I am in a small beach town a couple hours north of Barcelona.

I flew in, took a shuttle to the bus station, and hopped on the first bus headed north they had. I did not know where to get off because I did not remember the name of where I was going. Still, I found my way to an old fisherman's port called Llafranc (whether it is where I originally set off for, I cannot tell you). Tourist season is over and it is very relaxed and beautiful. The sun and the wind play off the water and the bleached white houses. I have my hostel to myself. The owner, a leathery faced man named Enrique, gave me a double room with a balcony for the price of a single. He teaches me which words I learned in Argentina do not translate in Spain. The word I've been using for vagina, for instance, means sea shell here. Thank God I cleared that one up.

I spend my days reading on the beach. At times, if I feel so inclined, I sleep on the beach. The women are mostly topless but I think I prefer my clothed American beach ignorance: all the women who I would normally think have nice boobs have weird nipples here. Maybe normal nipples are not as normal as I thought-- maybe what I consider normal nipples are actually exemplary nipples-- the boob shaped house of cards I've spent my life so carefully building is suddenly crashing down around me.

The sand has too many pebbles in it and the water is a little cold but it is a beautifully clear turquoise that turns to a deep blue as you get further out. I am not a good swimmer and when I get tired I turn onto my back and float easily in the salty water. The water clogs my ears and I can't open my eyes because of the sun but I kick my legs and bow my arms and shoot across the surface like a water spider: I am at one with the sea; I am like foam; I am indestructible and intangible.

I must look silly from the shore.

Yesterday I rented a kayak and went out too far. The man who I rented it from came out on a speedboat and yelled at me in a friendly way. For whatever reason, he was convinced I was kidding him when I said I wasn't German.

Last night I got bored and walked into the the lobby of a fancy hotel because it had an interesting portrait of Dali hung on the wall inside. I struck up a conversation with a nice British couple at the bar and the man offered to buy me a drink. I felt bad having a stranger buy me a fifteen dollar drink and declined.

No, really, he said, what do you want?

I paused, thought, then said a whiskey and coke.

You're learning, he told me.