Please don't touch the fruit.

Oh, there's nothing like getting yelled at in Catalan first thing in the morning by a pair of old women with bulging eyeballs at the market for touching the grapes. Now, I know. Don't touch the fruit at the market.

Today is Albert's birthday! Last night when Albert went to bed, Marie and I whipped up a storm in the kitchen - tiramisu. According to Wikipedia, tiramisu means, literally, "pick-me-up," or it can also mean "cheer-me-up." How appropriate on yet another cool, rainy day in the city. After making the dessert, we hid it in the fridge behind the cauliflower and cilantro.

This morning Marie and I woke up early to go to the market and buy fruit, tiny pastries no larger than two thumbs, and flowers for Albert. We tiptoed back into the apartment and Albert was still sleeping, arranged the table with sweet-smelling lilies, croissants, coffee, and plump, green grapes. Then we stuck a few candles into the tiramisu and marched into Albert's bedroom singing "Happy Birthday," or at least attempted singing it in Spanish. Albert, dewy-eyed and sleepy, exclaimed, "¡Que fuerte!" and blew out the candles. Then he asked wearily, "What time is it?"

I felt a little bad about waking him up until a few minutes later when sounds of fireworks and sirens could be heard in the street. Moments later, the street just outside Albert's balcony, was filled with firefighters marching in a strike. It was very loud, a much more jarring, "Good morning!" than being sung to.