Barcelona Day 1

Life carried on as it aught. I got to know more people at work, spent some entertaining evenings with them in the city, got to know the girls that I lived with, experience some over wrought drama’s in the house, finally had the windows in my room changed so that they would open and I could get some fresh air in there. The weather improved and Nigel was still in Australia sorting out everything to go on the three month Biblimun Track Walk. I would have preferred he come and see me in London, and – though being the supportive girlfriend over the phone – I decided to go on my own little adventure and arranged to head to Barcelona for a few days.

I researched, obtained some cheap flights, booked the Youth Hostel (never again) and wrote a very strict itinerary that would result in completely waring myself out, but at the same time would ensure that I had the full Barcelona experience, no holes bared.

He wasn’t the only one who could have an adventure, I thought to myself, and although it would be rather intimidating being in a different country all by myself and not speaking the language, I was always prepared and felt confident in my touring abilities.

I took a journal on my trip, so rather than retelling an already told story, I’ll write what was written while I was there:

Hola! I’m in Barcelona! Al on my lonesome – yay me! I feel a bit lonely, but the weather is bad and its been a very long day, so lets put the loneliness down to being over tired.

My day began at Laura’s – my manager, she let me stay at her house as she lives close to Victoria Station which is where I needed to catch my train to Gatwick. I couldn’t sleep and when I did I had constant and rather bizarre dreams. I was worried that I’d miss my plane or that they wouldn’t let me on or that… well, too many ‘what ifs’ really. This was my first lone adventure since I’d landed in England and I had no one to meet me on the other end. I always find getting to a place far more nerve racking than being in the place.

I was ready to go at 4am… I didn’t need to leave for another hour, but better early than never (my rendition of the quote!). I ordered a taxi and waited outside for 45 minutes… I kept trying to call the taxi company, but they wouldn’t answer the phone, so I decided to hot foot it with my baggage to the high street and hailed a cab from there.

‘Victoria Station, please’
‘You seem like you’re in a rush? You want the Gatwick Express side then?’
‘oh! Yes… exactly. I’m going to Barcelona’, I said,
‘oh aye’, said the taxi driver, ‘hen do?’
‘No’, I said almost proudly, ‘Just by myself, thought I’d check it out’,
‘Brave then’, he replied, ‘wont be a jiffy and I’ll have ya there’.

Finally I was on the Gatwick Express, I couldn’t relax and read, I was too anxious that I’d miss the booking in time. I was straight and alert, my inner Meer cat making itself known. Inside Gatwick by 5.40am, I dashed about in search of the appropriate cue and finally found the line for Easy Jet… behind what must have been another 100 or so people, all tugging their baggage and looking anxious – it seemed fear of not getting on the plane was a regular occurrences with this airline (you just have to watch the TV show to know why!).

It took til 6.15am before I got to the check-in. I was stamped, baggage weighed and told to go ‘there’, though I had no sense of where ‘there’ was, so I followed a couple that I’d been eavesdropping on into the departure lounge. There was no time to eat and I needed to get to the plane by 6.25am.

Ahh and the plane was delayed! I could have had something to eat. It was then that, looking around me, I realised that you could TAKE food on the plane with you! OH! If I had of known. There were people with Burger King and McDonalds and all sorts of savoury delights, even a packet of crisps would have done. Something to keep in mind for my next adventure I thought. I ended up buying an exorbitantly expensive bacon and egg baguette on the plane, as well as the most disgraceful cup of tea I’ve ever had.

So… we landed. Well, that was a plus. I still hate landings, more than taking off. I sit there, my fists clenched in my lap to the point that my knuckles turn bone-white, I shut my eyes, crinkling my face up and sit straight backed on the seat… prepared, I think, for the very worst. Completely illogical. If the plane crashes I’ll be blown to smithereens regardless of whether I’m sitting up straight or not. ‘Just make sure you have knickers on’, said Nigel, ‘the rest is up to the universe’, I suppose he thought he’d make me feel re-assured that I’d have some small control over such an event, it just made me laugh and did nothing for my take off – landing fears.

The flight only lasted 1.45hrs marvellous! I couldn’t have gotten from Perth to Busselton in that time! And here I was in a different country. I remember looking out the window, watching the ocean of clouds… its simply amazing… if only I had a sense that the plane was illogically floating on thin air and there was nothing between me and a very very very hard landing.

