Earthquake in Soho and Other Musings on Urban Mortality

If ever there was proof that Soho is Jesus' special Manhattan version of the Inferno, today there was an earthquake in my 'hood.

This was not what it was like, and this is not Soho. This IS the first Google Image result for "earthquake," though.

More specifically, there was an earthquake in Washington D.C.  that reverberated across the Eastern seaboard, including NYC.

More after the jump, just sayin'.

The Stupidest People in NYC: Alternative Means of Transport Edition

For all of the fashionable, beautiful, and/or rich people in NYC, there is also a contingent of the population composed solely of dumb fools—and dumb fools with a death wish, at that.

Walking to work in the 4^th Ring O’ Hell (= intersection of Houston and Broadway in Soho) I see endless throngs of the stupidest people attempt the dumbest forms of transport imaginable on a daily basis.

An overview of Manhattanites with the least-thought-out Death Wish, after the jump.

I Am Melting And It Is Delicious: Navigating the NYC Heatwave through Dessert

On Friday it was 106 degrees in NYC. Saturday, 102 degrees.

Now, I know it was probably slightly hotter in other places—like, say, the core of the sun—however, other places do not have a kajllion people and a ridiculously large amount of tarmac and construction vehicles and subways radiating heat back at them! Truth.

In order to beat the NYC radiating flames o’ death (aka “Soho”) this weekend, I very much so ate my feelings—my cold, tasty, sugary feelings.

So: which products merely served as hapless coolant to the flames of my rage? 
Which ones melted my cold, cold heart? 
And which products are hiring Emily H. as their dessert model? (hint: all of them)


Learn more after the jump!

Lizard v. Flay: NYC Eatin'

Hands down my favorite thing about NYC is the delicious delicious food on every corner. Yet, these days I always seem to encounter perfectly competent NYC businesses whose dishes have defeated Bobby Flay.


I have seen bread pudding that defeated Bobby Flay, fish tacos that defeated the Flayaway, and, most intriguingly, the Chicken and Waffles that defeated Señor Flay. 


So, question: Why is Bobby Flay up in everyone's culinary grill!??!

Flay would appreciate that pun. This makes me hate it.

Now, Flay and I have had our differences, but I had more or less buried the hatchet until this recent revelation: Bobby Flay thinks he can beat everyone at their best dish??????????

like, BRO R U SRS???

A brief listing of some recent, Flay-defeating and soon-to-defeat-Flay NYC gastronomic revelations, after the jump:

Creepin Creepin Creepin on Celebs

Yes, I admit: I enjoy celebrity sightings.

To begin, I am from the Midwest. Specifically, Michigan. Do you know how many celebs live in Michigan? Answer: Kid Rock and some people that play sports and therefore are not actually famous. That's it. Everyone else left.

Due to the scarcity of famous people, us Michiganders take what we can get--i.e. local weathercaster Jerry Hodak is like, the man.

 (Bitches weep at this old dude's feet)

Unlike the Mitten, NYC has a lot of rich famous people who can actually afford rent in Manhattan. Sometimes I encounter them. And I think I have a seemingly-non-stalker-ish, actually-quite-stalker-ish system that works pretty well. Read after the jump...

"I'm the shit, up in this bitch": Livin amongst the I-Bankers

Growing up in Ukrainian-Doctor-ville, U.S.-kraine, for most of my life I was lead to believe that the #1 and #2 top-earning professions were clinical medical doctor and surgeon.

However, my non-Ukrainian-doctor collegiate acquaintances have made me aware of a much more ridiculously-well-paid subgroup of the population: Investment bankers.


Or as peeps in the know refer to them, I-bankers.

I bring up I-bankers because at this point they literally surround me... Yes, NYC is full of them. (The rent is too damn high..  unless you are an I-banker) 


This weekend in particular involved lots of I-bank socializing, even miles away from the financial district. A brief overview of my weekend of i-bank glory, after the jump:

CAPS 4eva: Jaded UChicago Students Meet their Nemesis

Do you remember those bright-eyed, bushy-tailed youth who entered UChicago three years ago? Yes, friends, that was indeed us.

We were excited about HUM; interested in the world/culture; convinced that our first year, Housing-appointed roommate would be our BFFL; etc etc etc

Tonight I had a fresh dose of those times--all the while eating weird sushi and donning a crooked name tag on the roof of an obscure investment bank.

