¡Arriba! Es España, Señor: Part Dos

Olla. I’d never really thought about it before, but I think it’s possible for a specific moment to come to define a day. There are a lot of things that come to mind when I think about Christmas, but really the clearest picture I have is of the four of us sitting downstairs around the tree with the fire on, and our new dog first sauntering out of the bathroom and sniffing around. That’s the go to Christmas moment.

Last night just might have done that for Halloween. But first, I have to leave the cool autumn of Essex and go back south to Barcelona, Spain.

There we were, on an overnight train heading for Granada. I’d done the overnight crossing on Marine Atlantic before, and every trip, either from Port aux Basques or North Sydney, went the exact same way: “Should we get a sleeper cabin?” Hemming and hawing. “Naw, the chairs will be fine. Plus, I’m barely even tired.”

The chairs are never fine, and about 25 minutes in, you’re tired. We’ve still never gotten a sleeper.

So, when we got to the ticket agent in Barcelona, and he said the sleeper was only an extra 30 Euros, the thought of saying no never once crossed my mind. We were separated though, so I ended up with an old Spanish guy who tried to make communication with me, to little avail; I shouldn’t have told him I could speak a little French, because high school verb conjugation isn’t exactly a big help in real conversation. The other two people in the squat cabin – about as big as a room in Burton’s Pond – were an Asian father and son. Three of our compadres went out for drinks, but once the light went out and door locked, I was terrified of moving, lest I infuriate the Spanish guy, who had already done a lot of hand waving and yelling.

Now, I can rhyme off some really bad sleeps I’ve had. 1) Last year, when I ate chicken that was in our fridge for eight days, got food poisoning, and kept waking up every 15 minutes or so to throw up in the garbage can next to my bed. 2) The year before that, when I thought I got the Swine and kept having messed up fever dreams. 3) The first night I spent in the hospital when I got my appendix out. 4) Anytime I tried to sleep on the damn Marine Atlantic chairs.

The top five list was rounded out by my night on the Spanish train. And, to be fair, it belongs somewhere near the top of the list.

The room was warm, everything restricted and claustrophobic. I think the fact that I felt I couldn’t move or get out made the room seems ten times as small. The bed was pretty much my exact size, which actually wasn’t a huge deal for me, but who builds a bed to my dimensions? Then I got thirsty but didn’t dare budge (I was on the top bunk, it would have been a nuisance), and then I got leg cramps, mingled with the ongoing insomnia and feeling that the train ride would never end.

It was about this time that the clicking sound started. Every time the train went on any type of curve, there was a click, click, oh thank God it sounds like it sto—click.

I tried moving my bag in the overhead cabin, thinking that was the problem. Nope. I tried wrapping it up in my damp towel I’d laid across my feet to dry. No better. I shoved my bag against the back wall, thinking the angrier I got at it, the more likely it was to let me sleep. Nope. I tried covering my head with my pillow. I ripped my bag out of the bin and placed it in bed next to me – the bed that was no bigger than me when I didn’t have the bag – to no avail. I jammed my earbuds in, turned on my iPod, and it worked . . . until the battery died halfway through the FIRST song. I tried to ignore it. That one worked the least.

And then, I figured out it was the chained lock, dangling from the holster near the door. Grab, click, problem solved. The night was better from here on – maybe because I was so exhausted from the struggle.

The worst part was, I knew Devin was out trying to sleep in a chair, while I had a bed. No matter how miserable I was – and miserable I was – I knew I wasn’t allowed to complain. Consider this my venting.

When we arrived in Granada with the rise of the sun, I ran to the platform and was never so happy to breathe the fresh air. 

We had a day in the city, a southern city built at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains, capped with snow even at this latitude. We did what we do best – wandered without a reason, and lucked out. After Pâté at an outdoor café, we found ourselves pointed towards the Alhambra, an ancient and sprawling fortress and palace complex that reflects the Moorish influences of the Muslim leaders that ruled in Spain about the 14th century. Basically, it looked like Pentos from Game of Thrones (which was actually filmed in Morocco, not unreasonably far from southern Spain).

The spot was a major tourist attraction, and when we found out that we’d have to wait a few hours before even being allowed in, I was ready to say shag the thing, let’s explore. Lor was having no part in not seeing the castle though, and for not the first time I put my faith in her and it ended up working out better than I could ever have hoped for.

