Friday, 6/7 PM:
To get cheap tickets to Barcelona, I had to fly in and out of Paris Beauvais airport, which might as well be in Belgium. To get there, I had to take, along with Alia, Alison, and Amy, the three friends I was travelling with, a bus from Paris to the airport. Naturally, the bus company decided they had to cram everyone that was going to be on the plane into a bus that was roughly half the size, which meant I spent the entire ride trying to sleep by resting my face on the seat in front of me, making me look like a monk perform some sort of bizarre, auto transport related prayer session. It was a nauseating experience.
Friday, 8 PM
One of the reasons Europe rocks is because of the vastly available, dirt cheap transport. Their enormous rail system is well known, but even cheaper than that is the low-cost airlines, notably RyanAir. A British company, they can charge so little for flights by going in and out of airports in Bumsfuckville, Nowhere and advertising them as "Paris," "Rome," and "Barcelona," and thusly avoiding exorbitant landing fees at bigger airports. Knowing this, I wasn't expecting much as I got to Beauvais. My predictions were confirmed. The airport was essentially a giant warehouse boasting some facilities that vaguely resembled "security," "gates," and "baggage claim." Instantly, the mystery behind cheap flights was revealed. Also, we need this in the states.
Friday, 9 PM
Another explanation to the miracle of cheap flying was revealed when I boarded the Ryanair vessel. The interior vaguely resembled a NASCAR race. They had tightly packed in a huge number of bright yellow and blue plastic seats. There were no seat pockets, the safety card was displayed vividly on the back of the seat in front of you and advertisements adorned the baggage holds. After takeoff, the flight attendants read off pre-written commercials for everything from perfume to smokeless cigarettes (airplane safe!) I was glad I had headphones.
Friday, 10 PM - Saturday 12 AM
As I said, airports in Bumfuckville, Nowhere. After we touched down, we had to walk 15 minutes just to get in the terminal before taking a bus the 90 minutes to Barca.
Saturday, 1 AM
One thing I've found out about Paris after eight weeks of living there is that, despite being an enormously entertaining and interesting cultural capital of the world . . . it's not, strictly speaking, relative to the rest of Europe, a "party city." The bars close early, the clubs are hotbeds of ego and pretention, and Parisians themselves are modest, quiet, guarded, and work-oriented (despite the strikes and infamous 35 hour work week, Parisians work very hard and efficiently) Immediately after getting to Barcelona, on our very first metro ride, we noticed how different this city was. For one, the people were LOUD. In Paris, a raised voice will immediately out you as an "asshole American." In Barcelona, Spanish youths were yelling and chasing each other on the metro, dressed for the clubs in bright, wild outfits that would shock conservative Parisians. The party vibe continued as we got off the metro and were immediately offered "cerveza" by a strange looking guy with a bag full of beer. At first, I thought this guy was just a drifter trying score a couple extra bucks off of some party-starved Americans, yet the "beer can man" is everywhere in the streets, parks, and beaches. Sometimes, they call it "sexy-beer." I have no idea why they think this is appealing.
We forged on to our hostel, the party vibe keeping us entertained. Our hostel was right in the middle of Placa Reial, one of the liveliest squares in the city. Decorated with palm trees and Gaudi-designed lampposts, I felt immediately light years from Paris. Our dorm was next to a busy nightclub and packed with drunk, beer toting American, Spanish, French, Italian, and youths among many others. Everyone was yelling in different languages and drinking in one. This was home.
After check in, though dead tired, we decided to set off and see what the city had to offer. Not knowing where the hell we were going, we set towards the Mediterranean Sea. After walking for an hour, and not really finding anything worthwhile, we decided to cut our losses and start fresh and with a clue in the morning. We headed back to the hostel to go to sleep.
Saturday, 3 AM
Or so I thought.
