The love fest continues

I love my neighborhood. It's wonderfully gritty and full of character and free of tourists. There's a ton of construction going on (someday I'll be able to say "I lived in Poble Nou back before....") and it's noisy and the construction guys call me guapa but it's okay because they call everyone guapa. I can get jamón serrano right next door. And isn't this the best vacant lot ever? (It's right across the street from my apartment.) It's the quintessential vacant lot (that's a mattress in the middle, just behind the orange noodle-y thing).

One of the English-language weeklies had an article this week about bars in my neighborhood, and had this to say about P.K.2, which is just down the block from me: "As we were walking in, strippers were walking out--always a good sign. The business card does state 'Todo tipo de celebraciones.' Beyond the strippers the beer/sangria bongs are worth a stop." I went to P.K.2 once with this preppy French guy (long boring story) and I was a little afraid he was gonna end up served on a platter. The beautiful people don't come here.

I can lay on my bed and look at the sky (more a property of my apartment than the neighborhood, but whatever).

And. I saved the best for last. I live across from a mental clinic (it's right next to the vacant lot). With a homemade sign. Priceless.