After we had our ticket, we had a few hours to spare, so we went behind the palace, to the Spanish hillside. Imagine this: sandy hills in all directions, peppered with scraggly olive bushes and dusty trails beneath a burning sun. Right in front of us was the city, behind that the mountains slowly climbing to snowy heights. Un freakin’ real.

We wandered along the curve of the land and through back alleys, finding a meal difficult due to siesta, a midday nap that’s not exactly common in St. John’s but a big thing here in Spain. Eventually though, a café opened their doors, and I found out that a full hamburger includes an egg on the patty.

By then, it was time to reclimb the hill though the Puerta de las Granadas (Gate of the Pomegranates), entering a little forest and nature walk in the foothills with a tumbling watercourse alongside the path.

We started at the Palace of the Generalife and the upper gardens, rife with stunning architecture, greenery, and fountains. That’s the big thing about this spot – the designers understood the aesthetic appeal of water, and used it everywhere. It was an incredible spot, a step back in time but also to a different world, where the mundane procedures of running a country seemed second to the pomp and splendour of living like royalty in a southern resort. Somehow, it felt a lot friendlier than the other castles we’d seen up to this point.

After we’d been through the palaces, walked between flowered archways, seen the archaeological excavation still ongoing, and sat along the walls staring out at the uncomplicated lives (at least from a Western perspective) of the Spanish in Granada, it was time to make a move back to the train station, to get to Almería before it got too late. Along the way, we passed a throng of people crowding the streets and climbing buildings, waiting for their football team to arrive home. How European of them.

This train ride was much better, and more subdued even. The carts were all but empty, and we sat together but lost in our thoughts, gazing out as the sun set on the Spanish desert. Isolated villages, many of them abandoned, slipped on by, just like the rows and rows of olive trees.

In Almería, it was a few hours shy of midnight, but still a bit late to be in a brand new, foreign city, looking for our hotel in a confused jumble of a map. After staring for a while and mapping out a course, we took to the dark (yet warm) streets, weaving a course through the high stone buildings and palm trees. The Hotel La Perla was closer than we thought, just across from the city square that is the Puerta de Purchena. Two rooms of three beds – it wasn’t the ballroom of the Ritz Hotel or anything, but it was more than good enough for five travel-weary Canadians.

Well, not entirely travel-weary. Once we’d thrown our bags down and our heads on a pillow for a few minutes – in between watching Spongebob Squarepants in Spanish – it was time to head out. For an early night.

Somehow, it got to be 4 am. That just happens on warm Spanish evenings in Almería, I guess. We went to a small outdoor bar near the hotel, and struggled through enough Spanish to get a few glasses of wine. When we’d drained those, we got another . . . and found out that, because people don’t tip in Spain, if you do, then the bartender will like you. With that glass of wine came a shot. By now, things were shutting down here, and so we set off to find somewhere with music.

After a cab driver pointed us in the right-ish direction, we wandered farther down towards the harbour, and came upon the Mae West bar. Let the fiesta begin. The dance floor was lined with young people, waiting for something . . . turns out it was a dude with a headset, guiding them through Salsa, Marengue, Tango, Chachacha, and Mambo dancing while DJs cranked out some very Spanish-sounding tracks. I don’t know Spanish, but it was easy enough to stand near the back and follow someone else’s lead. And a whole lot of fun.

I have no idea what time the lesson ended, but I do know that four Newfoundlanders were the last ones out of the dance floor by a good half an hour. That’s how you have an early night when you’re used to George Street, I guess.

Late nights don’t make for incredibly early mornings, although we did ok, with varying degrees of sleep and hangovers. The sun was shining and it was more than 20 degrees out . . . perfect for the beach. We had a little bit of a wait for the bus to Cabo de Gata, a natural park with a spectacular beachside, so we lay down for a spell along the beach at Almería before the hour-long trek to the real deal.

And real deal it was. The beach, next to an old abandoned castle-like thing, restaurant, and beached boats, went on for miles of empty coastline until it reached the feet of some impressive mountains. Other than a guy with a kite and some fishermen, we were the only ones there. The day was a bit overcast, and the water cooler than it had been in Barcelona (maybe because, geographically, we’re getting out of the enclosure of the Mediterranean and closer to Gibraltar and the open Atlantic?), but it was still great for swimming, throwing a Frisbee around, and laying in the sun, when it decided to come out.

