It’s a cloudy day, our last day in town, and so the perfect day to see museums and
galleries. Mike has his list of things he wants to do and I have mine. But first he takes out an advance on his VISA card. He insists that he wants us to take turn taking out larger withdrawals to save of money transaction fees. That means he will have all the money for a while, 
leaving me living on his handouts until it’s my turn. I’m wary of that idea but I agree to give it a try to save money.My first stop is the Picasso Gallery. Picasso has always been one of my favourite artists, not only because of his originality but because he constantly changed his style and techniques. Amongst many other works, I love the power of Guernica, the great painting of the Nazi bombing of the Basques that hangs in the General Assembly of the United Nations.
He was cool too. I once read an account of an art critic and fan who came to interview him at his villa near Barcelona. They were having tea on Picasso’s patio. The critic mentioned that he had seen a painting at a show that he would like to see again. Picasso said he still owned it and suggested he could go see it in his attic while their tea was steeping. Leaning against a wall in the attic, the critic saw a stack of new charcoal drawings on canvas in a style he had never seen before and he became quite excited. As he brushed off the dust from the outer one he utterly destroyed it. The charcoal had not been set. He almost died. He returned, white-faced and shaky-kneed, to the patio. Upon seeing him return, Picasso jumped up and asked if he was alright. The critic was on the verge of tears as he explained what he had just done. “Oh, is that all? Well let’s sit down and have some tea,” was Picasso’s response.
The Picasso Gallery has 24 rooms, but there are great gaps in the collection in spite of the volume of Picasso’s work. The whole exhibition feels a bit sterile too. I cross the city to visit the Joan Miro Gallery, an artist I know little about in comparison. I have heard that Miro spent his whole life learning to paint like a child, a noble ambition. The collection is more impressive and colourful, but perhaps if I had studied him it wouldn’t be. 
After the galleries I call Llorenc again, as he had mentioned yesterday that he might be available to meet with me again. But he has changed his mind. A prospective boyfriend of his apparently returned to town last night and wants to meet up with him today. Now I am clearer about his disinterest yesterday. Still, he wants me to write to him from France and I agree to.
Back at the hostel, I strike up a conversation with a stunningly handsome young hunk from Brazil named Rico who has just checked in. He is friendly and shy and wants to talk but speaks only Portuguese and Spanish. Still, we struggle for an hour and do surprisingly well. I learn he is 19 and meeting his water polo team here in Barcelona, which explains his incredible arms. It’s his first trip away from home and he seems quite lonely. He invites me to watch him play at 9am tomorrow. It really hurts but I have to decline his offer. Mike and I should be rolling out of town by that point.
He wants to be friends. He’s warm and open, but so innocent that I doubt his interest is meant in a gay way, but that doesn’t stop me from fantasizing what I would like to do with him in private. Still, there is no way I’m going to make a move on him. With me being 36, he is almost young enough to be my son. I promise him I will send a postcard from somewhere down the line.
Between the frustration fantasies of being with Llorenc and now Rico, I decide to make one last visit to the tubs. I return to the same sauna that was so active on Sunday night, but it is much quieter on this Tuesday night. There’s no one around but young hustlers and older men. I eventually meet another fellow my age, a tall, handsome fellow in town for a conference. His name is Leif Villars-Dahl, a 34-year-old lawyer from Oslo. He’s a pleasant guy to be around and a more likely friend than either Llorenc or Rico. He leaves with me and accompanies me back to our hostel where Mike is expecting me.
Mike wants to try the Pakistani restaurant again, and Leif is happy to join us for the company. We call Blake to see if he can join us, but he suggests instead that we meet him afterwards at the club named Gris uptown at 11:30. But by the time we get to the restaurant, order, eat and pay it is already 11:40 and neither Mike or Leif want to stay out longer. I decided not to go out on my own. We are cycling out of town early tomorrow and I don’t really hold up long anyway, in the smoky, noisy confusion of a dance club. Leif walks us back to our hostel. He gives me his address and phone number and invites me to stay with him in Oslo. I tell him we aren’t planning to go north of Copenhagen at this point but one never knows.
It bothers me that we have stood Blake up. I promise myself to write to him tomorrow or the next day to apologize.
PHOTO 1: another interesting facade downtown
PHOTO 2: entrance of Picasso Museum
PHOTO 3: inside Picasso Museum
PHOTO 4: Miro Gallery
PHOTO 5: University of Barcelona
PHOTO 6: Town Hall, Barcelona
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