Day 50. Malaga.

One. 9 a.m.
Ah. There has been a travel romance. Not mine- I just saw the aftermath of this one, while having coffee at my hostel this morning. A kid who works at the desk is outside, kissing the hand of a blonde girl with a backpack. Clearly, she is headed off in the direction of the square with the taxis. He is deadly serious as she walks off, and he stands there watching her woefully all the way down the lane. There is despair. Coming and going all day, I have seen him 5 or 10 times at the desk. He looks like a shipwreck.

Two. 10 a.m.
Another great street, and another great plaza. Marques de Lanos, ending in Plza de la Constitucion. This street was designed in 1882, in the style of the Chicago School. I actually like it better than La Rambla in Barcelona. On La Rambla, you are separated from the street fronts on either side by busy and congested streets, and you are essentially confined to the pedestrian median. Here, the street is all yours, storefront to storefront. It's a beautiful street, and a Spanish Plaza at the end where people are gathered, and sitting, and lounging by the fountains- for a minute I thought I was in Italy.

Three. 10:15 a.m.
The fake statue people followed me here. There were just three of them today, though, and they seem to be a club: one Gandalf, one Orc, and one Dwarf costume. I don't know why we are doing Lord of the Rings in Spain. But then, I don't know why we are doing any of these fake statue things.

Four. noon.
On a quest for boots. I know. I already bought boots. But I have a specific need. I suffered pangs of jealousy in Italy, over Italian fashion in general and the tall boots in particular. Almost everyone on the street wore some variation of knee-high boots, with some combination of sweater/dress/long coat on top. The first step towards getting what you want, is being able to name it. I want that look.

Five. 3 p.m.
I am wearing my standard Dansko clogs and beat-up travel jeans as I duck into the PIcasso museum to check the closing time. I am bogged down by a shopping bag holding new boots, and also now Spanish groceries, (I decided Italian Pasta night would be more fun if I could also have a Tapas Night at home.) The guard yawns as I walk in. He could not be more bored. I walk back to my hostel to unload. I put on the new fancy jeans I bought at H & M yesterday, and the new black boots I just bought on sale. I am not sure about this look. I do not wear Italian-style skinny jeans tucked into tall black boots. But the only way to find out whether you can rock a look, is just to go out and wear it like you mean it. All the better if you are somewhere far from home with no permanent witnesses.

Six. 3:20 p.m.
Back at the Picasso Museum, 20 minutes later. The yawning guard, who was pretending to be a statue person 20 minutes ago, is now falling all over himself with welcome. He directs me excitedly to the "tickets" window and practically escorts me up the stairs.

I am keeping the new jeans and boots.

Seven. 4 p.m.
Small communication breakdown: I speak no Spanish, so it's all a guessing game which I don't mind. In a Spanish gourmet shop, buying a present, I see a sign that says "bocadillos." They are like 1.80 euros, so I figure it must be something small. They have one with "jamon york," and since I have developed a ham problem here between Italian prosciutto and Spanish serano ham, I order one. The shopkeeper fires a question at me in Spanish, and when it's clear that I'm baffled by this, she smiles and makes a flipping motion with her hands, so I assume it means "heated."

I thank her, pay, and leave; when I open my bag later, I find a football-sized ham sandwich. Ah- not "heated," but "buttered." There is a good 1/8" thick layer of butter on my ham. Wrong wrong wrong.

But it was tasty.

Eight. 9 p.m.
I just did a bad thing. I decided to go to a tapas place, recommended by my hostel, for dinner. They had a note posted saying, "The puntalitos are great!" So of course I ordered some. I was curious about what they would actually be- some form of vegetable? some kind of bread-y thing? Something with ubiqutious ham?

No. Puntalitos are baby squid. Teeny-tiny fried baby squid.

