Last day in Barça

Last day in barça

It's my last day In Barcelona and I feel like I'm coming down from some kind of high. I'm getting sad.  I'm tearing up In the streets, already plotting my return.

I'm exhausted from days of walking.  I just bought a brand new 10-trip train pass and I decided that I would use the fuck out of it.  I wasn't walking ANYWHERE.

Goal 1: go back to Sagrada familia and replace the geometry shirt I bought years ago.  Goal 2: new beach.
Goal 3: dinner with Olga, Sergio, and Jakob.

That's all I had the energy for.

The beach I chose was otcat beach, just a little bit further than montgat north.  There's four teenage boys blasting reggaeton music and yelling at each other loudly.  Generally I'm annoyed by this, but at least I don't have to listen to them yell in English, and I do love me some reggaeton.  Well, this lady, a little bit older than me goes IN.  She starts yelling at them: put your feet down. Watch your mouths, watch your language.  I have young boys here.  Don't you know how to behave yourself?  I am a mother.  Your mother didn't teach you how to behave?  They argues a bit, but eventually STOPPED.  And this woman is now trying to discuss it with people around her and they're not talking back to her.  So right before I get off, and I can't help myself, I go up to her and tell her that I thought what she did deserved applause.  She says thank you, and did you notice no one says anything?  Everyone just sits there, quiet?  And my boys are here, embarrassed?  And did you see my husband?  He was so angry he moved to the next car.  It takes a village here, too, I guess.

Ocata beach is a wide beach, and already I'm not excited.  I didn't even want to walk to the water.  At this point, im really comfortable leaving my shit on the beach without worrying about someone stealing it.  Im taking the best Lounger in the world in and out of the water, knowing that I'm going to miss the fuck out of that thing really soon. This beach is much younger, and there's teenagers everywhere.  They're not acting like like assholes, everyone's fine.  But I still prefer the old people and family beach.  I guess I'm growing up, or just not trying to get bullied by the cool kids.

I decide to hide from the sun and I go to the chiringuito.  I ask the young waitress for a beer, and ask if there is wifi.  She says "no wifi!  You're on the beach, you're supposed to be relaxing!"  Bitch, I've been doing nothing but talking to no one and relaxing for hours, don't tell me how to fucking relax.  But I smile, and tell her she's right.  I ask the 4 drunk girls if they'll take a picture of me, and start to tell them why I want a picture of myself with my middle finger up.  One takes it, says "ugh, it's better with the sea behind you," and another say "ugh, New York, I've been there, your beaches are ugly."  I am totally getting bullied by all the teenagers at otcat beach.  Take me back to st. Pol de mar where people applaud me and my magnificent lounger.

 I know Sergio from college.  He lived in my dorm and his fraternity and my sorority got along, so we went to the same parties.  I always thought he was great, but we weren't close at all.  we had met up for the first time since graduating this past February in Copenhagen, where he lives with his partner, Jakob.  When I got to Barcelona, Sergio told me he and Jakob were going to be here at the same time, so I jumped at the chance to meet up with him again.  Olga recommends a place called bitxirracu, carrer de Valencia 122.  It's in eixample, a very gay-friendly neighborhood, and they have two more inventive tapas tasting menus.  One is €18 a person, one is €23, so we get two of each and decide we're just going to share everything.  Sergio tells us that "family style" is not a Danish sensibility, and that Jakob doesn't like to do that. I laugh, because Justin is the same way.  We should all go out to dinnerLuckily, everything is carefully laid out such that each serving is divisible by 4, except for a zucchini mousse and the desserts.  The food was the best I had in Barcelona, especially for such a reasonable price.

Sergio convinces me to go a gay bar with them.  It's 11pm, and I've got to leave at 7am for my flight.  One drink, I tell them.  Yeah, sure.  1 becomes 3, because clearly when a frat guy offers to buy a sorority girl a drink, you still say YES, even 25 years later.  Dumbass.  We make friends with a group of gorgeous, funny guys from philly, and you know I didn't leave until 3am, because it was just that much fun.

A quick taxi ride to Olgas, and I pass right out.  I set three alarms.  I've got three and a half hours to sleep.

Holy shit I feel like hell.  I wake up in a pool of sweat, a combination of drinking, the Barcelona heat, and neurosis that my three alarms aren't going to go off.  I suck it up.  Get my ass into the shower, a kiss for Olga, and run out the door. I'm speeding down the street to catch the airport bus at plaça espanya 8 or 10 blocks away.  The bus comes every 10 minutes, but I'm still nervous.  I'm always afraid I'm going to be late.

This is where the chest pains start.  I was so anxious, I had chest pains.

I got to the airport two and a half hours early.  I really need to embrace a little more Justin style chill.  I did NOT need to be nearly that early.  You'd think this would have calmed me down, but no.  Still nervous.  The one line that I'm waiting on for bag drop starts to break off when multiple windows open, and whenever a new line opens, for whatever reason, I'm the last in the longest line.  Whatever gift my father has for finding free parking, I inherited, but I instead I have the gift for picking the longest lines everywhere: in the supermarket, in the airport.  I'm growing more anxious, even though I know it doesn't matter at all.  I tell myself it doesn't matter.  One guy in line ahead of me lets in his extended family of 12.  Cindy, it doesn't matter.  Calm down.  Breathe.

I drop off my bag and Ryanair still lets me keep that lounger.  I'm tired.  And I see a sunglass hut, a place Justin and I have a thing about (not telling what!) and all of a sudden it occurs to me.

My plans is going to crash.  I'm going to die.

