10 Days

The last 10 days or so have been lived at quite a breakneck pace. I've said farewell to Barcelona and am now in the later stages of a return to the West Coast that has included, so far, stops in Berlin, Paris and County Clare, Ireland, and an impending stop in Boston for a trade show for work.

Saying goodbye to Barcelona was a surreal and emotional experience. I can and will write pages about it, later. Yet, trying to go into minuet detail about my journey through Germany, France and Ireland would take equally as long. So for now, just some random highlights and musings about changing my longitude, and latitude for that matter, over the past 10 days...

Having traveled all the way to Berlin to watch the World Cup, never in a thousand years would I have imagined watching the German team win the third-place game from the deep end of a pool. But that's exactly what I did with my friends Malte and Sarah my first night in Berlin. Germany set up "public viewing areas" all over the country for the Cup. Most were in public parks or squares. But I got to see the German fans go buck wild watching their team in a 100-year-old bathhouse. Someone thought it would be a cool idea to drain the pool, drop in a huge projection TV, encircle the pool with foosball tables and set up some chairs and beanbags that used the pool's slope to create a natural stadium seating effect. They were right. By halftime, instead of fighting our way through the crowd to reach the restroom topside or the bar in the shallow end of the pool, we realized the fastest way to the bar or restroom was to actually climb up and down the pool ladder in the deep end. Way to go Germany!

Not having enough money to scalp a ticket to the World Cup Final was a small bummer, but the voyage from downtown Berlin all the way out to the Olympic Stadium was worth it nevertheless. Seeing people from every continent on the planet – save for maybe Antarctica -- smiling and celebrating TOGETHER was something to behold.

There is something very odd, yet exhilarating about feeling the sand between your toes when you walk into an open-air beach bar... one in a vacant lot and one overlooking a river... BOTH times smack dab in the middle of Berlin. Talk about two worlds colliding.

And now that I am 30 years old, its nice to know that I can still party til 8 o'clock in the morning at the above mentioned vacant-lot/beach-bar with the young kids. Something tells me that was a once-every-four-years-ONLY-for-the-World-Cup-Final-performance. And you all thought France and Italy were the only ones that went to extra-time that night?

Currywurst and French fries for lunch every day in Berlin? So bad, but sooooo good!

Trains in Europe are amazing melting pots. Where else can you meet a Senegalese soccer player who used to play for Feyenoord in Holland and a Malaysian couple who "swear" they had no idea the World Cup was going on when they booked their tickets to Europe?

Whether it is Berlin, or Paris after a night train arrival, watching big European cities "wake-up" at dawn is better than any socioeconomic lecture the greatest academics could ever hope to give.

Berlin is slowly and steadily developing "it."

Paris still has "it."

After five years and numerous trips, I finally got to play soccer on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower. I've longed to play there since July 3, 2001. That day was the first of a three-month adventure backpacking through 15 countries in Europe, so my practical side choose not to play out of fear of breaking an ankle or something and being left to backpack my way on crutches. All my other trips were during the winter or for other purposes, like getting engaged! It's simply the beautiful game in one of the world's most beautiful places. Oh, and the Tunisian, the Frenchman and the American whooped the three Spaniards from Madrid, 5-3.

The weather has been so fantastic that I actually had to put on sunscreen hanging out by the Eiffel Tower at 10 a.m. I then had to re-apply more sunscreen seven hours later ... IN IRELAND!!!

All the sunshine has allowed me to confirm one thing. "Burned Brits" is not just a Barcelona thing. England's navy was once the most feared armada on our planet. They are still probably one of the most-respected global powers. They once criss-crossed the globe to bring the finest teas back to jolly ol' England. Given all that, somehow the invention and usage of sunscreen is something that Brits just can't seem to grasp.

Even better is the fact that my sweet Eurotrash mullet is flowing so long and graceful that I don't even have to put sunscreen on my neck!

Nothing beats the quality of strangers you meet in hostels.

Doolin is getting bigger and, so far, better.

While it saddens me to learn that an old friend I made in Doolin has passed away, I have a sneaky suspicion he went out with a bang.

The music at McGann's is indeed legendary … but the food is catching up.

The Guinness really is better the close you get to Dublin.

Watching Doolin wake up is about as incredible as Paris and Berlin. A cup of coffee, a cinnamon and raisin scon, and a stroll down Fischer Street is truly a slice of paradise. Except since everyone was grooving to the craic the night before, the "waking up" doesn't really happen until about 10 a.m. Not a sound spoils the beauty of the rolling emerald hills and bright morning sun.

