Bar Celona

Finally, Barcelona. By this time we had walked way too much and were pretty sick and tired of seeing fantastically old things and taking hundreds of photos, so we concentrated onjust having fun. As we arrived at the main bus station from the airport Mart-Man was already there. He was the leader of a one-man recon team that we had sent to scope out the target area. And sure enough, he had obtained the specs of the local underground network (metro map) and a safehouse for regrouping (a couple of campus dorm rooms reserved for us). We dropped the Americans to their hostel smack in the middle of Barcelona centre, called ABBA, oddly enough. The reception-DUDE was sick, bored, high and/or drunk, and it was actually quite hilarious watching him struggle with stacks of papers, Spanish computer engineering (an oxymoron, btw), and his 8 remaining brain cells. Finally he managed to provide our comrades some kind of accomodations and we went to seek for some late dinner. Luckily there was a semi-decent restaurant that was still open at that time (late, as I recall), and we were able to get our hands on some local delicacies. Most of them were, as per usal, questionable to say the least, but isn't that exactly the point?...The jury's still out on that one. Either way, we had some baby squid, extremely spungy flan and sliced PIGS EARS! Remember my blog post on the Top 4 nastiest things? Right up there.

After this interesting meal and casual conversation in 3 different languages everyone was rather full, disgusted, tired and confused, so our attempt to still go out for a few drinks was like the losers hitting on Jennifer Lopez in the movie Out of Sight, D.O.A. The day's indisputable highlight was Mart-Man's story about his arrival at the campus lodgings. As you may know, the Spaniards are not exactly specialists in foreign languages, and neither is my man Martijn, so some difficulties were imminent. However, the part where I produced a Jerry Bruckheimer-style special effect explosion in bursting into laughter and spraying whatever was in my mouth at the time through most of the holes in my head (and maybe a little pee came out, who knows), was when Mart-Man went to the reception of our "hostel" to ask for directions. The reception guy whips out a map, mumbles something for a while and asks (I swear, I couldn't make this up if I tried): "Are you ex-military?" After staring at the gentleman on the other side of the counter with an incredulously blank expression on his face Mart-Man leans forward and articulates carefully, as Dane Cook has taught us, "WHAT?". The man leans in, too, and repeats his previous inquiry about whether or not my friend is an ex-military operator. Blank stare... Being a master adapter Mart-Man decides to play along, switches to his ex-military expression (cause we all have one, don't we), which in Mart-Man's case is a mixture of Dirty Harry and Harry Potter, and replies in a low voice: "Yes, I AM ex-military."The man's face lights up and he starts giving Mart-Man directions, lacking only a pair of binoculars (pronounced bainokjylaaas), and some artillery fire in the background.

I chuckled myself to sleep that night, having decided that not only is that question one of the Top 4 Random Questions that I've heard in recent years, but also one that I am definitely going to start using in awkward situations, in order to make them even more awkward.

Kataya had informed us very explicitly that she is not to be woken up under any circumstances, so the next morning Mart-Man and myself headed out as just the of us. (...building castles in the sky...) First stop: Monjuic (Moont Djuus, according to Mart-Man). That impressive hill/mountain is interesting for numerous reasons. Firstly, it offers a magnificient view of the city,

(Columbus can be seen pointing the way to the New World, standing on top of the tall column in the background), the sea and Mount Tibidabo.

Reader Quiz: In what TV-series is Mount Tibidabo mentioned in context with backpacking through Europe? Answers in Comments or Guest Book, por favor.

It also has the Olympic stadium of the 1992 olympics

a creepy but beautiful cemetary,

a statue of Dante Alighieri,

an old fortress with huge cannons,

and every type of cactus on the planet, which is my favorite useless detail about Barcelona.


We also went to check out one of the more impressive churches ever: La Sagrada Familia, which still isn't complete. And to think that it's only because its architect Gaudi, the poor bastard, got hit by a tram midway through the building, and no one wanted to help him because he looked like a homeless person. Well done there.

For the rest of our time in Barcelona we concentrated on the first syllable of the city, as the title of this post might imply. We found a very cozy little joint quite close to the beach, that was owned by two Dutch brothers from HOLLAND!! (ihsn't it veird?)


There I met also the next Random Dude, a phonomenon that had become an essential part of the trip.

