. Though we arrived an hour early, we were sent from entrance to exit, to another meeting point and to two other meeting points. We ended up overheated, angry, frustrated and sad . . . UNTIL we met a guide from the company half hour late. She had missed us and we had missed her. Our tour in English had long since departed. But she tagged us onto a tour in Spanish with a nice family of 6 from Peru.

Happily sated, we loved the wavy seats, gloppy columns and shiny tile. The tour guide, Marta was sweet and generous as well.

We stayed in the park after the tour. As the sun dropped and our sweat dripped, we appreciated a cold, cold beer in the snack bar. We walked toward the bus stop and it began to sprinkle. Getting on the bus, it rained and continued to rain during the 30 minute ride. A break in the clouds, was just enough time to make it to the lodgings from the finale bus stop.

~Rosana

I’ve never liked math, much less taught math, but the title looks awfully mathematical. It just means we’re a day away from taking off on our trip.

We are both ready to go. Honestly, I got the bulk, no pun intended, of my packing done a week ago before the Joneses and Castros came to visit. Prior to that, all the clothes I was considering taking were scattered on the guest bed. So when they came to stay, I thought, “Wait, I can’t leave this stuff out.” So I packed my clothes and even most of the toiletries into packing cubes and stuffed it all in my carry-on. Feeling smug about having done that so early, all I’ve done is add more than I’ve taken out. Today I do one last pass to extract the extra items.

Meanwhile, Luis has had a different approach. I won’t speak for him. He is an author on this blog, after all. But my observation is that he has studied the options for camera equipment, photography framing possibilities and how to transport camera paraphernalia. Yesterday, nay, last night (!) he pulled out the carry-on and started packing.

To each his own. Or like Mom says, “Cada quién.” The fact is, we both are ready and if we forget or leave behind something, we will buy in Barcelona, Marseilles, Nîmes, Paris or Stuttgart.  The point is to learn about these location, not to transport our daily lives over there.

Today was a quiet day. We spent the afternoon with Lorenzo and Arevik. They even came with us to Mass at St. Joe’s. We went to lunch afterwards, just like in the days long past when the Lorenzo and Miguel were little. I recalled those days with emotion as I realized they are all grown and going to Mass together is mostly a distant memory.  Throughout Mass today, I wondered how the rituals must be perceived from Arevik’s point of view, coming from the Armenia culture. Someday, perhaps we will go to an Armenia church service.

Back to our trip. Preparations to date  include: called mom to say bye; notified neighbors; purchased Euros;  copied and stored travel documents; paid regular bills; notified bank and credit card companies. Still pending: eat any remaining food in the refrigerator; watch the TV program The Americans and sleep well. I think I may need a conk on the head to sleep well as I am so excited.  ~Rosana

The taxi strike in Barcelona was called off (by a truce) so that leaves me with time for something light-hearted.

I’ve been gleaning lessons from my sisters Diana and Tina, following their recent pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

For my family and friends who wear and travel with make up, here’s a quick video.

Rosana

“Huelga” isn’t exactly the cry I was expecting to hear. But taxis are on strike across Spain protesting unfair labor practice of Uber and Cabify.  They parked their vehicles on major thoroughfares, they’re camping in the streets and playing cards. They’ve shut down traffic since Saturday (today is Tuesday and there doesn’t seem to be an immediate resolution). In a couple of what we hope are isolated instances, they’ve kicked and spray painted Uber cars and pushed around Uber drivers as they protest the competition that was approved by a judge last week. In response to the violence, Uber has stopped operation, too.

We are one week away from our arrival in Barcelona and what I had hoped would be a taxi or Uber ride to our lodgings. A  private trip from the airport to lodging in Barcelona just got a lot more complicated. A week from today we’ll arrive in Barcelona. Did I mention that I am an absolute baby about walking in the heat…with suitcases…in an unknown city where they speak a language I’m not completely fluent in? That sniveling, grumbling you heard last summer came from me all the way across the ocean as Luis and I trudged across 15 or so blocks in Florence, Italy, sleep deprived, hungry, hot and a little lost. Over the year I have worked to convince Luis that with jet lag, heat and hunger on our arrival, it’s best to grab a taxi or hail an Uber. That might not be an option.