Livin' la vida Catalunya with PB and MB

(OK. So we have fallen behind a bit with the blogging. PB and MB returned to San Diego weeks ago, but we still have to capture some of the highlights of their McVenture!)

Unscathed by the torrential downpour we narrowly escaped in Paris, our flight landed in Barcelona at around midnight. The air was dry and dark when we arrived to the blue door next to the Mango store, at #14 Portaferrissa. We'd joked with PB and MB of the 100 stairs to our piso, but with luggage and exhaustion, they showed now sign of amusement. Up we went, panting and pausing. Finally home, we crashed in our beds and slept.

The next day was a Sunday and we decided to show PB and MB the beach. We walked the distance from Barri Gotic down a stretch of La Rambla, left at the Cristobal Colon monument, along Port Vell's harbor way and into Barceloneta where the waves calmly roll into the beach. We spent the rest of the day taking our time, strolling, sitting, having sangria. For dinner, we went to Salterio, our landlord's nook-in-the-wall restaurant where sardos come from. Sardos, we explained, look a bit like a pita bread quesadilla, but taste like a bite out of the Sahara. They are made with white cheese, mushrooms, spices and a delicious sesame butter sauce. They are a Morroccan dish cooked by Fatima, the plump, jolly woman from Sahara who incidentally calls me Shawna because I am the wife of Sean. We'd told MB that she and Fatima share a common passion for Elvis. So, MB brought one of her favorite Elvis tee-shirts to Fatima as a gift. (Later, when Fatima put it on, she cranked up an Elvis CD and suddenly we were in a bizarre culture clash.)

The rest of the week was quite relaxing. While Sean and I worked from our laptops, PB and MB embarked on their favorite trick to familiarize themselves with the city: the open air tour buses. They saw the Sagrada Familia, the Arc de Triomf, the Parc de la Ciutadella and countless curvy, gothic streets. At night, I cooked Spanish tapas and pasta dishes, and we washed them down with bottles of red wine. Our little bohemian piso has been looking especially cute lately with the geraniums I put on our balcony. It was fun to fill our place with garlic and laughter.

Sean took the Friday of that week off to go exploring with PB and MB around Barcelona. So, we took a taxi up the slope of the city toward Parc Guell, better known as "The Gaudi Park." We spent a few hours up there oohing and ahhhing over the intricate designs and mosaics that decorate acres of park land. Gaudi's orginal vision for the lot was for it to be a functioning village, but things went awry and eventually he died before it was completed. (He was actually killed when he was hit by a trolley car.) So now, rather than a village, it is more like a cave/terrace/ labyrinth. We poked around the cave, ate breakfast on the terrace and hiked through the labyrinth. Once at the top of the park, we could see a gorgeous panorama of Barcelona. What a breathtaking view!

Saturday morning, our mission was to train up to Girona, pick up our rental car and embark on our journey through the Pyrenees to a village called Puigcerda (Puh-chair-duh). What a place! The drive through the Pyrenees was a steep incline up some 2,000 meters in altitude on a snakey road that disappears into the fog line. In an hour's drive, we had transported ourselves from balmy Barcelona to a portrait of Switzerland! The greens are lush and the blue sky is brilliant. Once to the summit, we rolled down the backside into open valleys speckled with little villages nestling by rivers.

Puigcerda has to be one of the most magical settings I've ever seen. It's high up on a hillside, overlooking a valley, surrounded by snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees. Back in the Spanish Civil War (1930s) Puigcerda took a harsh beating from the Facists. The only remnant of its Catalan identity still standing is the bell tower of the cathedral that once dominated the top of the town, but was bombed to rubble. Now, a parking lot takes up the space that was once the footprint of the main chapel. By the looks of the cars parked in it, Puigcerda is not on a tight budget. Mercedes, BMWs and Minis were the three most common cars. Our hotel happened to be right near the parking lot, so we parked, put our bags down and then went right out to explore. What we discovered was a vibrant mountain village with a flare not unlike that of Park City, Utah, were the Sundance Film Festival takes place in January. Chic boutiques, elegant shops and gourmet restaurants fill the narrow boulevards with their temptations. Up behind the city center, we found a small, tidy lake, perfectly shaped by a stone wall and pathway. A circular park lines the outer edges, and beyond it, a number of quite lovely vacation manses looking rather Swiss as well. We drank a round of Estrella beers in a lakeside bar with glass walls, and then went downtown for dinner –- which was another delicious Italian meal.

