The Barcelona of Nothing but Ghosts, and a Bloggy Confession

Dear Lenore went to Barcelona last week for a wedding and visited a place so dear to me that I wrote it into Nothing but Ghosts. What a gift, then, that she has returned with photographs from her trip, and with memories that she shares with her lucky readers today. She's included, in her post, a Barcelona excerpt from Ghosts.

Another key Ghosts scene takes place here, at Ciutadella Park. A place I wish I would find myself strolling through again, and soon. Wings, anyone? Fantasies?

On another topic now, I fear I must make amends: Poor Sierra has been left wondering (due to my previous two posts) whether I have porcelain-faced doppelgangers in my own backyard. Alas, I do not. I fear my blog makes me seem far more eccentric (by which I mean interesting) than I actually am. In fact, I live in a small, quiet, and (to a fault) immaculate house with a manicured front and back yard, and a (shall I say it?) surround of celebrated gardens (the kind that people slow their cars down for). All bath tubs (that would be one) are of the indoor variety. I own no shower cap. I do not have A. Jolie lips. I wear my trench coats over clothes, not naked skin. But this is true: When I look up, I look for the stars.

All of which would be explanation enough as to why I shifted from memoir to history to fiction. The older I get, the more I like to make things up.