I am fine with calimari- and if it's sliced in rings and looks like something other than squid, all the better. But these: whole, deep-fried, crispy, BABY squid, no bigger than a quarter. Baby carrots are great; baby corn, baby peas, what have you; miniature vegetables, no problem, but eating baby animals of any kind just seems wrong, wrong, wrong, too. Right?

But they were tasty too.


Nine. 10 p.m.
Last food adventure. On the way home I spot something that looks glazed, crunchy, and sweet in a window. I get a choice of honey or sugar. When I order it in my best Spanish, which is bad, the girl tries to give me ice cream. I finally manage to communicate. When I get it, is....wet bread. I have no idea what it was supposed to be- but, essentially, I have wet bread, with honey on top. Yuk.

But, I have had communication difficulty all through Spain. My sister and I figured out later that I'm used to hearing Mexican Spanish, because I have at least watched Dora the Explorer with my godson and I know a handful of words. Nothing here sounds like Dora the Explorer. I say, "Gracias," and they say, "Glathia." It's tricky. But Analucia is its own place, and so is Barcelona, and well, by now, I'm quite comfortable looking like an idiot anyway.

Day 49: Cordoba. La Mezquita.

Bus to Cordoba: one of my nicest journeys so far. It's about 2 1/2 hours, through olive groves and steep hillsides all the way, passing through villages here and there. My reading material, tragically and prematurely, came to an end last night, including 3 books people gave me along the way, but even better: I have audiobooks on Ipod, so I can stare out the window and just listen.

La Mezquita, the Great Mosque: I needed one last treasure of architectural glory and wonder. And I'm so glad I came. I would have hate to have missed this place. For sheer architectural spatial experience, I've never been anywhere like it. It's the mosque with the forest of columns, with the red-striped double arches at the top. And there are so many that it does feel like a forest, and the hundreds and hundreds of double arches feel like a tree canopy. There are way more of them than I would have thought possible, as far as the eye can see. Standing mid-arch, you look down and see one arch inside another, almost to infinity; if you step sideways, of course the perspective changes, and it's dizzying diagonals of arches veering off in either direction. You want to take a picture every few feet. The rhythm changes when you get to the most important places, and there are niches with poly-loved arches and other kinds of detail. I walked round looking straight up, with my mouth open I think, for a long time.

Despite the spectacular space here, what's on my mind today is religion, with the general theme of "Can't we all just get along?" Because inserted directly into the center of this beautiful forest of columns, is an unspectacular and jarring cathedral, courtesy of the Spanish Inquisition and its aftermath. It's invasive, and it's disharmonious. I am not railing against the Catholic church, or any other church, but it's just such a tangible example of conflict, and conquest, and attempts at subjugation and oppression. This process has been going on back and forth as long as there has been culture, but it seems so tangled, and so timely, here in Andalucian Spain.

Another reminder of conflict: there are more police officers here than I have seen at any point during my trip. Van loads of them, and they're surrounding the mosque-cathedral, and walking around it in clusters, and patrolling the perimeter. I don't know whether there's something up, or whether this is normal behavior, since I am so entirely out of the news loop. But it makes this place feel like contested ground, still.

I have, in fact, 3 pages in my travel journal on this topic, which I will spare you, my friends. But it includes thoughts on why people have been apologizing to me for two months for the radicals who have given Islam such a bad name in recent years, though I have never once broached the subject. It wasn't my intent to travel to so many Islamic places, I just followed the architecture; but I found nothing but welcome and cheerleading for America and Americans, and sincere pain about the conflict, and what it´s done to the relationships between America and places like Indonesia, and Istanbul, and Egypt, and Zanzibar. I can't count the number of people who told me in these places that they were grateful I came, because the threat of terrorism has been so hard on their morale, and their livelihoods, and their opportunities. To that I would say, if you let terrorists dictate where you do and don't go, then you have let terrorism prevail. I am a cautious traveler and I believe in common sense, but I am not about to start living in fear. All of that is a far cry from where I started this morning, at La Mezquita in Spain, but looking at the swarms of security officers and the remnants of the Spanish Inquisition, it feels kind of appropriate. It's a tangled issue, and it has deep roots, and I have no words of wisdom to offer. But it pains me.

