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.
Showing posts with label barcelona. Show all posts
Showing posts with label barcelona. Show all posts
Friday, July 29, 2016
Thursday, July 28, 2016
My typical day in Barcelona
GETTING COFFEE
I wake up, and get a proper coffee outside. No more instant coffee I was (happily) drinking in the baltics. The shit here is too good. I am impressed by my gut reaction to say "cortado" instead of "macchiato."
Barcelona is the only other place in the world that feels as much to me like home as home does. I've been lamenting the slow decline of my Spanish over the last couple of years, but as much as I feel like I have lost it at home, the second I get back here it rebounds.
I take my coffee in the plaza near my friends Toni and Olga. One day, at Cucut biz and bar. I ask for a cortado doble, because I haven't been sleeping so well. She is very confused; this isn't something they do, and was I sure? How did I want it? And she explains to me the proportions of milk and espresso in a cortado, and it wasn't going to fit in the normal glass. Did I want twice the espresso and the same milk? Did I want two cortados together, in a larger, cafe con leche glass? Would I prefer white or brown sugar? She was so sweet and just trying to make sure my coffee was good. Talking some more, Katarina tells me she's from Georgia (the country but not the state) and I tell her all about Justin, and how he plays with our friend, Georgian singer Mariami (who I name drop... Everyone knows who she is) and how we just came from the Baltic and we ate khachapuri and we eat khinkali at home and I know how to make satsivi, and I almost make her cry. She shows me the hair of her arms standing up. There are so few Georgians in Barcelona.
One day I wander into Bar Ernesto, at Hostafrancs station, where Toni and Olga live. Its a bar catering to mostly old people, sitting all day drinking their beer and coffee and eating tiny sandwiches. When I'm alone in a foreign place, this is where i want to be; surrounded by old people. Old people aren't going to be shouting at each other loudly in English. They're not going to annoy me. This neighborhood doesn't have anything for tourists, anyway. Toni is there with Èrica (the accent goes the "other way" in Catalan), their 8-year old. Èrica and I became fast friends last night, when she showed me her math notebook and translated all of her written Catalan into Castilian Spanish so I would understand. She told me that an isosceles triangle has two equal sides and one that isn't equal. It's good to know that teachers get this wrong all over the world. I didn't correct her.
I sit with Toni and Èrica, and I order a cortado doble. Both Toni and the bartender gasped lightly. I swear, i could have ordered two shots of whisky and not have gotten such a strong reaction. Toni says "so strong in the morning? You don't want something with more milk?!?" Ok, fine, I'll order regular cortados from now on.
Except that after three days, the bartender already knows my coffee order and greets me with "cortado?" Barcelona... More like home than home is.
WALKING AROUND TOWN
I can't remember how many times I have been to Barcelona. Eight? At this point, I don't really want to do anything touristy. I love the miró museum, and I go almost every time. Not this time. The Sagrada familia church, an enormous, incredible, gothic church, finally has taken down most of the scaffolding that has been up for years. I walked around it but didn't go in. It's like trying to get into the Vatican. I've been inside before, it's great. not interested. Sometimes it's what's on the outside that counts. This time, I was going to try to discover new things. And I was NOT going to be on Las Ramblas. AT ALL. Las Ramblas is a pedestrian mall akin to Times Square. Characters in costumes, guys standing still dressed like metal. A fuck ton of slow tourists. It's kinda hard to avoid, because it's long and is right smack in the center of town. I got robbed on las Ramblas once. A horror show. Not the robbery. That was smooth as silk. Las Ramblas is a horror show.
This is the best thing about the Internet and an iPhone... Just pick a place as a destination and just walk around. There's a metro station every couple of blocks here. Before the iPhone, it was really easy to get turned around. Barcelona was organized by a madman... No grid at all, and all of the tiny streets converge haphazardly into small plazas, and change names along the way. But now, just walk. And when you're tired, just get into any metro station. Easy.
I really like thrift stores. This is a fairly recent discovery. The goodwill stores have really stepped up their game at home. I think they get not only rich people's cast offs after they've worn them only once, but also extra stuff that was from a previous season. Whatever it is that used to go to places like Daffy's and Loehmanns. Because I've gotten so much stuff from very expensive labels that I swear have never been worn.
I notice on this trip a chain of stores called Humana. Same concept as goodwill, but the proceeds go to helping (mostly) Africa. And they've got some good stuff, some of it overstock from Spanish labels like Desigual and Custo Barcelona. Both labels feature often loud prints that are "mismatched," and usually I don't like it. I'm the kind of person who wears at most two colors, one of which is usually black. But I guess if you've been here long enough, that shit starts to look good to you, because I've bought a couple of things that I've convinced myself look good on me. Maybe it's that it goes with tan. Or the heat's gotten to me. Or I'm delusional.