I don't like to fly.  I'm always bit nervous.  Turbulence takes my breath.  But this was different.  I really thought today was the day.  This was it.

And everything I saw became "a sign."  Everything.  That sunglasses hut.  I was never going to see Justin again.

I thought about my sister. Why was I thinking about her?  Was she reaching out to me?  Was she telling me to not get on that plane?  I would think she would find a way to tell me.  OH MY GOD, my friend who was supposed to come, she's a good Christian.  Did god intervene and THATS why she said she couldn't come?  Did she see a sign too?!?  Everything became a sign.  I wish that someone could have been with me to take notes about all of the crazy shit I was thinking.  All of the "signs" I saw.  And i was convinced it was all true.

Why didn't I call my parents before I left?  Asshole.  I should have called my parents.  I'm their last daughter left and i didn't even call them last night.  Justin's my beneficiary, he'll get all my retirement money.  That's good, he'll be better off without me.

I get to the gate and I just want to get on that plane and try to go to sleep so I stop thinking all of these thoughts.  It's Ryanair, which used to have a shitty reputation for being a really shitty low-cost airline.  I booked a business class ticket somehow, so I'm on the priority line.  Well that's great... The quickest way to my impending death.  Me, a lady in a wheelchair, and a small Portuguese boy with either a very young grandmother or a somewhat older mom.

I don't know if the kid is nervous, or the grandmamom is nervous, but this chick is talking NONSTOP.  My Portuguese isn't very good, but she's babbling at this 4 year old, just repeating herself over and over and over, so I understand everything.  It was either neurosis or she was trying to distract him, even though he didn't seem to be too upset about flying. "Look at this! Que Chuli!"  "Look at that! Que Chuli!"  Over and over again.  Explaining to him what they have to do next, how they're going to get In line, stay In a line, walk onto the plane, sit in their seat.  She doesn't pause to take a breath.  And in my delicate state (or let's be honest, even I were in my normal non-delicate state,) I am losing it.  If grandmamom says "que Chuli" one more fucking time I'm going to punch her.

So I get on board.  Business class priority means that I'm in the first row with all the leg room.  Except that when you're in the first row, the arm doesn't go up, it's where the tray table is.  So my plan of lying down in my friend's unoccupied seat goes out the window.  I can't even have the privilege of lying down and napping well before my plane crashes.

And you KNOW grandmamom is in the row RIGHT BEHIND ME.  And the boy is in the seat right behind me.

It doesn't take long for this kid to start kicking my seat. And now I realize.  THIS IS A TEST.  God is testing me.  I'm not even religious.  But this is a test.  If I snap at this kid, I'm going to die.  If I keep it together, maybe God will let me live.  If I don't yell at this woman, maybe he will let me live.

God, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I've been mean.  I promise I'll be better.  I'll be more forgiving.  I'll change.  I just don't want to die today.  And I'm dead serious.

I let this little boy kick my chair.  He's not even kicking really hard.  Kick away, little boy.  I squirm in my seat and I finally torque myself into a position that lets me breathe a little and start to fall asleep.

But then suddenly a hand reaches out and grabs me, and I feel myself jump in the air.  Surely it's the flight attendant waking me up to tell me to prepare for evacuation.  My heart is RACING.

No, grandmamom finally stopped talking to this boy and he was bored, so he reached out at me between the seats to get my attention.  I whip my head around like a demon possessed and glare at him so hard like razor blades were shooting out of my eyes.  I say nothing, as I promised God.  He is just smiling back sweetly.

Never mind this plane crashing; surely I am just going to have a heart attack.

I feel the need to admit that I have a prescription of Xanax with me, which I used for panic attacks after my sister died.  I now use it to sleep on those random occasions where i wake up in middle of the night and can't seem to fall back asleep.  Justin always tells me that I shouldn't do it, because it's not its intended use.  My feeling is, it works, and it's not often, so who cares (it's the lowest possible dose.). Well, now would be the perfect time to use it, as this is what it's meant for, but I was too nervous to even take it.

I get myself to fall asleep slightly, and my new little boyfriend now thrusts his tiny toy dinosaur at me between the chairs.  Still smiling.

I can't help myself.  God, please forgive me. I promise to be nice.  And with the nicest tone I can muster I turn and tell the lady, I'm sorry, Senhora, I'm trying to sleep.  Can you please?  I swear to God, I was nice.

Even scared out of my wits, I can't hide from myself.

The plane lands calmly.  There was zero turbulence.  Smooth as silk.  It was an hour and twenty minutes and felt like a lifetime.  Thank you, God, I'm a believer.  I'll be nice now, I swear.  Nice and kind and forgiving to people.  I'm crying.  Like, fighting back my tears.  I stop myself from kissing the ground, and crossing myself... Like I'm a Jew, a Christian, and a Muslim all of a sudden.  I hope no one is paying attention to me.  This rare combination of no sleep, dehydration, hangover, menstruation, and flying really fucked me up today like never before.

I walk into the airport, and for whatever reason, there's a special welcoming committee In a cordoned off and decorated area in the luggage area.  There's tables of free Portuguese food and drink.  People dressed in folk costumes singing, smiling, waving, and playing the accordion.  A literal fucking welcoming committee.  I'm ready to have a heart attack and I'm crying and there's guys in folk hats and short pants here to welcome me.  I realize my folly, my waste of energy, the silliness of this whole scene, and I still can't come down.

My luggage comes right away, and instead of leaving, I plop myself down, shook, connect to wifi and tell my mom I love her.

She tells me how beautiful dad and she think I am.  How beautiful I've become.

I'm crying. I don't leave the airport for an hour.