On a lighter note, I loved the rest of Cordoba. The old city is really charming; I strolled and shopped and resisted the urge to buy a pair of flamenco dance shoes, and I tried a tapas sampler including octopus, and two kinds of potato salad, and chorizio sausage. Back to Malaga, where I was surprised with a giant H & M at the train station: new clothes, after wearing the same 4 or so bedraggled outfits for weeks....

tomorrow, family time. Off to Brussels and chocolate and lace and Delirium Tremens beer.

Day 48: Alhambra, Alhambra, Alhambra

I think it's one of the most beautiful words, in any language. When I was dreaming of coming here, I'd say it out loud, Alhambra Alhambra Alhambra. In fact, I had one version of this trip based entirely on great place names: Borobudur-Kathmandu-Mumbai-Madagascar-Zanzibar-Istanbul-Azerbaijan-Alhambra. But that one would have left out some crucial spots for world architecture, so I just left the list up in eyeliner on my bathroom mirror, for about two months, because it made me feel good to look at it.

But I digress. Alhambra: truly, a treasure of world architecture. Granada itself is really nice, and the bus trip here was especially a treat. Once you get out of the icky 70's high rises which stretch for miles around Malaga, the countryside turns into rolling hills with olive groves and cherry trees just starting to bloom. There are also orange trees everywhere, for a Mediterranean twist. It gets hillier and rockier as you approach Granada; I hadn't realized it was so close to the Sierra Nevada. And despite the fact that I'm just about on the Mediterranean here, it's chilly.

The Alhambra itself: part city, part fortress, part royal palace, all with a gorgeous view of the mountains and the city down below. To get into the main complex, you walk through the old city part, the Medina, which runs along a royal road lined with cyprus topiaries. The old shops are filled with tourist things; tacky, but then, commerce is what would have been happening here, so it's ok. I started in the Alcazaba, another great word to say, which is the three-towered citadel. It makes the Alhambra look like a ship from a distance. The Alcazaba is very citadel-y, your standard medieval fort with an exceptional view.

What you're really here for, though, is the Nasrid Palaces, where the royal family lived. It's know for ornate, lavish detail, lovely vaulted spaces, the intricate and practical carved privacy screens for the women in the royal harem, and the water features everywhere to cool the air. There are two legendary courtyards here: the court of the Myrtles, with a large reflecting pool, and the Court of the Lions. The Court of the Lions, my friend, is what I came to see. It's a lush, richly carved, sumptuous but slightly whimsical place- whimsical because of the famous fountain, in which a giant stone bowl is supported on the backs of a ring of gentle and smiling lions. From this fountain, rills of water representing paradise flow in the four cardinal directions, capturing light and animating the space. The fountain is even more remarkable because, technically, in an Islamic household, there shouldn't be any representations of people or animals. Nasrid art has some different precedents though, and there's a connection to Judaism and the Temple of Solomon, so it's really special. It's an amazing thing. I have been antsy to stand in this space for ages, even if it meant jostling my way through hordes of tour groups to see it.

A further complication: I have a small camera situation. I have bad Camera Karma; this is my third camera in three years. The first met with an unfortunate water bottle catastrophe; the second fell victim to a bottle of linseed oil with a loose cap. I have learned to purchase idiot protection on my cameras, since I carry one at all times, so this will be fine- but this one, I dropped. Truth be known, I dropped it because I was carrying a small paper bag of Italian dolci in my hand, and snacking on said dolci, when I came across a palazzo in Rome that needed photographing. I didn't drop it far, and it didn't look damages, but that night when I tried to pop it open to charge the battery, it was stuck. This means two things: I can't charge it, and I can't swap out the almost-full memory card, without intervention. And I haven't found anyone yet who can intervene.