The strike started in Barcelona and has spread to almost all major cities.

See:   https://www.thelocal.es/20180726/in-pics-uber-cabify-barcelona-strike

and http://fortune.com/2018/07/31/spain-taxi-strike-uber-cabify-barcelona-madrid/?utm_source=fortune.com&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=social-button-sharing

Eight years ago we’ve arrived in a different major city when taxis could not drive us to our location. Miguel was with Luis and me when we arrived in Mexico City on the last day campaigning was allowed for the presidential elections. The huge rallies in the central zocalo (where our hotel was located) made all transportation impossible, including metro, taxi and private cars. We hung out in the airport, ate and bided our time. It all worked out.

Thank goodness for my friend Sharon Padilla’s Facebook post from Spain (she’s visiting Salamanca and the old residencia where we lived with the nuns almost 40 years ago). She posted about the strike paralyzing the city centers of Madrid and Barcelona two days ago. I wouldn’t have known if it were for her post. Luis and I are putting together Plans A, B, C and D for getting from the airport to the hotel. Wish us luck.

Rosana

Our tour guides were big, tattooed guys who were previously locked up in prison. Any other time, I might have crossed the street to avoid them. But not today.

After eating a delicious and well-presented lunch at Homegirl Cafe with family from out of town, we asked about touring Homeboy Industries. Two trainees, Sal and L’Paul, guided us while expressing genuine affection for each other in the way only men do. They admitted they are in racial groups that would’ve killed each other while doing time.

Homeboy Industries in downtown LA is where ex-gang members start over through a program of job training, tattoo removal, pastry chef and wait staff training, parenting classes, anger management classes, job placement, counseling, drug testing, rehab program and a variety of other services.

L’Paul and Sal started the tour by sharing their respective stories. L’Paul was raised by his grandmother and the members of the Crips south of LA. His high intelligence, size and rootlessness made him a great fit for heroin distribution and violence. He even blew a scholarship to play football (remember I said “big guy”) for Oregon because old habits were not left behind.

Sal’s parents were both active heroine addicts. He and his brother were wards of the state. Eventually, they landed in a foster setting where the adult son of the foster mom raped and beat Sal repeatedly. Sal and his brother ran away — read: escaped — only to live on the streets, get shot and fall into addiction. He self-medicated for epilepsy, depression and pain.

Extreme poverty played in the background and still does for both men. Rents alone in LA are astronomical.

Sal is in classes for his GED, anger management, and parenting skills. His goal is to get a job and an apartment so he can get his kids out of the homeless shelter.

L’Paul’s girlfriend calls the program at Homeboys “adult daycare” because of fieldtrips the men take. They’ve visited local museums such as the Broad, gone camping and even surfing. All of their outings are new experiences and broaden their world view, much like what middle class parent do for their children. For these ex-gang members, the family they are forming at Homeboys is one of deep kinship among men and women who didn’t have functional families. Their new family is supportive, calling and texting reminders about classes and work. They have access to some basic health care (while we were there St John’s mobile clinic was providing services). They have food, in fact, world class meals from the trainees in Homegirl Cafe. They have brothers and sisters that are a positive and non judgmental community searching for a better life for themselves and those around them. Best of luck to the Sals and L’Pauls of the world.

Rosana

My time is split between looking ahead as we prepare for our trip to Europe and taking care to enjoy today. The last couple of  days have even included reminiscence of long ago and reveling in the moment.

