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Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Notes from Barcelona: Chapter 3 - Wide-Eyed and Slightly Bushy-Tailed


When I get out on the town, it's late for food, but the neighborhood is amazingly bustling for a Monday night I think. Emma and her husband suggested a place for dinner and writing that's still social but it was closed so I kept milling around and found myself walking in a lot of circles. I keep ending up on La Rambla which is touristy all day and recommended for people-watching and whatnot, but everyone cautions you to completely avoid it at night due to pickpockets and their ilk. It was still packed with people so I never felt unsafe, but I was still wary and wanted to get out of there. Twice more I found myself on the same damn street. Ugh.

I walk by tons of foreigners - a variety of Americans, Germans, Scandinavians, and Australians that I could tell and the groups of men and a few women constantly handing out flyers for this or that. Are they thieves trying to distract me? I have no idea but keep walking past them fast nonetheless.

I wander through a few squares I finally recognize and wonder why I can't find this bar Ben's taken me to a couple of times. It's a cervesaria, more Brit than Spanish and even tho it's really close to the apartment, goddamn if I can find it myself. It's practically invisible. The main owner/bartender is straight from Liverpool, knows a lot about beer, barely has any teeth and what's there is questionable, but he's raunchy and hilarious. It's a cool place.

I finally get tired of wandering aimlessly and settle on a place called Art & Schilling. Good combination of dimly lit and bright enough to write. Not packed, but enough people to eavesdrop upon or observe. The waiter is cute, bartender is cuter - but more alternative. I order some food and a gin and tonic. The feel of the place is cool but not pretentious. The food arrives quickly - a boccadillo with veggies and goat cheese (they forgot the cheese), olives, and my drink comes in a tall narrow glass filled halfway with gin, no ice, and I'm given a small but entire bottle of tonic, and a lemon. Not really the same but whatever.

It's after midnight and the people-watching isn't boring. Families walk in, mixed groups of tourists, some couples and different pairs of male and female friends in to catch up over drinks. The bartender walks out from behind the bar and gives me the eye. Or maybe I'm just brazen enough to stare back because isn't Barcelona kind of like Vegas? I think so.

I have yet to have any sangria because it seems like a touristy option. As are the cocktail lists that abound. They all say things like 'Mojito, Sex on the Beach, Piña Colada, Margarita' and yet no one really knows how to make them. I never see a single bartender with a shaker once and yet the list options make me feel like I'm in Fort Lauderdale for spring break. The boccadillos are also popular. They're just basically french bread with a variety of meats and cheeses on them and that's really it. Good after drinking mostly. The chorizo and other types of pork are really fresh and so good.

You can always tell the tourists because Spanish men are much smaller framed. When the Aryan-looking stockier and/or taller types walk in, one thinks German or American because they just look healthier. The Spanish smoke and drink a cafe con leche for breakfast.. not much in the way of nutrition there.

The bartender goes back to work and with his bracelets and tattoo he reminds me of a dj I knew in college. A girl should always know to stay away from both by policy.. but this one seems interesting anyway and I think I might have to move to the bar so I have more to write about later. Ahem.

The girls next to me have left but there isn't enough room next to me to fit the larger groups of guys that keep walking in, clearly lost. I hope I don't look depressed or like an obvious American journaling her way through her trip trying to be the next Anaïs Nin or Virginia Woolf, but it is a bit antisocial. I actually am a bit frustrated that I don't think I'm pushing myself enough and also disappointed that I know myself well enough that I guessed this would happen.

The bartender flirts or he's just bored. I can't tell. He takes a smoke break and I do finally move to the bar to join him for a chat. He's French - of course. No one is actually from here. They're all from somewhere else and biding their time. His name is Lork and when he finishes his break, he puts something like an amaretto sour in front of me on the house. He says it's a slow night for them and he has no plans after work. Not sure if that's an invitation or not.


Tuesday Night, Sept. 29th:

Um.. yes, for those inquiring minds, it was an invitation. The bartender from last night said I should meet him when they closed, so I did. He took me to a fairly secretive, but well-known bar called The Pipa Club. He knew most of the staff, we got one drink and left soon after. The boy didn't waste much time. Tho we were close, he wasn't much different than the typical commitment-phobic male - they're all the same, regardless of what culture they're from. He was clear about his policy of not getting attached, we had fun, and I knew I wouldn't see him again.

