My wife, Kate, suggested we visit Barcelona and the magnificent works of Gaudí for our anniversary.
Kate has proposed this same trip for 32 anniversaries. I declined for the 33rd time and, in a heroic act of compromise, bought her a color poster of Spain.
I adore my wife and the art she loves. But I am terrified of the birthplace of the Spanish Inquisition, where I once had my pockets picked three times in six hours. Years ago I captured the experience in a couplet:
Iberia, Iberia, I fear ya,
I never want to go near ya.
Appealing to my literary side, Kate suggested I read Don Quixote. I made it to the windmill. Not one mention of alternative energy. Spain missed a century.
Undeterred, Kate bought me a travel jacket engineered to defeat professional thieves. It featured 35 hidden pockets. Most could not be located without a blueprint, a flashlight, and divine intervention. “No one will ever find your valuables,” she said.
She was right.
I couldn’t find them either.
I put my foot down. We would stay home.
I was not firm enough.
I should never have given her the poster. It triggered tears. I have no defense against tears. A week later we were airborne.
In 1883 Antoni Gaudí took over the Sagrada Família. He worked on it until 1926, when he was run over in traffic—proof that even divine inspiration cannot negotiate with a moving vehicle. Since then, generations have labored to finish it. To me, it looks like a cathedral that melted mid-prayer in the Spanish sun.
Gaudí left behind a city of unfinished masterpieces. I felt an immediate bond. I too have left behind unfinished works—though fewer tourists line up to admire my first chapters.
Before leaving the hotel, Kate helped me into my anti-theft jacket, a garment so complex it should have come with a user manual and a small team of engineers.
We boarded the Metro.
It was packed.
I grabbed a pole. A stunning Spanish woman in a short red dress shared it, curling her fingers around the metal with the confidence of someone who had trained extensively in both ballet and larceny.
She leaned forward slightly. Civilization retreated.
On her ankle: a tattoo of an angel holding a half-finished pitchfork.
Unfinished art.
A student of Gaudí.
“You are not from Spain?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “A stranger in a strange land. I’ve come to study Gaudí.”
“Some say he failed to finish his work.”
“Not me. I understand unfinished work. I have over 150 novels.”
Her eyes lit up. “A writer!”
A surge of humanity slammed into us, pressing her against me with the enthusiasm of a cultural exchange program gone wrong.
“Which are your favorites?” she asked.
“All of them,” I said. “They’re like my children. Some have a brilliant first page. Some have a brilliant paragraph. A few begin with a brilliant word and wisely stop there.”
She clapped. “A spiritual brother of Gaudí. So brave. Creating unfinished masterpieces.”
I reached for my pen.
The train lurched.
Her nose met my chin.
Her hands met my 35-pocket jacket.
What followed was a master class in applied anthropology. Zippers opened with surgical precision. My defenses collapsed. Her breath was cinnamon and lime. Of the five best smiles in the world, she owned seven and deployed all of them.
At one point, I believe we kissed. Or collided. Or were legally merged.
More zippers opened. Possibly ones I didn’t know existed.
I had a brief, noble thought about helping her pick something up if she dropped it. This is how civilizations fall.
The Metro doors opened.
She vanished.
My wallet vanished with her.
Kate, moving with the speed of a trained predator, intercepted the wallet mid-flight and reclaimed it from the crowd.
We stumbled off at the next stop and faced the Sagrada Família.
“With all the pickpockets in this city,” I said, “they must have a union.”
“If we meet another one,” said Kate, “keep your mouth closed.”
Too late.
My watch was gone.
So were our passports.
“We’re leaving,” I said. “Before they take our fillings.”
“We stay the week,” said Kate.
“Or what?”
“Or I rent a truck.”
“A truck?”
“Like the one that killed Gaudí. Then I can tell your friends you shared his artistic vision and his exit strategy. Solemates.”
I agreed to stay. Largely out of respect for marriage. And fear.
By departure day, we had discovered additional secret pockets in the jacket—small, hidden chambers possibly connected to other dimensions. Into these we stuffed passports, tickets, credit cards, and enough cash to destabilize a minor economy.
We took a shuttle to the airport.
The driver was warm, apologetic, and reassuring. Most people in Barcelona, he said, were honest. Without tourists, the city would collapse.
This seemed reasonable.
Traffic was not.
We were late.
I tore at my jacket in panic. I could feel the documents. I could not access them. They had retreated into a secure vault somewhere between physics and religion.
I found mints. Lint. Broken pencils. Possibly a map to another pocket.
Then I remembered the $100 bill in my shoe.
I gave it to the driver.
No change.
“Go inside,” he said. “Break it into euros.”
As I stepped out, he hesitated. “Maybe leave the jacket. Just in case.”
The jacket containing everything we owned.
Then he handed me the keys to the van.
Trust.
International trust.
Grabbing the keys, I sprinted into the terminal. I returned moments later with euros.
The van was there.
The driver was not.
Neither was my jacket.
The police now have Kate and me in custody, along with the stolen van that apparently belongs to the man who stole everything else we owned.
In Spain, if you are standing next to a stolen vehicle holding its keys, they draw conclusions.
We are currently discussing those conclusions with them at length.
Special Bonus: The interior of the Sagrada Família is magnificent. But if you only want the outside and enjoy construction noise, you can experience that for free. The hammering should continue for another decade.
As G.K. Chesterton said, “There are no rules of architecture for a castle in the clouds.”
Money-saving tip: Visit Gaudí’s crypt below the basilica. Free. You can probably sneak upstairs too. If caught, remember: these are the cheerful people who perfected thumbscrews.