This is kind of a loaves-and-fishes situation: it should have given out ages ago, either due to overuse of the battery, or the 1200 pictures already on this particular memory card. This camera, since The Fall, has made it through half of Rome, Florence, Siena, more Florence, Barcelona, and Granada. All along I have been saying, please please please, don't give out before the Court of the Lions. Anything but the Court of the Lions. After that, I'll just draw pictures and buy postcards. Just let me get one picture of the lions.

So today, I was positively giddy. I was giddy to have made it this far with my limping camera, giddy to have made it seven weeks to Spain, giddy, to be standing in the Alhambra Alhambra Alhambra. Giddy for my 1 p.m. entry to the Nasrid Palaces, even in the crush of people. By the time I made it in, and through to the Court of the Myrtles, I was actually bouncing up and down on my tiptoes, with giddiness. Lions lions lions, Court of the Lions, I can't wait to see the Lions, and I round the corner, and

There are no lions in the Court of the Lions.

There is only a giant box, covering the fountain's bowl, and a sign saying, ¨renovations.¨ The lions are all way being polished, and the fountains are being cleaned. There is no water in the paradise fountains. The rills are just dry ditches. I am left standing in the courtyard, pouting, like someone has just stolen my lollipop and kicked over my sand castle. No lions. No lions, in the Court of the Lions.

My list of monuments under renovation so far this trip:
Borobudur (part of it is always in scaffolding being preserved)
Prambanan (1/4 being preserved and roped off)
Suleymaniye mosque (closed entirely)
the Parthenon (scaffolding)
the Temple of Athena Nike (invisible)
the pyramid at Saqqara (interior closed)
the Pantheon (scaffolding)
Sagrada Familia (total construction zone.)

All of this I have taken gracefully, with the view that preservation is a good thing, and that taking care of these places takes priority over the needs of visitors. But the lions...the lions are the last straw. I want my lions. I want my rills.

Oh well. The rest of the Alhambra, in fact, is worth all of the effort. I'll just have to come back. I need to come back anyway- I think the effect of all of those fountains and water features would be much more dramatic on a hot day, when their purpose is clear. The carvings, the craftsmanship, the serenity of all of those royal spaces is so powerful that even the crush of people doesn't diminish the experience. And the gardens: small pocket gardens, interior courtyard gardens, linear gardens lining the walls of the Alcazaba; so placid, so regal. I would, in fact, like to see this place in the summer, with everything blooming.

One last architectural wonder on the agenda- tomorrow, the Great Mosque at Cordoba. Actually, I had it on the agenda, then decided I needed to slow down and spend some extra time in Grenada and Malaga. After today, though, it's back on. It will involve 3 hours on a bus and 2 hours on a train, but I think it will be worth it. I need one more burst of brilliance and beauty and architectural treasure. Today was great, but I feel like I started to sneeze, and then couldn't. I'm unsatisfied. No cathartic lions. After Spain, it's on to family time and mother-daughter-sister bonding in Brussels; tomorrow, really, ends the big architectural wonders tour. So...Cordoba. It's on. It is SO on.

Day 47, Barcelona to Malaga

One thing I just love about Spain: Time. There doesn't seem to be any. Or if there is, nobody's keeping track. When I checked in at my hostel, the guy in charge gave me a big fat notebook of fun things to do. ¨Read it at your leisure, of course,¨ he said. ¨This is Spain.¨ And indeed. For all the rambling and promenading, nobody seems to be in a big hurry. Of course, I don't have a job, so I'm not feeling any pressure, but it's definitely different here. I got up this morning at 8:45, made it out the door by a leisurely 9:30, and by 10 am, lots of places around me are still struggling to take down chairs and start serving coffee.

I like a place where I am an over-achiever, in terms of the wake-up procedure. Since grad school, left to my own devices with no alarm clock, I will routinely sleep 10 hours a night, for days on end. I used to have a job where I was at work, smiling, and conversing with middle schoolers by 6:45 or 7 am. I did this for years, on probably 6 or 7 hours of sleep a night. I'm assuming my current pattern will eventually balance out, and I'll be replenished, and start waking up at reasonable hours. But for now, a toast to the Spanish, for encouraging me to sleep in.