Today I slept until 2pm. Clearly I was up later with the bartender than I thought. I wandered to Sukūr to see if Giannis wanted to hang out possibly and between shifts, he took a break with me. We walked through the more popular streets for shopping in the Barri Gòtic that I hadn't discovered yet and took me directly to the La Seu Catedral, which was stunning.

He explained the government buildings in Plaça Sant Jaume; Palau de la Generalitat and on the other side, City Hall, both flanked by a lot of policia.



I walk him back to work eventually and kiss him goodbye. I do my own window-shopping when I find my way back to the areas we just walked thru and covet the amazing clothing and boots you'd never find in the states, but I don't buy anything but one blouse for work because I'm not yet sure what I want to spend my money on.

My hip gets me to head back to the apartment for a little siesta and I've rested for about an hour or so when the buzzer rings. Apparently, people will ring any apartment, even if they're not there to see you, just to get access. It's not a big deal there so then you just wait to see if the person is there for you. And this was Ben's friend, Simon - another Australian. We make a lot of small talk, he's there to borrow Ben's guitar, and he's covered in paint. He's heading back to Australia in November where his wife is already so he's repainting their flat before they go. (The unemployment is so high in Spain, if you have your resident card, the government will pay for your trip to go back to where you came from. Nice.) He writes and produces music full time and we go on about that stuff so long that we decide to get some food together since we were going to do that separately anyway. He has to meet a musician friend of his nearby so he takes me to Bahlia, a bar where he knows the staff and the beer is free because he's dj'd there before. He forgets I need food and then that comes up again so tipsy at that point, he takes me to La Ria around the corner, which seems divey but comforting. I like it.

Simon is super funny, a really nice guy and we discuss jobs, the Barcelona culture and society and then his friend shows up, Daniel, who's French. As in not Spanish. Shocker. They leave for about 15 minutes to do whatever music stuff they need to do, Simon comes back to keep me company afterwards and our conversation starts where we left off. We keep the wine coming because it's cheap and snack on the food we ordered: a small plate stacked with cheese, bread rubbed with tomato, patatas bravas that's fantastic, some omelette thing that tastes fishy to me and I can't stomach it.. and my favorite, pimientos de padron. These are a full plate of tiny little green peppers that you think are hot, but aren't really. They're simply cooked in olive oil and sea salt til wilty and you eat them right off the stem. The surprise is that once in a while, you'll get one with a kick, but mostly, that's not the case. They're fucking awesome. I feel like we just ate like kings for almost nothing.

While Simon had been gone, I wrote. There's a big table of kids near us celebrating someone's birthday, two men at the bar who look like delapidated sea captains, and another who looks like an old Jim Morrison. The birthday party is full of attractive women and men - all smoking and filling the table up with lots of empty bottles. The women are so pretty and they don't even try. Most wear little to no make up at all and they're gorgeous.

After food and conversation for a while after Simon returns, we're off to another bar, LP, for cocktails - because clearly a beer and ample wine isn't mixing alcohol enough for me. On the way, tho it's really beyond the bar, Simon was kind enough to walk me to Giannis' flat, but he didn't answer his phone or the door so we can't include him. Unfaltered by this, Simon and I continue our bar crawl, have a poorly made amaretto sour made by the bartender at LP who clearly didn't want us to stay because they were closing and then we went back to the first place, Bahlia, where we closed the bar down, smoked a joint, had another beer or two and called it good. Simon was awfully gracious to let me stop by Giannis' flat one more time just in case, but no answer so I gave up. Didn't want to be a stalker tho Simon kept me laughing about it the whole time.

Wednesday Sept. 30th:

I went to bed alone and drunk, but earlier than usual. Still woke up hungover today, but managed to get to the Musea Nacional D'Art de Catalunya with Emma, who was nice enough to invite me along with her.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Notes from Barcelona: Chapter 2 - Finding My Way


Sunday, Sept. 27th:

First 48 hours here and it's fucking INSANE!

I'm out alone on a Sunday night because my hosts went to bed early due to work in the morning. Yawwwwn. Ben works at 9am and his girlfriend, Alex, works at 11am. Nice hours. I'm on my own only because I forced myself. There are tons of people out, including whole families with small children, so I couldn't exactly stay cooped up. It's terribly easy to get lost here so I've wandered around the block and felt nervous seeing the drug dealers at every corner. They're immigrants from Morocco and elsewhere I was told and they are endlessly aggressive trying to sell coke and hash to tourists or anyone else who bothers to look them in the eye and doesn't immediately ignore them and walk past. All I wanted was a glass of wine and to not feel so out of place.