The weather wasn’t so nice as I’d expected it to be. I imagined a huge blue sky, 25 degrees with no humidity… infact it was so humid you could see the sheening mirages in the very air. It was sticky, like swimming while standing up, and hard to breath. The air felt thick and the sky was simply haze. Oh well, there was always tomorrow, and if not, the day after. First thing’s first… lets get into Barcelona and find out sleeping quarters.

I got to the train station and purchased a ticked – so far so good. It was a half hour wait before the next train came and I sat there fidgeting about thinking that I was on the wrong side of the track, that I’d end up in Madrid, or heaven forbid… a whole ‘nother country. I tried to look like a cool back-packer but am not sure how well I pulled that one off. When I’m nervous I pace, and so there I was, backpack on, pacing this way and that while others sat calmly smoking a cigarette, reading the paper or just staring at the mad girl pacing back and forth.

When I got into the heart of the city I jumped off and switched to the ‘Green Line’ Underground – thank heavens I’d been in London for some time and had gotten the hang of the underground system. The trains here were much cleaner and larger and there was a shining light that flickered above the station you were due to arrive in which made things a lot easier, you always knew where you were.

As much as I’m teased about it, thank heavens for my anal organisational skills! I jumped off at a station called ‘Par-lel’ and weaved my way through the unfamiliar streets, following my own typed out directions to ‘Mambo Tango’ where I would stay for the next few nights.

It was a lot smaller than I imagined, and also a lot more colourful. Very Spanish I suppose, they like their bright contrasting colours. It was down a rather dingy street and I couldn’t imagine myself ever living in the area. But, walking in to the hostel I was relieved to find it clean and surprisingly welcome. The sense of welcome didn’t last long. At this time I was still rather nervous a person and I think that hindrance showed. The Spanish owner of the hostel greeted me with some trepidation. He seemed short and sharp and straight to the point and I felt like he was doing me a favour, rather than my paying him for the use of a small bunk bed in a room with six other people I didn’t know! He spoke English well but certainly didn’t make me feel at home. I suppose if I had been more confident and less on the backfoot the initial experience would have been different, but I didn’t learn that til some time after.

I dropped my bag off and headed out. Regardless of already feeling exhausted, I didn’t want to waste the day time, my itinerary was calling me and I needed to get into some serious site seeing.

My first impressions of Barcelona were: loud, noisy, mad traffic in the wrong direction, grid-like architecture, humid, hot and hazy – not a great start. But at the same time there was the buzz that I was in a whole new country and five hours ago, I was in London, and months before that… Australia! So, there was still an appropriate buzz.

I consulted my map, my itinerary and checked my bag – I’d been warned about sticky fingered pick-pockets, all in order. According to my itinerary I was due up Montjuic by 10am… I was running late! So, I jumped on a train, jumped off and took the Funicular to the top of the hill that overlooked the city. I didn’t stop for long, but took a cable car to the top of the mountain. I snapped away happily thinking about how much Dad would hate this. I was swaying up in the air, watching the ground slip away from me. The cable car even turned a corner which I thought very ingenious of it!

Finally at the end of my ride I found myself before a castle about two city blocks in size. I cant say it was the most aesthetically pleasing castle, more of a fort, red bricked with what may once have been a moat around it which was now converted into a huge expanse of structured garden. There was a thick bridge across the gardens into the castle, however, 500 meters circumnavigating the castle was a wall that clipped the cliff which led down to the city of Barcelona and also the wharf. I recall reading that the king of the castle was so paranoid about invasion that he would fire the canons that were strategically placed along the fort at any ship entering the wharf area. The canons were… well, titanic. Great grey metal instruments that looked not the least bit intimidating, I imagined the sound of one firing and the shaking of glass inside the building. By all accounts the king was mental, just a little bit nuts.