Sunday, we cruised out of the Pyrenees into France, stopping to take photos of fat horses grazing and go exploring through ancient villages. One of them is called Villefrance. It too, has Catalan roots, as does the entire region we were driving through: Both the French and the Spanish share Catalan ancestry on either side of the border. Villefrance is especially darling with its walled-in village, looking quite like a fortress. The town has a mystic feeling, and the shops sport little witches on broomsticks dangling in the doorways. The legend is that in the mountains, there are spirits –- and the witches keep out the bad ones. Sean and I decided to take a picture of Know-me the Gnome, our traveling doll that my Uncle Ned and Susan gave us from New Zealand. He fit right in with the other charms and talisman for sale in the shops.

Not far beyond Villefrance, we shot out of the Pyrenees and returned to flat olive tree country in Spain, heading toward La Costa Brava, destination: Cadaquez. Cadequez is a small fishing village with white-washed buildings lining a crescent moon-shaped harbor that could be a spot-on backdrop for a pirate movie. Our hotel was a lovely resort, replete with swimming pool and tennis courts. Cadaquez actually reminded us a great deal of Catalina Island, so at dinner, we swapped stories of our memories there: mine were about sailing on my grandpa's yacht, The Gaylup, to Catalina, and remembering the flying fish landing on the deck. PB told us how that is where he and MB were when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Sean's were about bumping into Brett Atkinson after a wedding he'd been to, and seeing that Brett had eased into a beachy look of tuxedo pants rolled to his calves; shirtless.

Next morning, we strolled through Cadaquez and then hit the deck – poolside - where we stayed until sunset. We had a lovely dinner that night, and then went to bed feeling rested. Monday morning, we were homeward bound, but not before taking a scenic drive along La Costa Brava –- the wild coast –- to see the most beautiful coastline in the world. All of us slept that night dreaming of the village of Tossa de Mar we had passed through and the Mediterranean Sea.

MB and PB had an early flight the next morning –- a Wednesday –- so I said my good-byes and thank-yous to them through squinty eyes and then Sean escorted them to the airport. Our hope is that we helped them have an unforgettable time, and a head-full of memories to flashback on. As for Sean and me, we already cherish the two weeks we had with PB and MB in France and Spain in May, 2006.

Hasta luego and hope you enjoy the pics...




Ramblin' down La Rambla




PB and MB at the colorful Boqueria market around the corner from our apartment




PB and Sean conquer the statues at the bottom of La Rambla




The four of us relaxing on the mosaic bench in Gaudi's Parc Guell




PB and MB with La Sagrada Familia in the palms of their hands




The view of Barcelona from atop Parc Guell




MB and Kate in front of the "Gingerbread House" at Parc Guell




Road Trip!




The Pyrenees!




Daunting drive ... Awesome views!




The beautiful valley near the village of Puigcerda




Happy Mother's Day!!!




A beautiful bridge on the drive from Puigerda to Cadaquez




Kate is all smiles in Villefrance




The approach to Cadaquez. Amazing how similar the scenery is to our pics from Sardinia!




The bay in Cadaquez




MB and Cadaquez ... stunning!




PB and MB posing with an image of Catalunya's ferociously cheeky mascot ... the burro!




PB and MB pose with Cadaquez as the backdrop.




Just one of the thousands of coves along the Costa Brava




The amazing beach in Tossa de Mar

World Cup Kickoff

I promise to get back to the rest of PB and MB's visit, but since the World Cup kicks off in about 5 minutes, I reckon now would be a good time to throw in my $0.02 on how the whole schnitzel is gonna shake out.

Winner: I know Brazil is the favorite, but I hate rooting for favorites. I'm going with France. I was counting on some scoring from Djibril Cisse to help Thierry Henry and Les Bleus along the way, but even though he snapped his leg Wednesday and is out, I think they can still get it done. All the talk may be about Zinedine Zidane and Henry, but take a look at their roster. They are loaded. Plus, they still have Mr. Underrated Claude Makelele keeping things steady behind the attack. Besides, they have way too easy of a draw to have odds as high as 12-1.

Tournament MVP: There is only one Thierry Henry. (Ronaldinho is a close second, and only cause he has to share the goal scoring for Brazil).

Surprisingly good teams: Switzerland and Australia. Gotta love Switzerland's nutty coach and almost all of Australia's starters play professionally in England. Add a sprinkle of coaching genius from Dutch maestro Gus Hiddink, and the Socceroos should be able to put together a nice little run.