I chose a pretty quiet bar compared to the raucous ones close to the apartment. Finding something divey and comfortable within which to write after midnight is difficult. I wandered through an open square still set up for live music for The Lady of Mercy festival - one of the biggest here and I arrived at the tail end of it. Plaça Reial is in the Barri Gòtic and a heavy tourist area. It was filled with people eating at the various places that surround three sides of the square and each had these assertive waiter/PR men outside holding out their menus. They're worse than the spritzer girl in a department store. It's a tourist-oriented city, much more than I ever thought, and the competition for your euro is fierce.

I've been talking to my bartender - a young Greek man who, when I asked how he was doing said, 'Awful,' so we got into a deep conversation of life and expenses and why we're both here. I have no idea, but I think this bar, Sukūr, is supposed to be Turkish or something to that effect. Looks like it's about 2am and the female manager is shutting the doors. She'd previously brought me a small plate of olives with my wine and they were really good tho the wine only so so, but a full glass, so down it went. I may be off to find late-night food elsewhere - my stomach isn't used to the late hours, but if I'm going to be up drinking, I have to eat something to absorb it all.

I didn't realize it's only 12:30am. They don't stay open as late as the other bars. My poor Greek boy informed me that tomorrow he's giving his notice and will get out of this job due to bad management. He doesn't care and thinks he'll find another job easily.

We talk about New York, where he says he's going eventually after his next year of marketing school here and has no idea how expensive it is to live there. We talk about Seattle and the rent I pay there. He asks if that's comparable to New York and I say, 'Uh.. no. Not even close.' I explain usually it's a lot more for a lot less. He asks about wages and I explain it's one state that allows restaurant owners to pay less than minimum wage for serving jobs due to tips. He's surprised. He had no idea.

He tells me his name but I have to ask a couple of times. He explains it's basically John in English. The manager brings me more olives after asking and answering for me if I need more. I ask if the man she's clearly familiar with by the way she's talking to him is her boyfriend. She says no, after a little laugh, and that it's her ex-boyfriend. Funny, they seem together and obviously he cares, but there's an interesting dynamic there.

Giannis offers to come out with me when he's off, which should be soon so I wait. He's a sweet guy, not unattractive, but not the typical for me. Not sure why he offered. He's not flirty, that's what I mean. But he tried to pour me another glass of wine after I paid for one.

He takes me to a bar called Polaroid. It's brightly colored and we walk thru a haze of cigarette smoke to get to a table. Random album covers are plastered on the walls. One strikes me as particularly odd: It's Bob Hope with a glass of milk called 'Siniesto total II (el regreso). It didn't matter what it meant. It was just weird. The back of the bar looks cool. The shelves I instantly recognize are in the shapes from Tetris. Giannis brings back a couple of beers for us, ordered us hot dogs of all things and we start talking.

Monday, Sept. 28th:



Wow, my Spanish is as bad as my handwriting. Completely sucks. Wandered to the place Ben took me to for food yesterday and managed to order tho only because the man attempted to speak English. I seriously couldn't survive here without knowing more. I'm kicking myself constantly for not learning Spanish when I had the chance. Why did I pick French?!

Man, the café con leche here is amazing. I have yet to master the three course lunch because I usually am only ready for breakfast by that time. Vacation has me up late til the wee hours and sleeping in lazily like there's nothing better to do.

I took the sweet Greek bartender home after we drank more than I thought I could. He reminded me I was here to have a good time.. and I did.. at least twice. Possibly seeing him again tonight, but going to enjoy the day.

The people-watching is great. More people than not have tattoos - lots of artwork. A lot of alternative youth, a lot of tourists. Not sure which one outnumbers the other.

Ben, my host, is down with a nasty cold. He tried to fight it this weekend, but he's definitely out hard today. The flat he rents is owned by another Australian and is huge. It can sleep 11 people if they needed. It was full with a married couple - she's Australian and he's Catalan, and her cousins. They've been in the city for 3 1/2 years and they know the owner of the flat. They're waiting for government paperwork to come thru so they can move back to Melbourne. Apparently Spain will pay for your way home if you're foreign.. or Australian. Can't remember which, but it sounds like they don't want you here regardless. The paperwork can take a long time as Emma told me, but it's free so they're waiting. Her cousins just left for Valencia today. Sweet boys - a little Aussie frat-like, but cool.


