Wish you were here: Produce on sale in TeruelHola from Teruel, Spain (please don't call it "te-roo-ell" like an Ugly American, okay? Roll that "r"!), where I'm living, off and on, this spring. My beloved got a Fulbright, and I'm along for the ride, my understanding being that when you have the chance to live in a random mountain town in the middle of Spain, you do so. Just 'cause.

It's a cool town. Around Valentine's Day, when I got here, they were having their annual, massive festival de Los Amantes, which is about a medieval Romeo & Juliet (Isabel and Diego) who basically love each other a lot and both wind up dead as a result. There's a story, but it's convoluted. Romantic!

Hundreds of people were hanging out in full costume and roasting shit over open flames and selling tinctures. There was even a "Jewish quarter" with actors playing the three Jewish families who apparently lived here before they met their various heinous fifteenth-century ends. We hesitated before exclaiming "Somos Judios!" and were met with blank stares.

Anyway, it's far away from home. There are none of the global chains that have invaded many an international metropolis. It's quiet and chill. No one speaks English. There's a café in town that serves little cups of the thickest, crazy-good spicy hot chocolate, which you consume with a little spoon.

A fine romance: Isabel and DiegoBut it's also kind of far away from home and no familiar chain stores and no one speaks English and really quiet and ever so slightly depressing (I mean, if one were prone to depression in the first place, which I wouldn't know anything whatsoever about; I've got serotonin to spare). Ah, life: the bad in the good and the good in the bad. I know you've got to roll with travel, and that the discomforts and compromises required can yield enormous rewards. But it invariably takes me a little longer than I'd like to get into the swing of that.

And the food. The food has been a problem. I'm a hard-core vegetarian. (Skip the next few lines if you hate airtight conviction.) I think eating animals is completely amoral. It requires an inexcusably willful ignorance. It's totally irresponsible in light of our current environmental quandary, and it's just plain disgusting in general. (It also, for you self-identified Torah freaks, goes absolutely against the spirit of the laws of Kashrut. Like, one thousand million percent.)

And since the diet here consists almost exclusively of animal products (giant bloody rumps of dead pig hanging in every third store window, along with ubiquitous sausage, which in combination make me think fondly back on my first eye-opening read of The Sexual Politics of Meat) eating has been a challenge. I kid you not, they sell Pringles con Jamon in the supermarket. It's made me reflect on the many ways our food choices mark and distinguish and separate us. And how eating restrictions can be a powerful statement of personal ethics and priorities. And how adherence to personal ethics can be a pain in the ass. And also, how much I miss Perelandra in Brooklyn Heights.

Spanish boots of Spanish pleather: It's tough being veggie in SpainThankfully, after a few days of extremely crankily (sorry, babe) subsisting on bread and cheese and potatoes in some kind of orange mayo-sauce (they're not huge on greens, either), my beloved found me not only a little produce market, but an honest-to-goodness health food store to boot! (Now that, Los Amantes, is love... and no one wound up dead). I wandered the aisles caressing the tofu and green tea and seitan and olive oil soap in a trance. Life's been much improved ever since.

It's really hard to appreciate badass 15th century Mudejar architecture when you're hating on an entire country's eating paradigms, you know?

Related: From Krakow, With Love

Ben Katchor: He's not just good at drawing!Having long been a fan of his graphic work (or "picture stories", as he calls them) in The Jew of New York and Julius Knipl, Real Estate Photographer, and having seen his previous foray into musical theatrical collaboration (The Rosenbach Company) on a particularly awesome date a few years back, I already had some darn warm feelings in general towards the prodigiously talented Ben Katchor.

So it was with much excitement that I joined the great man, his wonderful wife Susan, and composer Mark Mulcahy for a preview of The Slugs of Kayrol Island a few weeks ago. The show, Katchor's second collaboration with Mulcahy, is a delight. It tells the story of a well-intentioned, well-to-do young lady who becomes obsessed with the plight of exploited workers in far-off tropics. That she joins forces with a young man who's into the poetry of vintage appliance instruction manuals, and that together they travel to this far-off tropic to save said workers, is only the beginning of the story. Katchor's imagination, needless to say, is a vast and quirky wonderland.

The sets are these beautifully designed, moving screens onto which Katchor's drawings are projected, so that what you're watching is a whole new genre unto itself: graphic musical theater. The actors move with and around the screens to make up what feels like one, breathing, changing, colorful, organic whole. Katchor's drawings and libretto are vibrant and engaging, as ever, and the score is foot-tappingly excellent. The NYT's Ben Brantley, in his rave, calls it "an answered prayer for anyone who has dreamed of living inside a graphic novel." (So it seems that sometimes those MacArthur "genius" Foundation Grant folks really know what they're doing, huh?)

