(Dan) Another jaunt south out of town. This time our destination is Terrassa, and a club with the enigmatic name, "Nashville."

Well, how to describe this Fellini-esque evening, now that it's over? The last few nights showed us the countryside out of Barcelona, smaller towns but with a similar age-ripened feel and a small-town variety of the same polite and friendly Catalonians. By comparison, Nashville was like a trip to Mars. Or Disney World.

Would you guess it, the club had a 'country' feel! But Nashville is like a giant Mixed Metaphor, in boldface capital letters a foot high. They do country like the Catholic Church does mass.

We pull into a fenced yard, and I am immediately reminded of the Sagebrush Cantina in Los Angeles--the Mexican hacienda feel. But Confederate flags compete with the stars-and-stripes for room on a ceiling crowded with cowboy memorabilia, longhorns, sombreros, rodeo gear. 'Crowded' being the operative word.

Our hosts wear the obligatory 10-gallon hat. There are lariats if you have the urge to practice your noose. We are asked if we know 'Magaritaville'. Honestly, the place reads as Austin more than Nashville but heck, what's the dif? The stage is fine, we sound check and go out for a bite with our host.

Time for another round of Cognitive Dissonance. Our minds bend as we pull off the road and into--Oh no! Madre Dios!--a gigantic California-style mall complete with multi-layer concrete parking structure. Why did I think we were in the Old World? Isn't Spain all like Barcelona? Perhaps not. We follow the throngs along a strip of eateries to Tapas 'N Stuff, across from the auto parts store.

As we enter and are feted with a parade of fast-food tapas (along with a curious yellowish liquid that proves to be cider), it may be time for a quick aside: so here for your amusement and education, comes a list of...

After a lot of polite and diplomatic munching, our Picky Eaters are whisked back to Nashville, Catalonia. A big crowd is busy line dancing inside. Yes, serious, well-executed Line Dancing that would make any Tennessean proud. Country Pop is blasting away.

Well. Tiny plays their show, a little rattled by the atmosphere but with the game sense of adventure that drives us along. Look, they are trying to line dance while we play 'Infinity!' The Catalonians applaud appreciatively to each tune. Fiddle tunes get a big cheer of course. On a TV monitor, footage of rodeos, cowboy clowns getting upended by the Loco Toro. This is Nashville, senor.

(Sheila) Last but not least however are the ever-improving language skills of all band-members. Patrick has moved on from constantly apologizing for everything with "lo siento" to describing things he sees, like "el coche azul," and "ensalada verte." Paula claims her Spanish has simply deteriorated and Dan has finally mastered the first-person of "to be" and is recklessly (but boldly) using "soy this and that," "soy innocente" being one of his favorites. After the gig at Nashville I try desperately to mind my own business and am busy putting away my gear but I can't help but overhear Dan struggling to communicate with a fan asking him a question or two. Rather than attempt to decipher what's been asked of him, Dan wisely decides to turn the questions around by enthusiastically gesturing at Mr. Fan asking him with both his body language and booming voice, "Soy musico?" Translated, Dan is actually asking Mr. Fan whether "I am a musician?" but intending to ask him whether, he, Mr. Fan, is a musician. Doubled over in giggles, I am completely unable to bail him out. The baffled fan just smiles and gives up. A previous language mispronunciation yielded Daniel an ashtray instead of a beer (that still has me bursting into spontaneous laughter as I recall the perplexed look on his face as he told me the story). Another encounter had him ordering "agua sans geeze" instead of "agua sin gas", as his years of French got the better of him. He is a source of great amusement to himself and the rest of the band....I, on the other hand, try not to mention that the other day I was in an elevator in a 5-story building and a woman asked me what floor I wanted to go to and I said trece (13) instead of tres (3). Paula makes the mistake once of telling someone that the polla (I think that's the word) the night before was delicious. She meant to say the chicken was good but ended up saying dick instead. Whoops!