I took a walk around the exterior of the fort, investigating the statues and taking a few films to memorax the moments – I thought my Dad would be interested in the military side of this place. I spent some time talking to one of the many stray cats that wandered the grounds (ah ha! So this is where Puss in Boots lived!). I sat at the café outside the castle and ordered a water using sign language (I was embarrassed my Spanish accent would sound more like a Jamaican one… every accent I do sounds like a Jamaican… I haven’t even met a Jamaican person so it makes no sense to me what so ever), it was a difficult situation as at first the waiter gave me a beer, which first of all it was 11am, definitely not beer time, and secondly, if I were to drink, it certainly wouldn’t be horrid beer! But, we got there in the end and the waiter thought it all very amusing – I suspect he knew I wasn’t a mute, but infact a tourist… what powers of deduction he must have! Sitting down, I allowed my new cat friend to rub its chin on my leg and called my sister (for an arm and a leg) on my mobile. She was so excited to hear from me, it felt like we were talking to one another from different dimensions, not just different continents. I’m glad I shared that moment with her, and took a photo of me talking on the phone, Tiffy and I in Barcelona together.

I headed into the red brick castle and wandered around taking in the military paraphernalia, the sculptures of horse heads, soldiers and guns. It wasn’t really much of a museum and I suspect most people come up here for the view rather than the historical value. There wasn’t a lot of information about the castle or its previous inhabitants so I didn’t spend too much time there before heading down the mountain.

It had started to rain, but I still wished I hadn’t of worn jeans, it was far too sticky, especially for the walk that I was undertaking. As I headed down the mountain, about half way down I came upon a beautiful park, rich with sculptures and very symmetrical in design. Off in the distance I could make out a rather ornamental castle-like structure and decided that was the direction I’d take, but first, I needed to spend some time in this garden. The design was so precise, wide white-gravelled walk ways flanked by thick green foliage, palm trees leaning over and man made pools with goddesses over looking the rippling water. I came to one long open passage way with white plastered rectangular beams every five steps – it was what I thought Greece would be like. This stunning white against the green parkland and a pot below each beam. I descended some steps close by, they ran in a semi circular structure around a sculpture of a woman, subtly draped in cloth, staring absently into the distance.

Further down I came to a large pool with a fountain in the middle, the water splaying up releasing the sounds of utter tranquillity, and surrounding the pool an arched terracotta walkway with statues woven into the walls, and mosaic benches. I took a moment to be here and to enjoy the Spaniards ability to create peace within a metro pole. To watch over Barcelona from here, smelling the scented trees and enjoy the contrast of the flowers against the trees and off-white paths, ‘this is what I came here for’ I thought.

I went in the direction of the castle I’d seen early, unfortunately it was closed – being mid week – I tried to find a way in without being seen, but the gates were foreboding and the presence of security guards forced me to carry on, sad to feel that castle moving further behind me. As I walked away from it my Dad called on my mobile, he was also really excited that I was there, I quickly tried to tell him what I’d seen, where I was, ofcourse… how the weather was – Dad’s always want to know how the weather is – unfortunately my phone cut out, lack of credit. It was very disappointing not to be able to talk for longer, but, at the same time, to have my families thoughts with me, to sense that I was not on this adventure alone, it meant a lot.

It was still drizzling and warm, a bit of a juxtaposition for me… weather like this you’d only expect before a storm back at home, but here, maybe it was the norm. I had no idea where I was going at this time, the second place on my itinerary was closed, but I eventually came to steps that seemed to rise up to… nothing. They were so high I could not see what they led to. The stairs were flanked on either side by a blue mosaic running fountain. Water would run down either side, through the large ornate fountains and trickle down the stairs. Sadly, they weren’t running at the time, it was beautiful even when dry, however I could imagine how breathtaking they might have been in full flow.

There was an escalator (AN OUT-DOOR ESCALATOR! MENTAL!), so I took that rather than traipsing the stairs in the heat and the rain and also for the novelty of the thing. Above, I came to the most incredible view of Barcelona, I could see the Segrada de Familiar in the distance, the world famous football stadium amongst the orange, brown, white of city apartments and buildings.

I was actually situated in the Olympic Village… I cant remember what year Barcelona held the Olympics, but I was standing where they had been held. A building behind me held part of the university, as well as an art gallery. Where I stood, a long parade lined by a Romanesque wall with enormous plant vases and leisurely looking statues of women basking in the sun, overlooked a passage way down to the city, the focal point, an enormous fountain structure that, apparently during the ‘season’ sparkled with colour as water collided with the hemisphere in a poetry of vision. At the moment, however, it was dry, and around it, a car exhibition was taking place that one required tickets to enter. I stood up in the Olympic Park for some time, enjoying the sole busker who played erstwhile on his guitar some of my favourite old tunes including Clapton and Van Morrison, as well as ‘Killing me Softly’ and ‘Let it Be’. I imagined Europe to be about Music on the Streets, and so far, Barcelona was not disappointing.