So what I've been doing is that I pick a place that has a Humana store, go to it, shop a little, and then just wander around that neighborhood. Or I pick a restaurant, go there, wander around that neighborhood. I can wander for hours. By myself, just wandering the streets, looking in Windows, listening to people, sitting in parks, eating lunches and fresh fruit or ice cream. Wandering around in the sun.
GOING TO THE BEACH
After the lunching and wandering, I pick a beach and go. Only for about 2 hours. That's about all I can take before I'm tired, or hot, or tipsy from the one beer I've ordered to escape from the heat. When you're at home, going to to the beach feels like an ORDEAL. I hate it. It takes too long, it's hot and gross, and then you get there, and the BEACH is gross, the WATER is gross. Argue with me all you like; I think they're all disgusting.
Most beaches here have a chiringuito (beach bar) where you can hang out forever and no one cares. I ask the girl for a beer with lime. She asks me if I mean a "Clara," which is a surprisingly delicious and very refreshing combination of beer and lemon Fanta, the only Fanta flavor we don't seem to have in the states, which is a goddamn shame. Nope, I mean, take a slice of lime and put it in there. She is sweet, but incredulous. Really? Are you sure? Just like my cortado doble. Yes, really. She comes back with a lime slice dunked in there, and she says, "like this?" I say, sure, that's fine, but normally you just squeeze it in there. She takes the glass back, smiling but still really concerned at my crazy request. I see her squeezing the shit out of that lime. She brings it back and eagerly waits for me to taste it. Perfect, I tell her. She's so confused. I tell her to try it and she makes a face and laughs. Later on I tell her it's a little thing I had in Belize, because the beer is very clear and flavorless, not like the local Barcelona favorite, Estrella damm, a slightly darker beer. It still tastes great to me, because what isn't better with a squeeze of fresh lime?
Barcelona proper has a metro-accessible beach called Barceloneta, but I stopped going there years ago after I got robbed there, too. Another effortless robbery. My favorite beach is Sant Pol de Mar, on the Maresme coast, a 1-hour light rail ride away. It is quiet, and peaceful, and the water is clear. There are beaches on the Maresme that are closer, and they all have a different character. montgat nord: more waves, clear, clean, and not packed full of older people. Otcat: wider beach, younger people, clean and clear water, young waitress at the chiringuito tells me there's no wifi, I'm supposed to be relaxing at the beach. I'm pleased with her.
In preparation for this trip, I bought this flotation thing called SpringFloat. I hadn't ever used it, but I was stupidly excited to. Like, I was sure it was going to be the highlight of my trip, lying on it in the clear, crisp water. It lay in wait in the large suitcase Justin had been carrying for three weeks, waiting for Barcelona beach time. I was petrified I wouldn't be able to bring it on the plane, because I traded suitcases with Justin for the small one for the remainder of my trip without him. I was overjoyed with Ryanair (which has a shit reputation) when the flight attendant said it wouldn't be a problem. ecstatic. It comes in a lightweight circular carrying bag, about 2.5' in diameter, and when you open the bag, it springs into a 5.5' long lounger. You inflate an outer ring with only 7 puffs, and you inflate the attached pillow about the same. The rest of the body of the ring is mesh, so when you're on it, floating you're floating IN the water rather than ON the water.
I carry this goddamn thing EVERYWHERE. Shopping, walking, out to lunch. I recognize that this is ridiculous. Olga makes fun of me. But I get to Sant pol for the first time, and I open the case, wondering how the fuck I'm ever going to get it back in. I quickly realize that I can use it instead of a beach towel to lie on the sand. And it has a GODDAMN PILLOW. I am alone, and smiling like an idiot. I am so pleased with myself. I notice that the old tan lady near me is staring at me. Well fuck you, old lady hater. I've carried this thing for 3 weeks like Jesus with his cross and I'm going to enjoy every second.
After about 10 minutes in this perfect Barcelona weather, and I decided I'm warm enough to go in the water. So I go to the lady and ask her in Spanish if I can leave my things with her to watch when I go in. She recoils and at stammers....oh, she's British. She's relieved to hear me speak to her in English.
"Can I leave my things with you while I go in the water?"
"Yes, but only if you tell me where you got that WONDERFUL thing."
I have made more friends with this stupid lounger here than I would if I were walking around NYC with a tiny dog. This is all anyone can ask me. I let another lady take it out for a spin, and she's on the beach, taking notes on the name and how to get it on amazon.