NBD, NYC

Walking to Palladium this var humid evening, I encountered the following three things in rapid succession:

1) Strokes bassist, Nikolai Fraiture, crossing the street. 

See, having not appreciated the Strokes since 2003-4, encountering Nikolai on the street was like seeing an old acquaintance I immediately recognized yet really really didn't remember that well. I mean:

Knowledge about Nikolai Fraiture I have actually retained: 
-He has a luminous, Little Lord Fauntleroy haircut, and he has had this same cut since ~2001. Yes, it was in full form this evening. (If it ain't broke, don't fix it--even if you're 35 and your haircut is for 12-year-olds.)
-He plays an instrument in the Strokes.
-He is Russian

Due to my temporary confusion (internal monologue: "Wait... is this a person I went to middle-school with? They really haven't aged well." I maintain this is all somewhat true.)  I literally almost waved. You know,"Привет, Николайочку. Как дела?" like we were Slavic BFFs or some shit.

Anyway, I caught myself, and turned my wave into an "Oops GOTTA ITCH MY HEAD NOW WOOPS." So smooth, and more proof I am less of a fool than my instincts want me to be.

(click more after the jump!)

NYC, baby

Oh heyyyyyyyyyyy

 This summer I'm interning at a small advertising firm in NYC. And: yes, indeed, I am planning to blog about life in the big city—a bitch,-please-worthy place if one ever existed.

My first day pretty much consisted of adventure in Astor Place K-Mart

More after the jump!

Spanish Grandma = Your Grandma

Well, another day in Andalucia, another day of having my host dad try to convince me—this time, with multimedia supplied via the internet—why Spanish fascism was a great thing.

Still, chillin' for the past three days with my legs warmed by the brasero and heart warmed by some ancianos andaluces (old Andalusian people), I have just been happy to be chillin'. Tortilla española all day, errrday, yo.

Here, like my very own chain-letter—that would probably be distributed via the Ukrainian-Doctor-Wife listhost if only you changed "grandma" to "babushka" and "love" to "cabbage,"—I present a short list, entitled:

Grandmas Are All Pretty Much the Same, No Matter What Old Country They Are Referring To And/or Where You Are

1) Something in the very act of you walking around without socks will create intense rage within their normally docile person. (So small, so angry!!) Any true grandma will yell at you angrily about how you are going to catch a cold/flu/the herp due to your uncovered feet... I can only estimate that this myth is the product of the fact that grandmas are all somehow foot-phobic, and also that maybe perhaps mayybeee biology classes were not required pre-WWII. But, seriously, watch out.

2) When you wipe your nose with your sleeve, any grandma will, at least, glare at you. The sensitivity of your nostrils is a #1 hot topic in her mind. Of course, she will then knowingly hand you a large pile of tissues from their pocket. Question: Why do grandmas always have so many tissues at their disposal? Answer: Grandma secret code.

3) Feeding you 24/7 = love. Not feeding you at all and telling you to drink Slimfast = my grandma.

4) So much folk wisdom, all the time. Andalusian G-ma keeps referring to villains on telenovelas as "él que tiene dos caras como las lentejas" aka "he has two faces, like lentils!!" This is evidently a very common saying in Andalusia. So, yes, evidently: lentils, not to be trusted. (FYI My baba used to say, "Хамай, какай, не балакай" which means "Eat, poop, don't talk." Like poetry, the Ukrainian language is...)

5) Anecdotes from 30 years ago are the closest you're gonna get to modern day, sry2say.

6) If you show any interest in any photo in her place of residence—even if it is, like, a brochure for walkers—you better have the ability to convincingly feign interest because, yes, the entire photo album collection will be coming out, and you will have to look at every picture. Aaaand there will be lots of naked babies.


7) They smell like soup.*


*I feel like this one is a line from a movie or something, but, nevertheless, so true. My baba smells like cabbage soup, oi.

 That said, I love soup, and warm feet, and tissues, and folk wisdom, and sometimes even photo albums. For that reason, yes, I love grandmas. I really do.

Adeu, Barcelona

Oh, Barcelona. Land of dreams. I will miss your food, your beauty, and your culture.

That said, I will not miss Prof. Tenorio.