Yan from Canada was an ex-music video director, an art major, a border-line alcoholic and a connoisseur of cinematography who was currently working on a cruise ship. We got into a remarkable and lenghty conversation about various twisted but brilliant movies, such as Irreversible and Lost Highway, to the point where the rest of the people were convinced that we were on an amazing first date and were about to start making out at any moment. To their disappointment we switched the topic to women and the public was denied any dude-on-dude action. As the evening developed we all wanted to go to a club to party like it would be 1992, and soon enough got directions to a chic night club. Unfortunately, and quite obviously, the bouncers laughed in my face when I approached them to negotiate our entrance. Apparently it would have required some serious cash, at least two models in skimpy dresses per guy, and an Armani suit. I went 0 for 3 and the rest of the guys didn't do much better, so it was time for a reality check. Yet somehow, only minutes later we scammed ourselves into a relatively classy night club whose name escapes me. This might have something to do with the fact that the music was abysmal, there was some dancing between some of our friends and I didn't want to disturb, hence I repeatedly found myself hanging by the bar, putting out the vibe. Of course by this point of the trip I was so far past my budget (exceeded it in London with the round of vodkas, if you remember..), that the only drink I could afford was, ironically, raw vodka. 'nuff said.

The following morning (read: afternoon) Mart-Man and I agreed that there was absolutely no chance that we would visit any museum that day, but instead went for some serious chicken in KFC, the pinnacle of traditional Catalonian cuisine. The evening came quickly, since we woke up muy tarde, and it was time to go out again. This time we got another recommendation and followed it. Lucky for me, I didn't have any small bills in my pocket upon entering this particular facility, because I would have no doubt gotten my scrawny behind kicked for harrassing the personnel. Let me clarify, they looked like this:

When the gentleman on the right sold me my third beer I almost apologized to him for my overwhelming physical inferiority, but managed to hoist the bottle to my lips before further embarassing myself. Don't get me wrong, it was a lot of fun, just very, VERY different. Like a strip club, but with dancing and with less money shoved in people's underwear.

Finally, as the place started to empty, I got a wonderful idea. Thinking about You, dear readers, I approached one of the waitresses to ask her for a photo-op. I know, I'm a genius. SOO, what happened was that she told me that it was not going to happen and that I should proceed to the exits, as the club was now closed. Ah. BUT, knowing that sometimes women mean YES, although the repeatedly say NO, I decided to offer her some money for the photo. Even better, right? SOO, one of the waiters/bouncers (no difference in size) came over and I tried to explain to him that I was not, in fact, a sexual predator or a creepy guy trying to buy illegal services. However, it turned out that the guy was this girl's boyfriend and was far from impressed by my polite offer. Naturally, if it weren't for my innate bullshitting skills, I probably would not be writing this post right now, at least not two-handed, but somehow I talked myself out of that seemingly bottomless hole. At the same time, as I was toying with death, my main-man Martijn saw it fit to, instead of coming to help me or drag me out of there, take a picture of me on the verge of getting the white smacked out of me:


Two more things about Barca: 1) People smoke copious amounts of weed. We went to sit in the sun on some giant concrete cubes that formed a tiny peninsula extending from the beach to the sea. As we sat on one of the cubes an older couple who spoke German sat down underneath us and started casually to roll a joint.

A bit odd, I thought. But after they had finished with their spliff I could still smell the sweet aroma and looked around.. Everyone else was blazing up a doobie as well:

The blonde on the right in the grey shirt held one in her hand, the guy in the red shirt is passing a bone to his buddy on the next rock and the two women in red and white shirts, respectively, were also rolling a jazz-cigarette together. Maybe it was the official place for "puff-puff-give" in Barcelona but no one had told us, so instead of "passing it to the left" (because the right is the wrong), we passed altogether.

2) The local cops don't really mind public nudity. I saw a guy walking down the crowded La Rambla, the biggest boulevard in Barcelona in the middle of the day, dressed only in his underwear. The problem was that the underwear wasn't actually fabric but ink. You heard me, he was sporting nothing but tattooed swimming trunks. And to complete the look he had decided to wear some jewelry, yes, there. So what happened was that large groups of people started following him towards the statue of Cristobal Colon at the end of the street. Obviously everyone wanted to see what the guy would do once he got to the end of the boulevard, myself included. Two police officers walked by and I thought: "YOU ARE SO BUSTED, PRINCE ALBERT-CREEP!!" Wrong. They walked by him without batting an eye, as if it was completely healthy for the numerous children walking with their parents to witness a geezer strutting his stuff with jewelry in all the wrong places. Not cool. Funny, but not cool..

A couple of hours later we were sittin in a plane on our way to Porto, from whence we then took a bus to return to Vigo, the city of seafood and crappy weather. I was tired, but happy. After 11 days, 4 coutries, 237 photos, 1085 euros, numerous drinks, a couple of hangovers, 3 new shirts, a pair of Italian shoes, a watch, a lost bracelet, a ripped jacket, a ruined shirt, minor emotional trauma (Prince Albert-guy), several Random Guys, and hours and hours of laughter I was back. Not bad, not at all bad, if I say so myself.

And there you have it, an epic 11-day journey explained painstakingly thoroughly. I hope you liked it. And even if you didn't, it's always nice to get feedback, so don't hesitate to drop me a line, or HOLLA BACK, if you happen to be into rhythmically accentuated poetry.

Next time, TOP 4 Sporting events in Vigo