I need to make more time in my life.

To do…y’know other stuff.

The next two Spain travel logs should be coming in from my travel companions. Please heap all complaints about “why is it taking so long?”, onto them.

*Snigger*

June 22: Barcelona, Spain

“Those white pants are what gives Phil his super powers” (Neil, in Spain)

Before I came to Spain, I purchased a pair of white linen pants from Marks and Spencer.

They were awesome. Beyond awesome.

So awesome that when I first wore them in Spain, I couldn’t stop raving about their awesomeness. (E.g. “I’m going to wear these pants every single day for the rest of my life”).

They were airy, breezy, cool, and let’s be honest, made my butt look good.

Those trousers were so awesome, in fact, that both my travel companions decided they needed trousers just like mine.

(“We can’t all wear the same thing,” I said exasperatedly).

Barcelona, then, originally planned as a 1-day pit stop before France, ended up as a 1-day mission to find two pairs of white pants.

“They’re not quite the same as yours,” Neil said, posing in his new pants, twisting and turning before the mirror.

“How very European,” I said.

The city of Barcelona—from what we could see, which is to say, very little—is a lot like Montreal: A bustling metropolitan area, mixing the old with the new, plenty of cafes and restaurants and transit systems, and shops upon shops upon shops.

Other than the partially successful mission to locate two pairs of white trousers, there was little we could do since we were still lugging around our possessions. Barcelona was only a stop on our way to France. Dan had already spent some time here, and we were all eager to spend time with the French.

I do remember a few things. Dan wanted to visit the Plaza de Toros Monumental de Barcelona, an interesting brick building, constructed with a mixture of Moor and Byzantine influence, and known as the unique location in Barcelona where bullfighting events are held.

And then we headed to the train station, where we discovered that there were no more train tickets to Narbonne, France, and we would have to take a bus there.

So we had to wait. Until 1 AM.

We explored the area near the bus station, which was a little bit farther away from downtown, but still not suburbia. We stopped by the supermarket, bought milk, cheese, bread, and cherries — then ate dinner, sitting on a bench and watching the world go by.

I suppose for the people that passed before us, it was rather amusing to see a white guy, an indian guy, and an asian guy, all speaking with American accents, sitting on a bench with backpacks and suitcases arranged all around, and passing each other plastic cups filled with what looked suspiciously liked white skim milk.

You just don’t get that kind of wholesome fun these days.

Time for a lesson in logic:

We made it to the bus station on time.

The bus left for Narbonne on time.

The bus arrived in Narbonne on time.

We did not arrive in Narbonne on time.

June 19-22: Lloret de Mar, Spain

“Okay,” Dan said, turning around mid-stride to stare at me and Neil, who were characteristically trailing behind, “Does everyone have their soap packets?”

At that particular moment, we were walking back to our hotel, located in the resort town of Lloret del Mar, on the eastern coast of Spain.

We were also out of soap.

Hence the question about soap packets, which we had acquired earlier from the hotel management and, not wanting to return to our rooms, decided to cart them around for the rest of the day.

I felt around in my rear pocket. “Yeah.”

Neil patted his shorts. “Um…,” he said, “I think I lost mine.”

We all groaned. For whatever reason, soap was hard to come by in Spain, especially in a resort town.

This predicament, by the way, would be remedied in unimaginably wondrous ways when we purchased—for the bargain price of 2.50 Euros—what was to be known for the duration of the trip as the Holy Grail of liquid soap.

But more on that later.

Lloret de Mar was not my kind of place.

By day, it was a beach town. Near the hotel, there were two beaches we frequented. They were filled with frat-boy-looking twenty-somethings, attractive tanned women, and a fair number of orange-skinned retirees.

By night, the old men and women, and children all retired to their rooms, and the night-life began. Of course, by night-life, I mean lots of noisy clubs with rainbow strobey light and thumpidy-thump music, and scantily clad women, dressed in intriguing furry boots.

“Do you want to see tits?”, someone waving a handful of pamphlets asked as we walked by.

“Sorry,” Neil grunted, “We’re going somewhere.”

He persisted. “You don’t like big tits?” he asked Dan.

“I love—love—big tits,” Dan said (a little bit too enthusiastically), “But we’re going somewhere.”

I just smiled at the man and said nothing.

I remember two things about our brief stint in Lloret de Mar.

The first had me and Neil waking up at 4:50 AM and walking to the main beach, just so I could get some photos of the sunrise. You don’t get those kinds of sunrises in Oxford or London— you know, the kind where the sun peaks over the ocean, and golden rays stream towards you, glittering off the water. What a sight!

My second memory was of the three of us, sitting at the outside patio of our hotel, enjoying the night breeze, and enjoying a rather large bottle of Canadian Whiskey we’d bought for 10 Euros at the local supermarket (alcohol here was nearly cheaper than water). Most of the hotels inhabitants were gone, and it was just us, a bottle of booze, and more snacks than you could shake a fist at.

After Lloret de Mar, we headed towards Barcelona.

It’s been so long.

What can I say? What can I write? How do I start?

After taking almost 2 weeks off work—my first real vacation since I was a child—I’ve been trying to get back into the groove again. It’s actually quite difficult.

Mathematical research tends to proceed in cycles of highs and lows. After a while, you start to recognize the onset of another ‘low’. And you stop fighting it.

Here is an excerpt from Women in mathematics by Claudia Henrion:

I’ll be taking a page from Claudia’s book (heh) and over the course of this oncoming ‘low’, I’ll be getting back in contact with old collaborators and contacting some potentially new ones. I’ve been in negotiations with a colleague on how we want to arrange some publications, and so I’ll also be putting aside the current work so I can begin to write and arrange the forthcoming articles.

I also have some potentially fantastic plans for revamping the teaching at Oxford (circa 1096), which arose from my experiences with the students this year.

All very random work thoughts, though.

Have you noticed that I’ve slowly permeated my blog with more and more work-related posts over the course of the past year?

It’s not that I don’t have personal thoughts to share. It’s just that it’s been getting harder and harder for me to arrange them in any coherent form.

I do miss those days when I was a teenager, and when my little personal anecdotes and streams of angst-ridden whinging would naturally pass from my brain to the keyboard.

Is there a reason why it’s gotten so hard to share?