Barcelona

Barcelona, Spain
Wednesday, June 19 - Saturday, June 21

I arrived in Barcelona on Thursday, June 19, and, I eventually managed to exit from the main train station, with the assistance of an incredibly friendly old lady. The people of France and England had not been this warm, and, further fueled by stories I’d heard from fellow travelers, I couldn’t help but think that kindness must be a zero-sum game – if there’s people here quite eager to help me out, there must also be people quite eager to, put it crudely, screw me over.

The hostel sat on top of a long, steep hill whose climb was not pleasant. I found out that I had achieved a considerably level of notoriety around the hostel owing to the spread of my passport story. Our roommates, two Spanish girls, did not speak a word of English, but, oddly enough, the mutually acknowledged language barrier made for a comfortable détente.

Keone, having arrived a day earlier, made friends with a Spanish couple, Alvaro and Lorea, who just saved him from being fleeced for 50 Euros for a ten minute taxi ride. We met up with those two, along with their two Scottish friends, Bobby and Andy. Cynthia, our Californian waitress of Argentinian descent, added to what would be one of few nights of merriment with the pleasure of conversation in English. Toward the end of the night, the owner of the bar, a 45 year old play-boy from Venezeula, stopped by to help clean up. A former architect, he designed the bar himself, particularly proud of the gold and black design of the bathroom – a Dolce and Gabbana accent, he claimed. His appreciation for such fineries was lost on us

Barcelona is probably the second most widespread city we’d been to at that point, after London, and the stupidity of our ambitious plan to walk back home quickly came to light. No longer under our two Spanish friends’ protective gaze, we were ripped off by a taxi – 15 Euros for a four block ride.

We had to switch to a six-bed the next morning, Friday, June 20, where we met Ryan, a junior at Carnegie Mellon that was studying art, with whom we discussed what were most definitely not mutual fortes - Barcelona and art.

I should note that the “siesta” culture which middle-school and high-school Spanish culture repeatedly mention to spice up the normally bland, conjugation ridden classes, is quite absent in the larger cities in Spain, and, from what we gathered from speaking with locals, is becoming a relic in the smaller towns as well.

That day we walked down Las Ramblas, the most popular pedestrian boulevard in the city, which dotted with souvenir shops, restaurants selling paella and other Spanish delicacies, and what is possibly the most creative street performers I shall see. Las Ramblas street performers don incredibly intricate costumes, ranging from GI Joe to Satyr to Anger, and perform a small act for and take a picture with those who pay them.

Halfway through the street, stretching to the right side, was El Mercat Boqueria, the famous Barcelonan marketplace with vendors showcasing any and all type of fruit you imagine, vegetables, sausage, goat legs, and what seemed to be an endless variety of fish. In effort to find reasonably priced Paella, we began walking on the side streets of Las Ramblas, only to find ourselves lost in a three block long alley lined with no less than 20 hookers. Spreading around to stand in the middle of all possible exits from the alley, thereby forcing us to pass them on our way out, we made a mad dash for the last open street. We had lunch at the noodle restaurant “Wok to Walk,” that was half a block away.

We then made our way to the harbor to check out the beaches, piers, as well as to book our cruise to Rome. In our three hour wait until the booking office opened, we sat on the pier, throwing almonds, that proved to be not only inedible, but incredibly foul tasting for our new Spanish fish friends.

That night we went to the beach, walked through the garden in the middle of the city, and saw the Arc de Triomf, which was considerably smaller than its Parisian cousin. We had dinner at a small eatery – pork sandwiches, a young, fruity Spanish red wine, and Estella, the national beer. Although we were somewhat drunk by the time we got back to the hotel, we decided to take showers being dirty form walking around all day. We took two of the three communal showers, which were arranged one next to another in a line, and the antics that followed – squirting each other over the wall with cold water – was frowned upon by the occupant of the third shower – an Asian guy across from whom I stood in the mirror for a good 5 seconds before I realized that I was wearing nothing but crocs on my feet.Keone’s adopted an extreme version of the Barcelonan “lisp” pronunciation, which normally makes “c”’s with an “s” sound into a “th.” Keone, however, has taken to pronouncing all “s” sounds with a lisp