 

 

After the day had passed, myself and Lor decided to get closer to the mountains. I said the beach stretched for miles, but that was the voice of hindsight speaking. It looked a lot closer than that. Saw a spectacular sunset along the Mediterranean – capping off the last full day of our Spanish adventure – and a cool abandoned town that looked like a movie set at the edge of a beachside boardwalk, but by the time it got dark and the stars started coming out, we were barely to the base of the hills. We didn’t have a watch, but it had probably been about an hour and a half since we left our friends. Pfff, they probably don’t think we’re dead. Still, we should head back.

That’s what we did, trying vainly to hitchhike the last few kilometres and coming up empty handed. Know how the getting back usually seems much quicker? Not so this time, maybe because it was so dark we couldn’t recognize anything, until we found an abandoned wine bottle where our camp had been. We hoped they had moved on to the restaurant, and hoped even more that they hadn’t gone to the police.

Once they’d gone through the motions of being glad to see us in one piece and being pissed that we’d been gone so long (running through the what-ifs), we sat down for a drink and some tapas. By then, it was time to get our bus, the last one for the night.

As we were walking back, it passed us in the opposite direction. Umm, what?

Why do I always find myself running to get some form of transportation, in a situation where I miss it I’m unequivocally screwed? Getting stranded in London is one thing; getting stranded in the Spanish desert is quite another. We held tight to our schedule, hoping that the bus was just doing a loop and would be back for us soon.

When it came back, it was like the light that shines down at the end of every episode of Touched by an Angel. When it turned right and we were left, it was like when you thought for a second the guys on Titanic had seen the iceberg in time, but it still rips the shit out of the hull.

 Crap. Better luck next time . . .

Thank God it was on a roundabout, and thank God even more that Devin made the night by chasing the bus halfway around the circle.

The next morning was rainy but warm. Devin parted ways in the mid-afternoon, bound for Seville for a few nights; we headed to the outskirts of the city, to see what we could see.

Remember how this is always our thing, and it always works out?

In a few steps and with a few turns between rocky hills, we were in the thick of the Spanish desert, moreso than before. Every step was like walking through the set of a Killers music video or album cover. I want to read Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises now, because apparently, had it taken place in 2011, it would have been about us – wandering through the desert with some real good friends who I’d barely known a few months ago, it certainly felt like something out of a story. A pretty spectacular one, at that, with a real happy ending.

After collecting our things at the hotel and having one last meal at a café – no paella, unfortunately, but another good egg hamburger combo – and a, erm, few last bottles of wine, we got a cab to the airport, and bade Spain farewell in twilight.

At least, until our next meeting.

What a gorgeous country though. In much the same way the Scandinavia is Europe but a world onto itself, so too is Spain a distinct being in the European framework. It’s a country that loves its beaches, its siestas, its wine, and its romance – in other words, a country that doesn’t take itself too seriously, because it doesn’t need to. Its people live good lives largely because they don’t take things too seriously.

There’s a lot that can be taken out of a place like that, and I hope that, when it comes time to go back to the real world, I can take something of that world with me. It was only yesterday that Harry pointed something out – this trip isn’t about Life of Johnson. It’s about our lives, the things that we see and the things that we do, and what we make of them. If I learn only one thing in this entire semester of school, I hope it’s something like that.

*          *          *

Now, Halloween. For her midterm break, Mary Walsh went back to Canada, where she put on the Marg Delahunty Viking suit and accosted the mayor of Toronto, Rob Ford. Turns out she got in a lot of trouble for that stunt, a bit surprising since she did bits like that for the last twenty years, to a lot of people more important than Rob Ford.

Anyway, I never know what I’m going to be for Halloween until the days before it, but when Lor came to me two days ago and said that she was going as Marg and wanted someone to be Don, my costume was all but made.

Last night, at the Crown’s Halloween party, few people were dressed up, and fewer still knew who we were supposed to be, but we knew we had a pretty sweet costume. It was at this point that we found out that Don was back from picking Mary up at the airport.