Surprisingly poor teams: Portugal and the Netherlands. If Luis Figo plays, his team will not win. It's that simple. I love The Orange, so it pains me to say this, but they are very young and have quite a difficult group and draw. This is a team that is usually considered a failure if it doesn't reach the semi-finals. Me? I'll be surprised if they make it that far.

Breakout players: Fernando Morientes, David Villa and Fernando Torres from Spain. They simply score goals. They are well known in Spain, and Morientes has done well abroad, but I expect at least one of them will make the leap to global star this month. If not for the leg snap, Cisse would be here too.

Bust players: David Beckham and Claudio Reyna. Becks simply doesn't have it anymore. Sure he might score a highlight goal or two on free kicks, but over the course of 90 minutes, he is more of a role player than the leader he once was. Reyna's performance will be inversely proportional to how much Bruce Arena and the U.S. squad rely on him to make an impact. Coach Sampson said the 1998 U.S. team was Reyna's to lead. See the result. In 2002, Reyna wimped out of the Portugal game and the U.S. won. He played a central part in Poland game and the U.S. got thumped. Arena lessened his responsibilities in the Mexico game by moving him out on the wing and responded with some vital runs down the flank. Arena then moved him back to the center for the quarterfinal against Germany, and he spent most of the night chasing his mark, not defending his mark. Captain America he is not. Probably never has been.

How will the U.S. fair: The U.S. is good enough to win all three games. Their opponents are also good enough to send the Yanks home without a win. My crazy prediction looks something like this. U.S. ties Czech. Scores shocking upset over Italy. Then blows it big time and loses to Ghana. Whether or not they advance depends on how things shake out in the rest of the group. If they squeak through like 2002, a second-place finish in the group likely means Brazil in the Round of 16. Could they? Might they? Nah!

The McGriswald's do Paris

So after a long night's sleep, we awoke the next morning ready to tackle Paris. With pastries and fruits in our bellies, we made our way to Republique, where we purchased tickets for a hop on-hop off, open-top bus tour. I have never been too keen on exploring cities in such a fashion, but I must admit it was quite a relaxing way to take in the sights.

After rolling by the Opera and other parts of the Right Bank, we decided our first stop would be The Louvre. To do the museum justice, you really have to spend at least a couple days appreciating all the exhibits. Instead, we opted to walk the grounds and take a leisurely stroll through the Tuileries. In a word, the gardens were stunning.



I have been through the Tuileries a few times, but they have never been so colorful and in bloom. In fact, the scenery was so beautiful we decided to buy some simple sandwiches and enjoy lunch among the flowers.

Next stop was Notre Dame. We toured the inside of the cathedral and then made our way to Ile St. Louis. You can't go to Ile St. Louis and not sample the legendary ice cream and crepes, so we indulged ourselves with the latter while sitting along one of the banks of the Seine.



Then it was time to hop back on the bus. We rolled along the Left Bank, up the Champs Elysees and hopped off at the Arc de Triomphe. Of course there is a tunnel that leads under the traffic circle that encompasses the Arc, but I told PB and MB it would be much more ... um ... exhilarating to play "Frogger" like I had back in 2001. Just like the video game from the 1980s, the object of the game is to venture through the dozen or so lanes of maniacal traffic and avoid getting splattered while you make your way to the Arc. One not-very-amused look from MB, and through the tunnel we went.



After returning to the apartment to change our clothes, MB and I hit a local supermarket to purchase supplies for a full-fledged Eiffel Tower evening. After being so jet-lagged at the Tower the first night, it was great to return with a little more energy so we could stay long enough to enjoy the late-night light show the Tower puts on.



The next day, it was back on the bus for the journey to Montmartre. We made our way up to the Sacre Coeur, then wound our way around to the artists' square to experience the festival-type atmosphere and settle in for a long and lovely lunch.





After a few hours in Montmartre, we hopped the bus and hit the Latin Quarter. PB instantly took a liking to the pedestrian streets lined with sidewalk cafes and shops. We grabbed some dinner in a cool little restaurant just off Boulevard St. Germain. Despite not really knowing what we were ordering, we all managed to get lucky and score some tasty dishes.



To walk off our meals, we headed up to the Luxembourg gardens and delved deeper into the side streets for which the Latin Quarter is so famous. Completing our rather circular stroll near the Sorbonne, which unfortunately was all covered in scaffolding for renovations, we ducked into the nearest metro station and made our way back to the apartment.

