Hola from Barthelona

Some more pictures....

A beautiful theater that we went to see a guitarist perform (whose name i forget at the moment). Incredible seats (thank you David) and incredible music.

Group shot: The roomates from Zurich

Marathon Photos

In the Beginning (or maybe 1/2 way through) things were good.

Even at mile 20 I could still manage a smile. The guy in green next to me I met on the course. His name is Andrew and he ran about 20 miles with me which was huge!! Finally he had to drop back and I continued on alone.

Which might explain this slightly dazed look...

Boston Qualifier

This Certifies That

Elizabeth Lagerquist

Has Successfully Completed
The Portland Marathon on October 7th, 2007

in
3:39:19

Overall Place: 878 / 7724

Division Place: 48 / 653

Gender Place: 172 / 4195

*************************************************************************************

This was definitely the hardest thing I have ever done (and it was my 3rd marathon). My inner monologue that usually keeps me going during races was even faltering and I had to call for backup. Luckily for me my gallant husband borrowed our friend Margaret's belt and came to my aid running with me for a mile and a half until he had to leave the course at mile 26. With that boost of support I was able to put all my energy into getting across the finish line .2 miles later within the finishing time needed to qualify for the Boston Marathon.
Thank you all for your support and good wishes... Anyone fancy a springtime trip to Boston?

Some things I find confusing.

The internet. What is it? Why is it in English when I'm in America but in Spanish when I'm in Spain? Is that a different internet? How does the computer know where I am? I realize there are scientific answers to all of these questions, but the reason I am not a scientist is that those answers never satisfy me. I'd prefer nonsense, frankly, though one can always be disguised as the other.

Recent scenes from Barcelona:

1) I am walking up an alley in the Gothic Quarter, and I hear a uncannily familiar chirping and clucking. What is it? The woman walking towards me? A strange Catalan ritual of anti-Centralist dissent? No, of course not. Those are both idiotic suppositions. Of course it is a parrot. An African Grey, perched on a bicycle handlebar, hooting and rolling his beady eyes for all he is worth. This is one of the few situations in which I feel absolutely comfortable. I begin hooting and clucking back at him. A small crowd gathers. They are watching me a little warily. It goes on, longer perhaps than sanity would ordinarily recommend. Eventually, a bedraggled man comes out of the store nearby, and throws a leg over the bicycle. I ask him (in spanish, mind you--never escape taking credit when it's undeserved), "Is that your parrot?" "Yes," he says. "What's his name?" "His name is Romi to his friends. It's Romueldo to everybody, but Romi with his boy and girl friends." He places a black bowler hat on his head, extracts a shiny harmonica from his pocket, and pedals off, buzzing and cranking on that harmonica as the bird hoots and nibbles the brim of his hat. A harmonica. Why didn't I think of that?

2) From today. This is just a glimpse of something, not a whole scene, but it's one of those moments that has a whole novel buried in it.

An elderly man with a bent back, papery white hair, and an ill-fitting blue suit that hangs almost to his knees, stands in the middle of the bustling sidewalk. Sleek young Spaniards who resemble Mercedes sedans more than actual humans stream around him. He is peering carefully but blankly at a poster he has torn from the wall. It reads, in enormous crimson cursive script: "ALZHEIMERS! in concert."

Here's a picture I took the other day.