I wandered out to window shop and get some basics for the apartment and some orange juice for Ben. This area gets a lot of tourists. Some shop owners are familiar and nice, others are stand-offish and clearly resent you and the fact you don't communicate - not that they'd want to. I found a very popular shopping street, Carrer Ferran, that I hope to find again. Amazing clothes unlike I've ever seen. Spendy but so, so cool. The boots aren't bad either. Also not cheap.

The only problem with exploring all day is my body gives out earlier than I'd like. My hip aches a lot. The alleys are cobblestone and pavement. My new kicks I bought before I left are great - even without socks so no blisters (Yay!), but my hip - ugh - I want to rip my leg off and throw it in the fountain. But thinking of being out has me conflicted because I'm sleepy. Maybe I'll nap and then head out for some dinner and wine. Zzzzzz..

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Notes from Barcelona: Chapter 1 - Getting There


These will be unedited if I can do that.. and if they're any good because if they're not, there will probably be editing.. and because my handwriting completely sucks, I wrote sometimes in shortened hand and also mixed my tenses. I mean, let's be honest, we all knew my grammar wasn't perfect anyway considering how much of it I make up. So.

Friday, Sept. 25th:

First leg of trip to Barcelona - no idea the time, but wonder why the flight is still going and we're not in D.C. yet. Have to pee and on inside by window seat. Note to self: good idea on short flights like two hours - not so good on anything longer, especially after a full can of ginger ale. PS: Side note to Green Eyes - thanks for the ginger candy. Had one and in five minutes had no nausea from take off. Awesome! PPS: Candy says it's recommended for all kinds of activity and gives pictures of the following: boating, riding in a car, and flying - so for things like motion sickness. Next picture is someone holding a mic and another is running. Um.. seriously? You need Dramamine-like meds to mc or take a jog?! So confused. If you get that nauseous doing those things, you might want to take up different hobbies. Just saying.

Summary: United flight - on time. Me - barely. Security - ? Hellishly slow and long. Made the flight, but no time for magazine or coffee buying. Sigh. Tv/movie entertainment - divided. At first, good. Headphones in the front flap already. Yay for free headphones! Played an episode of Parks and Recreation, which was random and funny. Then the movie, Easy Virtue, which I wanted to see anyway. Decently entertaining. Love Colin Firth tho he's a little under-used. And then they went to reality tv.. which, ok fine. Go for it.. but maybe like Survivor or Amazing Race or something.. but this was a new one and had to be the worst one ever: Groomer Has It?! Dog groomers being put to the test just like Project Runway or Top Model - but you know.. WITH LIVE DOGS as victims canvases. What. The. Fuck. And honey, puh-lease dial up the drama.. good God. They make every challenge this personal thing based on a father/mother/lover with cancer/AIDS/cares too much (not in that order - and making the last one up) who died or drank themselves to death - and truly I kept the headphones off til near the end and it was just as INSANE as I thought. I mean, they live in a residence labeled The Dog House for chrissakes and Jai from Queer Eye is the host. Sweet, sweet boy, but when he has to send the loser home, it's 'So and So, you've been clipped.' Really? They couldn't think of anything better? It's sooo trying too hard and from Queer Eye, this was a reasonable promotion?!

I got sleepy after the movie and actually got a few winks plus a crick (?) in my neck to go with it. Putting jacket against window for pillow = no help and can't get back to sleep.

Yay! Prepping to land! Finally! First stop: Restroom. Second stop: Deodorant. I think nervousness that I wouldn't make it this morning got the best of me. Might as well spare my next neighbors on the longer leg to Copenhagen. And then later, turbulence. Hi - that's scary. Had a few minutes I thought of all those I loved, gruesome scenarios and whatnot - then it subsided. Phew!

End note: Nearing airport. No sign of any political buildings. Damn. Was hoping to see the Pentagon. The woman next to me said we came into the wrong airport for that. Poop.

***********************

Second flight: Onwards to Copenhagen - LOOOOONG! I couldn't figure out why I wasn't tired when they turned out the lights in the cabin. Uh.. helllooo?! For me it was only 7:30pm. SAS isn't too big on the friendly either. They pretend well, but they're airline soldiers for sure. I thought the steward was going to swipe the blanket right off of me if I didn't put it away before we landed. He was really gruff about it. Seriously? What's a blanket going to harm if I keep it on my lap? I'm not going to steal the germ-infested thing. And then the stewardess uprighted the seat FOR me because it wasn't quite all the way up when I thought it was. She didn't say anything and just did it for me like I was 12 and mentally disabled. Um.. rude much?

