I don't even bother doing a quick paragraph on the top of these anymore.  I figure, if you're reading this and you don't already know that these are excerpts from my travel journal, you must not come around my blog much.  Kick your shoes up!  Stay awhile.  Say hello.

I'm afraid pretty much everyone already knows the deal-io, here.

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26 Apr 2008.  10:11pm.

My phone rings early this morning, and I'm miraculously still asleep.  (This has to be a record for me - I can't remember the last time I was still in bed at ten AM.)  I dive out of bed and attack my desk drawer like a monster, ripping it apart to try and find my mobile.

I grab it just in time to miss the call.  Wonderful.

I wait a moment until the screen pops up and tells me I've got a new voicemail.  After jumping the ridiculous hoops and getting to the mail box, a beautiful, throaty voice echoes in my ear, as Carolina explains that she's got to work that evening so it would be better if we got together sooner rather than later.

An hour later I push the intercom button and she buzzes me in; I trudge my way up the umpteen-doodle steps until I arrive at her door.  She's waiting for me, guitar in hand, as she begins, "My mom is still asleep, so I'm thinking let's go to the park down the road and play."

I nod, eager to wrap my arms around that long, slender neck again, to hear that undeniable voice of satisfaction as my fingers do their thing.  Plus, it'll be fun to hang out with Carolina, too. 

She hands me the guitar and steps back in to grab a blanket and we fly down the flights of stairs and back out into the harsh, bright day.  Everything seems bleached, washed out, except for Carolina - she's like a tiny black hole, a twinkling darkness in this world of burning white.

We arrive at the park, and it's surprisingly empty.  I mention this to Carolina, and she posits that most people are probably at the beach getting their tan on.

I look at the two of us, her white as porcelain, myself only two shades darker, and laugh.  "Or, in the case of people like us, burning to a crisp."

She gives me that wry look from over her sunglasses again and replies, "Good point.  We'd best find some shade."

We explore the tiny park for a few moments before settling down under a large, overgrown larch.  It's a little less hot, but the fuzzed-out light still permeates everything, dampening the usually vibrant flowers in the park's beds to muted indigoes, rust reds, and fleshy pinks.  Carolina lays out the blanket and kneels down, almost curling into a ball, as I shuffle down next to her.  A breeze flutters through the leaves, and I think I can hear the ocean if I strain my ears just a bit.

I hand Carolina the guitar.  "You get to play first.  I have some pretty crazy memories of playing instruments in parks and having epiphanies.  I just want to hear you play."

She grins at me.  "Okay, check this out - I was playing around this week with some of those alternate tunings you showed me and I found some chords that give me chills."

I lean back against the larch as she tunes up the guitar and begins to strum.  The smooth wind continues to blow past my face, mussing up my too-long bangs and bringing with it the faint sound of waves crashing ashore, kissing the craggy coast between beaches and singing their siren song.  Mixed with her haunting melodies, I, too, get a chill running like a marimba up and down my spine.

On a day and in a situation like this, it's hard to not be in love with this country, with this town.  On days like this, Tarragona is home.

She hands me the guitar, and my fingers begin to strum as I sing her the only song I can remember off the top of my head that I've written in Spanish.  It's kind of tacky, but at the same time, sort of lovely.  She takes off her sunglasses as I play and sing, and her deep, wet eyes seem almost ready to burst.  I finish and hand the guitar back to her, and she's quiet.

We don't play guitar much today; rather, we talk.  I tell her stories about America, she shares tales of her torn childhood between Spain and Mexico.  After a few hours, we pick up our stuff and head back towards her building.  As we pass a small streetside café, I ask if she'd like to grab some lunch - on me, of course.

Lunch is good.

I'm really quite fond of this beautiful, frail, emerald-eyed girl.