Best $17 I've ever spent.
AFTER THE BEACH
Well, I don't have it in me to go out so late. I don't do clubs, and I've been walking ALL DAY. Spaniards go out LATE, eating a small dinner around 9. One night I made a nice salad with Olga. One night we went to a swing dance thing. This is how Olga, Toni, and I met many years ago. She used to teach swing here, but since she had Èrica, they don't dance too much anymore. Everyone reacts to her the way they do to me when I go to a swing event in New York... A mix of surprise and elation. She is greeted warmly, and as i am with her, I am greeted in kind, with two kisses. I reminisce with Pep and Emi, a couple I have also seen many times since. The swing dance community here is wonderful, and I've always enjoyed meeting them.
One night, I decided I need more pulpo a gallego, my favorite Spanish dish. It's octopus leg, cut crosswise, placed on a wooden tray, and broiled with olive oil, Spanish smoked paprika, and salt. UNFORTUNATELY, it's not a Catalonian dish (many parts of Spain consider themselves separate from Spain and wish to secede... Barcelona is part of catalunya, where the secession desire is strongest) so it's hard to find. But I know I've had it at cucut bar. It's 9:30 pm, and I haven't eaten since 2. I'm starving. I order a rosé, and halfway through it the chef comes out to apologetically inform me that they are out of octopus. Well, they're out of everything (it's more a lunch place than a dinner place) except some mayonnaise-y salads and something called "esquiexada de bacalao." Normally, I would be annoyed, because I was hungry, and really looking forward to octopus. But between the half glass of rosé already taking effect on a near-empty stomach, and the sheer joy Barcelona brings me, I have a rare "fuck it" moment. Sure, bring me that, and an order of pa amb tomaquet, bread rubbed with garlic, fresh tomato, olive oil and salt. So much better than it sounds.
So I do whatever anyone in my position would do: on vacation, not much food to be had, alone In a delightful bar where the wine is €1.35 a glass... I get wasted and spend the whole time on the Internet drunk texting anyone who want one, and some who don't. No shame, no regrets.
I was supposed to be here with a colleague of mine, who felt the need to cancel on me. Pretty fucking shocking. I was going to share this with her. But now I get to keep it all to myself. Olga, Toni, and èrica, the wine and the food, all of the Spanish i've gotten to speak, this amazing city and the perfect beaches on its fringe, and the best beach lounger $17 can buy.
I wake up, and get a proper coffee outside. No more instant coffee I was (happily) drinking in the baltics. The shit here is too good. I am impressed by my gut reaction to say "cortado" instead of "macchiato."
Barcelona is the only other place in the world that feels as much to me like home as home does. I've been lamenting the slow decline of my Spanish over the last couple of years, but as much as I feel like I have lost it at home, the second I get back here it rebounds.
I take my coffee in the plaza near my friends Toni and Olga. One day, at Cucut biz and bar. I ask for a cortado doble, because I haven't been sleeping so well. She is very confused; this isn't something they do, and was I sure? How did I want it? And she explains to me the proportions of milk and espresso in a cortado, and it wasn't going to fit in the normal glass. Did I want twice the espresso and the same milk? Did I want two cortados together, in a larger, cafe con leche glass? Would I prefer white or brown sugar? She was so sweet and just trying to make sure my coffee was good. Talking some more, Katarina tells me she's from Georgia (the country but not the state) and I tell her all about Justin, and how he plays with our friend, Georgian singer Mariami (who I name drop... Everyone knows who she is) and how we just came from the Baltic and we ate khachapuri and we eat khinkali at home and I know how to make satsivi, and I almost make her cry. She shows me the hair of her arms standing up. There are so few Georgians in Barcelona.
One day I wander into Bar Ernesto, at Hostafrancs station, where Toni and Olga live. Its a bar catering to mostly old people, sitting all day drinking their beer and coffee and eating tiny sandwiches. When I'm alone in a foreign place, this is where i want to be; surrounded by old people. Old people aren't going to be shouting at each other loudly in English. They're not going to annoy me. This neighborhood doesn't have anything for tourists, anyway. Toni is there with Èrica (the accent goes the "other way" in Catalan), their 8-year old. Èrica and I became fast friends last night, when she showed me her math notebook and translated all of her written Catalan into Castilian Spanish so I would understand. She told me that an isosceles triangle has two equal sides and one that isn't equal. It's good to know that teachers get this wrong all over the world. I didn't correct her.
I sit with Toni and Èrica, and I order a cortado doble. Both Toni and the bartender gasped lightly. I swear, i could have ordered two shots of whisky and not have gotten such a strong reaction. Toni says "so strong in the morning? You don't want something with more milk?!?" Ok, fine, I'll order regular cortados from now on.