We went to hear a conjunto play in El Sereno on Sunday. The drummer and conga player, Roberto Gutierrez, has been inviting us for years to go hear his group, Ostia. We go back a while. I think our families in Tucson knew each other when Roberto and I were in elementary school. For sure, we connected when his family and mine went with a group of families from Tucson’s bilinugal education program to Guadalajara for the summer of 1971. We were put into school to learn Spanish, Mexican Lit and Ballet Folkórico. In the afternoons, we played, went horseback riding, got in trouble and learned to ride the city buses. On weekends the children of the educators went on trips. Fast forward to today and Roberto is a successful band member  and donates his time to educating musicians in the San Fernando Valley, including at Luis’s alma mater, San Fernando High School. It is a small world, indeed.

Before Luis and were fully recovered from a hot car ride to listen to Ostia, we jumped back in the car Monday and drove through CRAZY morning traffic to pick up our wonderful godson, Marcos Alvarez Glemkstein in Northridge. Then back in the car for the three of us to go to The Getty Villa in Malibu. It made for a good time to visit and generally spend time together while see the reproduction of an Italian villa. Though Marcos is young, his experiences are vast, having benefited from extensive travel and schooling in Switzerland. Marcos’ wisdom was conveyed in the simple question, “So, are we pretending we are in Italy?” Yup, Marcos you’re right . . . Pretending while see a remarkable collection of Greek and Roman sculpture, ceramics, metal work and funerary artifacts.

Lunch was late in Santa Monica. Where else? An Italian restaurant. Then we drove through more grueling traffic back to Northridge just in time for evening rush hour. Nope, I was not going to brave THAT. So we stayed and had dinner with Luis’s cousin Emmanuel Glemkstein putting us back in the car at 9PM to drive home by 10:30.

It was all worthwhile, from the music and reconnection on Sunday to taking in art while getting to know our godson on his own on Monday. I’m looking forward to another time soon with both Ostia and Marcos.

Rosana

Four weeks and counting down. We are four weeks away from our trip to Europe. Luis, my husband, and I are going to visit our son Miguel who works in Stuttgart. As Miguel said when he announced a year assignment in Stuttgart, “You HAVE to visit.”

Picture this, it’s New Year’s Day 2018 and I tell the family hanging out at our house, “I found great price on tickets.” When I gave them the details, Miguel’s face is impassive and he simply stands up, gets his dad’s laptop and quietly starts a search for better deals only stopping occasionally to ask about dates, possible cities to fly into and out of and the random, “Hmmmm.” After 20 minutes he swivels the laptop around, shows us the screen and says, “Here you go. In to Barcelona. Out of Paris. You can visit me from there. Time to pack your bags.” And it was literally half the cost of my search.

But let’s be fair to my time on the computer. He searched on the day that Air New Zealand opened up a new route LAX to London and their promotion was incredible. Yes, that’s me being a defensive middle-aged mom whose son has outdone her hours of computer time. Sometimes, I struggle with the brilliance of my sons. Mostly I just enjoy watching them in their element.

So Luis and I will go see Miguel in his element. He works for Mercedes Benz and is on a temporary assignment in Germany. I don’t know what adventures or misadventures the trip will bring, but that’s the point. Right?

We will learn about places we’ve never gone to and about peoples we’ve yet to meet. This is the inspiration to this blog. Tricky thing is that neither of us speak French or German.

Spanish? Yes.

Italian…. well, I bumble around in it and communicate. I even guess pretty close when reading Italian.

But French? Not so much.

German? Even less.

A friend and great language teacher’s advice was to download the app Duolingo. (Thanks, Terri!)  I’ve been learning some vocabulary and basic phrases.

I’m praying that at least once a day when we are in Paris the occasion will arise so that I can use the phrase, “La fille a une pomme” (The girl has an apple). I really better go put in more time and practice learning a new language. That, or I will have to spend the whole vacation at grocery stores, outdoor markets or in the apple orchards of Spain, France and Germany. Oh man, I’m in trouble.

Yours, Rosana

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton