Notes From Barcelona: Chapter 7 - Spanish Treasures

Friday, Oct 2nd - Continued:

My usual haunt is packed today by the time I get out into the afternoon so I sit outside the vegetarian place and order my standard café con leche, which is actually better. I also order some hummus and pita and some sautéed mushrooms. I read my super cool guide book I found randomly in the Barcelona gift shop within the Picasso Museum. It's called Le Cool: A Weird And Wonderful Guide To Barcelona. It amazes me how funky it is and it's made to be an off-center, non-traditional guide so not too far into it, I find the secret bar, Papillon, I already found the night before and I'm kind of proud of myself that I'm well on my way off the beaten path.

I check out my new camera I got yesterday and I feel braver about just taking pictures when I want to. On my way back from shopping yesterday afternoon this constant whistling and cheering was heard and kept getting louder. I finally wandered out to the main plaza to see what was going on and there's a large demonstration happening. I ask someone else watching and she says the professional cleaners of the city are striking over their low wages. Apparently, it's a big deal. I started to take pictures and I realize my camera is not cutting it at all and right behind me was a camera store so I give up and go in and about 20 minutes later, I have a new cute, hot pink Canon. Love. It. My pictures are instantly better. The woman behind the counter promised me at least one set of directions would be in English and when I get it back to the hostel to review it all completely I find instructions in Portuguse, Spanish, French and Dutch - but no English. I dissect the French manual as best as I can and think I'm lucky I took three years in high school but can read only basic sentences, but I manage to figure out the necessities.

The policia - kind of hot.. and this time, looking a bit more fierce and menacing.

I have the slip of paper with the address of Jan and Maria, who we met last night at Papillon. I ran into Giannis at the bar on my way out and he helped me manage the metro stop to find The Sants district. Jan had said to call them around 5pm and I'd tried, but there weren't enough numbers so it didn't work and I'd given up. I figured I might be imposing just showing up, but also, it couldn't do any harm and what else did I have to do?

I actually find it, which surprises me, and after some confusion with the roommate, I figure out Jan doesn't live there. He's Maria's boyfriend and Maria lives there, but they're still sleeping. He gets Maria who comes out and invites me in. She makes coffee and tells me Jan and she stayed out late last night as he lives in Greece and has to leave today. Dinner is off, but we chat for a while and she offers to hang out with me tomorrow or Sunday and said we should go to Parc Güell to see the views of the city. She gives me her email and number and we say goodbyes and I'm off.

I'm tired, but there's really no time left after my wandering today to take a nap before dinner. I get lost a few times circling my neighborhood, say hello to Giannis standing outside Sukūr and I decide to hang out at La Ria where I'm comfortable.

Since I've been writing, Chris Cornell has been chatting me up here and there. He's super nice, Basque, his second day working at the bar and when I comment on his shirt, he says he loves the Muppets without embarrassment. He says he used to write too.. something about philosophy or theology but the word he says is 'pheology'. Either way, it's something to do with language and prose. We talk about everything - where I'm from, Spain, the different languages of Spanish and Catalan, the food, his tattoos, the tattoo convention in town and how he looks like Chris Cornell, which makes him laugh. The other bartender who I've seen there the last couple of times I've been in walks by and smiles. He starts to pour five shots of something and I ask what it is. He tells me it's a coffee liquor and pours me my own. It's good. Chris Cornell had given me a different cherry flavored shot earlier - these digestives are common for after dinner. But with the wine I'd already had while writing, I'm getting a bit lit.

The bar is getting loud and a bit rowdy. I love the local feel of it because it's not really a tourist hangout. It's almost divey. Everyone smokes and is having a good time. Clearly there are a few loons, but that adds to the local flavor.

Saturday night, Oct. 3rd:

By the time I'd left La Ria, I'd met three English men; two of them older, brothers, and one was their son who'd they'd brought to Barcelona for his 21st birthday. We talked about the English vs. the Irish, football and David Beckham being a sellout, Gordon Brown who the English father said he'd rather have a hot poker shoved up his ass than vote for - things they had very strong opinions about. But they don't stay long and after they leave, Chris Cornell and I keep chatting. When it's my turn to make a motion to leave, Joseph, the other bartender - also the owner - opens his arms wide for a hug and I can't deny him. These guys are just so warm and friendly - everything I wanted Barcelona to be - without being creepy like some of the men in this city. This bar will be one of my favorite memories for sure.