Carnaval in Sitges... or, quoth Sleezah, “GAY BAR CARNAVAL 2011 BIIIIITCHESSSSSSSS”

Thanks to the efforts of the Unreasonably Nihilistic, Hateful, Antagonistic and Pompous Professor of Youth (aka Prof Tenorio, who will from here on out be known as the acronym for that aforementioned title = U.N.H.A.P.P.Y.), literally less than 1/3 of our program decided to go to the biggest Carnaval party of the year, in Sitges. 

Carnaval itself is a strange fruit. From the get-go, I was a little confused what exactly Carnaval is, and I never really got a straight answer. Explanations of the holiday mostly consisted of: “You wear costumes.” “You get drunk.” “You get drunk and wear costumes.” “There is a parade.” “You get drunk in a costume at a parade.

How Not To Get To Sitges

The biggest party for Carnaval is Tuesday night in Sitges, a rich and very gay town outside of Barcelona. Mikey, Vonya, Stephanie and I travelled in a pack, taking what was supposed to be a 40 minute train ride to Sitges to watch the parade.

“Wait, the trains from Plaza Catalunya go to Sitges, right?” WRONG. 

“Wait, this train says it is going to St. Vincent, just like the train we want to take! Clearly there is only one train that goes to St Vincent, right?” WRONG. 

“Wait, everyone on trains to Carnaval is old and wearing corduroy blazers as they read the latest Dan Brown book translated into Catalan, right?” WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.

So. Here is a helpful diagram I call “How to Get to Sitges.”

And here is, “How NOT to Get to Sitges”

More after the jump.

Mauricio = Rango = Cholodenko

All I can really say about our third professor is that he is an emaciated, angry, old man from Mexico who hates humanity, and also Spain.

Still, there is something kinda okay about him.

 Is it that he actually teaches a class with, dare I say it, content?!?¡?¡?¡¿¡?¿¡?¡¿¡?¡?

OR: maybe it is because between hating on Spain's pillage of Latin America and commenting on how Queen Isabel was a puta, he says random things like:

Mauricio: So, Oscars yesterday... WHO WON?!?!

(pause while people look around confused... is Oscar some Carlista we forgot about?? Or maybe another anarchist that killed someone/burned down another church??? Or maybe it's Catalan for "4-page paper, with wit and irony like New York Times Review"?). 

Mauricio: You knooooh, recently I see this movie, it was called... Children, are okay? ... or something like that?

(pause. pause. more pause. ... someone goes "The Kids Are Alright?") 

Mauricio: Ya ya ya, it was fine, but... (CRAZY HANDS MOTIONS... seriously, this dude could give me tips) FOR OSCAR??? I don't theeenk so.

OR: maybe it's the fact that the the combo of his (inexplicable) Little Lord Fauntleroy haircut, extreme level of skinny relative to head-size, and perpetual stinkface make him eerily resemble the lizard from the new animated movie with Johnny Depp?

Whatever the reason, he is a bitch. But an endearing bitch? Talk to me about this again after I've written all of the 3 papers he's assigned us due within a week of each other.

Mexican wrath: nothin' like it.

Lisbon: Land of Desserts, Street Drinking, and Many, Many Lesbians

After a few days in rainy Madrid, we were off to Lisbon, Portugal—or, as it is called in Spanish and Portuguese: Lisboa.

Our first day, we walked around Lisbon—not exaggerating—unaware of anything at all. A brief list of things we didn’t know until well into our trip includes:  where Lisbon is located on the Iberian peninsula, what Portuguese topography even looks like, how to say “Hello,” “thank you,” and/or anything else in Portuguese, the history of Portugal, what Portuguese food/drinks are like… The list is endless.

For this reason, the first night we walked around Lisbon in awe. The city is on a bunch of hills! There are cobblestones and tiles everywhere! Bafflingly, there is a giant, largely empty plaza right next to the sea in Lisbon! (The central “beachfront” property consists of some pillars a few meters into the water, that’s it. No beach, restaurants, nothing. The opposite of Barcelona coastline.) There is also a church that consists of raw arches with no roof! And a giant elevator tower! The main city is shockingly consistent in terms of tiles and architecture. One question arose: WHY?

It wasn’t until the next morning—researching a nearby neighborhood called Belem—that I came to understand so much of what I had encountered the night before.

One major, formative event had somehow eluded us: Lisbon experienced a major earthquake in 1755. The earthquake caused a tsunami, which in turn caused a week of uncontrollable fires. In the end, 85% of the city was destroyed. Enormous amounts of people died. The King went crazy, and made the royal family live in a tent city. 