Drinks were cast down, tabs left unpaid, as we sprinted to their cabin and rapped on the door, for a 22 Minutes-style accosting of Mary Walsh herself (“Mary Walsh, Mary Walsh, I hear you kill children with your liberal sensibilities!”). I don’t know who gets to do this, or who then gets invited back into their residence for some pictures and some candy from Canada. Lucky, lucky, undeserving bastards, I guess.

Happy Halloween.

Cheers,

rb

¡Arriba! Es España, Señor: Part Uno

My face is a bit darker, stubble a bit coarser. My ankle has a mysterious, deep purple bruise, my camera’s zoom was nearly nullified by the sand of Sitges, my sunglasses pulverized on a street somewhere in Barcelona. Spain, you left your mark on me. Not that that's a bad thing.

I don’t remember ever doing anything extravagant for midterm break, except for going to the closing ceremonies of the Pasadena Winter Carnival and getting free hot chocolate at the fire hall, so spending a full week in Spain is one of those things that sticks out a little bit. Call it the outlier of the group. Up until sometime last week, we – that’s five of us, Lor, Julie, Harry, and Devin – didn’t have a hell of a lot of a plan. Just a one way ticket to Barcelona, and a few nights booked at a hostel in the city. In a last minute, late night powwow, a vague plan to head along the coast to southern Spain throughout the week came together.

Things couldn’t have worked out better. Get comfortable, it’s a bit of a long story.

We flew out of Stansted last Friday morning, touching down in Girona just before lunchtime. Girona is a decent-sized city in Catalonia, and fairly close to Barcelona via the trains. Right away, it was obvious we weren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto. Flying in, the sun shimmered off the sweeping stretches of the blue Mediterranean, pointed hills and mountains enclosed fields and towns, and palm trees and stone houses dotted the earthy plains. Before we even touched down, I liked For Whom The Bell Tolls much more. As soon as we touched down, I got rid of my jeans and my jacket.

You can’t count on people speaking English, and even though you can get along by pointing at things on the menu or gesturing, you still feel like a moron in an overwhelming foreign world, especially in the very beginning. Girona and Barcelona weren’t too bad – some of the signs had English in the same capacity that Canadian cereal boxes have French – but as we got farther south, we weren’t exactly making small talk about the weather to our waitresses or anything.

Girona is, to the best of my knowledge, most well known in the rest of the world because, if you bastardize the pronunciation, it completely fits into the Knack’s song “My Sharona.” We decided to spend a few hours in the city anyway – and city it is, with nearly 100,000 people – exploring it in a quick runaround. As we left the bus station that connected us to the airport, we wandered until we found a small community garden, growing corn and looking like something right out of the American South. Near to that was a café and bar with some outdoor seating. Seems like a good idea to get a drink and sit in the sun, si?

Nice try.

When we went into the bar and asked for a beer and the, you know, Spaniard, started speaking, you know, Spanish, we were like deer in the headlight. Immovable panic, kind of like when you get the Old Hag by sleeping on your back, and you want to run away or yell or something but you’re stuck in place. It kinda seemed like time just stopped, and pointing at the fridges did nothing but make the whole thing a bigger mess. I don’t know how we got five Tequila-tinged cervazai, but I do know we didn’t stick around to try ordering anything else.

Passage across the Rio Onyar, a shallow but wide river cutting through the city, was like stepping into another world. The only way to describe it is Spanish – narrow, but not claustrophobic, European but unmistakably different. Lots of reds, beiges, and masonry running up the hills and through the streets. 

We lucked out big time, and found ourselves on the front steps of Girona Cathedral, an ancient and sprawling Roman Catholic church. Apparently, inside it has the world’s widest Gothic nave, but the outside was what we were concerned with: it was connected to towers, turrets, gardens, and bridges, just an open expanse of a Spanish history book. Shakespeare may lay his scene in Fair Verona in Romeo and Juliet, but the enclosed courtyards carved out of ancient rocks in Fair Girona would be just as likely a setting for any Capulet or a Montague to hang out.

After getting lost amongst the walkways and alleys, we found ourselves on a long stretch of walkway, which could easily have been called the Great Wall of Girona, since it stretched right from the cathedral through a good portion of the city, offering wicked views along the way. Absolutely unreal, to be transplanted to this world that is so unfamiliar – there is no point of reference, and the little comparisons I’ve been making only scratch at the surface of how jarringly disconnected this place is from anywhere I’ve ever been or even seen before.

