Catalan Shit

I started melting down in Barcelona. Life was great but I wasn't enjoying it.

So we left the city and landed on the coast. The moment that we stepped out of the car we felt lighter... happy... on holiday.

Roses is a holiday town. The Mediterranean smells like seafood, not just fish guts. We spent hours on the rocks in the sun, diving into the ocean, watching fish and wind surfers capsizing.

We couch surfed with a school teacher named Quim. His house was a mess, because on the weekends he likes to party. We arrived in the evening as Quim was raving in the forest the night prior. At about midnight he took us and a cyclist from Brittany to a Reggae Bar on the beach in the middle of nowhere where his ex-students were getting high with the parents of his current students. Over dinner of fruit and salted cucumbers, Quim told us all about the Catalan tradition of shitting logs at Christmas and why the Spanish Government are fucking bastards. He also told us to go to Cadecque, so we did.

It was a pebble beach. We nailed some bad coffee which was actually enjoyable and began to come to life. Spanish folk music was in the air at the market and we spent the rest of the day eating apricots and cherries while walking around the peninsula and swimming naked. We absorbed an abundance of prana from the elements - sun, ocean and sand. I did a Rain Drop (usually an oil massage) for Lauren on the beach and the energy was electric.

Our time on the Costa Brava was truly a holiday within a holiday.

On Leaving Paris

I was beginning to wonder whether I'd enjoy European cities at all on this trip. I'm a different person from the happy go lucky young version of myself who traversed this continent 5 years ago, drinking beer, cycling and chasing God. I've closed some doors, and opened many more. Beer, for example, was an exciting proposition, a purpose even, in 2008. But the scene has exploded in Australia since then. We have so many options. I'm overstimulated and uninterested. This is an insight into my introversion. The Notre dam is entirely uninteresting to me. But the Sacre coure, up on the hill with its smooth domes and symmetry, its focus on a singular mural has me captivated. Less is more. Not so much has changed. I still find God in the quiet places of the forest of my mind. Even now I like to consume culture through my mouth. But I'm more particular. I know what I like and don't like. Europe is a portal to the past. The way of life is as fixed as those immortal Roman pillars that dominate those cities, carrying the heavy load of past struggle and success intertwined in the portraits. Old stories adorn the louvre, depicting hope and great struggle, centralised around the beautiful Jesus story which in this age of connectedness seems like a small piece of the puzzle which worked in a certain way for so long even when in many ways we missed the point of his mission to reveal oneness. The food traditions are so fixed here. Breakfast is a non-event. Coffee and cigarettes are consumed after meals. Lunch is between 12 and 1 with dinner much later, but of course, the food is cooked! Whilst indulging in our habit of seeking out specialty coffee in the morning, we were informed that France would become the number one specialty coffee nation within 5 years, because French people drink French coffee. Italians are harder to contribute to, because they "invented" espresso, the books are closed. We were told that Australians have a similar arrogance. Once you think you have it, you've lost it. It is the glorification of the past that traps us there. If something has always been a certain way, it is probably time to enter a new paradigm. There are too many stories of war and poverty in circulation, perpetually recreating. I dream of something new. I wonder what the art of the future will depict? Using war machines for agriculture, playing with wild animals, extra terrestrial communication, shamanic energetic connection to the divine. I hope so. When we are free from the idea of scarcity and separation, life will really begin. Perhaps the progressive Scandinavian countries will be a source of inspiration. But I did enjoy Paris. It is a large, old city, making no apologies for flamboyance, class and arrogance. The arrogance is something else. They don't need to prove anything. Its dirty, there are immigrants selling rubbish, its touristic and grey but it doesn't matter. Paris is Paris, they say. We had a kiss under the Eiffel tower before our anniversary and an Indian man presented us with a rose. This brilliantly fulfilled my habit of finding flowers for Lauren on the change of each season. If he was an adorable old French man with a beret, we would have had no hesitation in paying the 2 Euros he was asking. But the Indian accent was too fresh and we turned it down.