doing something in the car behind ours.
On the right side of this page are some sketches of little figures on a metal plate in the sidewalk depicting various guilds that were active in the neighborhood about a hundred years ago. I wanted to draw them all but people were jockeying to get by, and A and I were not interested in causing a mob scene.
The man on the right has a window in his forehead for the wearer to see out of. This was a human sized head and torso whereas the others were as tall as two humans and the wearer had a window around the waistline of the figure.
Our last lunch in Barcelona, at El Bitxo, tiny, hidden in a side alley, but lovely and with great food and a friendly owner who said he remembered us from last year (when we stayed around the corner from this place and ate here often). The menus are hung like laundry from the bottom of a shelf above the tables.
My basic drawing-while-taking -off and landing sketches, leaving Barcelona at 6:45 the next morning and landing in Paris shortly afterwards (but just to catch our connecting flight back to the US, sadly.
At Charles de Gaulle, which seems to be mainly a very upscale shopping mall, a mannequin wearing new styles and an actual person wearing what actual people were wearing.
And in Atlanta, which has actual art in display windows near the gates, an interesting ceramic piece as well as some non-black carry-on luggage that I spied while trying to stay awake waiting for our flight to Asheville.
And to finish up (!!), the result of the new sub-basement of portrait photography now being featured at customs: after you stumble off your endless afternoon flight (9 hours) and wend your way through the immensely long line to have your passport checked, your paper customs form glanced at, your closed baggage commented upon, (Is that all your baggage? Don't you have anything checked?) you are funneled into a large room that has what seems to be a hundred kiosks-- the self-customs kiosks. There you punch in the exact information you've already filled in on your paper customs form (which no one wants, and which they tell you you can just throw away "around the corner" [where there is no bin]), you have to take your own photo! The light is dim and comes from a bank of fizzing fluorescents high overhead; you of course look like you've been resuscitated partway and then booted into a police line up; you press a button and have to look at the worst photograph anyone is ever going to take of you (and you've taken it yourself), and you get to choose "accept" or "take over." I can't imagine anyone caring enough to take this stupid thing over, so you press the accept button and it rolls out of the bottom of the kiosk and flutters to the floor. You then have to give this pitiful thing to a customs person as you plod through the line out into the real world.
Okay! All caught up!