By this point I was dying for the ablutions. As I wndered down the steps and (hopefully) back into Barcelona I came upon a small café and asked (with the use of my phrase book) ‘Servico, por favour?’, the lady smiled and pointed toward the toilets, ‘Grazious!’ I said, probably too enthusiastically. And upon returning she saw me walk past and yelled out a happy ‘Odious!’, to which I smiled, embarrassed and scooted away from the vicinity. It’s funny now, how small I seemed when I was there, confidence makes you bigger, I think, makes you see things differently. Pity it took me so long to find it.

I eventually found Placa Espanya which was a large square that I’d actually been over looking while in the Olympic Park and was where that enomous fountain lay. It was enormous, in the centre a great statue overlooked the cars and people as they madly dashed about. There was a huge clock on one of the silvery and shimmering high rises… probably about five times the height of me and looming down on the city like some demonic future teller.

I went to the information desk and asked how to get to Rial or Barri Gotti - these were apparently the older areas of Barcelona and I was looking forward to seeing some Roman architecture. Unfortunately the 157 Bus which I caught was going the wrong way and I ended up on the beach… the beach was NOT what I’d come to see. I came from WA after all where we had some of the most magnificent beaches in the world. But, considering I was here (in the middle of no where, as it happened) I might as well take a look around.

I watched the children dashing in and out of the shore, not going too deep. There weren’t many people on the beach but I could imagine what it would look like in the middle of summer and it wasn’t a beach like I knew. I wandered along the foreshore, enjoying just seeing the ocean… I still have my obsession with water that, I think, started when I was young and hardly saw any that wasn’t coming from the sky and then absorbing into the dry earth within a second of its arrival. Mum suspects its because we are water babies – Pisces. What was nice about this coast line was that there were restaurants set up on the beach itself, I wondered why we hadn’t sorted that out yet, and the prices seemed quite reasonable – I didn’t stop for food, but had I been in company it seemed the perfect place to watch the sun set (assuming the sun set on this side of the city… all a bit confusing at this stage).

Close to the beach was a sort of shopping centre, specialty shops and restaurants. What was unique about it was that in order to get into it and from store to store you walked over pine slats above water. It was raining at the time and music was flowing from one of the umbrella’d restaurants… there’s something quiet poetic about rain hitting flat water, the dollops creating second-living circles in the water. As simple as it was, it was quite a site to see.

I decided to head to Las Ramblas – the most famous street of Barcelona where all the stores, stalls and shops were set up… that is, the ‘tourist trap’… beware of your bags! At this stage I was wondering whether I was doing the tourist thing correctly… was there a right way to do this? Was I doing it wrong? I was finding it rather stressful, so afraid to waste a moment of my time. It wasn’t until later that I realised there is no right way, see what you can and… DO NOT HAVE AN ITINERARY! I think rather, focus that you want to see one or two things, but at this time I had a specific schedule, so specific it detailed how much time I was allowed you use in each area… I had made my holiday far more about ticking notes off a page than experiencing the place. Never again!

I was absolutely ravenous by the time I got to Las Ramblas, however I had no intention of wasting my appetite, I wanted a food experience and had been specifically told not to eat along Las Ramblas – it was over priced and not overly authentic – food was designed to fit a Western (or rather, American as I later discovered) pallet.

When I jumped off the bus I was greeted by the largest monumental column I think I’ve ever seen. It gave me vertigo just staring up at it. Near to this there was a modernist structure, heading toward the sea. It looked like both a fish and a wave and was a mosaic type structure. Barcelona is, obviously, known for its architecture and this was an intriguingly modern object amongst the very structured and intimidating classical parliamentary building. Keeping the ocean and the pillar behind me I looked up through Las Rambals – is this the longest street in the world? Seemed like that to me… it went on and on, further than the eye could see. It was entirely littered with stalls… food stalls, tourist stalls, stalls of birds in cages and street artists putting themselves up between stores. There were cafes and restaurants and all sorts of intriguing things going on. I saw a man with his head in the pasta and his legs on the side of the table, two dangerous looking dragons, a man sitting atop a toilet… the street theatre was fantastic and drew in the crowds (I assume, also, the pickpockets).