Therefore: The empty plaza next to the ocean? The final remnants of the royal palace that was swept into the sea in the tsunami. The roofless church? The ruins of the major church of Lisbon, that was destroyed in the fires. The weirdly consistent sidewalk tiling and organization? The fact that a vast majority of Lisbon buildings  were constructed in the past 200-300 years, by the post-Crazy-King king, who mobilized a movement to keep people in Lisbon to reconstruct the city. (Also: Lisbon was the first city to build earthquake-proof buildings. They tested models via having soldiers march around the buildings over and over again, to see how much the shaking of the earth affected the stability of the building!) Crazy shit, yo.

Lisbon’s strange and extremely insane history was not the only surprise in store. Three thematic aspects of Lisbon amazed me: Desserts, Street Drinking, and, yes, LESBIANS.

Madrid: Trashy Wine = Good Wine

Most wine tastes horrible, let’s just put that out there. 

I am acutely aware of the many many wine snobs who will disagree with me on this point. I mean, my uncle is a former president of the OWLS: The Ogden Wine Lovers Society (... yeah, it exists). My parents, somehow defying the basic laws of Slavic-ness, shun hard alcohol for the nightly classy, over-priced and, most confounding of all, “dry” glass of wine.

Yet, this phenomenon of purist-wine-loving has always evaded me. I mean, alcohol tastes horrible, so you cover up the taste, right? As much sugar as possible, right?? RIGHT??!?!

According to Spain, the clear answer is: Right!!!

More fun wine facts after the jump.

Chillout Hostel: A Place to Chill with Some Bros, in Broken English

Our hostel in Portugal deserves its own post for so many reasons. First, it was named “Chillout” hostel, and they took their chillin’ theme pretty seriously. There was a large wall of suggestions of places where one could chill and activities with which to chill—including a write-up of a weird faux-far-Eastern-ware store called “Lost in…” and a long card on how to catch a ride on a Portuguese fishing boat. 

Still, the true test of chillin out were all the kooky employees of the place, many of whom were a bit too chilled out for their own good.

I’ll organize this post via hostel characters, in chronological order of acquaintance.

After the jump!

Klepto Cat

What a clever kicha!

Some Positive Affirmations from Mama Joe

Mama Joe, lovely gay man that is, has really been enjoying his time travelling with me in Madrid and Lisbon.

Some precious snippets:

(actually out of the clear blue)

Mama Joe: Fuck you and Julia!!!!!!!! I spit on you!!!!

(in response to a couple at the Madrid airport that kept making out and being lovey dovey)

Liza: Look, they have matching luggage.

Mama Joe: More like UGH-gage

Liza: Do you spit on them, too???

Mama: I´m working up some spit right now.

(in Chueca, Madrid gay-borhood)

Liza: Joe, you need to be open to these Madrid gay men, like a palm tree.

Joe: WHATEVER, they won´t crack my coconuts!!!!!

(as we were looking for bars in Chueca, he started yelling down the street at me even though I hadn´t picked out any place that was expensive and/or lesbian-y!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Mama Joe: Fuck your expensive lesbian shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mama Joe 4eva.


Addendum: Aaaaand from the comments section of this very post:

(in response to the fact that I haven´t gotten my period in 50 DAYS OH GOD WHY)

Joe: ***good luck with your demon baybee****

Adventures in BCN

This past weekend I have:

1) committed petty theft at the champiñeria.... Twice.

2) encountered what can only be described as Dick-in-a-box-Justin-Timberlake, Catalan style. (Trust me when I say his tiny glasses were tiny, and his love of the 90s slash granola was high. Also, he played the double bass)

3) been attacked by vicious dragons spitting fire and sparks!!!!!!!!!

And now, after a weekend of excitement, it is time to go back to a life of relaxation and leisure... meaning yet more travels on budget airlines and general airport hell.

Madrid and Lisboa, here I come!!!

M.Morras' Many Successes with the English Language or, as it is also called...

Words Spelled Incorrectly on the Final Exam for Western Civilization II with M. Morras, Paired with Their Most Probable Meanings

1) Saitn Benedict = or, did she mean... Satan Benedict?