Except that after three days, the bartender already knows my coffee order and greets me with "cortado?" Barcelona... More like home than home is.
WALKING AROUND TOWN
I can't remember how many times I have been to Barcelona. Eight? At this point, I don't really want to do anything touristy. I love the miró museum, and I go almost every time. Not this time. The Sagrada familia church, an enormous, incredible, gothic church, finally has taken down most of the scaffolding that has been up for years. I walked around it but didn't go in. It's like trying to get into the Vatican. I've been inside before, it's great. not interested. Sometimes it's what's on the outside that counts. This time, I was going to try to discover new things. And I was NOT going to be on Las Ramblas. AT ALL. Las Ramblas is a pedestrian mall akin to Times Square. Characters in costumes, guys standing still dressed like metal. A fuck ton of slow tourists. It's kinda hard to avoid, because it's long and is right smack in the center of town. I got robbed on las Ramblas once. A horror show. Not the robbery. That was smooth as silk. Las Ramblas is a horror show.
This is the best thing about the Internet and an iPhone... Just pick a place as a destination and just walk around. There's a metro station every couple of blocks here. Before the iPhone, it was really easy to get turned around. Barcelona was organized by a madman... No grid at all, and all of the tiny streets converge haphazardly into small plazas, and change names along the way. But now, just walk. And when you're tired, just get into any metro station. Easy.
I really like thrift stores. This is a fairly recent discovery. The goodwill stores have really stepped up their game at home. I think they get not only rich people's cast offs after they've worn them only once, but also extra stuff that was from a previous season. Whatever it is that used to go to places like Daffy's and Loehmanns. Because I've gotten so much stuff from very expensive labels that I swear have never been worn.
I notice on this trip a chain of stores called Humana. Same concept as goodwill, but the proceeds go to helping (mostly) Africa. And they've got some good stuff, some of it overstock from Spanish labels like Desigual and Custo Barcelona. Both labels feature often loud prints that are "mismatched," and usually I don't like it. I'm the kind of person who wears at most two colors, one of which is usually black. But I guess if you've been here long enough, that shit starts to look good to you, because I've bought a couple of things that I've convinced myself look good on me. Maybe it's that it goes with tan. Or the heat's gotten to me. Or I'm delusional.
So what I've been doing is that I pick a place that has a Humana store, go to it, shop a little, and then just wander around that neighborhood. Or I pick a restaurant, go there, wander around that neighborhood. I can wander for hours. By myself, just wandering the streets, looking in Windows, listening to people, sitting in parks, eating lunches and fresh fruit or ice cream. Wandering around in the sun.
GOING TO THE BEACH
After the lunching and wandering, I pick a beach and go. Only for about 2 hours. That's about all I can take before I'm tired, or hot, or tipsy from the one beer I've ordered to escape from the heat. When you're at home, going to to the beach feels like an ORDEAL. I hate it. It takes too long, it's hot and gross, and then you get there, and the BEACH is gross, the WATER is gross. Argue with me all you like; I think they're all disgusting.
Most beaches here have a chiringuito (beach bar) where you can hang out forever and no one cares. I ask the girl for a beer with lime. She asks me if I mean a "Clara," which is a surprisingly delicious and very refreshing combination of beer and lemon Fanta, the only Fanta flavor we don't seem to have in the states, which is a goddamn shame. Nope, I mean, take a slice of lime and put it in there. She is sweet, but incredulous. Really? Are you sure? Just like my cortado doble. Yes, really. She comes back with a lime slice dunked in there, and she says, "like this?" I say, sure, that's fine, but normally you just squeeze it in there. She takes the glass back, smiling but still really concerned at my crazy request. I see her squeezing the shit out of that lime. She brings it back and eagerly waits for me to taste it. Perfect, I tell her. She's so confused. I tell her to try it and she makes a face and laughs. Later on I tell her it's a little thing I had in Belize, because the beer is very clear and flavorless, not like the local Barcelona favorite, Estrella damm, a slightly darker beer. It still tastes great to me, because what isn't better with a squeeze of fresh lime?
Barcelona proper has a metro-accessible beach called Barceloneta, but I stopped going there years ago after I got robbed there, too. Another effortless robbery. My favorite beach is Sant Pol de Mar, on the Maresme coast, a 1-hour light rail ride away. It is quiet, and peaceful, and the water is clear. There are beaches on the Maresme that are closer, and they all have a different character. montgat nord: more waves, clear, clean, and not packed full of older people. Otcat: wider beach, younger people, clean and clear water, young waitress at the chiringuito tells me there's no wifi, I'm supposed to be relaxing at the beach. I'm pleased with her.