Saturday, 4 AM
The combination of lights and noise from the Placa were keeping me up. This was evidence of the Spanish phenomenon of doing everything late, a topic which I will discuss again in a bit. For now, if I remember, I was close to finally dozing off . . .
Saturday 5 AM
How wrong I was. Let me preface this story with a couple statements. You see, as this was my first time staying in a hostel, I was admittedly a little nervous, having heard all the typical horror stories. I had, however, been assured by many a friend that the experience was usually fine, and often very fun. And, in retrospect, it was . . . except for that first night. But on that first night, you see, I was right about to fall asleep when . . .
the door opens. One of my roommates ( I had nine of them, eight of which I had yet to meet. The ninth was Alia.) stumbles in, drunk from a presumably heavy night of drinking. This didn't bother me at all, and I started to fall back asleep. Moments later, I am jarred awake again by a loud noise, which I at first thought was someone coughing. As the fog of sleep fades away, I become acutely aware that it is not the sound of coughing, but rather the sound of vomiting. Loud vomiting. It appears that the drunk guy managed to avoid all of the bathrooms in the building, make it into his top bunk on the fourth floor, only then to begin throwing up over the side. The only thing worse than someone vomiting in the room you're trying to sleep in is when they do it from six feet above the ground. I'm just glad I was safely out of "The Shamu Splash Zone." Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do. It seems like he's already mostly done, so it's too late to tell him to go to the bathroom. I can only hope that he cleans it up. This seems to be a pipe dream. I now have to simultaneously use my blanket to cover my eyes for the light, my ears for the noise, and my nose because it smells like vomit and shamelessness in the dorm room. Trying to do this with my heavy, thick hostel-issue blanket makes me fear that I am going to suffocate myself.
I'm not the only one in the dorm, as there are probably four other girls who, like me, definitely weren't sleeping. Once he was done, we uniformly try to forget it happened. His friend comes in, realizes the situation and tries to comfort his friend. He whispers creepily in German ? Portuguese? some sort of Slavic language? to his friend. I was vaguely offended. I should have been the one being comforted in creepy foreign languages, not the inconsiderate vomiting slob. I at least thought this guy should help run the clean-up crew.
6 AM
The dynamic duo of night ruining strikes again, as vomit man goes into his second round of heaves. Meanwhile, creepy whisperer does what he does best, by whispering creepily instead of taking his buddy to the bathroom or finding something to direct his vomit into. Further sidekicks, a couple of girls that inexplicably associate themselves with these two buffoons stop by to laugh at my plight. If I wasn't sleeping easy earlier, I could forget all about it now.
To illustrate how difficult it was to sleep, one of the other people in the room arrived home at 6:30, in much better shape than the earlier person. He sniffed the air, took one look at the vomit on the floor, carefully removed his hat and valuables, and took his mattress off of his bed. He then proceeded to take said mattress out to the balcony, where it was bright and loud and both cold and hot, depending on the wind and the sun, and slept out there. Mind you, the balcony was four stories up and about two thirds the size of the mattress, but that was apparently a better option than the room I was in. Anyways, the guy went through his third, loudest, most blood-curling heave set, and when I finally gave up sleeping, I fell asleep at 7 am.
Saturday, 9 AM
Which would have been a regular Barcelona time to go to sleep, had we not had to go spend much time sightseeing. You see, in Spain, they have a different way of doing things. They like to be fashionably late to everything they do. For example, they eat dinner at 10, go out at 1 am, stay out til 5 am, wake up at eight, and make up for this by taking a siesta during lunch.
SO our plan of getting two hours of sleep, and spending the whole day sightseeing didn't seem so viable. But damned if we weren't going to try.