Our final day in Paris got off to quite an exciting start. After handing the keys back over to Regis, we made our way down the stairway of the building and out onto our street. There we encountered the next batch of visitors slated to stay in our apartment, a group of friendly American guys. We chatted them up for a few moments, and then posed for a picture as PB set up his camera on a timer across the street. From there it was off to the Metro, as our plan was to store our bags at Gare du Nord, then begin one final day of sightseeing. So we were standing on the Metro platform when PB froze and asked where his carry-on bag was.

You see, even though PB didn't have his computer, he was using his laptop bag as his carry-on. Those things are tender vittles for thieves the world over.

(Insert colorful expletive here)

The last place PB remembered having the bag was outside the apartment when we posed for the picture. Up the stairs and out of the Metro I sprinted. By the time I got back to the apartment, there was no bag on the street. I went in the building and encountered the American guys in the stairwell. PB overlooked the bag when we left because he had set it on the sidewalk right next to their piles of luggage. Luckily, they spotted it and brought it inside to Regis.

When I got to the apartment, Regis explained how happy he was that I had come back for it. He knew we were on a lfight out of de Gaulle that night, so he was planning to go to the airport in hopes of finding us and returning the bag. Now mind you, the airport is about an hour by Metro and train from the apartment. And who says the French aren't ridiculously nice?

After storing our bags at Gare du Nord, we set off for the Marais and Place de Voges. Place de Voges is a special spot for Kate and I as that's where we hung out the morning after our engagement. We soon ducked into a restaurant in the Marais and had yet another uber-lucky culinary experience. We were again uncertain as to what we were ordering, but we walked out four happy customers.

From the Marais, we hit one of the famous boat rides along the Seine. That boat tour is another touristy type thing I had always dismissed, but the unique perspectives it offered again surprised me. We were fortunate to have a rookie tour guide on the boat and boy was this guy meant to be on a microphone. If they ever held an American Idol competition for cheesy tour guides, this Mr. Happy would win hands down.



By the time the boat returned us to Ile de la Cite, the day was getting late and storm clouds were rolling in. We probably couldn't have timed our trip to Paris any better. We had magnificent weather for four straight days, and were only sprinkled with our first few drops of rain as we walked the last hundred meters or so to the Metro stop. From that moment on, the skies opened up and dumped quite a storm on the city, but it was no bother as we were on our way to the airport and never had to set foot outside again.



We were off to the sun and fun of La Vida Espana.

Just your typical Paris arrival

Now that I have been to the City of Light a few times, I've developed this saying that goes, "It's not a Paris arrival unless something goes wrong." This dates back to my very first journey to Paris back in 2001, which started off with me wandering the city for a few hours, supremely lost, desperately hungry, and nearly melting from the oppressive July heat and the weight of my overstuffed backpack.

Looking back on that brutal day now, it was all part of the adventure. However, once Kate and I decided to have my parents meet us in Paris May 3, it was a part of the adventure I worked frantically to help them avoid. So when Kate and I touched down at Charles de Gaulle the scheduled three hours ahead of the flight that would deliver Papa Bear and Mama Bear to France, I was feeling quite confident my weeks of planning had paid off and I had covered all the bases. At least that's what I thought...

The first tinge of panic struck when Kate and I, after killing most of the three-hour wait eating breakfast in our own terminal, made our way over to the terminal that collected all the American Airlines flights shuttling people back and forth across the Atlantic. When MB booked their tickets back in December, she forwarded me the itinerary that had them landing at 11:45 a.m. So imagine my surprise when Kate and I strolled up to the arrivals gate at 11:15 a.m. only to read that PB and MB's flight had touched down at 10:40 a.m. Not good.

Believe it or not, I had actually planned for this on the off chance that perhaps the flight Kate and I were on might be delayed. The plan was to meet at the Hertz rental car counter. Only problem is that in an airport the size of de Gaulle, there are about 15 Hertz rental counters. Luckily, before Kate and I began our own O.J.-style sprint from yellow counter to yellow counter, I happened to hear two women near the arrivals gate talking to each other in the oh-so-lovely accent that indicated they had to be from Texas. Since PB and MB were routed through Dallas, I asked the women if they were waiting for people on the Dallas flight. Indeed they were and they informed us that they reckoned no one from that flight had cleared customs yet. Whew!

So after about a 30-minute wait, PB and MB finally came beaming through the arrivals doors. After warm greetings and hugs, we were soon on our way to catch the train into the city. Right about then was when MB decided to inform me their flight itinerary had been changed weeks before.



