VILLA VICENTE: Where we stayed

The river Mijares flows through the valley below the hermitage.

Ken dropped us off at Cafe Zurich in Placa Catalunya - Barcelona's main square. While he looked for a parking place, we scanned the crowded cafe. One particular table kept catching my eye. I stared at the people seated there, figuring that if they were looking for us, they might respond, but they didn't.

While Jef and I waited, we watched a street performer mimic the way passersby walked. Europe is full of such entertainment. In America, he'd probably get a ticket for not having a license. (I have a friend who was jailed overnight in Dallas - for juggling while awaiting his bus at the Greyhound Station.)

Don't you want to sneak up behind Jef and give him a poke to see if he'd fall over? The building behind him is where our sleeping pods were. I was told that it used to be the stables, but I don't know for sure.

Jef needed matches so I quickly looked up the Spanish word and asked a man at the magazine counter. My confidence shriveled, however, when the man looked puzzled. After several more tries, I reverted to pantomime. At this, the man laughed, tossed me a pack of matches and told me the right word - 'cerillas' - which he pronounced with a 'th' sound on the first syllable. Upon re-checking my dictionary, I realized I'd looked up the word used when seeing if two items match. Oops! Lesson number one: Beware of homonyms. Lesson number two: When in Spain, lisp. Lesson number three: When all else fails, pantomime!

This fountain commemorates the legend of the hermitage where we stayed. It's said that a shepherd found an ancient statue of the Virgin Mary in a nearby cave and was inspired to found the first monk's cell.

When Ken showed up he walked right over to the table that kept snagging our attention. I had to laugh because no one there matched his descriptions. For one thing, Ken told us Atty had 'long blonde hair' which caused me to picture, well, long blonde hair! Ken's from LA; he ought to know blonde, right? As it turns out, Atty's hair is shoulder-length and light brown, more Prince Valiant than Viking.

There is always a blend of awkwardness and familiarity present when you meet people in person whom you've known only online. How bizarre to suddenly be in Barcelona seated at a table with Atty, Adrian, Michi and Eryk. Eryk was the biggest surprise. For some reason, I expected him to be older and slightly aloof. I felt comfortable with him immediately. In fact, Jef and I marvelled at how at home we felt with the whole gang. We're all quite different in our artistic expressions, yet we have a lot in common at the core.

Here's where we slept! Vicente covered the scaffolding with thin muslin. Each pod contained a mattress, pillow, sheet and a small reading light. It was comfy, but so damn hot! After a few days someone discovered a swamp cooler, but I think its effect was mostly placebo.

As we sipped cerveza and smirked at the scenario, Atty informed us that no one knew where Jeff (a.k.a. Fakeshop) was. For some reason, the organizers flew him into Madrid instead of Barcelona like everyone else. No one even knew if his plane had arrived. We also waited quite a while for Zdeno to show up, although we were told he was off buying pants.

When Area3 arrived (Chema, Seba, Fede, Francesc, Manel and Elisa) they suggested that we grab a bite of dinner. They took us to a restaurant tucked in the narrow streets of Barcelona's Gothic section called 'El Quatre Gats.' While the name literally means 'four cats' in Catalan, I was told that it's also a colloquial term for 'a small group.' Our hosts informed us that the cafe had been a hang out for many famous artists including Picasso and Utrillo. We didn't really eat dinner, just snacked on beer and a variety of tapas. (Unlike the tapas Jef and I had when we visited the south of Spain in 1997, these were not free of charge.)

Jef demonstrates the way our door functioned. One could walk either in, as he is doing, or walk out. Such versatility! As you can see, he's wearing his backstage pass backwards. Perhaps there is a deep meaning connected to this. I'll have to ask next time I see him. Note the dirty soles of his feet. This was a common sight since we often went barefoot. The only time my feet were clean was after swimming in the Mediterranean Sea because the sand scrubbed my tootsies for me.

After our meal, we hopped back into the car, this time with Michi in tow. We stopped by the airport only to discover that Ken's bag had still not arrived. The airline told him they'd send it to his hotel, but Ken explained that he didn't know where he would be staying other than that it was someplace in Vila Real. And no, he didn't have a phone there.

Along the way, Brett played us even more of his favorite tunes. I found myself wishing that the lyrics were in another language since his oevre of choice is gangster rap - that way I could have ignored how angry and misogynistic most of the songs were. The upside of this is that now when a car drives by throbbing with rap, I am reminded of the Spanish countryside.

The father-son tug-of-war was amusing. Every time Brett popped in a new CD, he'd slyly up the volume a notch or two until the sonic level overrode any conversation betwixt passengers. Not that Jef and I were feeling overly chatty after nearly 2 days of traveling. Besides, I figured the volume would keep Ken from nodding off at the wheel. (And I must say, as someone who hates riding in automobiles, it was a relief to discover that Ken is an excellent driver.)

d2b's record case befriended a large vase during our stay. The two were last seen on a ferry bound to Ibiza.

Vila Real (also spelled "Villa Real" and "Villarreal" according to various cafe sugar packets and street signs) is five tollbooths and two hours south of Barcelona. Naturally, we got lost a few times and had to ask directions. As we approached our final tollbooth, Ken asked us how to say 'train station' in Spanish; however, when we got there he simply rolled down his window and bellowed, "Good evening! Where's the train station?" in English! The look he received in return was priceless. The man refused to speak until we paid our toll (which was something like nine bucks). When Michi and I spoke Spanish he attempted to explain where to go. From what I could grasp, he told us to go straight, then he said something about east... then west... then east... "Este... Oeste," he'd say in a sing-song voice while making a circular motion with his hand. "Eeeeeeeste... Oeeeeste..." We finally realized that he was describing a roundabout. After getting lost once more, we pulled up next to a sidewalk café and got concise directions from a fellow sitting there. However, 'Este-oeste' became an oft-repeated refrain during our trip.

Here we see a dog with peculiar buttocks performing an ancient Valencian yogic posture. But just what is he balancing on his nose? (Brett, on the other hand, remarked that it looked like a three-legged dog with a gun for a tale. Rorschach, anyone?).

Vicente met us at the train station at 2 a.m. and we followed his car into Vila Real. He and his girlfriend, Amaya, are the duo responsible for arranging the whole Spain gig: accommodation, food, equipment, spending money, etc. Vicente had originally planned for us to stay in a villa, but when the owner refused to send him pictures he became suspicious and drove over to check it out. "You can imagine what I found," he told us, shaking his head in disgust. The next thing we heard was that he had created a structure (at his own expense) for us to sleep in based upon Fakeshop's capsule hotel installations. But what could that mean? We didn't know what to expect, but anything sounds good after 48 hours on the road.

Later, as Jef and I crawled into our sleeping unit I couldn't help giggling over something I'd said to a friend a couple of months ago. I was musing about how much I loved summer camp as a kid and how adults ought to have summer camps, too. "Here I am," I thought, "my first night at the Villa Vicente summer camp for net artists."

Antonio shows Jef the southern Italian sword dance.

Lowlight fairies dance amidst the teardown.

Travelogue Sections:
• Intro: The Reign in Spain
• Villa Vicente: Where we stayed
• Media Lab: Where we plugged in
• Festival in Benicassim: Where we performed
• The Courtyard: Where we hung out
• El Termet: Where they fed us
• El Moli: Where we paid to eat
• The Beach Meeting: Where we conspired
• Valencia: Where we were critics
• Barcelona: Where we were tourists
• Flora & Fauna: Well... mostly flora