But by afternoon we’re again on our feet, in the Salvador Dali museum in Figueres. Dali designed this museum himself in his home town and called it a theatrical museum or a “theatrical dream”. From the instant I set foot inside I feel like I’m walking inside a lucid dream. I had no idea the extent to which I owe the roots of my art, my Muse groups, my esthetics, to the surrealist movement, and probably Dali in particular. In one room hangs his pieces done with watercolor and ink and collage and accompanied by poetic writings. I wanted to move in and live in that museum! But my feet finally became soooo weary. . .
. . .and find a tapas bar where we can sit with our Spanish friend Virginia and taste and taste and drink and sketch and rest our weary feet. When you’ve been Dali’ed for hours, you need something good to eat and drink. The waiter realizes this and brings us extra pacharan (some kind of tasty regional liquor) to buoy us.
Well, that should be the end of the Spain story, except for what happens the next morning – a story which I would like to avoid telling, but in good conscience cannot.