2) teh = a commonly misspelled world in M.Morras' Xanga, the emergence of which suggests that maybe M.Morras isn't as over Jerome as she says she is, evn tho he nvr txtd h3r back & she has AIMed h1m lyke 40 timezzzZZZzzz & he totally iz her FB frnd and it wld just take lyke, 2 secs 4 him 2 hollah @ her if he wantd, esp cuz sh3 rly thought thy had a conexin talking bout MeDiEvAl StAiN3d GlAsSsSsS DePiCtiOnSsS O cHriSt & she cant beleve he wld do dis 2 her!!!!!!!!!!!! 

... Admittedly, "teh" is much less endearing of a typo when written in sad-black-exam-Helvetica vs. neon green Curlz.

3) mena = manna, you know, the bread of the JEWS [POINT VIGOROUSLY AT MICHELLE BENTSMAN]

4)  penomen =  clearly she meant penmen. 

5) ti = Tricky one, as I feel like perhaps it wasn't a typo at all, and M.Morras just jams to TI as she types up exams on Satan Benedict and the other manna-loving penmen of the 13th century courts of Acquitaine, gets distracted by the beat, and thus accidentally includes her boo TI's name on our exam. Also: more proof M.Morras is a thug.

... FYI, if I substitute the last 3 the misspelled words with their most likely accurately-spelled substitutes, question #3 on our exam reads: 

"What does courtly love manna? What kind of penmen was TI?" 

 Yeahhhhh, I got this one.

And, to conclude, my personal favorite M.Morras misspelled word, just because it's, you know, part of the name of the course and all, and was actually spelled correctly in the header of the exam:

6)  Cicvilization = obvs. a long-lost Don Jim-ism referring to the cyclical nature of cultural ethics and social mores within world civilizations. Or something. Also: maybe she just doesn't have spellcheck... Real talk.

A Tour of the Barri Gotic: The Many Love Affairs of M. Morras

So for our last excursion with the illustrious M. Morras, we very very anticlimactically toured…. El Barri Gotic???

Yeah, so having a tour of Barri Gotic at this point in our trip is the equivalent of touring Bartlett (the UChicago dining hall) after two years of living in student housing: we see it and walk through it and encounter it every day... I guess it's pretty? But seriously could we go anywhereeeee elseee pleasseeeeeee? What could we possibly see that we hadn't encountered before?

The answer, kind of interestingly but also 100%-cynically, is that evidently most of what is in the Barri Gotic is fake, and all of the “real” buildings are medieval buildings that were moved to the neighborhood in the early 20^th century. I mean, the tour was even called, “Fake Barcelona—the Invention of the Gothic Quarter.” 

(note the use of "Chicago University")

Meaning: wait, Bartlett is actually older than many of those buildings. Goddamnit, pasta guy wins again. 

More after the jump!

M. Morras 4eva

“Oh yes, sorry I forget, and we miss you …. and you had to come all the way from Ukrania!”

-Prof. Morras (to me, in front of our entire class, after she had forgotten to call on me to present my essay question) 

Más Azúcar, si us plau: A Brief Overview of Spanish and Catalan Dessert Options

Just FYI: I have the world’s biggest sweet tooth. 

In my mind, I eat food so that I can justify eating dessert. Walking into a restaurant, I immediately look for a dessert display. One of my strongest beliefs is that when someone says that something is “too rich” they are actually saying “wait, this food, it tastes too good for my mouth, I cannot handle it,” (Think about it. It’s true!!) ... I could go on and on and on! In short, Liza hearts sugar.

Anywho, for all these reasons, Spanish desserts are a strong interest of mine: What are they? Where can you get them, and for how much? Which ones are actually a little too Spanish for any logical person's taste, i.e. just a ton of unsweetened whipped cream and blechhh almond paste in a ramekin? All these questions and more, answered in the following overview. 

Try not to drool, after le jump.

Selections from 8+ years blogging about the White Stripes (aka Almost a Decade of Uncomfortably Lusting Over Jack White)

With the death of one of the most important bands of my youth, I couldn’t help but start to reflect on my what The White Stripes (TWS) meant, have meant, and still mean to me.

Living in the 'burbs of Detroit, I often have felt like the rise of the White Stripes often carried more bad than good... I mean, even just the controversies involving Jack alone are endless: dating Renee Zellwegger, getting in the car accident, punching Jason Stollsteimer, moving to Nashville, the whole Blanche fiasco, creepily marrying a Tracee-Miller-esque super model, etc etc etc... It all became so very overexposed and silly that, unfortunately, I came to consider the ridiculous myth more than I did the music. 