How I spent most nights - with my journal and liquor - this night it was a cherry flavored digestive and plenty of rioja.

Joseph - the owner of La Ria - super nice guy. Go see him.

La Ria - a picture I took on a Monday night. Everything is closed on Mondays. Who knew?

I headed in the direction of my hostel, feeling tipsy and walked by Sukūr. I ask Giannis if we can hang out when he's off and shockingly, he's defensive and gives me all this attitude. I say we don't have to if he's busy and he tells me to call him, which I explain isn't easy for me since I have to use a pay phone and he knows where my hostel is - only a few doors down from the restaurant. I say I'll wait at the hostel if he wants to come by, but he makes some excuses about not knowing when he'll be done and we go a couple of rounds of this and I'm really confused and getting irritated - especially when he loses his patience and says, 'Ok, we've had this same conversation three times now.' I feel like I'm talking to one of my exes and I start to see that the other night with Sam probably pissed him off more than he's willing to admit. I'm really surprised he's talking to me this way and I tell him I leave on Tuesday and I just came by because I wanted to spend time with him. If he'd like to see me, he knows where I am and I walk away hurt and disappointed.

In my room, I realize I'm out of bottled water so I run down to the little store nearby and think, ok - I'll try one more time with Giannis to clear the air. I didn't want to leave it like that. I really try to be kind and sweet and he gets sarcastic and says it's all his fault, this misunderstanding, but he means it as a blow off and it's clear we aren't going to end well and we don't. I walk off again after a stand off of him not caring and being rather cruel and me not knowing how to fix it because he doesn't want to. So I head back to my room, drunk and alone, and have a good cry over probably every man I've loved and all my broken hearts before I finally fall asleep.

Sunday, Oct. 4th:

Friday was a good test of my abilities - or lack thereof - to be alone, explore and trust what will happen. Saturday I got up at a decent hour around 10:30am, made myself ready for the day and attempted to find the Catedral. I wanted to get pictures of the little pond by the Frederick Marès museum. I do find it and that makes me happy because it's so easy to get lost here. There's a little girl playing near the pond carrying a small bag of breadsticks and singing while her mother sits on a bench with the girl's baby brother. She doesn't stand still long enough for me to get a picture of her unfortunately. She's too giggly, but adorable.

The Frederick Marès museum is open and I remember it's in my supercool guide book as a recommended site so I go in. This man was a one-of-a-kind collector and you wonder how he could've afforded these things and simply where he kept all three floors of it all but the gorgeous Greek sculptures and Byzantine Christian artwork still keep me in awe - even if I already saw similar pieces at the Museum of Catalunya.. I mean, did I mention how the Spanish love their Jesus' on crosses? Because they do. Like whoa. But Frederick had many MANY rooms of this stuff and he didn't forget Mary and the baby version of Jesus on her lap.. lots of those too. So that's all well and good - but after that, it gets really weird. There are whole rooms dedicated to his collection of what were more ladies' items of fans, hat pins, period fashion drawings, um.. locks of hair. There was a room entirely for keys, knives and scissors of every kind and size, intricately ivory-embellished pipes, playing cards, old pictures, royal crowns, tins, boxes, marble caskets, plates and pottery.. I'm not talking one wall here or one gallery box - whole rooms, hundreds of feet, THREE FLOORS. It went on and on and on.. It was like your grandmother's house if she'd gone well past Eccentric Street collecting turtles or dolls and settled onto Insanity Lane collecting Everything That Collects Dust. Becauase hi.. Did you hear me on the THREE FLOORS?! It just started to feel super creepy by the time I reached the top.

See? Oh-so-pretty little pond.. lovely and serene.

Pretty Grecian statue thing..

Aww Jesus.. don't die.. it's just so sad..

Don't forget Mary and baby Jesus on her knee! Like 43 of them..