The real estate agent I had rented our apartment from, an awesome dude named Regis, asked me to simply call him when we were leaving the airport so he could meet us at the door of the apartment and give us the keys. I was a little unsettled when I only got the voice mail on his mobile phone, but that concern was quickly overshadowed when MB tried to withdraw her first little bundle of Euros from an ATM machine and was promptly denied.

The kind folks at Bank of America had apparently decided the international activity on MB's card was just too suspicious, so they called the house in Carlsbad to check it out. We found out much later that after our friend JoEllen, who was kindly house-sitting while PB and MB were away, informed the bank that she was on vacation in Paris, they figured it would make perfect sense to just freeze her debit card and cut her off entirely. Brilliant BofA. Comically and thankfully, the bank didn't bother to freeze PB's debit card, which is of course linked to the same account. Wonderful anti-fraud department they have at BofA, eh?

Anyway, we made our way into Paris and surfaced from the Metro at Republique. I, of course, then led us on a 10-minute walk in the opposite direction of where we needed to go to reach our apartment. So that meant we had to retrace our steps and walk about five minutes or so in the proper direction. Did I mention it was a wee bit warm? And PB and MB were a wee bit tired from the journey? And we were loaded down with luggage? Oh the flashbacks! All in all, it was an idiotic move on my part because I know that section of Paris very well, but at least it gave good ol' Regis some extra time to check his voice mail. So by the time we actually made our way to the apartment, it wasn't too long before Regis came strolling down the street to give us the keys.



After we dropped our bags and took a load off for a few minutes, we took to the streets to give PB and MB their first taste of Paris. We grabbed a quick bite and some free beers from a cool restaurant in the Marais, then set off to see our first big time attraction ... the Eiffel Tower.

I had planned in my head for years that if I ever went to Paris with my parents, I would ensure their first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower came from the Trocadero. I don't know why, by I just feel the way the Tower suddenly appears as you turn the corner of the tall buildings is breathtaking. To me, the Eiffel Tower never disappoints.



So after PB and MB caught their first glimpse of the Tower, we relaxed in the grass along side the fountains and brought a bit of Spain to Paris in the form of the siesta. PB and Katie were down for the count, while MB and I sat on a bench and soaked up as much of the atmosphere as possible.



We eventually made our way over to the other side of the Tower (the side where Kate and I got engaged) and drew a close to quite an epic day by settling down for a relaxing picnic.



So to recap: A near-miss at the airport ... a temporarily unreachable real estate agent ... directional hiccups on the way to the apartment ... and shut out by the bank.

Yep, we had certainly arrived in Paris.

The Samba down La Rambla

Greetings from the home of the European Champions!

What a game and what a night! With a dramatic come-from-behind victory, FC Barcelona sent this city into a frenzy last night. I have never seen such widespread celebrating in my entire life. Everyone on every street was dancing and singing.

Kate and I watched the game at one of our favorite pubs here in Barrio Gothico, amid throngs of singing and chanting FCB fans. There were some amazingly tense moments in the second half of the game as the faithful were starting to consider the possibility of FCB falling to a 10-man Arsenal squad, but when Eto'o finally broke through with the opening goal, relief settled in. Then when Belletti netted the winner four minutes later, Barcelona erupted into sheer pandemonium.

A few of my takes on the action on the field and some of the referee's dubious calls...

1. Every referee blows calls, you only hope those blown calls don't have an impact on the result of the game. The Norwegian man in the middle last night wasn't that lucky. All his mistakes seem to big huge ones. That being said, I found it very disappointing to see the likes of Thierry Henry taking shots at the referee and saying he cost them the game.

2. To Arsenal fans lamenting Eto'o goal because he appeared to be just a wee bit offside, I urge you to consider the goal the referee took away from FCB with his quick whistle on Jens Lehmann's red-card foul. Everyone watching the game knew he should have let play continue and allowed the goal. The referee himself even came out after the game and told the newspapers he blew the call.

3. On top of that, take a close look at the "foul" that led to Sol Campbell's fabulous goal for Arsenal. What a fantastic dive by Eboue.

4. Thierry Henry cried after the game over little fouls that weren't being called. Anyone else find it quite ironic that an English Premier League team would be the ones whining about the rough play of a Spanish La Liga team?

5. Henry's yellow card was an atrocious call by the referee.

6. Frank Rijkaard's substitutions sure make him look a genius. Henrik Larsson steps on the pitch, and in his farewell performance for FCB, sets up BOTH goals. Meanwhile, inserting Juliano Belletti into the game allowed the Brazilian to score the game-winner.

