The weekend started (as had the previous one) spending a Thursday night in Terminal 4 of Madrid's Barajas Airport. Once again, I was lucky to get about two hours of sleep, but I didn't care; I was going to be spending Carnaval, Europe's biggest party, in Barcelona, a city famous for its nightlife. What could go wrong? Oh how little I knew...
When we finally got there, we realized that the glorious weather we'd heard about...wasn't. We soon found out that we'd chosen literally the coldest weekend Barcelona had had in years to travel there. Yay us. Still, we did what we always do as soon as we get somewhere...we found our hostel. My body told me to nap, but 1) we couldn't get into our rather small room just yet and 2) my friend Paul said something about going to find his uncle who was living here, so I decided I'd tag along with him instead. Man, am I glad I did. Turns out Paul's Uncle Joe is The Man...literally. He moved to Barcelona from Philly a few years back so his daughter, Paul's cousin, could go to an international high school there. He now alternates between being a kick-ass dentist in the States and livin the dream on one of the more recognized plazas in Barcelona. Not a bad life, eh?
Probably the best thing Tío José, as we soon began calling him, offered us was a knowledge of the who's who and the what's what of Barcelona. The first thing he did was tell us about a fantastic four-hour bike tour that left from the plaza immediately outside his door. We caught the next round, which left about a half hour later, and had quite a great time with our guide, a monotonously hilarious South African named JJ. He took us to just about all the big time touristy spots in Barcelona. We saw the Plaza de Toros, the Cathedral of Barcelona, and, of course, the Sagrada Familia, a massive church designed by Gaudí that's been in the works for over 100 years. It was cool to think about how much work was going into it, and the fact that there were all these huge churches that had been built hundreds of years ago and now here was one being built as we watched. I dunno though...one side kinda looks like a little kid just kinda drizzled wet sand onto it, dontcha think?
After our fifteen-minute photo break at Sagrada Familia, we finally got to go to a beach, something we'd been joking about doing since we went to Lisbon a few weekends back. It was...about a nice as a beach can get in about 45-degree weather with wind whipping up in stiff gusts every couple of seconds. Still, we munched on some bocadillos and enjoyed what warmth could be had, then hopped on the bikes and rode home.
We said our goodbyes to JJ (it had been quite the four hours) and went back up to Uncle Joe's apartment for round two of his advice on where to go. He told us about what was supposed to be a pretty cool castle/fortress on top of a hill that overlooked most of the city. Having recently become a guy who likes his great views (and snapping obnoxious amounts of pictures of them) I was interested. He stressed to us that "sunlight is precious" and that if we wanted to see this next landmark we'd have to move. I found this kind of funny because, as he was walking us to the metro station to start our journey, he insisted we take two quick detours to see some cool things Barcelona had to offer. Definitely worth it, but just a tad ironic, I thought.
He first brought us to Placa de Sant Felip Neri (if that looks weird it's because it's in Catalán, an old language still spoken in Barcelona that's one of the many symbols of how much they dislike being associated with Spain). At first it seemed like a small plaza that was in a bit of disrepair, but Paul's uncle explained that the holes in the walls were from bullets from Franco's firing squads. Apparently, Franco wanted to squash any memory of the cultural heritage of Cataluñia, the region of northeastern Spain of which Barcelona is the capital. As the story goes, if you were caught speaking Catalán in the city of Barcelona, Franco's guards would take you to this plaza to be shot. Yeah...suddenly those holes in the wall became a lot more powerful. There's also a kind of beautiful irony in the fact that there's now an entrance to a pre-school in that very same plaza. Hats off to Barca on that one.
We snapped a few pictures and then took another quick ten minute stop, this time in a sweet covered outdoor market. The whole thing was really cool and authentic-feeling and Uncle Joe, continuing his campaign for greatest host ever, bought us some really good fruit smoothies. He Finally, though, we had to catch the metro...sunlight was fading and we had a castle to see.
We got off the metro and found out, much to our dismay, that the badass gondola ride up to the top of the hill was closed for repairs, so we would have to take a bus up instead. Lame, huh? Even lamer, the bus didn't even take us all the way to the top (or so we thought as we were told to get off at one point while other people stayed on). We were accosted by a cab driver offering to drive us up the hill, and after deciding to walk we debated not going at all (we were all INCREDIBLY tired at this point) but after much wailing and grinding of teeth we trudged slowly up the hill. Our spirits were lifted by a fantastically random discovery...two huge metal slides just off the road up the hill. Naturally, we took a ten minute stop-off and had our first-grade fun. Reenergized, we finally made it to the top of the hill and found the castle. To be honest, the views were cool, but I'm not totally sure this was better than the nap we could've been taking at the hostel. Oh well, live and learn, I suppose.