Best $12 I have spent in a long time: The Miro Museum. It's on Montujuic, in Barcelona's steep, ritzy Jewish quarter, and it's a beautiful walk up there. It's so steep, in fact, the city has thoughtfully provided dozens of outdoor escalators to get people up to all of these museums and parks up there. My favorite thing about the museum visit was all of the groups of preschoolers. I counted 4 or 5 separate classes, the cutest of them all dressed in red. They hopped and ambled up the stairs and some of them wandered in circles while their patient museum educator was talking (thinking of you, Jessica R!) but most of them were enthralled. And that's why I love Miro so much- accessible even to tiny people, but so multi-layered and complex that adults can stand in front of a piece for hours, pondering love and longing and loss and the fragility of existence and tenderness and war and patriotism and peace...and on and on.

The sculptures were stunning, I thought- spare and simple but really, really potent. The big idea I took from my sculpture class last semester is that scuplture is a lot, I mean a lot, harder than it looks, in terms of proportion and balance and movement and joinery. Miro's are wonderful. There was one called ¨Monument in the Middle of the Ocean to the Glory of the Wind.¨ There was another one, ¨Homme i Dona en la Nuit,¨ with two slightly different barstools, one upturned, with a crescent moon. One of the paintings I loved was something like, ¨Numbers and Letters Attracted by a Spark,¨ and dozens of other beautiful titles. I had 3 stops to make today before leaving for Malaga, but I didn´t make it past the museum.

After that, one last walk around the Barri Goti, during which I got lost one last time. (I´ve been playing the game here in which I always go toward the darkest, narrowest, crookedest streets, on the hunch that that will take me deeper in and lead me to the interesting things. Twice, from different places, it's taken me directly to my hostel, without looking at signs.) Kind of a long journey to Malaga, although it shouldn´t have been; getting to the airport involved a 20 minute walk, a subway, a city train, and a 10 minute bus ride to the terminal. I was prepared to do an elaborate procedure in Malaga to get to the train station, check my big luggage, find a bus, and walk from the city center to my hostel, but in the dark and the rain, I said, screw it. Cab. So worth it.

Tonight, one of the best meals yet, especially in Spain. My hostel has a bar in the foyer, and one of the desk guys (improbably named Fabio, of all things) had cooked dinner. They take turns. Some sort of Spanish soup with greens and veggies, and a giant plate of baked tomato-potato-veggie deliciousness. Oh, and two homemade sangrias. Tomorrow, the real reason for my trip to Spain: the Alhambra. Update soon.

Day 46? That can´t be right...Barthalona.

In Barthalona. My friend Greg thaid it like that for fun, and now I can't thtop. Try it, it's dangerous...but really, I love the way they say it here. Bar-che-lo-na, with a ¨che¨ like in ¨cello.¨ Sitting now in Parc Guell, and it's a sunny and breezy 60 degrees this morning in Spain.

I have stumbled onto another really nice place to stay, in the Barri Gotic, the old gothic core of the city. It's a bit like Stone Town, actually, with a maze of narrow streets, and all the landmarks disappearing when the storefronts close. I got here yesterday and had my first almost-disaster of planning. The directions to my hostel were really, really explicit- which is good because, from the street, it's completely invisible. So, in fact, is the street itself. There's a row of graffiti-covered garage-style doors, and a small number "4" and a bell that says, "Marcela 3A." The door itself is cut into one of these larger doors, so it's hidden, too. I ring the bell and...nada. I ring it several times....nada again, and I am standing in pickpocket central, with all of my luggage. I don't care if they take all my clothes at this point- it's all just laundry, really- but I will fight tooth and nail for my Turkish boots and Zanzibar presents and Italian groceries.