Despite all the action on the field, my greatest memories of the night come from the celebrating here in Barcelona after the game. La Rambla was literally slammed with wall-to-wall people. We couldn't even make our way from our apartment to Plaza Catalunya. Those of you who have visited us know that means we are talking about a serious amounts of humanity. However, the enormous crowd ended up being a stroke of good luck for us.

Determined to make it to Plaza Catalunya, Kate and I cut through the tiny twisting streets of our neighborhood in Barrio Gothico. Halfway to Plaza Catalunya, we encountered a drum corp consisting of nothing but local boys, not a one of them older than probably 15. These kids were busting out an awesome samba beat and just walking through the Barrio on their way to La Rambla. Aside from the eight or so drummers, the only people really walking with them at this point were their parents and few revelers who had taken to dancing along right in front or behind the drum procession.

It was such a cool scene that it was a no-brainer for Kate and I to scrap our Plaza Catalunya objective and turn around to join the samba brigade. It didn't take long for just about everyone the brigade passed to turn around and join the fun. As we neared La Rambla, even the revelers on that crazy boulevard shifted their attention to us.

When we reached La Rambla, the kids turned the brigade left and we spent the next hour entranced in a magical samba down the boulevard toward the Christopher Columbus statue near the harbor. Our group, which once numbered just a dozen or so, swelled to hundreds, maybe even a thousand as the masses parted so we could pass through. As colorful flares lit up the sky, casting misty red shadows on all the buildings along La Rambla, people came out on their balconies to bask in the glow of an FCB championship and soak in the music from our little drummer boys.

This season has left me with too many incredible memories about FCB to count. But the Samba down La Rambla is right up there near the top of the list.

Now that FCB's season has come to a close, Kate and I are convinced being here during this season is one of the more charmed strokes of good fortune we've experienced. Starting with the free tickets to the Chelsea game and ending with the Samba down La Rambla, we couldn't have asked for a more miraculous time than our FC Barcelona McVenture.

Game Time

Well tonight is the night.

Barcelona and Arsenal square off tonight in Paris. The city of Barcelona is already going bonkers in anticipation of what should be an amazing game. I even saw my parents off on their flight to Paris this morning amid an airport full of Blue and Red clad FCB supporters bound for the City of Light. Oh, and did I mention that was at 5 AM this morning!

While I think FCB is loaded this year and could be one of the better teams assembled in recent memory, I think anyone predicting an FCB cakewalk may be getting a bit ahead of themselves. Some have even gone so far as to call the FCB-AC Milan semi-final the real final. Implying neither Arsenal nor Villarreal could possibly have what it takes to win it all. To those people, I have two simple words.

Thierry Henry.

A Frenchman ... leading Arsenal's dream run to the final ... playing in what could be his last game for the club ... head-to-head against Ronaldinho, the only forward who people could claim is better than him ... in one game ... for all the marbles ... IN PARIS!

I would never bet against a guy like that in a situation like this.

In fact, while all the media have focused on the clash between Spain's best team and one of England's best teams, I think it will be the French who have a profound impact before the night is done. The last time a major championship was decided in the Stade de France, a certain Frenchman with the initials ZZ became a legend by besting Brazil for two goals in a World Cup Final. Don't be surprised if Henry, Robert Pires or Giuly rise to the occasion with similar results.

So while I will definitely be rooting for my adopted home team, something tells me a classic is in the cards regardless of the victor.

A Wee Irish Weekend

You never miss the water till the well has run dry.
--- Irish proverb




So true! We should all feel grateful for at least one thing at the end of every day – even if it's only for the water!

Right now, I feel grateful for many things, actually. Especially because Sean and I got to spend last weekend in Ireland with our friend Jennifer Boyle and her lovely family. She lives in Glenbeigh, which is a tiny village seated on the south side of the mouth of Dingle Bay in County Kerry. By tiny, I mean everyone there knows or is related to everyone else there due to the three pubs and the church, which make excellent gossip stations. In Jennifer's house were also her mother Mary, daughter Caoimhe (pronounced Kiva), age 7 and baby son Fionn, age 6 mos.

We flew from Barcelona to Shannon on Friday and picked up a rental car. Driving in Ireland is quite entertaining enough, as it's done on the wrong side of the car and road! Sean did all the work, and I was his trusty assistant yelling, "keep left!" whenever appropriate. Appropriate, meaning, at all times.