The movies improved and so did the food. Watched Wolverine, Star Trek (already seen and still fantastic), The Soloist - good - and then the Plane Camera channel! Supercool when above the clouds!

Sat next to a really nice guy going to play professional basketball in Estonia. Didn't seem super tall, but cool guy nonetheless.

I've eaten my nails down to nothing - hangnails everywhere because I couldn't bring my file or nail clippers. I'm looking a paler version than when I started this morning and by my time now, we'll take off at 11:20pm. It's 8:20am here. I feel like I want coffee, but my body feels really conflicty about that. Also, buzz kill: just saw a man with a baby get on the flight. Ugh. Never a good sign when you're on the last leg. I did get the first stamp in the passport at the Copenhagen airport and I smiled and brightly said thank you and the Passport Stamp Man couldn't care less. Whatever. I was happy.

Also also? The Copenhagen airport is soooo nice! I've never seen an airport with rich, dark brown hardwood flooring everywhere. So modern looking. Everything is so posh and looks like I just walked into a more upscale IKEA.

Lame part: Had to go thru security again. Since going thru security prior to getting on the international flight, what illegal items could you have picked up between arriving in Copenhagen and that 10 hour flight?

Annoying part: The cafes will take your euros or American cash, however, if you pay in cash, they'll give you crowns back in change. Is Scandinavia not part of the European union? Or is the Copenhagen airport some sort of transcontinental Purgatory? I saved myself the problem and paid with my debit card.

Best part: Got the bulk amount of euros for Spain there, which was the best idea ever that I thought of myself (thank you). It saved me the concern of doing it at a questionable and sketchy ATM anywhere in Barcelona where I was warned of pickpockets and riffraff of that nature. Yay me!

Now - off to Spain! Also? Shorter flight than I thought. BONUS! Two hours and 25 minutes.

***********************

Two hours in: Sooooooooooooooo beyond tired. And I think the captain misspoke. I don't think we're landing in 25 minutes. Ugh. Checked time. Home is now at 1:26am. I've been up for 21 hours straight and smell like it. My contacts are threatening mutiny.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Homecoming


800 pictures later, I'm back from Barcelona, overwhelmed with work and hellloooo.. new fall tv! How am I supposed to catch you all up when my dvr was chock full of goodness? I ask you. I mean, have you seen FlashForward?! Sooo good. And also? One of my college theater alums landed himself a great sitcom, Modern Family. He plays the father of the teenage daughter in that show. High-larious!

Seriously tho, it's been uber busy since I've been back and a little emotional because I think I thought something would change when I returned. I wonder if I was really running away from the last six months and expected something to change once I walked in my front door again, but what? Was I supposed to magically be healed and forget my broken heart? Kinda, I think. I guess I expected to finally let it all go and of course thoughts of my ex sometimes clouded my thoughts in Spain and came rushing back once I was home. It didn't ruin my trip, didn't keep me from moving forward, but it's still there. A little frustrating.

Overall, the trip was fantastic, adventures were had, people were met, hilarity ensued - including a large bump on my head, which is still healing (good story, that.). It was really good for me to take the trip on my own and rely solely on myself to get thru day to day. I'm proud of myself even if I knew that sometimes I didn't always push myself and I had at least one pretty bad breakdown at the airport on the way home. When you miss check in for three flights by only five minutes because the taxi driver dropped you off at the wrong terminal and the right one is five miles away and there's a pretty extreme language barrier communicating with all the necessary people and all you can say in your head is FUCK over and over.. yeah.. YOU try not losing it and crying all over people when you think the best idea is to shell out a grand for another entirely different ticket home. That was the lamest part, but I learned a very valuable lesson and will never do that again for sure. So, take it from me: ALWAYS check in the night before.

I have tons of pictures to upload and I'm finally done editing them.. so you'll see my journal entries soon, after I catch up on the necessary sleep and vegging from the stress at work via tv numbness and more importantly, catch up with friends in person. I so missed my peeps. It's great to travel the world (ok, one country.. whatever) and be excited about meeting new people and making new friends, but nothing comes close to seeing familiar faces who mean the world to you. Nothing.

Patience kittens.. back soon! Mwah!