I deliberated whether to start from here and work my way up, or run to the top of Las Ramblas and work my way down – the latter one, which goes to show I have no logic what-so-ever. It was very busy, you couldn’t walk in a straight line without hitting into someone (as I did a million times resulting in a million different languages being thrust in my general direction about watching where I was going. That was all rather difficult though, I couldn’t for the life of me stop looking up!). I wasn’t intimidated by the crowds though, for, as busy as it was, nothing could come close to Oxford Street in the evening just before Christmas – even non-claustraphobics would have a panic attack there! So, I meandered, ofcourse bumping into people, at the same time keeping an awareness about my bag and the contents and every ten minutes or so doing the finger count – wallet, camera, phone, key, still there, marvellous.

I decided not to waste Las Ramblas while walking to the end, taking a street off to the side first to circumnavigate the street in order to take it in with more fervour on my way back. Ofcourse I took a street that didn’t look too tourist ridden, which can sometimes be an error in judgement when you are a lone female who doesn’t know the streets. The street I took was dark for the rather high backs-of-appartments that rose up, colourless, on either side on the. It was a narrow winding street, silent at first and then coming across men, saying nothing, standing in what could be described as rags, smoking and staring at me under their eye lids. Best not make eye contact I thought. Best, also, to make ones way out of this area rather quickly. But it did give me an insight into inner-city living so to speak, quite similar to that in London – keep to the main streets. I turned the next street to my right hoping to double back to Las Ramblas and I came across a rustic church that was falling to pieces, ivy climbing up its side. Bricks had closed up the entrance to the church, from the exterior wall it looked at though half the church had been destroyed and where I was walking could well have been an extension of the original building. Coming around the front of the church it was completely bereft of people. I stood there, taking it in for a moment. This place of worship, the remnants of its grander days now cast in shadow, completely forgotten and abandoned. No tourists, no prayer sayers. It was sad and yet peaceful at the same time. I do like discovering the things that are not intended to be discovered and this appeared to be one such ruin.

I could hear the circus of street life behind me and carried on through a more colourful alleyway toward the shards of light that blinked between traffic at the far end. I stopped along the way to observe the murals that had been placed at the entranceways of what must have once been shops, café’s and were now apartments. The painted tiles told stories, one was simply of a café, another, of a crying boy and his mother speaking to a neighbour, one was about fornication from what I could gather from it. There were dates painted at the lower part of the tiles and ranged from the late 1700’s to mid 1800’s. That they were still intact, obviously still lovingly cared for, gave the impression that the Barcelona’s cared deeply for their past.

I crossed Las Ramblas when I emerged from the darkened alley-ways and found myself in a bustling market place. If completely empty it would have appeared an open paved square, building rising up on its four lengths an overhanging terrace held up by Roman columns, and below the terrace were café’s. In the square itself were market stalls… not just a few, not simply fruit and veg, it held everything. It was enchanting, it was a chef’s delight. There were stalls for eggs, nothing but farm produced eggs, another stall of rabbits strung from their hind legs, ofcourse fish and other meat displayed, then fruits… a stall dedicated to berries, another to banana’s, and strange fruits I didn’t recognise. Oh and sausages! I do love sausages! Men called out from behind their stalls enticing the customers, customers stood discerningly deciding on their purchase and bartering the price. There were even stalls of alcohol that also functioned as bars, a few customers sitting on high stools, sipping from what looked to me as shot-glasses and chatting to a passer by that they knew, or gossiping with the stall owner. It went on and on and on and I loved it and if I lived there, I knew where I’d buy my food. Everything looked so ripe and delicious and this, I thought, is how one should purchase their food, not in sterile super markets that have no personality and heaven knows where the food actually comes from. People contact. Like the Italian’s say, food is for the people and the people must know their food.

I continued my walk along Las Ramblas, wondering in amazement at the oldest theatre in the city which was still functioning today, peering down the tiny lanes that led off from Las Ramblas, never a one would lead you t the same place. I enjoyed looking up at the terraced buildings, their romantic facades, the shuttered windows, some open so you could look in at the chandeliers that hung over a marble dining room setting. There were statues of women, cherubs, horses and everything you could imagine snuck into buildings, you could just walk past and never notice, but there they were, staring at you, hoping you would see them, and if not, just watching, ever watching you, wondering where you had come from and where you were going as they, in their stony world, experienced the never ending changes of time.

