“I feel like we are in a Spanish-themed TGI Fridays,” I said. “Or a barbershop quartet porn set.”
I blame the striped wallpaper, but the double-sized tub had a portrait of a woman who gazed appraisingly upon us when we bathed like, “Ok…uhhuh..Yeah, I’d hit that.” And I think I need a copy of her to hang outside my shower today. I always left my bath thinking, “This lady gets what I got going on!”
The spiritual experience that so many of the more modern, crowded museums lack is the opportunity to be alone in a beautiful place with art. I’ve never found anything but stress in dense crowds, which is probably why you won’t see me at a music festival in a mucky cow pasture, either. We strolled through the concrete spaces and viewed the abstracts and sculptures in silence, with no flag-waving tour guides reciting their histories in sight.
Not all art is spiritually transformative, but I’ve always found a good museum far more inspiring than any cathedral.
One of the things that many may not realize is that very little of the architecture in the quarter is genuinely Gothic. Through restoration and romantic flourishes, much of it was styled in the 1900s to appeal to the World’s Fair crowds. Those neo-Gothic additions were a good choice for crowd appeal, which still draws them today. The quarter feels romantic, like you are walking through a movie set made for a Victorian vampire love affair, and I can see how it would have the same appeal to visitors in 1929 as it does today.
During the days, we walked in the shadowy streets or strolled through gardens along the water’s edge. The water kept pulling me back to it, the gem-clarity and sky-blue color so inviting on a warm day. I peer into it, looking for the silver glints of fish or at the sandy bottom for treasure, just like when I was a kid.
Sometimes I will brush my teeth, walk to the grocery store, or stare at a pigeon – and the cheese with asparagus jelly will come to mind. I will take that memory out and hold it close to me, give it some sunlight and a light dusting, a powerful hug before releasing it. That is how good that cheese and jelly was. Spank bank-level cheese.
She went from happy, to hopeful, to inflamed with desire, to dashed to the darkest pit of woe and longing within each dance. She danced with such ferocity and grace as if she was sadly fucking the floor to death with her feet. I love you, her body said as she moved, I hate you. Oh, you make me so sad.
The monks and priests were the original gangsters,” I said to my husband. “Look at all they built and are still raking in based on soul shakedowns.”
One woman smiles for her videographer while she preens in a red and black bustier and ass-cheek short crinoline skirt best suited for a Wild West whorehouse. Positioned by a staircase before one of the many stunning displays in stained glass, she twists one knee inward as if her naked legs dangle uselessly, like a puppet.