When we found ourselves back at the station, it was about time to get the train to Barcelona. Going up for the ticket, I’ve heard that I might as well have been a Polish stranger; after the café incident, I wasn’t taking any chances on the language barrier, especially if it meant holding up some irate travellers. Nope, I held out a sign with the station we wanted and the time we wanted and smiled like a hopeless tourist. Considering that the ticket agent spoke English, I think I managed to look like a sufficient asshole.

We disembarked arbitrarily at Barcelona Sants, a major station in the city, and one stop away from the station we ought to have gone to. No worries, we grabbed a few cabs, handed them the sheet with our hostel address on it, said, “Si” to any question they asked us, and whipped off through the Spanish night. It didn’t even cross my mind until later what we would have done if the two cabs had ended up in different spots. Half of us might still be in Barcelona now.

Both cabs pulled up at the same time, to a tall, gated . . . radiology clinic. And proceeded to drive away, while we confirmed that the address on our hostel print out matched the apparently deserted building we were now in front of. Shat.

Asking directions in a very Spanish deli only pointed us right back to where we started, and checking the back of the building just brought us for a loop around the block. We were almost ready to start finding a park and drawing straws for who would take first watch when Harry found the word “Lullaby” scrawled onto a note on the building directory, next to a doorbell. When we ran, the locked gate clicked, and we were inside a marbled entrance room, and at the top of the stairs was a wooden door with “Lullaby” on it, this time on a slightly bigger sheet of paper. Things couldn’t get much weirder.

“You must be the group from Canada,” the foreign guy (who you know gets all the ladies) said as we walked into the single-floor hostel. Unbelievable that we ended up in the right spot after all – apparently it’s brand new though, so maybe a bigger sign is in the long term plans. Either way, the spot was perfect for what we were looking for: a spacious room that we practically had to ourselves, a few computers, a kitchen, more washroom than I saw people, breakfast in the morning, and even an outdoor lounge area. Lullaby Hostel was nowhere near as vibrant as Castle Rock in Scotland, but it was a perfect fit for our Spanish adventure.

After lying down for a bit and waving off an offer to join a crowd in a game of poker, we went looking for some food. Found a decently classy but student-friendly restaurant down along Passeig de Gràcia, one of the main drags in the city, with some real cheap house wine. The Calamari was a bit soggier than crispy, but when in Spain, do as the Spaniards do.

Hunger taken care of, it was time to have some fun in Barcelona. We went looking for a bar, following a group of young people a few strides behind for a while, before we came across a street with a few nightclubs. We were almost into one, when the bouncer held up his hand and, realizing we didn’t get his Spanish gibberish, said, “Female companionship.”

“Huh? Well yea, we have two female companions with us.”

“No no no no no.” More failed attempts, arm flailing. Finally, another guy at the door stepped up to the plate. “Sex,” said he.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. While the female companion hanging outside the door laughed hysterically, we made our way a bit farther down the street, coming to Wunder Bar, a place where most of the patrons were about 15 and I got to test my real good Spanish accent, accidentally ordered 12 Heineken, and got 2 Moritz instead.

Walking back was a bit like trying to remember a dream: you know it, somewhere in the back recesses of your mind, but trying to call it up on demand isn’t always the easiest thing. We wandered in what we assumed was the approximate direction, looking for the signs of our radiology clinic or Casa Milà, a building designed by Antoni Gaudí, a Catalan architect from the early part of the last century who left a major mark on the look and cultural feel of Barcelona. We just thought of the weird-looking building as the Flintstone building, but we were positive it was just down the street from the Lullaby Hostel.

Up and down streets, too proud to spring for a cab that would only drive us a block or two, we eventually made it back and joined the crowd still smoking and playing cards for a little while. It had been a long day, and the beach was calling us in the morning.

*          *          *

Saturday morning beach time. Sitges is a beach town, a community a bit bigger than Corner Brook built right on the cusp of a sandy beach, constantly accosted by the warm salty waves of the Mediterranean. It’s also only 35 clicks outside of Barcelona, and easily reachable by a train. The morning in Barcelona looked a bit dim starting off, and as we walked through the city to the terminal, we looked the part of the tourists: flip flop sandals, t-shirts, and shorts, while the locals all had their chic autumn coats and scarves. Apparently the end of October isn’t the peak season for beaching. Who knew?

