In the beginning was the airport.

And the airport begat the cross-Atlantic flight. And the cross-Atlantic flight was long and was hot and was filled with bad cinema.

And the cross-Atlantic flight begat the continental European flight. And the continental European flight was short and was turbulent and required the air-sickness bag.

And the continental European flight terminated in arrival in Barcelona, the city within which the travel agents had arranged the housing and the transportation and the registration. And lo, they had arranged them poorly.

Despite the travel agents, the weary would sleep and the hungry would be fed and the eager would learn.

And it is within the glowing city of Barcelona that the most high honor was bestowed upon this humble servant, the honor of accredited journalist and all its attendant priviledges and responsibility.

This humble servant has been anointed … it is my yellow, photo i.d. badge I wear as mark of my duty.

Ah, glory in the reserved seating, the prime photographic vista, the press room with its opulence of couches upon which to sleep and water to drink! (Let alone its famous elbows to rub: NPR and Chicago Tribune.) Reporter, your arrogance is condoned. Photographer, you may obstruct the view of the laypersons without regret. For yours is a greater good.

And the press pass brought great fortune upon this servant.

And there was pizza and there was nightfall, the first day.


On the second day there were morning observances and seminars and the Sikhs said: "Let there be a langar, blessed lunch, and let everyone who comes be fed."

And the masses consumed dahl and pasta and salad and french fries and yogurt and rice and chabati and fruit.

And 4,000 came every day for the langar.

And while they ate, the blessed dust of their shoes was wiped away.

And there was study and work and new friends and dinner on the shore of the Mediterranean and there was nightfall, the second day.

And the third and fourth and fifth and sixth and seventh days proceeded much as had the first and second.

There were photographs:

• An Australian Chinese Buddhist monk dressed in robes of yellow and scarlet, taking the photo of his fellow Buddhist nuns posing with two white-and-grey-habited Spanish Catholic nuns and a French Catholic monk in white-and-grey robes.
• Brian-who-broke-my-heart (just kidding, Brian, your fiancee is SO lucky) and Sandi-brave-and-brilliant, having their blue turbans wrapped tight around their heads.
• Two students and a professor from an Austin Methodist college interviewing two Buddhist nuns about epistemology.
• The long lines of people of all religions enjoying langar and fellowship.
• The Sikh man from Nairobi, Kenya, polishing shoes during langar.
• Sheva a rock and roll band of Jews and Arabs with a mission for reconciling differences, resplendent in white against the darkening stone of the gothic Sagrada Familia cathedral.
• Inaki -- who interrupts -- and who tells stories in his tentative in English and who brushes the dirt from my knee and tells me I'm "very pretty" and shows me how to leave all my pain in the dirt under a pine tree. We took pictures by the pine tree. He wants me to send him his photo. "Write me a joke," Inaki says. "Or a note or tell me something. Don't just send the picture."

And on the seventh day all those who had come returned to their homes.

There was the airport, and the airport transfer, and the pink toilet paper of Charles DeGaulle. And there was the open-mouthed sleep on the plane. And hugs for Brian and Leann and Duane and Sarah and Stacy.

And there was homecoming and there was sleep.

And it was good.