Still, through it all, I was always interested in what TWS were doing, and couldn’t help but feel alternately loyal, angry, betrayed, vengeful, gleeful, obsessed, etc etc whenever a new snippet on the duo came my way. Plus, I was always grappling with my own strange obsession with the inexplicaly foxy man that is Mr. Jack White.

Out of anthropological curiosity, I sieved through my old Livejournal—updated semi-regularly from 2003 until 2009—in order to find some interesting Liza quips through the ages on Jack and Meg. And there was a plethora. I therefore present: The White Stripes (and Jack White's Physical Appearance) Through the Ages, as Narrated Through Liza Dzul Livejournal Entries of Yore

(click after the jump!)

Farewell, White Stripes

Yesterday the White Stripes announced that they would no longer record or perform music together. It’s strange to say, but—despite the fact I haven’t even really listened to their past two albums—the end of The White Stripes is very very upsetting for me.

The White Stripes in a lot of ways musically framed my entire teenager-dom. It’s baffling, but true: I have made friends through this band. I developed my own appreciation of music through this band. I learned about the history of my own city through this band.

Something about the mixture of Jack White’s anxious, sweaty yelping, Meg’s steady, simple drumming, and the strange psycho-sexual between them was as unique and beloved as it was polemic, frustrating, obnoxious, tiresome, cliché, reactionary, creepy, etc etc etc.

For one thing, (and something people from cities that people actually enjoy living in won’t really understand) the White Stripes brought attention to our perpetually unloved city, at the most basic level. Through their incredible success, the White Stripes showed me that even two outsiders from our sad, dying Midwestern metropolis can come to be the most famous and unique band in the entire world. (In Detroit, songs from “White Blood Cells” and “Seven Nation Army” are so well known that in certain circles you’ll get more of an impassioned response singing a TWS tune than you would singing the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, etc.)

For another, I feel like for much of my basic development as a human being the White Stripes have been playing in the background. I can’t think of any other musical artist that has permeated my own consciousness and understanding of myself and my surroundings through the years as much as the White Stripes have... and I never even consciously liked their music that much. (Entry forthcoming on the Liza Dzul LJ backlog of White Stripes commentary.)

In short, the White Stripes mean a lot to most people I know, they mean a lot to modern music, they mean a lot to our city, Detroit, they mean a lot to my generation of music fans, and, for all these reasons and more, they mean a lot to me.

Jack you seem like kind of an asshole, and Meg, you are somewhat unremarkable (except for your giant boobs), but together you made something magical and I am sorry for future generations of music fans that we all have to see you go. 

LOOK AT THE KITTEH

Photo credit to Steph. Happiness credit to that adorable kicha.

Barcelona's Version of Thundersnow

What a surprise, the weather for the week is 60 degrees and sunny every day!!

Barcelona living = tough. We are regular eskimos, up in here.

As a point of contrast, a picture of the continental U.S. and its snow-pocalypse:

Glad to see the only state not engulfed in a vortex of snow, ice, and lightning right now is Florida. As it was meant to be.

Sunday in We-Don't-Know-Nothin'-'bout-Nobody Gracia

Gracia is the residential neighborhood near Parque Guell. In contrast with the Tapas-centric food culture of L’Eixample, Barri Gotic, and Poble Neu, Gracia has a large number of Middle Eastern and Indian restaurants.

But, seriously now: none of that is relevant. What is important for you to know is that Gracia, against all odds, is a barrio of mystery and intrigue. Here, I present my evidence.

Exhibit A: We all had a super tasty lunch at an Indian place that was "90% vegan." 90%? Isn't it the 10% not-vegan part that makes it not-vegan? Not in Spain, it doesn't! Next thing you know this restaurant is going to be a little bit pregnant or some shit.

Sagrada Familia Giftshop!!! (and, also, I guess, Sagrada Familia)

Last November, the World’s Most Crypt-Keeper-esque Pope, Pope Benedict, blessed Sagrada Familia—Gaudi's most famous work (and the most famous church) in Barcelona. Due to an increase in demand after the pope's blessing, the church was open for free every Saturday from November until February. Last Saturday was the last Saturday it was open for free. 

... Cue the MASSIVE ENDLESS CROWD

More after the jump!