Barcaaaaaa

To start, a comparison between the French and the Spaniards:

One thing about the French, they sure know how to put on a good strike. Our initial flight out of Paris to Barcelona was cancelled (along with a few others...probably for the best considering the travelers...Chip and Tommy???) because of an air traffic controller strike. Really? Anyhow, difference numero uno. Something tells me the Spanish air traffic controllers wouldn't get their panties in such a wad. On a more general note, most of the things you hear about the Parisian persona are true. French is way different there, and although it was nice to actually be able to understand the language, speaking back was a bit of a lost cause, they wanted nothing to do with my mediocrity. Spain on the other hand, was extremely welcoming of my knowledge of Spanish that somehow never managed to make it past the colors and days of the week. Everyone just seemed more welcoming, and there were times where there was so much English, I almost forgot I was in another country (until I looked around...). I'll leave the decision as to whether this is a good or bad thing open. (it also wasn't bad to have 2 fluent Spanish speakers with us). Also, they don't natively speak Spanish in Barcelona (although everyone pretty much understands and can speak it, they just choose not to...too proud in Catalunya-got that from the Parisians maybe?), Catalan ended up being much easier than Spanish to understand. Par exemple: the phrase for 'please' in Spanish: por favor. French: s'il vous plait. Catalan: si us plau. Plus similaire a francais.

We got to our hostel (excellent location, even more excellent room mates, more to come...) right on la Paseig del Gracia, the Champs Elysees of Barcelona, threw our bags down, and made a bee-line for tapas and sangria. Although the place we found was probably a bit touristy, for tapas and paella at 12 euro person, the price was right. And after, we could continue on to Las Ramblas, the promenade with street vendors selling everything from scarves and postcards to rabbits and birds by day, drugs and sex by night (Barcelona is really a very bizarre place) with pickpockets a-plenty at any hour-I've never kept my bag so close to me (incidences-but to no avail-from the weekend: 50 euro out of my hand, wallet from Tommy's pocket, camera from Steve's hand, a really terrifying place). That night, we met up at a bar we were convinced didn't exist with a friend of someone in our group who is studying in Barca and got (not really intentionally...) even more tapas. The Spanish have a fascinating and wonderful eating pattern: everything is closed from 2-4 pm for lunch and siesta, tapas around 7-7:30, and finally, dinner at 10 or 11 and out at 1 or 2 until the wee hours (me and my 80 year-old self wasn't so keen on that part, but when in Barca...).

Friday, we took the advice of a friend and did a bike tour. Usually something like this would be the LAST thing on my to-do list, but it happened to be a most excellent investment of my 19 euros. We saw literally everything, from cathedrals, parks, and architecture, to the big things like la Sagrada Famillia, Casa Museu (Gaudi was a brilliant man), and Olympic Village and en route, tiny alleys that buses couldn't fit through and we never would have found on foot. Oh, and then of course, there's the beach. Not to mention, it was 65 degrees and sunny. The afternoon consisted of lunch from La Boqueria, the most amazing huge market with every type of fresh food, candy, produce, cheese, meat, basically anything edible you could imagine, under one open-air roof, finished with the famous 1 euro fruit juices (an epic competition between at least 5 different fruit stands). The night ended in more tapas, a bar with a shot that involved lighting the counter on fire and roasting a marshmallow, and an epic euro club that was all too reminiscent of the J-Lo 'Waiting for Tonight" music video with the green lasers.

Saturday was a more leisurely day with shopping, strolling, and making our way up to Gaudi's Parc Guell, another magnificent feat architectural oddity. That morning, we waited in line for about half an hour to buy tickets to the Barcelona-Malaga soccer game that night, and the late afternoon was consumed by a hunt for cheap jerseys. Success. We showed up to the largest futbol stadium in Europe (100,000 people) decked out in our gear and fitting right in. The game was absolutely unreal. 1. People don't cheer. During plays, the stadium is nearly silent with concentration. 2. When people do cheer, it's more of a whistle and clap deal-no yelling like in the US. 3. They sing. Before, After, During. And every word is audible, crystal clear. Everyone should absolutely go to a European soccer game if they get the chance, there's just nothing like it in America. That evening, after churros and chocolate (coffee cups full of melted semi-sweet chocolate for dipping-quite different from the super rich Swiss chocolate I've become so accustomed to) at 2 am (because everything is open always, save for the siesta), we got back to the hostel for bed eventually but were abruptly awoken by our 6 drunk Italian room mates-all male-at 6:49 am. Just getting back from the night. They spoke basically no english but were unaware of the fact that one of our group members spoke Italian. Let's just say the stigma about 'sleazy Italian men' held true. Not to generalize...

I returned home on Sunday afternoon on a plane that was delayed STILL because of the strike after buying 65 euros worth of cigarettes for my host dad in the duty-free store. Trust me, I looked like an idiot...never bought cigarettes+language barrier+MASSIVE duty free store=big fail. But I managed to pull through and please host papa greatly. Alas, we made it home AND managed to miss the apparently epic storm that hit the rest of western Europe while we were away. I'm convinced the world is slowly (or not so slowly) ending.

And on a completely unrelated note: Igor and I are in a fight right now. He picked a new spot to sleep last night (in the foyer, weird), and when I ventured upstairs to make some tea in the pitch black darkness, I nearly stepped on him but instead just tripped over him. Potentially disastrous.