I re-group. I drag my luggage to the first place I can find to sit down. I have a sandwich and a coke and decide, if I can't get into my hostel, to just find an new one nearby and eat the cost. It doesn't come to that. I drag my luggage back down the winding streets to the hidden street and the secret door, and by great good luck, this South African guy named Clinton is there to let me in. Clinton is my new best friend, because there is no elevator, and he cheerfully carried my biggest bag up three flights. I was just going to abandon it for three days, it's ridiculous, but he was still smiling when he got to the top and just said, ¨"That's quite the heavy one, isn't it!" Bless him. And he showed me my room, which is fun and really funky, and he takes out a map. He writes all over it- the place with the 75 cent champagne, and the place with the cool fountains, and the subway stop and the two towers I need to look for to get there, and the best tapas place.

He shows me something else I didn't know on the map. Barcelona used to be three villages, and you can see them still on the city map with lots of small and winding streets. They were knitted together at some point in an expansion called "l'Eixample," with a grid in between to unify the whole city. It's really easy to tell when you've stepped out of one of the villages into the grid. Here, the buildings are pulled way back from the corners at all of the intersections in gentle curves, and the area in the intersections looks more like the shape of a roundabout. Most streets have huge medians, which are either for pedestrians or huge bike lanes.

The most famous street here, La Rambla (or Las Ramblas, if you string a few of them together) is for promenading. In fact, this city seems to have a different take on the public realm than Italy did. Here it's all about movement. Promenading is a big deal, and the public spaces I've seen are either these long, wide pedestrian districts, or full-on parks. There are little expanses here and there, plaças, but they're not really gathering spots. In the pedestrian areas, there are cafes with tables, but no benches to speak of for the general public. You're meant to keep moving. The word "Rambla" has something to do with the movement of water, but it sounds like ramble, and that's what people are doing. There are different Ramblas scattered about the city, in addition to the main one. Another "movement" word- there's also a street nearby called the "Passeig de Gracia," which I love.

My thoughts on Las Ramblas: I´m sorry. I don't like it. But it has nothing to do with Las Ramblas itself- it's one of the great streets of the world, and I know this because it's in my Great Streets book. The problem: it's infested, just infested, with those fake statue people. For those of you who don't know this personal quirk of mine, THESE PEOPLE CREEP ME OUT. They creep me out like clown dolls. I pass them and I feel awkward, and then embarrassed for them, and I wonder why they feel like standing still entitles them to any of my money? There are some clever ones around here. There's a creepy soldier in camouflage holding a rifle, which is even scarier; there are some headless bodies with floating hats and spectacles; some eerie all-in-black-lace ghost women. Right now in the park I'm watching a caveman put on makeup for his ¨homo barcelonus" diorama. He's been doing this for 20 minutes. But again I say, they are not street performers, they are just standing still. When I walk past them, I always have the look on my face that Will Ferrell has in Elf, when he's testing the Jack-in-the-Boxes. Creepy. So, Las Ramblas on a Sunday means dodging these people every 15 or 20 feet, and trying to snake through the crowds gathered all round them, waiting for them to ...what?? What is it they think they're going to do??

In other news: pickpockets in Barcelona. They are legendary. I have found them, in the form of Gaudi ticket sales people. They separated me from 10 € today to get into Sagrada Familia, but didn't tell me in advance that, due to construction, I would be able to tour all the open spots in less than 2 minutes. You're not allowed to use the stairs, but they will sell you a ticket for an elevator ride. Mean mean mean. I wanted to love it, but between the jackhammers and scaffolding and crane action, you really can't see much of anything in there. Some of the details, like the beautiful doors and the strange sculptures, are worth a close look. Some of it looks like...a drizzle castle.

