Barcelona

March 28, 2013 (continued)

I spent a lot of time reading through the handout that we’d gotten at check in. I’d read quite a bit on the Weekend Student Adventures website, and I’d corresponded a few times with both Andy (the travel agent) and Chris (the local guide) but I wasn’t 100% what I’d signed up for. My motivation to join a group trip had come from a Facebook conversation I’d had with our family friend Bill. When talking about travelling he told me, “Find someone who will go with you. They may not be the perfect traveling companion, but maybe you aren’t either. Compromise is the best plan here.”

Never really saw myself as being the “group trip” type of person, but it felt like a better plan than (a) travelling alone or (b) not travelling at all.

In reading through the itinerary, parts were detailed and parts were vague. Friday was dedicated to the “Historical Heart” of Barcelona and Saturday to the “Modernist Expansion.” It listed a few activities that weren’t included in the tour in case we wanted to see them. They included the Picasso Museum, Montjuic, and the Chocolate Museum. Several beaches were listed, as well as several bars, and a few night clubs.

Some of the facts about Barcelona were fascinating to me. I will reproduce a few of them for you here.

• “This city is famous for its nightlife. Stick with your friends because many nicer neighborhoods during the day turn rather seedy at night. You likely won’t experience any violent crime, but you could wake up on a park bench at 2pm the next day, sun burnt, wondering where your pants are and why there is a bum spooning you.”
• “You’re more likely to get pickpocketed here than anywhere else in Europe. ALWAYS have your wits about you and NEVER carry anything on your person—day or night—that you can’t afford to lose. AND our hostel has lockers available in each room for free.”
• “Catalunya is not Spain! Barcelona is Catalunya’s capital. This region has its own unique language, history, and distinct culture from that of Spain. Throughout history, this region has often been at odds with the government in Madrid—the [Catalan] flag and language have even been banned at times. Most recently, Catalunya was held for 40 years under the oppressive Fascist dictator rule of Francisco Franco which ended in the ‘70s. Evidence of his reign can be found in monuments through the city.”

After journaling and reading through the handouts, I decided to head out into the city. I still couldn’t believe I was in Spain and I wanted to take advantage of every minute of it.

I made sure all of my stuff was locked up, and rearranged a few things for ease of carrying. I left my passport, ipod, credit cards, remaining koruna, and keys to my Prague dorm in my locker. I stuck my wallet (loaded with euros) and keys into my passport keeper and stored it back under my pants. I used the WC quickly. It was small and cramped but clean.

Before leaving the hostel, I asked the guy at reception if he could explain the map to me again. He pulled out another copy of it and with the same green highlighter, went over all of the sites again.

“Where is the Picasso museum?” I asked, deciding that that was something worth checking out.

“Right here,” he said, highlighting it on the map. “You can take the metro at that end of the street and get off right by it.”

I thanked him and headed outside.

Just outside the hostel was a mob scene. I’d seen the signs for One Direction (a British boy band for those unfamiliar) when I crossed the street before, but the line outside the hostel, for what looked like a simple retail shop, ran down the block. There were security guards keeping teenaged girls and their parents under control and out of traffic.

I was briefly turned around, but when I got back to the obelisk, I realized I was going the wrong way. Circling back, I found the metro stop he had pointed out and went underground to catch the train. The round trip ticket was going to cost me 4 euros, which was exactly how many coins I had. I bought the ticket and snaked around to find platform L4.

The metro seriously was like a maze. The roofs were low and the hallways seemed to jut around in every different direction. There were performers with different instruments playing around every corner. There were violins, accordions, guitars. I was again struck by the fact that none of it sounded like the Hispanic music I was used to. It was very peaceful and almost a touch melancholy.

Checking my map, I saw that I needed the Juame station. I found the side of the platform going in that direction. The train came, and I got on. It was two stops away. When I got off, I went up an escalator that brought me to a courtyard of a café.

The smell was what hit me first. Not only did the food smell fantastic, but there were flowers everywhere. Trees were in bloom and potted plants decorated every corner. The fragrant smells of the red, orange, and yellow blooms filled the plaza. Combined with the glorious sunshine and the gentle ocean breeze, I felt like I was in paradise.

I went to check the map to find the museum, when I consciously thought to myself, oh screw it! I’d been freezing cold for the past two months. I wanted to be outside and enjoy the sun. So, I tucked the map into my pocket, and just started to walk.

