Barcelona

The elderly man sitting across from me began to snore as his feet twitched in the second plastic chair his body occupied. A family walked down our row, glared at the man taking up both seats and then moved on, ushering their yawning children away. One man sleeping on what during the day would be used as a coffee table began kicking in his sleep like a dog does when they dream of chasing rabbits. His worn sneakers kicked the backside of the woman’s calf sitting next to him causing her to jolt awake from the poor excuse of sleep she had been in. I looked to my left where the time was displayed in green flashing numbers: 2:33 am. I had another hour and a half before the first bus would arrive at the train station to take us to the airport. My friend next to me watched a movie on the small screen of her ipod as another wrapped herself like a mummy to try to block out the fluorescent lighting and chill of the waiting room. 

4:00am found us on heated, cushioned buses heading to the airport where we would still have to wait for over an hour for our flight. The sun rose as we sat in the windowed airport, and with the warmth on my face I was finally able to sleep slumped over my backpack careful to not bruise the bananas I had packed for breakfast.

Touchdown seemed like only minutes later.

The fiery Spanish sun greeted us at the crowded terminal gate. After checking into our hostel we were told by the staff the beach was a leisurely five minute walk away. Wasting no time, we made our way to the boardwalk in anticipation of a nap on the warm sand. When we got to the beach a long chain-link fence rose up in front of us, isolating the beach beyond our reach. Monstrous tractors combed the beach with their claws digging a trench along the shoreline. Disappointment fueled our exhaustion and we laid down on some wooden benches in defeat. The loud roar of the yellow monsters wouldn’t allow us to nap and so we made our way back.
After a disappointing meal we began exploring the city. After about an hour of walking in an unknown direction, we stumbled upon what we had dreamed of before: the beach. The sidewalks were full of people on bikes and rollerblades while the water was full of squealing girls running from the frigid water, and daring windsurfers attempting to master the elements. We ran with glee to the water’s edge and soaked our thirsty feet in the icy waves. We could have sat there forever watching the men, with what looked like snowboards strapped to their feet, be lifted high above the ocean by the wind in their chutes.

 Such a comfortable concrete chair!

With sand and bits of white seashells stuck to our heels we explored the main shopping strip of Barcelona, steering clear of the men selling cheap goods, calling into the crowds with “Donald duck” voices. Along La Rambla, there were many human displays, not unlike the ones I have seen before both in Rome and in Venice. Some of the costumes were a bit frightening.

 Apparently drinking from this fountain you are granted one wish.

 I was parched--the more you drink the more wishes you get, right?!

 Being my mother's daughter, I was incredibly happy when I saw a Starbuck's sign from across the street. I had to order a chai--best chai I've had in a good while!

We ate in a restaurant we found at the top of La Rambla. The menu offered tappas and paellas, the traditional Spanish dishes. I was not feeling very daring and decided on a vegetable pasta dish instead which was very good. The rest of the group was not satisfied with their meals and thus Saturday it became our mission to find “good” Spanish cuisine.

The metro closed down on Friday at 2 am and we made it back to our hostel just before they were supposedly closing down. After some much needed sleep, we began Saturday early and headed to the Gaudi designed house:

This house was absolutely amazing! We had stopped the night before briefly to look at it, but the night’s sky does not do it justice.

After the house we went to the huge Cathedral. There were so many tourists swarming around the base of this cathedral. It was fascinating walking the church’s perimeter because every angle on it is different. You can literally see the different period’s influences on its structural design.

 Mercat de les Encantes was a difficult market to find. The sun was beating down on us when we finally found it tucked behind some large buildings. The market was a labyrinth of junk.There were some worthwhile items to be found amongst the wares, but the sun made it impossible to stroll leisurely.

Park Guell was possibly my favorite destination (besides the beach) that we had the opportunity to see. The mosaics were so beautiful! And the view of the city stretching out below us like a warm piece of taffy in the sun made my mouth water.

 This tunnel was apparently in an episode of "Top Model" in which it was used as a runway. The girls insisted we take a picture here.

 Natural Peace

We searched the city high and low for the bull fighting arena but were finally informed bull fighting no longer was hosted within Barcelona. Barcelona, in its attempts to become more modern, has forbidden the fights from taking place. I have to admit I was secretly pleased we would not be seeing this archaic practice because I was not prepared to watch a bull die cruelly in front of thousands of cheering audience members. Instead, we entered several restaurants advertising flamenco dancing. However, we quickly exited most of these restaurants upon hearing from the hostess the show’s prices, which did not include drinks or even a snack in their price. 

A woman on the street handed me a flyer, which normally I would not have taken expecting some provocative or political advertisement. On the front of the flyer was a beautiful woman dressed in a red dress with white polka dots splayed across the fabric. Thirty minutes for only 8 euro the flyer said in red lettering. I was suspicious. We approached the venue with suspicion, which dissipated when we saw the nicely dressed British tourists already waiting in line for the show.

The small, dark theater reminded me of the theater in Modesto where up and coming artists perform their poetry to an enraptured crowd. Sitting near the stage I criticized its small size and wondered how the dancers would have enough room. The house band began to play as I grabbed the edge of my seat in anticipation. The heavy, red curtains parted with a flourish as two female dancers took the stage in their high heels and form fitting, yet flowing dresses.

A battle of style ensued. The woman closest to me remained serious with the style of the past while the softer dancer wearing pink moved with passion and grace in the seductive style of modernity. As their feet began to move faster, the house band fell into the distance as the dancers’ tapping became louder and louder resuscitating the theater’s heart beat with every hard stomp delivered to the worn stage floor. 

Across from me in the audience--on the other side of the stage--sat a woman in her fifties staring up in wonder at the dancers. When the dancers began an elaborate clapping sequence the woman’s hands automatically lifted from her lap and began to follow along with the dancers. Of course, their performance was much too elaborate and the woman’s awe grew as her hands fluttered in front of her like struggling butterflies.

Thirty minutes went by much too quickly and the rhythm of the dances remained pulsing through my body as we walked back out to into a clear, Barcelona night. 

Having been enlivened by the passion of the flamenco dancers, I decided I was brave enough to drive the Spanish cuisine and ordered myself not only tappas (a plate of different kinds of appetizers) but paella as well. My only moment of fear came when prompted to eat the shrimps’ eyes. I just couldn’t do it.

 The sun had moved too quickly in her path across the sky and we were surprised by the twinkling of the stars when we finished dinner. We had to return to our hostel to check out and pick up our backpacks. Our flight was not until the morning, but we had decided staying another night in the hostel would not be worth the money. With our backpacks bumping annoyingly into the other metro commuters, we made our way back to the beach. Our backpacks once again performed their second duty as pillows as we stretched out on the still-warm sand and watched the tide come in. It was now one in the morning, and yet from the day’s sightseeing we were not tired, but rather energetic and alive with our new experiences. 

The minutes clicked by as the bottle of sangria passed from one hand to another. Nearby a couple embraced as the sand began to cool and our eyes began to droop. At two thirty, we scooped sand into the blue glass bottles we had bought at the open air market earlier that day after trying real, freshly greased churros. Putting the glass bottles in our pockets to remember the moment, we brushed the sand from the bottoms of our feet before placing them back into our smelly tennis shoes. Our time was over and it was time to say goodbye to Barcelona.