Barcelona, what a wonderful, beautiful, clean, easily navigable city you are. You really know the way to a city girl’s heart.

Once I shut down the part of my brain that is always working (it is possible to do such a thing, at least for a few hours a day), I had such a nice time there. I am a walker by nature, and fortunately my ankle was behaving very well this trip. I walked miles in the sunshine, and I took pictures, and also I sat in beautiful parks, and I said, “Hola,” a lot and smiled at people, and I saw some cool historical things but not too many, because I could not bear to spend the sunshine-y portions of the day inside for too long. I had great hosts, as well, new friends made in an instant. Everyone I met was smart and funny! Expats, I do so love them.

I have to say I enjoyed Barcelona more than Rome, even though I know Rome is just so awesome and gorgeous and impressive, and Barcelona is relatively quaint in comparison. But Rome stressed me out more. Everything moved as quickly as New York, and it seemed like less rules applied. It was exciting but maybe I don’t need excitement when I go on vacation. Maybe I just want to sit in the park and look at pretty old things and smile at people and eat a delicious sandwich. Maybe I just want a goddamn ham sandwich, you guys. Maybe that’s all I really want in this life. A ham sandwich.

Now I’m back and my brain feels crisp and ready and I can see some chapters forming in my head. Or at least the structure of the chapters, which to me feels like the greatest challenge of writing a personal non-fiction book, because the information is already there, just waiting for the author to shape it. I don’t want to be experimental for the sake of doing something interesting, but I can’t help but want to make it feel a little different.

Because at a base level, we are all just so boring. Your sophomore year of college is not interesting. That internet date you just went on is not interesting. Your text messages (both sent and received) are not interesting. Your sleeping patterns are not interesting. Your vagina is not interesting. Your penis is not interesting. That terrible thing that happened to you might be sort of interesting but I think probably it is closer to just sad, and I will totally listen to you talk about it and be your friend and love you and support you but that does not mean a book needs to be written about it.

Anyone who thinks their story is interesting is almost always wrong.

(Weirdly though, every story about your mother is almost always interesting.)

I can’t tell you how many people (usually either cab drivers or super rich assholes) have said to me, “You should write a book about me.” And then, even when I protest, they tell me their story anyway, and I can assure you it is never an interesting one. The only thing that is ever really fresh and exciting is the telling of it.

Because every story has been told before, the past has been rewritten a million times. Now it’s all about the angle, the way the light hits it.

(01/18/11) | 2 Comments »