The Gaudy Side of Barcelona

Arriving in Barcelona, I was as confused as an old folks home escapee in the home entertainment section of a Best Buy.

"Excuse me, President Harding, What's a Tivo?"

There weren't any teamsters coochicooing the chicas, but the steep admission price made you feel just as dirty.

I was still groggy from only stringing together a couple of naps the night before, and the RENFE map might as well have been in another language. No, I mean, a language other than Spanish. Then again, maybe it was. Stupid Catalon.

Anyway, I couldn't tell if I needed to transfer to the Metro system to find my hostel, which was situated at the bottom of las Ramblas.  So when 95% of my jampacked train car emptied out onto one of the platforms, I figured I needed to also. This turned out to be a faulty assumption.

I started to wander around the train station. Sitting down, I stared at my pocket map for 10 minutes before I was able to pinpoint my location. Ah ha! Not where I needed to be.

So, a guy gave me some directions in Spanish. I understood most of it, but when people are talking to me in another language, I have a nasty habit of only being able to comprehend half of what they're saying, but being so pleased about knowing that half, that I consider the other half inconsequential. This may have been the reason it took me another train and a metro ride to reach Las Ramblas. But in the end, I found my hostel.

Hostel Kabul sat in the corner of a large plaza (Pl. de St. Jaume), which I would have placed in Cuba, more so than Spain. It was still early and the plaza had yet to come to life. Up the stairs, the hostel was a bit more lively, but had yet to open to new travelers, so I dropped my stuff in the baggage room and grabbed a vending machine produced cafe con leche. Once I could check in, my bed was still covered in trash and dirt, to the point that I refused to make my bed, and just threw my sheets in my locker with my big blue bag.

Oh! Almost forgot! A girl who had checked in 5 minutes before me was already in bed sleeping. Which once again, proves my theory, Germans love David Hasselhoff... Wait no, the other one, the one about there always being a backpacker sleeping in your hostel.

Still exhausted, I put together a simple plan that would encapsulate all things relaxing: tapas, cerveza and playa, but par usual, beach time relaxation would have to wait. Damn those second winds! I was off to explore the town.

Traveling up Las Ramblas, I breezed past a bronze-cast John Wayne, teeth-faced Ronaldhino and ensemble of acting school dropouts looking for a handout for standing still. I'm being harsh, but I'm imagining how tired and hungry I still was at this point. None of them, however, were as eloquent or ornately attired as the masked woman that bent me over for a kiss in front of the Louvre 8 years ago... at least I hope it was a woman.

I stopped in the outdoor market, La Boqueria, before swinging by Plaza de Catalunya and trodding forth to a couple of Antoni Gaudi's architectural pieces: Casa Batllo and La Perdera. Both buildings had stunning facades but seemed a bit gaudy. Kind of ironic, huh?  Gaudi being gaudy.  It's like that baseball guy dying of that Lou Gehrig disease. It almost makes you think about fate and destiny.

Almost... but not quite. I'm writing a blog right now. No time for thinking.

My next stop was La Sagrada Familia, which is an incredible work in progress. The construction workers hanging out by the sculpted scenes of the nativity catcalling tourists kinda took away from the ambiance. Okay, maybe there weren't a bunch of Spanish teamsters coochicooing the chicas, but the steep admission price and long wait for the elevator to the top steeple made you feel just as dirty.

Once at the top of the Cathedral you receive a commanding... quasi-commanding view of the city. It's tough to get a true panoramic vista, as there is no observation deck on the unfinished monument. But there is a clear view of that purple metallic dildo-looking building that towers over the horizon. Seriously, look at the picture, who designed that thing? It belongs in a sock drawer.

In honesty, the Cathedral was extremely powerful. Each stone was ensconced in meaning. Those support beams represent the Holy See, those windows the Gospels, those steeples... something pointy? You get the idea. The one thing that struck me as odd, however, was the lack of pews for prayer. I know it's under construction, but they should clear a spot beneath the scaffolding for some kneeling.

When I left the Cathedral, it was close to 7pm. I didn't think I'd make it to the beach, so I started walking south toward the giant phallic tower on the horizon. I thought that it might glow in the dark, or at least vibrate? Halfway there though, I decided to head back to the hostel and ended up in Parc de la Ciutadella. There's a great Trevi-esque fountain in the center of the park. But I was most impressed by the park's ping pong table area. What a great idea! Who wants to play tennis, anyway?

After checking back into the hostel, tiptoeing around another sleeping hostelite, and taking a shower, I headed a few blocks away for a great deal at a tapas joint: a half chicken, patatas bravas and sangria for 9 euros. As I ate at the counter, I got a kick out of watching some non-Spanish speaking tourists try to order some tapas from the wait staff, which was not very idiomatically diverse. I intervened only briefly to translate a French lady's question into Spanish (fromage = queso).

I had a large beer at the bar in the lobby of the hostel. It was more so to tire myself out in preparation for the less-than-plush sleeping conditions than to meet new people.

The next morning, I woke up around 11:30am sealed to the bedsheet by a 2 inch layer of sweat. This brings us to Murphy's Fifth Law of Backpacking: In the slim likelihood that you find a bunk room with A/C, someone will open a window, triggering the automatic shut off device for the A/C and leaving you to enjoy your dream sauna.

