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.