The 3-hour drive was gorgeous as we passed rollicking hillsides the shade of emerald green, newborn lambs and sheep spotting them like daisies. A lazy horse lay down with limbs and neck sprawled out for maximum sun exposure, looking quite drunk. Birds were everywhere, chirping. It was like we'd stepped into the Bambi movie during the scene when all the little creatures are born in springtime.

We finally arrived to Jen's house around 6pm, and she had oodles of Chianti and food for us. We spent our first night chatting with her, playing with the kids and watching the DVD, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Caoimhe gave us an exact interpretation of the Oompa Loompa dance, which was lovely.

On Saturday morning we drove down to Burke’s Equestrian Center and went on a lovely "trek" down on the beach astride two HUGE Irish Draught horses. Mine was Paddy and Sean's was Harvey. We trotted down the narrow road to the beach and went walking in the ocean up to the horses' bellies. Harvey stopped at one point with Paddy close behind and nearly dropped his road apples on my leg! (Never forget, the sea is full of everything.) We took an hour's ride, and by the time our ride was over, Sean had really finessed the art of posting. (Posting is what riders do during the trot in English-style riding. It's the up-down-up-down motion.) For what it's worth, I should probably mention here, that Sean put a lot of, mm, pelvis in his posting.

Later Saturday, we had a nice lunch at Jennifer's friend Jackie's cafe and then took a drive up to a beautiful secluded lake in the mountains. The lake is as pristine as it is silent, and the only other beings we saw there were two backpackers and about 100 sheep that seemed rather bothered by our existence.

Saturday night we hit the town with Jen and her girlfriends Jackie and Gina. Sean was the token male, and he did all right! Jen treated us to a lovely dinner in Kilorglin (the next village over from Glenbeigh) at a place called the Top Deck. Then, the five of us went on a pub crawl. All the pubs were stuffed with Irish revelers drinking pints of Guinness and Harp. I had overeaten my seafood dinner, so I steered clear of Guinness. Sean, however, took the challenge and consumed about 10 thousand calories – just like the best of 'em! That night, with the girls, we got to hear about all the goings on between the two villages. It was a good reminder that even in small towns, big news is a daily occurrence. This type of story-telling and gossip-swapping appealed to the journalistic sides of me and Sean, and we were thoroughly entertained to hear all about it. We left Kilorglin at nearly 1 AM and took a cab back to Glenbeigh. Sean proceeded in going out longer (after hours) with Jackie, who was bent on meeting up with her husband (so she wouldn't miss anything) at a pub called The Towers, right down the road from Jen's house.

The next morning, Sean told me that when he walked into The Towers with Jackie, he felt every eye in the room turn on him, wondering who that man was with John's wife! But, he said, once word spread that he was a friend of Jenny's up the road, it only took moments to have more pints handed to him as welcome gifts. John told him that he would be tomorrow's gossip at church. Needless to say, Sean rolled in around 3:30AM, smelling quite ripe I do say!

Sunday we lounged. The weather that had been gloriously sunny had turned to the mythical mist that is just so quintessentially Ireland. We took a little drive into Killarney (my favorite Irish city) and had lunch. There was something called the Rally Races taking place in the area the whole weekend, which made the narrow roadways jam up like L.A. freeways on a Friday afternoon. Rally Races, we learned, are basically back-road car races run by hooligans driving supped up Porches and Mini Coopers. It seemed pretty crazy to me because from what I could tell, the races took place on the same roads that residents use – with virtually no designations or signage. The only time something like that would happen in America is never. But we managed to avoid having a head-on with a rally car, and made it into Killarney safely, albeit a bit slowly.

Sunday night, Jen fixed us a lovely dinner and then we had to hit the road back to Shannon. Our flight Monday morning to Barcelona was early, so we stayed in a B&B near the airport.

I hope I was able to convey a slice of life in Ireland the way we experienced it last weekend. For an island country of hardly more than 3 million souls, Ireland is full of mythic places, jolly folk and now, a thriving economy. In fact, we learned that Ireland has the fastest-growing economy in the EU. It's quite obvious, actually, by the construction and development we saw in nearly every village. Good for the Irish! In fact, we heard that an immigration reversal has begun. From American cities with histories of Irish immigrants in search of better life like Boston, Chicago and New York, the Irish are returning to Ireland where work is aplenty and boom is abound. To the Irish who helped America grow, I say thank you. To the Irish who are coming back home to help Ireland grow, I say, "Slainte!"

---- Kate

To view all our photos from Ireland (with the added bonus of an assortment of Spain photos thrown in) click here: http://www.imagestation.com/album/pictures.html?id=2106804605