So, I got up, showered, and lamented missing out on what could have been the best thimble of OJ and croissant in Spain. As I finished getting ready, one of the girls in the bedroom was getting out of bed. Her name's Danielli, and she's an attorney in Rio de Jeneiro traveling around Europe for a couple weeks for vacation. We give each other the meeting-a new-backpacker-this-is-where-I've-been,-this-is-where-I'm-going,-this-is-where-I'm-from spiel and parted ways.

Downstairs, I was waiting to hop on the "free" internet to check out train schedules and possibly book a hostel, but there was a line. Murphy's Sixth Law of Backpacking: Whenever you want to use a "free" internet connection at a hostel, so do at least 6 other guests. It doesn't matter if you need to book a hotel for the following night, they got lots of buddies on their instant message list, and they need to check each of their profiles for poignant quote updates.

As I sat waiting, Danielli came downstairs and told me about an internet cafe on the other side of Las Ramblas. She was also having train issues.  So, I suggested we walk a few blocks to the closest train station, El Estacio Franca.

Upon arrival, we found a rather empty train station with a few stragglers sleeping on benches against the wall.  We pulled a ticket from the deli pick-a-number machine only to find our number was over 100 spots back.  Seeing that "sitting on a bench in a train station" was not on the to do list for that day, we headed out.

El Estacio Franca backs up into Barceloneta, which is a section of town known for artists and situated between the harbor and beach.  Dani and I walked toward the beach and grabbed some food from a beachfront cafe.  We talked about our lives back home and our preconceived notions of one another's cultures.  Truth be told, Dani had a much better grasp of American attitudes and ways, possibly because she used to live in the US.  As my knowledge of Brazil extended only as far as a faint recollection of an atlas and stories from Esteban, I came off sounding a bit ignorant.

I had some intriguing questions.  "Have you heard of Michael Jordan?"  "Do you know what 'baseball' is?"  To my credit, I was correct in assuming she didn't know what 'kickball' or 'flip cup' are.

Also, it turns out "Carlton" is the 3rd most difficult word to pronounce in Portuguese.  "World" and "worst" are 1 and 2, respectively.  Unfortunately, I couldn't even tell her the three Portuguese words that I find easiest to pronounce.  But I did explain to her the proper nomenclature differentiating 'trannies' from 'cross dressers'.  (Apparently, only hookers and trannies bathe topless in Brazil, *ding*... the more you know!***)

The water was so warm.  We didn't submerge more than our toes, but it was so nice!  And it didn't hurt that we were surrounded by a handful of topless women blending into the beachgoer crowd... it did hurt, however, that some of those bare-breasted ladies should have been wearing layers.

As there was still much to see, Dani and I turned toward the metro line and navigated our way to Parc Guell.  Dani was a trooper, walking almost a mile up hill in some flip flops to reach our final destination.  Not to slack off, when we arrived at the park, we hiked to the top of the summit overlooking the city.  The view made the hour long wait at Sagrada Familia seem like a gross waste of time.  From the top of the hill, the skyline of Barcelona rises from the sea like the crest of a mighty wave.

Gaudi's house sits in the middle of Parc Guell, but unless you combo your ticket purchase with the entrance fee to Sagrada Familia, I wouldn't bother going inside.  Instead, I'd consider our next stop, Casa Mila, also known as La Perdera.

We got a little unsure of our bearings as we sought out the metro line heading south.  Dani asked me if I knew where I was going to which I confidently replied, "Trust me.  I haven't led us astray yet!"  To which God immediately replied by zipping a few cars around a tight corner that we were preparing to cross, scaring the hell out of the two of us.  Despite the fright, I was right, and we were half a block from the metro.

The rain began coming down as we entered the museum.  La Perdera is an apartment complex designed by Gaudi, and set up to show what this apartment may have looked like during its intial use.  As I didn't get a lot out of the self-guided tour, I'd reccommend the audio guide, as I might as well have been walking through any random rich guy's abode.  And the unique chimney stacks and turets on the roof lost much of their luster in the gray sky.

As the rain continued to threaten, the two of us walked down Las Ramblas to our hostel.  Upon arrival, Dani underwent two mini crises.  First, she lost her money.  This led to her dumping all of her belongings onto her bed.  As she fished through her clothes, a couple of our bunkmates came into the room and made introductions.  During this, Dani was able to find her money, but managed to lose her keys.  She continued the search, but after a prolonged effort, she prepared to suck up paying the lost key fine.

Ready for dinner, Chris, a roommate from Colorado, and I were waiting in the lobby for Dani.  As we waited, I saw another one of our roommates.  This guy was also in the room during Dani's issues with St Anthony.  I approached the guy, saying "This may sound stupid, but is there any chance you picked up someone else's key when you were in the room?"  Turns out my question wasn't that stupid, as he had it!  And you know who's to thank.  St. Anthony.  That guy is so clutch!

Keyed and moneyed, the three of us went to Les Quinze Nits, a Let's Go reccommended restaurant on the far side of the plaza for an excellent meal with great conversation, after which we spent and hour at an internet cafe trying to make travel plans for the following day before passing out.

Spending the day with Dani was a welcome break from my normal hard-pressed solo excursions designed to obtain optimal sightseeing results.  Not only did we see a lot, but it felt nice not needing to internalize all of my thoughts, saving them for some other moment, like say writing a blog two months later, to express them.

Falling asleep that night, I dreamt of Joni's arrival the following week and looked forward to sharing my adventure with her.