Last night was my first night back in Barcelona after a great orientation session in Madrid. There are some folks in Spain who've got incredible research projects planned. I'm the only one on a 3 month grant, since I am the only Scholar Award winner for journalism, but I think after 6 months abroad prior to Spain both Phil and I will be content finding a place we can call home (fingers crossed). But let me also add that we both need travel and change of scenery, so we are not taking these great European opportunities for granted! Not for one minute, which is why I need to be brief, since there is a huge parade going on that I wanted to go see.

Today I decided to get back into the running routine with a bit more vigor than I have the past few weeks. I got up, planned out an all-clad running route of 7.5 miles, and tied up my sneakers. It was perfectly warm, and people are out in full force since it's the Catalunyan independence day today and all shops are closed. Needless to say, I ran down Passeig de Gracia, turned on Avenida Diagonal and then I skipped onto San Joan for a long straight stretch down past the Parque Ciutadella and onto the boardwalk. By that time I needed a stop and stretch under a nice big tree. After doing some ab stuff and stretching my sore too-much-walking-in-Madrid-and-Barcelona legs, I rolled over to do some push-ups. Just as I got up from them, I noticed something to the right side of my hand. A very large knife. A sharp one. I leaped onto my feet and grabbed my sunglasses, ipod, and keys and looked all around me. I thought maybe it was some weird tourist trap trick... but no one was there. How on earth did I not see a silver blade lying next to me on the grass??? Still feeling quite baffled by this. I didn't touch it, thinking it could be major evidence in some case going on right now - imagination is a powerful thing - and then I thought it was probably just a little kid's meat cutting knife. He probably made his 8 year old crush a bocadillo and brought his mom's best knife to impress her. Who knows, maybe that is what little Spaniards do in their free time...

The distance run

On rainy days like this it sometimes takes awhile to get motivated. It means a frustrated cyclist boyfriend because it's difficult to ride. Hours of sighs and staring out the window waiting for it to let up as we sip bottomless pots of coffee to stay motivated for the perfect launch. I used to be better at letting the depleted motivation of my cyclist man flow through me without really being affected. But strangely, the more time we spend together, the more I can see our emotions linking together. So witnessing him feeling down tends to soak up my energy too now. That is why I chose to make the concerted effort to deal with the weather in a new way today and depart from what could have ended up a boiling pot of indoor anxiety before the moping set in.

So today at around 1:30pm, the clouds broke and I saw sun for a few minutes. Instantly I yelled up to Phil that I wa going out for a run. My legs felt strong and endured the first 5 miles so well that I kept truckining outside of Flers for awhile. I'm guessing I was about 7 miles into the country, after stopping to pet a poor little mud-crusted pony and mooing at some responsive cattle with fluffy mopheads, when it began to sprinkle, again. Turning back toward town, I realized the rain was quickly picking up. At one point I noticed how hard it was hitting my jacket and bouncing into my eyes. Luckily however, I felt warm and cozy under my rain-repellent jacket and a baseball cap, making it enough keep body relatively dry. Sailing through the chateau gardens on a new return route, I ended up along the long mote that spit me out onto a road high above the train station that I kind of recognized from a drive we took my second day here. Thus overtrusting my sense of direction, I kept running toward what I thought was the Beucherie house. Two hours into my once serene and mind-clearing run, I was full bladder-stricken and had a couple of very sore legs barely holding me up. Not to mention, I was winding through unrecognizable gray streets in what is considered the Flers industrial park, I presume, that is surrounded by sheep farms. I saw a sign that says 'Charal' with a red graphic of a bull head that had disturbed me since the first time I had seen it about five days ago. It is an oppressive sign that looms over Flers from a distance, sitting atop a large factory that pumps out thick smoke. Previously while running around town I avoided running past this place like the plague; it looks like a meat camp. Additionally, I wanted nothing to do with it after hearing how the French regularly prepare their steaks: very bloody. Yet all of a sudden, I was dependant upon what looks like a grinding facility... and guiltily, I was so happy to see the unfriendly, familiar landmark.

Just 10 minutes later, I got home after my nearly 3 hours of running, yet I wasn't hungry.
C'est a vie :)