Completely worn out, we finally got back to our hostel and rested up a bit, then headed back to Uncle Joe's. He'd promised to take us on what he called a "pub crawl of the best dive bars in Barcelona." He hadn't steered us wrong yet, so we were all pretty excited to go. We first stopped at his apartment where he'd set out for us a great sampling of cheeses and jamón ibérico (they do ham different here...it's kind of a delicacy) as well as a few glasses of cava, the Spanish version of champagne. It was, I'll admit, quite a step up from the André I'm used to, to say the least. Finally full-ish, we were ready to start the pub crawl.
First we went to a place that was apparently known for its mojitos. I'm not sure what made it so good, but Paul's uncle told us it was because Carlos, the bartender, added quite a bit of love into the process. Whatever was in it, it was great. Once we'd sipped those down, it was on to the next spot, involving one of the sketchiest journeys to a bar I've ever been on. We literally walked up to a shady building in the corner of a huge plaza and rang up (like in an apartment complex) to this bar. We waited, and waited, and finally were buzzed in. As we walked up the creepy old staircase I'm sure we were all wondering where in the hell Uncle Joe was taking us. We finally arrived at the door to a place called Pipa Club.
As soon as we walked in I was overcome with an urge to take pictures. This place was basically a converted apartment, with a bar in one room, a pool room in the back, walls lined with cases of tobacco pipes and old bottles, and my favorite part, a tiny room packed with people in front of a small make-shift stage. Providing the soundtrack for the evening was a trio of musicians; the first was a tall lanky guy standing with a content intensity as his fingers walked up and down the neck of his upright bass, the second was a dude probably on some kind of drug just rockin out on his guitar, and third was the star, a rather small woman who looked vaguely like Selma Hayek (though that could've been the mojito talking) and whose voice was as smooth as...well, it was smooth. After watching for a moment or two (and, of course, snapping a ton of pictures) we snuck back and enjoyed a nice game of pool. Having been assigned photographer for the evening, I was going on something of a photo frenzy and loving it. Sadly, though, we eventually had to leave this place too.
The coup d'grace of Uncle Joe's dive-bar crawl was an old, run down place right near our hostel called Bar Marsella. Allegedly, while he spent his famous period in Spain, Hemingway used to spend his nights here in the corner, combining several mind-numbing drugs and writing away. That's what Uncle Joe told us, anyway. Whether it was true or not, I'm stickin' to it. G'head, prove me wrong.
Whoa, sorry for flyin off the handle like that. Back to the story. This place was incredibly important for us because we would finally get to try that elusive European delicacy known as Absinthe. For all the build-up (thanks, Eurotrip) it wasn't hallucinogenic in the least, but it was probably one of the cooler drinks to prepare for. First, you dip a sugar cube in the Absinthe, then scoop it out and lay it on a small fork over the glass. You then light the sugar cube on fire (yeah...it's potent stuff) and let it drip into the glass. It's also recommended you water the stuff down a bit, and rest assured we did. I didn't want any green fairies popping up over my shoulder. The best way to describe the flavor is to say it's like a tangy black licorice. I usually don't like black licorice, but I figured it was part of the European experience, so what the hell, right?
Then came the surprise of the evening. We were all sitting in the corner of the bar, generally enjoying the smokey, loud atmosphere and yelling to be heard over the clanging of glasses and chatter of the other patrons, when out of the corner of my eye I see the flash of blonde hair and a gap tooth I know all too well. Yes, friends, Kyle Nieman himself had entered the bar. I'd heard from Michael that he was in Barcelona too with some kids from the London program, but I figured it would be a one-in-a-million shot if we ran into each other as there was no chance I was gonna drop however many Euros it costs to call a London phone. But sure enough, he walked in and the three Glee Clubbers were immediately united. After about ten minutes of quick catch up, hugs, and mutual complaining about the glaring hole the lack of singing had left in our lives abroad, Niems did his duty and tried the forbidden drink and we headed off to the final bar of the evening. I felt bad for Paul's uncle at this point...he hadn't signed up to drag 25 ND kids around. Still, he was in good spirits.