Once we stepped off the train, there might as well have been a celestial beacon shining down on the place, cause it was heaven on earth. A tropical resort town that basically belonged to us. Things only got better: we went to a wine store and found some bottles for dirt cheap. We went to a fruit market, and loaded up on grapes, croissants, raspberries, and nuts. We went down twisting cobblestone alleyways between whitewashed stone houses, turned a corner and were standing on the brink of the sea. Un freaking believable. I spilled half my grapes in the sand because I was in such a hurry to flick off my sandals, but let’s just call it authentic Mediterranean flavour.

Shite, the water was spectacular. Meanwhile, home in Newfoundland, there was snow this weekend. Sitges was a never ending wave pool, a summersault of ocean, and it was warm. I’ve had an aversion to salt water since that time I was 5 or 6 out on the Piccadilly Sands by Stephenville, but I didn’t mind taking in the scatter mouthful here in Spain.

I mean that metaphorically. It’s still salt water, and I still spit it back up. It helped that I had wine to wash it down at least.

In between swimming, lounging, and nibbling, the day kind of just whisked on by. Once it got dark, it was time for supper, and there happened to be a good beach house restaurant just down from us. Perfectio. Keeping the theme of Spanish cuisine going, it was time for an order of prawn, a largish kind of Baby Bay Scrimp that had been cooked in a thick garlic sauce. It was a bit like eating lobster, except more work, since there was only a little bit of meat in these dudes, who were looking up at you while you ripped their shells apart.

For dessert, we got some gourmet white chocolate fudgsicles at a roadside shop and watched some gymnasts make a giant human tower in the middle of the street. Saturday night outclassed the night before by a longshot: we went to a corner store in Barcelona, and found bottles of wine for 1,60 € (that’s about $2.25 Canadian) and big bags of cheezies. Wine and cheese, I told you we classed it up.

*          *          *

Before we left the hostel in the morning, bound for the old part of the town down along the harbour, we ran into a little problem: how were we getting halfway across the country the next day, to our hostel in Granada? That’s some 900 km south of where we were, a little bit less than the distance between Montreal and Moncton. In “Run,” Rex Goudie tells his chicky to take a bus, take a plane, take a train (what? I used to go out with a girl who liked Rex goudie, leave me alone . . .), and we freaking tried all those. Every option, crossing them out one by one. A plane wouldn’t be that expensive, but Ryanair finally gave us the middle finger and wouldn’t let us book from Spain, the bus would be an arduous length of time, and the only train that would work was one that was leaving on Monday evening, arriving in Granada at 8 o’clock the next morning. When I was younger, I was terrified of trains that went across Spain in the dead of night, thanks to our old record player and Chris de Burgh’s song “Spanish Train.” There was no way no how I was ever taking the overnight train to get to Granada.

I can’t believe we took the overnight train to get to Granada. More on that later.

The last minute option practically gave us an extra day in Barcelona, and also scratched off a night of accommodations in Granada. All we had to contend with is the fact that Satan and Jesus were probably playing poker somewhere on board, and the fate of everyone’s souls depended on a really stupid wager. NBD.

We walked towards the water’s edge, coming to La Rambla, a central street in the city that is one part green space, another part pedestrian market. It also links the Barri Gòtic (the Gothic Quarter, part of the Old Town) to the El Raval, another neighbourhood of the Old Town. You can get a lot of touristy crap here, the same as in any other shop lining the street of any other European city, but you could also get some cool clothing, jewellery, pottery, incense, and crafts. It was in an antique spot down along the harbourside that I found my Spanish souvenir: Bon Jovi’s New Jersey on vinyl. It had nothing to do with Spain, and was a nuisance not only to carry around that day (particularly once it started to rain) but also to take back on the flight, but it’s one of my favourite albums out there. So the hell with it.

Once it started to sprinkle rain and the merchants (can I use that word and it not sound pretentious? Judge for yourself, I guess) started covering and putting away their things, we ran and found an umbrella that happened to have a table and a menu beneath it. Wine and pasta tonight.