At first, the main street wasn’t real exciting (unless you watched the traffic…then it was like a horror movie.) The side streets however were captivating. They were so narrow with exotic plants hanging from every balcony. The temptation finally became too much and I stepped off the beaten path and down a dark alley way.

The immediate thought that came to mind was, This may not be real smart Zachary. I didn’t actually know anyone for several hundred miles and I had idea how to help myself if I got into trouble. But these thoughts were fleeting. The city was just too amazing. I was lost, but I was so in love with everything that I saw, I couldn’t bring myself to feel nervous.

I saw a doorway in one of the old Roman-esque walls. It led to a stairway that had sunlight coming up from it. I decided to go down and see what it was. On the other side was an amazing courtyard filled with tropical plants and beautiful coy ponds. It was amazing.

Going back to the side street I’d started on, I wound through this old roman neighborhood, peaking in courtyards, and ducking into palaces. I didn’t go anywhere that required admission because I didn’t know what I had already paid for. If for any reason we didn’t come back here, I could come by during the free time on Saturday to go see it all again.

Not really paying attention, I took turn after turn and passed through courtyard after courtyard. More mysterious music echoed through the narrow streets as armature artists tried to lure in tourists. I soon found myself in the plaza outside the National Cathedral. Like so many of the other churches, the outside of the gothic building was beautiful. The spires, the gargoyles, and the architecture were just breath taking!

In the plaza, however, was another spectacle. There was a large market of some sort going on. I decided to wander around the booths and take a look. It turned out to be an antiques market. There were old cameras and fancy decorative spoons. Boxes filled with records lined one table while old hand bound books covered another.

The item that jumped out to me the most were the old rosaries. They were stunning in both their beauty and simplicity. Some of them were gilded in gold or decorated with tiny gems, but most seemed to be made of wooden beads. Some of the crucifixes were large and ornate, while others were simply molded medallions.  

There were people just lounging about the courtyard. Groups young and old sunbathed on the steps of the cathedral while tourists posed every which way for photos. I started to speculate about some of the history that may have occurred in these buildings but figured I’d learn more over the weekend. For now, I just meandered around taking in the sunlight, the tropical breeze, and the exotic smells.

My stomach eventually started to groan. I hear you, I thought. It was getting to be midafternoon so I figured I should consider making my way back towards the hostel and figure out what else I was going to do today. Our tour didn’t formally start till tomorrow, so I was on my own for a while still.

I was surprised at how well I remembered the route I had weaved coming into town. I quickly found my way back to the courtyard by the metro. Realizing that this area provided seating for not just one, but three different restaurants, I decided to give one of them a try. The menus were all pre-set on the tables, so I picked a few up to check the prices before sitting down. Once I found one that I thought was affordable, I took a seat.

I was seated for quite a while before anyone came to take my order. I kept my camera in its case and securely around my neck while I waited. I wasn’t paranoid, but I’d heard stories about tourists who lost bags at outdoor cafés.

Finally a woman who had been cleaning tables came to take my order.

“Orange soda,” I said, pointing to it on the menu. “How is it in Spanish? Naranja?” I asked, trying to recall my high school classes.

“Si!” she said with a smile. “Naranja! And something to eat?”

“The pork and pepper sandwich,” I said. “Jamon y pimiento?”

“Si!” she smiled. “Gracias.”

I felt pretty good. Czech was so hard to pronounce, it felt nice being able to try a foreign language that wasn’t such a tongue twister.

While I waited, pigeons gathered all around the courtyard. Kids would come through chasing them. I was again struck by the fact that I couldn’t identify which kids were locals and which were tourists. I feel racist or naïve admitting it, but I’d really expected the locals to look more like the “Hispanics” that I’m used to seeing back home.

At one point, a man came up to me and put a small sheet on my table. I looked at it and it appeared to be the Spanish alphabet in finger spelling. Most of the letters were the same as ASL, with just a few differences for the letters we don’t have in English. He made his way around to several tables distributing the sheets. Eventually he came back to me and waited.

I looked at him and smiled. He took the sheet from me and flipped it over. There were paragraphs in several languages, and he pointed to the one in English. Basically, it claimed he represented the Catalonian Deaf Society and that they were doing a fundraiser.