After the show we all shared some delicious potato pierogi at Little Poland, which I report not because I am a starfucker, but because sometimes those Wow-I'm-Breaking-Bread-With-An

In Treatment: Is it ok that we're standing this close?Previously: Part One, Part Two

Emily Gould: Ok, I'm caught up now -- have you seen the episode where he goes to see his own therapist yet?

Elisa Albert: Amazing. Yes. And truly it was the reason for continuing to watch. Loved especially how Paul challenges and tests her in much the same way as he is continually challenged/tested by his own patients. Was such a primal scene. And Diane Wiest i've adored since "Parenthood". Anyone?

But since then, nothing. I can't watch. Not, like, emotionally-can't. Literally: can't. My frickin' cable is malfunctioning and the benevolent support team at TimeWarner has offered me a fourteen-hour window sometime next month when they may or may not come and possibly fix it. (And what, pray tell, am I supposed to do to occupy myself during said fourteen-hour window if my cable isn't working?)

What's sadder: that my cable has been out for two days or that I'm sad that my cable has been out for two days? I'm having some feelings about my feelings. Help.

In the absence of anything else to talk about, I will therefore resort to base gossip: Britney's therapist? The one who got her committed? As identified in all the rags as one Dr. Deborah Nadel of Santa Monica? Only slightly off point, but guess what? Totally my high school shrink. Which explains. So. Much.

Emily: Ha! Have you ever had the conversation with any of your shrinks about what it would take to get committed? I never had until recently. I had been hedgy about spitting something out (uh, uncharacteristic, n'duh), and she was like "why did you hesitate?" and I was like, "I was thinking that would be the one thing I could say that would make you be ethically obligated to call the men in the white coats to cart me away." She laughed -- I mean, she didn't GUFFAW, but she definitely CHUCKLED -- and was like "that will never happen."

I have to admit, I was sort of disappointed.

Anyway, I have only seen one episode of 'In Treatment' post- Paul's visit to Diane Wiest, who is aging really well. I found that it was harder to take him seriously now that we know all his fallibilities. Not to ruin it for you, but his next visit with Laura, his responsible-adult-in-charge facade kinda cracks.

Anyway, I'm sorry about your cable! I didn't have cable -- or TV for that matter -- for four months recently and it was sort of cleansing. Towards the end, though, I stopped having anything to talk to anyone about. Don't let that happen to you.

Previously: Part One

Elisa Albert: "Dude, one of the things I've been, ah, addressing in therapy is my tendency to open right up and overshare immediately, without demanding my trust be earned, etc. so that i not infrequently wind up having my emotional ass handed to me by pretty much whoever. So screw that, I'm not sharing deep/dark secrets.
(Maybe tomorrow.)

Emily's right about the in-love-with-shrink cliche, but it's such a rich cliche, as cliches go. I don't think it's necessarily even a carnal love thing; the prospect of another human being who is de facto always on your side, who validates your feelings and does not judge, and with whom you are free to be absolutely honest = LOVE. Especially in contrast to the difficulties of a two-sided relationship in which one must compromise, take responsibility, and maintain a sometimes-uncomfy level of vulnerability.

You know how some Christians describe Christ's love? Perfect, whole, accepting, forgiving. The closest thing I can imagine is my favorite shrink (I've had a few over the years, as geographical-shifts necessitate). And let's not forget: you only see this person once a week. The less you see someone, the easier they are to love. (Who's fucked up now, hombres?)

Anyway, I've heard the kashrut for such things is that the therapy relationship stops, two years must pass, then the therapist/patient can run off together and live happily ever after. Until each begins therapy with someone new..."

Emily Gould: "I agree with Elisa, Tahl: expecting us to air our dirty laundry just because we're watching a show about therapy? Come on. (Maybe I'll show you one dirty sock, but I'm not about to spill my guts. They're not nearly as interesting as Blair Underwood's character's guts! He killed some children!)

Anyway, maybe I'm immune to the charms Laura's shrink-love storyline cause I've never felt that way about a therapist. Even though mine validates my feelings etc, I've never thought of her as nonjudgmental. I worry a lot about her approval, actually! And the approval of ... pretty much everyone else, including anonymous strangers! Actually, that's one of the things we talk about. Hmm.

What did you think of last night's episode? I guess we're meant to be anticipating the moment when the fighter pilot character's bluster breaks down and he shows a human sliver of guilt for what he's done. Last night, though, seemed to just be about laying the groundwork for this moment, and I have to admit, it didn't hold my interest. I did enjoy the moment towards the end when he flat-out asked his therapist for advice and was frustrated when he was denied. Doesn't he understand that therapy is all about getting the input you need to figure out what you need to be doing on your own? Or was the therapist ethically remiss -- should he have given him the potentially life-saving input he needed? Of course, the stakes weren't really that high for the audience. After all, we know he won't fly back to the scene of his crime and be harmed -- after all, he has to show up for next week's session."