Pickpocketed again at Casa Mila, but that one's only 6 € and totally worth it. Again, strange. After Parc Guell, and Sagrada Familia, and now Casa Mila, I'm starting to wonder about this man. I love Gaudi in theory: I love Art Nouveau; I love his color theory; I love that he tried to work outside the box and push the envelope. Up close, though, it's all so snaky and reptilian and spinal. It's supposed to be organic, but it's a little unsettling. On to Casa Batilo, my last Gaudi stop of the day. The thieving scoundrels and hoarders of culture at the gate want 18 €. For reference, the Uffizi is 10; the Louvre is 9, a ticket to the pyramids is like $6, at ticket to the Acropolis, or the Roman Forum, is like 7€. Leaving Italy I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with myself over the travel budget, so I decided to skip that last one. Criminal. Gaudi is everywhere here, though, and so is Art Nouveau, and it adds a really nice atmosphere to the city. So I won't complain about them trying to capitalize on it. Much.

Tonight: budget picnic, delicious actually, in front of the cathedral. I found the perfect antidote to the fake statue people: three of my favorite street performers of all time. They actually had a dance-hall piano out there, and a banjo and a trumpet. The lead singer looked like Kurt Cobain but sounded like Louis Armstrong. They sang "Makin' Whoopie" in front of the Barcelona Cathedral. A perfect moment.

And now: off in search of the 75 cent champagne place.

Last day in Italy

Rejoining the urban design and public realm treatise I started way back in Italy:

The whole public realm thing is even more clear in Siena than it is in Florence. Since it's a gothic city, and essentially a fortress, the streets are pleasantly narrow, and the buildings are all fairly tall. Walking through the streets you get a real sense of shelter, of protection, of compression- and most of all, community. You're not in a car, you're face to face with your neighbors and shopkeepers and elected officials and family and tourists, all the time, and everyone rises to the occasion and behaves accordingly. In a place like this, you can feel the ¨We're all in this together¨ spirit. If the enclosure of the street starts to feel a bit much, you just duck down one of the slanting arched passageways into the Piazzo del Campo, which is a sudden vast and sunny expanse. Here, the behavior changes dramatically, The openness and wide, slanting piazza seems to make people a little giddy. Tiny people start spinning or jumping, teenagers do teenager things, and everyone else just plops down to enjoy it all, either at a cafe table or onto the brick piazza itself. There are eleven streets leading off this piazza- but they're pretty well hidden and tucked away. The buildings surrounding the piazza make a varied, but consistent, wall around it all, so it's a really nice street room. A huge one.

And so, to wrap up this whole urban design tangent, we need more of this, everywhere. Raleigh's working on it, and making some good progress. More pedestrian, thoughtfully considered, dynamic spaces, wehre people in the community interact, face-to-face. It's much harder to participate in civic life, and feel like a part of the fabric of the community, when you have to spend your days moving from enclosed house to enclosed car to enclosed office, and back. I'm all for more truly public places for people to gather- informally, to have a drink on the sidewalk, or riotously, like a carnivale parade, or politically, whether it's a health care reform rally or a Tea Party fest. We all know which side of this I'm on, I just went off on Sarah Palin again, but one of the great things about a democracy is that everyone has a voice. You don't like something? Speak up. State your case. It keeps us balanced. And where does all of this healthy activity take place? The public realm. It needs expanding.

Back, then, for one more night in Florence, and tomorrow to Spain. One week in Italy: not nearly enough. But I'm leaving with some lovely, lovely* sights tucked away in my memory, and a shopping bag full of Italian groceries, which I will share when I get home.

*I am throwing the double ¨lovely¨ in for Arrie. She and Jess, two of my favorite Raliegh-ites, have been following my trip on a map this whole time, and commenting on my progress. When Arrie mentioned they need to do some catching up on both the blog and the map, I suggested they just make it a drinking game, and take a drink everytime I say ¨lovely,¨or change cities or something, and then guzzle for a bike crash or a failed Italian love affair (not sure which is more scarring in the long run.) If you´re in the same catch-up boat, I invite you to do the same. Lovely lovely lovely.