I smiled at him and nodded. He began finger spelling and then held out his hands.

“Oh!” I said, realizing his true request. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.”

He looked at me blankly.

“Lo siento,” I said. “No tengo effectivo.” (I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash.)

Again, he looked at me.

I suddenly realized the foolishness of what I had just said. He didn’t speak English or Spanish. He was deaf!

I shook my head, and tried to give him a sympathetic face. He nodded and took the sheet from me. Then he signed “thank you” and went to the next table.

My food came shortly after that. The glass bottle of orange soda was labeled as a “spirit” and while I recognized the brand from the US, I’ve never seen them make orange soda before. It came with a glass with slices of orange it in. I poured half a glass (as is tradition in Prague) and sipped it. It tasted fantastic. This was definitely the best brand I’d had.

The sandwich (“bocadillo” in Spanish) was also very good. It had slices of cooked pork tenderloin and juicy red peppers. It wasn’t spicy at all but rather very, very sweet and tender. The entire thing was very long and narrow. The bread was probably only two or three inches wide and it might have been nine or ten inches long. It was very good and mostly filling.

I was actually required to pay when she brought my food. I did, and tipping 20% probably gave her more than she was used to. After I finished eating, I decided to head back towards the hostel. The metro station was very empty and the deserted platform felt a little uncanny. When I got on the train though, it was very crowded. I kept a hand on my camera and kept close watch on the crowd around me.

Quite honestly, I felt like a real pro. I’d been on the ground in Barcelona for about six hours and I’d already navigated across town to the hostel and now I was out exploring the city on my own. The metro wasn’t confusing at all, and I could figure out where I wanted to go around town without asking directions.

As the train rode along, I recognized the stop name as one of the cross streets for my hostel. I decided to get off and walk back that way. As soon as I got off, I realized that even though it was a cross street, the stop might not be at the intersection. What if I just got myself completely lost?

Sure enough, I had.

Coming up the escalator and out of the station, nothing looked familiar. I laughed! My metro ticket wasn’t good anymore and I didn’t have enough coins for another. Not wanting to spend more paper money for now, I decided to walk back.

Checking my map, I located the intersection I was at. The sun was still pretty direct overhead so I couldn’t tell which way was West or East. I just started walking in one direction. At the next intersection I checked the cross street with the map. Success! I was going the right way!

Back at the hostel, I journaled some more, making notes about what I had done and seen in town. I was really sweaty, but I didn’t have a towel or any soap with me. The prep email had told us that we could rent towels for 2 euros and I decided that was easier than cramming my big beach towel into my backpack.

I went to the reception and asked for one. The guy who had been working before had left and the new reception guy had long brown dreadlocks pulled up in a bandana.

“Can I keep this towel the whole time?” I asked.

“You have to,” he said. “Another one is two more euros.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Where could I go to buy shampoo?”

“Across the street, you will see a supermarket. It is tiny, but they will have it.

I thanked him again, stored my towel, and headed over to buy soap. He was right on all accounts. The supermarket was right across the street, it was tiny, and they did have soap. The store was one long narrow aisle. There was no door (just a pull down gate for night time) and the cash register practically sat outside. A father and son were working, and they spoke busily in Spanish while I looked around.

I found a little travel size of Nivea body wash and decided to buy it so that I could hopefully take it on further excursions. Even if I used it up, I could refill it from my larger bottle of body wash back in Prague.

At the counter, I asked them “Do you have razors too?”

They looked at me a bit funny. “Razors?” I said, making a shaving motion across my face.

“Ah si!” the father said, turning around. There were a few brands on display behind him.

“How much?” I asked.

“Thirteen euro,” he said. “But you get all of them.”

I grimaced a little. The package had five disposable razors in it. They looked to be pretty quality, but I really didn’t want to spend that much.

“Do you have any cheaper brands?” I asked. “I only need three of them.”

He turned around and picked up another package. It also had five razors in it. “This one is three euro, but I don’t recommend it.”

I’m sure you don’t, I thought. The brand was Bic which I recognized from home. I’d used their cheap travel razors before and while they weren’t great, they’d work.  “I’ll take those and this,” I said. The whole purchase was five euros.

Back at the hostel I decided I was ready for a true cultural experience. Stowing my things, and shutting the door, I laid down for a traditional, Spanish siesta.