We finally arrived at our last stop, a classic dive bar where Michael, Kyle, and I just basically sat around and shot the breeze. Unfortunately, most of the people in my traveling group aren't fans of when Michael and I sing. I say unfortunately for their sakes, because the three of us were together and damn it, we were singing. I'm not sure how it sounded to everyone else in the bar, but to me it was the best rendition of "Tonight" I've ever heard. Good times.
Michael and I left the bar after about an hour and a half and had an experience I never really believed would happen while I was in Europe. It started with a guy asking us in Spanish if we had any cigarettes. We told him no and kept walking, but he ran to catch up with us and asked me if I liked dancing. I was confused, and at that point he hooked his left leg around my right and shoved his hand into my front pocket, obviously trying to pickpocket me (he had a buddy trying the same thing on Michael at the same time). Luckily I realized what was going on and yanked his hand rather forcefully out of my pocket and shoved him away, yelling at him in Spanish to get the...well, to leave. A little shaken but proud that I'd handled myself, we walked rather warily the rest of the way back to our hostel.
As was the custom, a few of the more dedicated travelers got up to see some sites around 9:30 the following morning, while I, using the excuse of mental exhaustion from the pickpocket attempt, slept until 12:30. Yeah, I'm lazy and proud of it. My fellow late risers and I headed out in search of food and found, after some price comparison, a fairly decent place that served paella and a drink for 8 Euro. Full and relatively back to normal, we met up with the rest of the group and we decided that now, on the eve of what we thought was going to be an epic Carnaval celebration, we should probably think about getting costumes. We found two costume shops, and after some thought and experimentation, I decided to drop a few Euros on an odd assortment: a plastic fireman's hat, an adhesive mustache, a pair of sunglasses, and a red feather boa. Yeah...I was kind of going for a Village People thing, I guess. Anyway, my friend Connor found a nun costume (he planned on making it a pregnant nun costume...a popular choice for Carnaval) and the other guys got some wigs and decided they'd just be women. While they went to find some dresses, I went back to the hostel to rest up and eat something.
Slowly but surely over the next few hours, we all got back, ate, showered (quickly, as this hostel seemed to ignore the idea of warm water being good for business), and got into our costumes. The girls had decided to go in flashy togas (very classy, I assure you), and Michael, the only guy who had a costume before we left Toledo, went as a female police officer. Oh yeah, we were quite the crew. At one point Kyle showed up and we just sat around for a bit before heading out into what was a maaaaajor disappointment. We decided to start the night at the same bar we'd finished at Friday, and we were sad to find that practically no one was dressed up. Clearly all the fun people had gone to Cadiz (the capital of Spanish Carnaval) instead. Way to go us.
After about two hours in the bar, things took a turn. I realized around 1:30 that, while I 1) was in a bar and 2) had had a drink or two, two things that should have kept me quite toasty, I was shivering uncontrollably. I took this as something of a bad sign and immediately left the bar and booked it to the hostel, where I spent the next ten hours shivering in my bed despite wearing my jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie, and my jacket and being under a fleece blanket. Yeah...not fun.
And neither was waking up the next day, which involved about nine hours of travel between leaving the hostel at 11 and getting back to my house in Toledo at 8. Yeah, that combination of bus to the airport, sleeping at the gate for three hours, an hour-long flight, an hour on the metro, and 45 minutes on the bus home were by far the worst I've had as I spent them alternating between shivering from what I'm guessing was a 102-degree fever and trying to sleep.
When I finally stumbled into my house in Toledo, I immediately passed out on my bed and woke up once or twice during the night, but essentially slept for 14 hours until 10 the next morning, at which point I woke up and told my host mom that I would not be going to school that day. As a policy, when that call comes in from a host family the school has to call a doctor, so I got my first ever house call (I'd have been excited if not for how I felt). From what I could understand, he prescribed some fever reducers and told me to stick to liquids until dinner that night, when I would be allowed basically rice and potatoes. Appetizing, no?
I spent the next two days basically in bed, not eating much and bouncing between feeling like crap and feeling okay. I watched a lot of Entourage and talked to some people from home, but all in all it was more boring than anything else. On the plus side, I got to miss handing in two papers due on Tuesday, so I s'pose that was nice. I finally did return to classes Wednesday and Thursday, and by Friday I was (luckily) feeling good enough to head to Dublin.
This is where I'll leave you for now, as you've got plenty to read (and I'm too lazy to get to Dublin until another time). So, until next time, enjoy whatever it is that you're doing.
Ciao,
Griff
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