Normally, vacations are suppose to be fun and exciting, full of laughter and hilarity and smiles and adventure and awesomeness. Normally, one does not liken a vacation to the barracks or a war in some tropical wasteland while one is waylaid by vicious guerilla fighters. Normally, vacations are suppose to have a calming and satisfying effect…like one has woken from a pleasant slumber with a very pleasant dream. Normally, normally, normally.
This vacation has been far from normal. As I am typing my “adventures” on a day to day basis [Spain has free Internet. France does not] it feels like I’m doctumenting my last moments in a war or something or writing my dying momentos while I’m bleeding to death on a battlefield.
It feels more exciting or at least suspenseful if I write about my vacation when I get home, and I shall keep to that promise; however, this injustice shall no longer be ignored!
It rained in Barcelona today. Apparently, July’s and August’s in Barcelona are exceedingly hot, and if we were here a week earlier, it would have been a scorching desert. Remember about that one blog I wrote about about Thanh and I running in the rain and how we got wet? Well, consider that the Mojava…Mojavo…mojave…Desert- whatever. The rain was pounding, pouring. Our clothes were incredibly wet, and my uncle made us tour Barcelona because we HAD to, because we were going to leave, and what was a vacation without touring such a wonderful and vibrant city? Walking, slipping, and almost tripping from the rain, winding around twisted corners and getting lost, trying to listen to inscrutable instructions from the locals with a stupidly lost look on our faces. The best part of the entire trip was going to the beach, which was amazingly clean.
For lunch, we ate at this kebab place. Dude, if looks could kill or at least if poisoning people were legal, we’d be massacred in Texas Chainsaw Massacre style. They either hated foreigners because they get a lot of inconsiderate ones, or they just hated us. Eh, whatever.
Then we went home and slept and that was almost the end of the day, but then I forgot some important details that my dear brother and cousins reminded me of.
The taxi driver. Ah, taxi drivers. The stereotypical New Yorker with the Brooklyn accent and whatever-screw-you attitude. Huh, either the stereotype is wrong, or my taxi driver was exceptionally cool. He’s from Spain/barcelona, lived in London and in the East coast of the United States. Cool accent, really nice, and gave us a pretty foreboding heads-up for the rest of the trip. Hey, Barcelona is chaotic, right? Serpentine streets and confuzzling streetsigns and streetlights that make you wonder if you’re Alice in Wonderland. According to him, Barcelona is chaotic. Rome is 5 chaotics…traffic’s there so terrifying that you need to defy grammar to describe how horrific it is. I’m scared, and am mentally in the fetal position sucking my thumb.
Oh right. thanks chi Nghi for telling me about the Berkeley thing. I don’t want to be in the yearbook, so yeah. 
Email me if you want to talk privately.
Okay, catch you guys later, either sometime in summer or a couple years later in hell/heaven.
Goodbye.
My brother is cute/cool.
Frownyface cousin is also cool but likes to wear underwear on her head…and is evil.
And Martin is well and perveted as always. Plus he still plays hecka games. mass effect. ftw.
