I went anyway, despite my limp, and rented a bicycle to get around.
Barcelona is ideal for cyclists: there are bike lanes on all the main avenues and on a lot of the cross streets, and drivers are so very courteous and kind to temporarily lame tourists on bikes. Flying downhill toward the beach, sitting in the sand, watching the sea, it did me good, and so did the Spaniards and everyone else from all over the world. Everyone I met was so friendly! I only came across a few grumpy people all weekend and what do you know? They were, without exception, Italian!
On Sunday morning, in the slightest mist of almost rain, I watched the marathon and cheered and cheered until my throat was hoarse and my hands hurt from all the clapping. There was an older man across from me, shouting “Venga! Venga!” for over an hour and I loved him a little bit.
It rained harder near the end, or what would have been the end for me, but it would have been a good race. Oh well. There will be Venice, in the fall.
P.S. Note to the Paul Rudd look-alike on my flight back to Venice today – sorry for staring! I’m glad I never mustered the courage to ask if your name was Paul on my way to the restroom or, earlier, when we were still in Barcelona, to shout, “PAUL!” in the security line, just to see if you’d turn when I did, because I’ve since decided it wasn’t actually you, just some guy who looks exactly like you, only slightly older. (Yes, Paul, I always knew you were that short.)