Now, I don’t think you need to drink like a fish to have a fantastic time. Not at all. But, when wine is as cheap (and as good) as it is in Barcelona . . . well, it doesn’t hurt. After splitting a few bottles, we found another convenience store (quite conveniently) and a fairly deserted park (also conveniently). There was a fountain on the outer boundaries, so we took position there, passing around some snacks, wine, and sangria from a guitar-shaped bottle wearing a sombrero with clicking castanets about the neck. When in Spain, do as the Spaniards do, remember? Chin chin.

I guess we saw the Old Town after that. We did walk by the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia in the core of the Barri Gòtic, but what happens in Barcelona needs to stay in Barcelona for this night. Let’s just say it involves climbing a few palm trees, singing “Party in the USA” more times than anyone ought to, and trusting the decal bands on Devin’s bookbag to bring us back to the hostel in one piece.

Almost in one piece, anyway. I told you before, my sunglasses got pulverised on a street somewhere in Barcelona.

*          *          *

The next day, there probably should have been some heavy heads – talk about dodging a bullet and not learning a lesson. We did oversleep checkout a little bit, but everyone at the hostel was laid back and cool with everything; they even let us leave our bags there for the day, while we checked out Park Güell, in the northern area of town. I mentioned Antoni Gaudí a bit earlier, and he came up a lot more today. See, he was a major visionary around the turn of the twentieth century, his work centering around architecture, nature, religion, and Catalonia. He started work on his magnum opus, the Sagrada Família, a weird, dominating Gothic cathedral, about 1883, died during its construction, and yet the spot is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and it’s expected to be completed in 2026, the centennial of Gaudí’s death. 

That was the first place we stopped by on Monday morning, before heading to Park Güell, which is a garden but also incorporates some cool architectural features on the hills of El Carmel. Not only does it look like what you’d find on the other end of the Rabbit Hole, it also has a commanding view of Barcelona. Not a bad thing to go out on.

As we were climbing to the top, past colourful, mosaic-tiled buildings and sculptures, we came to a long sandy plain with balconies running along its edges. Guess what? The rain in Spain really does fall mainly on the plains. The heavens opened up, lightning started crashing, and the cheap beach towels we had brought along didn’t do a whole lot, even when wrapped like shawls about our faces. Before we got completely soaked, we ran to a cave, where some more craftspeople were selling knickknacks spread out on towels while Spanish guitarists were playing. The thunder kept rumbling, but the rain eventually let off enough to let us climb to the top of the hillside and get that awe inspiring look at the city. And to see patches of blue start to break up the cloud coverage.

The way back into town was broken up every so often by sprinkles of rain, but nothing too serious. We stopped into a small restaurant, and I treated myself with the Spanish meal of choice: paella. That’s a bit of a stereotypical, Western view, since paella is really a Valencian dish, but what do I know? I don’t speak the language, I’m only here for a week, and if I want paella because I want the full experience then damn it, that’s what I’m going to do. I got paella mixta, which had some seafood (some mussels, and more of my prawn friends) as well as pork, in a bed of seasoned rice. Fan freaking tastic.

Wouldn’t you know it though, the rain started up again, just as we ducked into the underground station. We still wanted to see the beach in Barcelona before we left, but when we got there, it turns out a bad situation was worse than a minute again. As in there was practically a monsoon.

No beachside shenanigans for us that day – instead, we split into cabs, dried off a bit back at the hostel, before grabbing our bags and making for the Barcelona Sants train station where there were a few squat cabins with our names on them.

The rooms were small, and the company little better; the Asian father and son were quiet (and, when they did speak, it was in another language altogether), while the old Spanish guy beneath me figured that if he spoke louder and more animated, I might be able to break through the language barrier and understand him. It didn’t help that I said I could speak un peu de français . . . guess I couldn’t really, and when he locked the Asian father out of the room and started beating on the lock, trying to figure it out, me saying “oui” every so often didn’t exactly help.

The sun was down when we pulled out of Barcelona, southward bound for Granada on a Spanish train. I won’t forget about that night, not for a long while. The sun is getting a bit low here now though . . . I don’t have the nerve to start that story until it’s lighter outside.

Adiós por ahora.

Cheers,

rb