Girona. End of. Pt.1.

Girona, you took my glasses! An exchange of goods. My sun glasses; Ray-Ban's roadsters. Gone this morning. I packed up again. More needs washing than is for wearing; I dug out my shorts, worn, and shirt, clean. If they weren't from prior to cornwall 2010 I would be maybe aggreived a little, but they're not essential. What did we do in the sun before shades? A hat. Slip Slop Slap; no mention of sunnies on channel nine! The Polish girl left a facial scrub that my pores were screaming at me to use! My face is polished up a sheen.

Dolce Cafè for an espresso that is so thick my spoon defies logic! It's another blue skies day in the heart of Girona. The bustle under the cover of these arched, covered, side walks. All Spain hides before the sun paralyzed open spaces and a Catalan flag hangs sagging nonchalantly in a suggestion of a breeze.

With selfless suggestion I set two Canadian darlings feet on the road to Sitges and Sonar free Spain. They flee south and weighed down Finlander took a troubled turn north and I tried to warn her away if possible; her head was collapsed inward not onward. Tomorrow I disappear before Helios reaches his zenith!

Hey Daniel you are a beardy weirdy. It's strikingly obvious! But I have a bolt breaking from my temple; stage right like Richard the Third I have a hunch I suppose. Kava clicks in! My food mission is to provide something substantial but from Supermercardo.

The modern world is flipping me crazy and making me forget what things I am bringing. Like that time in The Kimberley Klub where I left my only gold ring, sapphire et al, snake eating its tail coiled but to vanish into the Broome interior. Someone somewhere will be looking at that thinking who forgot it and why? But there is no reason.

Then I buy black cherry tomatoes from a vendor; sweet. I return to wash them clean and pleasantly perambulate towards the other Church of Girona I shall visit. On my left I pass Nespresso strangest of all coffee houses. Chomping and consuming them as elevensies; 0.65¢.

I cross the bridge nearest the Sant Felu to the sounds of German and Polish voices to see if grass still grows from the unfinished stone upon; it does. Swarms of million midges cross the bridge with the tones from the east. To me the churches are not exhibits of a past world but a living and breathing part of now. The tourist amber has arrived to explain away any personal conceptions of the purpose of the focal transit. Before religion there was God. Before this church there was still a reason to reside here a while. With 1€01¢ I conclude my mission to come here again. I fear Girona is beyond help of sinking beneath the feet of a tribal trance. Left turn after beacon bright German lasses and come away purple virtues figues, around three inches, to cleanse my soul in water still in Saint Felix font and faucet running to wash figs on Carrer de L'Argenteria. Thank you for this different direction today. The clear yet bright way is back within me. I turn a corner and see the end of IT in sight: chuggers/charity muggers.