Then.. let's collect some marble caskets with some creepy devil dog at the end, shall we?

And some fans, some old silverware.. the regular grandma type things..

Pretty dresses!

Weird lounging Mary in a box.. where she's holding a mini Jesus on a cross all happy and it really confused me..

I mean, isn't it a teensy bit creepy?

Not nearly as creepy as this BRAID OF HAIR.. which looks rather scorpion like at first, doesn't it?!

Incredibly intricate ivory carved pipes..

Crowns of every kind.. How does one get these?!

Pictures and cards.. it was never ending..

I feel thoroughly icky upon walking out the door of the museum and decide maybe it's time I did some retail therapy. The goal was shoes and I more than succeeded. Three pairs of boots, two scoops of gelato and a picture of the biggest cockroach I've ever seen and I'm back at the hostel to drop off my treasures before I settle in for a 30 minute nap before dinner.

Hi.. ew ew ew.. creeeeepy.. run run!

It's 8pm and the crowds are getting louder and being inside, I feel like I'm missing out. I can't tell if I'm hungry but wine always sounds good. I head to the Pulperia where I couldn't find a seat the other night and I actually see one open. I ask the guy next to it if I can sit there and he says his friend is there but after determining I'm alone, he tells me to take it anyway. His friend comes in, clearly joking with him about giving his seat away to what I hope he's saying is a cute girl. They're friendly and funny - Ivan, the one I sat next to, is from the Dominican Republic and has great English. He sometimes sounds completely American so much it throws me. He's texting friends in German tho. Idress is French and tells me to call him Baotist instead. He's loud, over-the-top extroverted, and a crack up. We talk about why they're both here (they clearly visit the Pulperia a lot by how they talk to the waiters), their lack of plan for the night and how neither has a girlfriend.

Baotist's is actually a sad story. His girlfriend moved back home to Germany four months ago where she's living with her mother and her barely one month old daughter - also Baotist's. The mother pressured Baotist and her to relocate promising a job and a place to live, but he wasn't willing to leave Barcelona and the girlfriend didn't come back with him after their daughter was born. He's clearly crushed by it, but I recognize that thing in him that's pure man - the ability to bury it and move on to another subject that enables him to laugh and joke around. Or is that just moving on? I don't know.

We move on to my break up - like that's a better subject - and he tells me very sincerely to stay true to myself and take care of my heart. Then he says we're all in good company because Ivan was also dumped two weeks ago.. but he was the cheater in that story and the girlfriend took him back and finally couldn't take the fact he hadn't changed. Now he's regretting how he treated her. Ahh.. boys.

We hang out for a bit and they help me order a little food, joke with the waiters behind the counter and invite me out wherever they're going. On the way, Baotist is crazy friendly with everyone he walks by. He's Barcelona's welcome wagon, flirting with a group of older American women standing outside a hostel and daring one to dance with him in the street. They laugh and blush and you can tell it makes their night. He walks right up to a bar window where there's a group of people on the inside. He acts like they're old friends, waves, and says something loud and friendly. We go in and Ivan tells me Baotist probably doesn't know them at all, but that doesn't stop him from approaching their table. They love him immediately and he's over there for a while. One of them, an Irishman, Eamon, comes over to get drinks and ends up chatting with us for a long time. I'd only heard a bit of his acccent, not enough to get the Irish accent at first, and mistakenly ask if he's English. He feigns being insulted and teases me about it for a while, but he soon realizes he's been gone from his table for so long waiting on the drinks and chatting with us that the girlfriend is looking over and wondering what's taking so long. Baotist, always willing to lend a hand, says he'll go over to the table and keep her entertained.

Once the drinks arrive, Eamon makes a friendly goodbye and Baotist returns to our spot. But the boys don't seem to want to stay terribly long and Baotist feels a little badly. I say it's fine and I can manage on my own. He suggests I could crash Eamon's table of friends and it's not such a bad idea. He offers to take me to the beach tomorrow if I want and gives me his contact info. The boys leave and I shyly make my way over to the Irishman's table and hope for the best. I don't know why I thought it would be a problem though. They very boisterously agree that I should crash their party and I wonder what adventures I'm in for now.