In preparation for this trip, I bought this flotation thing called SpringFloat. I hadn't ever used it, but I was stupidly excited to. Like, I was sure it was going to be the highlight of my trip, lying on it in the clear, crisp water. It lay in wait in the large suitcase Justin had been carrying for three weeks, waiting for Barcelona beach time. I was petrified I wouldn't be able to bring it on the plane, because I traded suitcases with Justin for the small one for the remainder of my trip without him. I was overjoyed with Ryanair (which has a shit reputation) when the flight attendant said it wouldn't be a problem. ecstatic. It comes in a lightweight circular carrying bag, about 2.5' in diameter, and when you open the bag, it springs into a 5.5' long lounger. You inflate an outer ring with only 7 puffs, and you inflate the attached pillow about the same. The rest of the body of the ring is mesh, so when you're on it, floating you're floating IN the water rather than ON the water.
I carry this goddamn thing EVERYWHERE. Shopping, walking, out to lunch. I recognize that this is ridiculous. Olga makes fun of me. But I get to Sant pol for the first time, and I open the case, wondering how the fuck I'm ever going to get it back in. I quickly realize that I can use it instead of a beach towel to lie on the sand. And it has a GODDAMN PILLOW. I am alone, and smiling like an idiot. I am so pleased with myself. I notice that the old tan lady near me is staring at me. Well fuck you, old lady hater. I've carried this thing for 3 weeks like Jesus with his cross and I'm going to enjoy every second.
After about 10 minutes in this perfect Barcelona weather, and I decided I'm warm enough to go in the water. So I go to the lady and ask her in Spanish if I can leave my things with her to watch when I go in. She recoils and at stammers....oh, she's British. She's relieved to hear me speak to her in English.
"Can I leave my things with you while I go in the water?"
"Yes, but only if you tell me where you got that WONDERFUL thing."
I have made more friends with this stupid lounger here than I would if I were walking around NYC with a tiny dog. This is all anyone can ask me. I let another lady take it out for a spin, and she's on the beach, taking notes on the name and how to get it on amazon.
Best $17 I've ever spent.
AFTER THE BEACH
Well, I don't have it in me to go out so late. I don't do clubs, and I've been walking ALL DAY. Spaniards go out LATE, eating a small dinner around 9. One night I made a nice salad with Olga. One night we went to a swing dance thing. This is how Olga, Toni, and I met many years ago. She used to teach swing here, but since she had Èrica, they don't dance too much anymore. Everyone reacts to her the way they do to me when I go to a swing event in New York... A mix of surprise and elation. She is greeted warmly, and as i am with her, I am greeted in kind, with two kisses. I reminisce with Pep and Emi, a couple I have also seen many times since. The swing dance community here is wonderful, and I've always enjoyed meeting them.
One night, I decided I need more pulpo a gallego, my favorite Spanish dish. It's octopus leg, cut crosswise, placed on a wooden tray, and broiled with olive oil, Spanish smoked paprika, and salt. UNFORTUNATELY, it's not a Catalonian dish (many parts of Spain consider themselves separate from Spain and wish to secede... Barcelona is part of catalunya, where the secession desire is strongest) so it's hard to find. But I know I've had it at cucut bar. It's 9:30 pm, and I haven't eaten since 2. I'm starving. I order a rosé, and halfway through it the chef comes out to apologetically inform me that they are out of octopus. Well, they're out of everything (it's more a lunch place than a dinner place) except some mayonnaise-y salads and something called "esquiexada de bacalao." Normally, I would be annoyed, because I was hungry, and really looking forward to octopus. But between the half glass of rosé already taking effect on a near-empty stomach, and the sheer joy Barcelona brings me, I have a rare "fuck it" moment. Sure, bring me that, and an order of pa amb tomaquet, bread rubbed with garlic, fresh tomato, olive oil and salt. So much better than it sounds.
So I do whatever anyone in my position would do: on vacation, not much food to be had, alone In a delightful bar where the wine is €1.35 a glass... I get wasted and spend the whole time on the Internet drunk texting anyone who want one, and some who don't. No shame, no regrets.
I was supposed to be here with a colleague of mine, who felt the need to cancel on me. Pretty fucking shocking. I was going to share this with her. But now I get to keep it all to myself. Olga, Toni, and èrica, the wine and the food, all of the Spanish i've gotten to speak, this amazing city and the perfect beaches on its fringe, and the best beach lounger $17 can buy.
No shame, no regrets. I wouldn't change a thing.
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