Day 2 (continued):
After realizing that the rest of the world was asleep, I tucked into a little cafe and before I knew it, was enjoying a delicious bocadillo with what was becoming my new favorite beer, Estrella.
After fueling up and resting my aching feet, I emerged into the moist afternoon air, ready to sieze the day.
...still siesta. Damnit.
I wandered around the streets, finally giving into popular opinion and heading back to the hostel for a nap of my own. This turned out to be a good call because I had a long night in store for me.
That night, I was determined to find adventure. I had visions of new friends, dancing, flashes of hot red and yellow blurring together with waving hands and flashing lights, of throwing my head back in laughter and mustering a response in perfect spanish through my laughs. I had so much glamour and excitement swirling through my head, but really no idea where I might find it. I went to La Rambla, the main drag that I could already tell was not the setting for the narrative I had so fervently dreamed up. The entire strip ha d a feeling of inauthenticity, as if anticipating the visions in my head and attempting to recreate them at a fraction of the price. Poor quality trinkets and mass produced art were marked up to prices that only tourists would pay, and pretty clueless ones at that.
I reached the end of La Rambla, uttering phrases in soft Spanish to myself (I figured that thinking in Spanish would help it come more naturally when I spoke). I sat, imagining myself a solitary character of my own story as the fabricated backdrop began to droop and fold under the weight of my expectations unmet. And then it began.
I was walking alone and suddenly I was walking with a man, a dark-eyed stranger with a mischievous smile. He spoke in quick Spanish, leaving me nodding, feigning comprehension, embarrassed to admit how poor my Spanish was. When I told him I was American, he responded with a heavily accented and very theatrical, "Oooh Lala!" He told me that his name was Diego and that he had come to LA Rambla to watch live music, but the rain had washed away his plans. A quick flip through a crumpled notebook in his pocket informed us of a show not far from La Rambla, in the Barri Gotic, a maze of cobblestone alleys, that resembled the set of a movie set 100 years ago.
Now, I know what they say about following strange men down dark alleys, but in Barca, all the boys were strange, and all the alleys dark; and I wasn’t about to stay in the light with the tourists.
Despite the foreign land and romantic circumstances that may have swept some people away, I remained very cautious. (And I’m not just saying that because my mom might read this.) I followed that strange man down many dark alleys and eventually landed in a square, Plaza del Rey, sitting on the steps of a piece of Catalonian history, uncomfortable shoes partially kicked off and leaning back to back with Diego, speaking in slow, elementary Spanish. We meandered through the squares, passing statues, flags and pieces of history that seemed almost too plentiful to be real.
Eventually, we reached a square filled with restaurants and bustling nightlife. Diego approached a large, arched door that was hidden by it’s plainness. There were no signs, just the cracking paint that dried in stiff raised drips over the metal handle. Diego indicated that this was where the show was, then pulled open the heavy door which revealed a metal spiral staircase and dots of light reflecting off of whips of sweet smoke.
We climbed the staircase, him confidently, taking the steps two at a time and me cautiously, wondering what kind of rabbit hole I was jumping into. At the top of the stairs, the band was in full swing, jubilantly playing their instruments to a seated and smoke-filled crowd. We took a seat and were swept away by the tinny bounce of the music. I let myself be carried away by the quick, almost frantic music. The shy looking guitarist took a reluctant lead hunched over his beautiful, pewter guitar that looked as if it was designed by Gaudi, himself. As I sunk further into the music, Diego became increasingly up front about his intentions... which to put politely were not as honorable as I had hoped. I excused myself to the restroom and swiftly descended the spiral staircase and into the night. The walk home was peaceful and although I thought of a few other ways I could have extracted myself from the situation, I was happy to be safe and alone.
It was almost 4:00am when I finally climbed the creaky metal ladder of my hostel bunk.
Day 3:
“Hola…hola…”
I was even dreaming in Spanish, I thought as a lucid dream slowly merged with reality. But, it wasn’t a dream, it was the maid standing over me, slightly embarrassed, waking me to inform me that checkout was an hour ago. Late nights and jet lag do not mix.
I had about ten minutes to shove my belongings into my impossibly small backpack, throw on clothes and head to my next hostel. I brushed my greasy bangs from my face in the muggy metro tunnel as I mapped my journey to Mambo Tango, my hostel across town.
Dilluns, Lunes; call it what you will, Monday is the same in every country.
I checked into Mambo Tango and made a beeline for the shower, luxuriously preparing for the rest of the day. By the time I was done and woken from yet another nap, another girl had checked into the room. She was from Iceland, and was staying at Mambo Tango alone for a night while she waited for her friends to join her the following day. She introduced herself as Sóley and we made plans to get tapas later that night. After exploring the neighborhood a little, I returned to find a guy from Korea, named Hyun had checked into our room as well. After some introductions, Sóley and I went to dinner while he flopped down for a nap.
Dinner was a slightly overpriced, unique take on tapas that's came highly recommended by the hostel staff and left me slightly dissatisfied. Their interpretation of patatas bravas was especially disappointing, as it was basically a baked potato soaked in aioli. Sóley told me about the PhD program she would be starting upon return to her country and left me more than a little jealous of socialized education. We bonded over a mutual love of horses, mine, the graceful western breeds with big leather roper saddles, and hers the petit, stocky Iclandic horses. This was the first time in a long time I was able to speak English and I was thankful for the opportunity to have a relaxed conversation where I was sure I was saying what I wanted to say.
When we got back, Sóley turned in for the night but I was ready for more. The excess sleep I had gotten lad left me refreshed, energized and with a newfound admiration of the concept of siesta. Unfortunately, Monday in Spain is like on day of siesta, and many businesses, especially clubs are closed.
… except one…
A local club was famous for celebrating Monday nights with a party suited for those of us who could not bear the idea of going a day without flashing lights and wild dance floors. This magical night was known as Nasty Mondays. Fortunately, Hyun was as eager to get out on the town as I was, so we hit the club and partied Barca-style. (That is, all night.)
Day 4:
With nowhere to rush off to the following morning, I woke up luxuriously slow. I found a local café and read my guidebook over a steaming café con leche and returned to the hostel to meet Sóley and Hyun for a walking tour that we had seen advertised the day before. I was finally going to see the Barri Gotic in the daylight, without the company of strange men.
The tour was incredible, giving us two hours of sights, details, and history. As we wandered, it became much clearer how the streets were set up, although I still spent the rest of the trip getting lost in those alleys. Our guide was a perky woman with a thick accent a bohemian sense of style, though she did not strike me as someone who considered style. She annotated her tour with bits of trivia and interesting stories, keeping us engaged and interested even when the rain soaked our little tourist parade.
After the tour, we had a quick lunch, where I was once again disappointed by the patatas bravas. We, then said goodbye to Sóley, and she left to meet her friends in another part of Barcelona. Hyun and I spent the rest of the day exploring and shopping, though I still did not get the shoes that I so desperately needed.
We ended the day with dinner and sangria and I was asleep before I hit the pillow that evening.
More to come...
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