Saturday, 10-11 AM
Our first stop in Barcelona was the Sagrada Familia, the famous unfinished cathedral of architectural visionary, and patron artist of the city, Antoni Gaudi. Gaudi designed many buildings for Barcelona, and was known for his surrealist style and his designs influenced by the fluidity and organic growth of nature. The Sagrada Familia, which has been in construction for over 100 years, represents this style well. A massive structure, it looks as if it is a wonderful fungus, sprung from the ground. It's intricate stylings are leafy and the whole thing looks like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
Saturday, 12 PM
When stopping into a little bar/bocadilleria for lunch, we met a group of American tourists from Chicago. They seemed to be on their third or fourth round of the day, and not shy or quiet about their drunken intentions. This was indicative of the general population of Americans in Barcelona. They all come here to party. Except, of course, for the one middle aged midwestern woman we heard on our way to Park Guell after lunch: "There ya go Babs. Ice Cream!" I swear to God it was so American/midwestern/Fargo-esque, I almost died laughing.
Saturday, 1 PM
Speaking of Alice in Wonderland (2 paragraphs earlier), Park Guell is another of Gaudi's greatest hits. A large, strange, beautiful amalgamation of fairytale houses, caves, lizard sculptures, columns, and colors, Park Guell is a fantastic place for people of all ages and also for a great view of the city. I would imagine it would make a hell of a nutmeg trip . . .
Saturday, 2 PM
Exhaustion sets in. SIESTA!!!!
Saturday, 3-5 PM
After a short nap to refresh, we all remember that Barcelona has a beach. It's been in the high sixties . . . not warm enough to swim, but plenty warm enough to grab some cervezas and enjoy the sunshine. This is one perk of Barcelona that Paris certainly can't keep up with
Saturday, 8-9 PM
One of the dishes of Spain is Paella, and that was evident walking the streets of Barcelona, where every restaurant had a deal pairing the rice, spice, and seafood meal with tapas and sangria. We found a good restaurant tucked away by the harbor and sat down to one of the best meals of my life. (Shout out to DSJ's paella, which was one of the few that topped it.)
Saturday, 10 PM - Sunday, 12 PM
We were absolutely exhausted by then, but managed to head out to a bar along las ramblas for a few drinks and some live music. When I crapped out around 12:30, I was thoroughly embarrassed for myself amongst the hard partying Barcelonans.
Sunday, 1:00 AM
When I went to sleep, a bunch of people in the hostel were pregaming. I am a loser.
Sunday, 2 - 11 AM
Going to sleep early = best decision ever.
Sunday, 12-5 PM
After an Irish breakfast at a nearby pub, we headed to Park Montjuic, on a mountain overlooking the city, for the day. After a subway ride, a funicular ride, and a cable car ride, we arrived at the hilltop castle, stunned by the views of sea, land, and metropolis. Barcelona spanned farther than I had ever imagined, and is truly an enormous city. The mountaintops surrounding it were dotted with towers and castles, and the sea was a beautiful blue.
It was here, on top of this castle, that I had one of the best sitdowns of my life. A good sitdown is underrated, and in many ways trumps a nap. With the views surrounding me, the sun beating down, and the wind whipping at my hair, I was in pure bliss. I sat on the wall of that castle for what felt like an hour, and might actually have been an hour. Then we all took the skyride back down to amble the beautifully landscaped roads of Montjuic, seeing the National Catalunyan Art Museum, the Olympic Stadium, and many other beautiful buildings.
Monday, 12-3 am
We headed to a bar, determined to make this a proper Spanish night. After drinking some sangria and beer and meeting astonishingly nice Swedes, we went back to the bar to meet some people from the dorm before heading out to the club at 1:45. Just like I always predict about going to clubs that late after starting to drink early, we lasted hardly fifteen minutes. We stumbled back to the hostel, and by 3, we were in bed and in awe of the Spanish lifestyle. This was probably a good idea because we had to wake up at 9 to get the bus to the plane to the bus back to Paris.
All in all, the Barcelona experience was amazing. Despite the fact that we never made it past 3 AM, we still got a piece of the nightlife, and we saw a beautiful city in beautiful weather. But now I'm back in Paris for a week or so, and it's supposed to be 75 this weekend. SO PARTY ON.
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