I had some ice-cream – how could you not? And it was irrisistable. Unfortunately it was my ‘tipping’ incident. Apparently every tourist has a tipping incident. The woman at the store was lovely and genial and spoke relatively good English, while I made a polite effort to speak Spanish. I chose my icecream and handed my money over, still smiling and enjoying the jovial woman and fact I had a sweet icey treat ready to be devoured before it melted in the humidity. The change was brought on a small gold tray and I took up all of my change, while putting it my purse I made eye contact to say ‘Muchos Gratzias’, to which she responded with a rather evil glare that, had she had the power, could have pulled the skin from my face. I wandered out, licking my icecream wondering what on earth had come over the girl… ‘oh’, I realised, ‘maybe you’re supposed to tip here?’. I recalled reading something about the minimum wage in most European countries, that they basically depended on their tips which is why products were so cheap, there was no service charge. I stood for a moment a few metres from the shop thinking I should go back and tip her, but then the embarrassment that I’d feel, coupled with that which she would feel, was too great and decided to give a large tip next time I purchased something. ‘Well’, I thought, ‘they should blumin’ well have signs’, I felt very American.

Off Las Ramblas there are various ‘Placa’s’, open spaces that often have large fountains where people meet with one another, chat and smoke and drink, there are café’s lined around the square. Palm trees rise up here and there through the white pavement. I visited Placa Reial and Placa Cantalyna. Some with statues as their centrepiece, others with fountains, or markets. They are secret and peaceful places. The Spaniards are very sociable people and meeting places are of such importance. After their afternoon rest this is where they come to discuss the news or family events. I stood, watching over each of them with interest and delight. It all seemed rather exotic to me, not really having the same type of meeting places in Perth, not even in the same way in London… they have pubs.

I wandered up and down and in and out, looking into courtyards, taking a moment with ancient churches, smelling the scents from tapas bars and gendering at the uniquely flavoured icecreams. Down one street I came to Placa George Orwell – which was rather amusing. Apparently he loved Barcelona and spent so much time there that they’d re-named a space right infront of a church in honour of him. I sat before the church for some time, watching an elderly man paint it in vivid colour. As I moved on a family were coming out of a door in a wall – I assume it was the entranceway of an apartment, but there is no song and dance about the entry way, so to me, it just looks like a strange door in a very large wall and that makes it all the more interesting. So, there, a father was jumping onto his vespa, his wife saying her goodbyes, a young girl and older boy were walking further up the alley way, hand in hand, shouting their good-bye’s in turn. Neighbours on the balcony above yelled down to the couple, the wife hollered back and the husband rode away, a great man on a tiny bite, assumingly off to work. The perfect scene of normality along my tourist tour. I supposed in the end, that’s what you want to see… how people exist on the other side of the fense. What ever travels I’ve had, I’ve always been shocked at the utter similarities from coast to coast, continent to continent, civilisations with the same normality, and yet those subtle and exotic differences.

More mosaics, more open spaces, more fountains, more apartments in their terracotta and white colourings, more churches, which I wandered in to to take in the gothic ceilings, the foreboding architecture. There were beggars at the entrances and worshipers within. The silence deepened by the candles that flickered at the breathes of prayer. The stain glass windows caste an ery light far below, the ceilings were… well the churches, it was as if the architect were building his staircase to god. Mary stood with her hands clasped as cherubs snuck beneath her long cloak – not the Mary that I’d ever imagined, everything was on a grander scale to what I imagine the bible really implied.

I had still not eaten and my stomach was recommending I do so sooner rather than later or reap the shaking rewards of hunger. By this time I’d been walking for a good seven hours, not to mention the four or so hours of travel and I had come as a rather rude shock to my body. Luckily I’d gotten myself magnificently lost. I had no concept of where I was, which was brilliant, because it meant that I wouldn’t be eating tourist food, I was in the heart of the locals area and that meant true Spanish service and quisine. How I was supposed to find my way back was another issue entirely and I had no intention of considering that until I’d eaten something.

It was getting on to the evening, the sun was still allowing some light through the streets, however I knew night time was on its way and it would probably be more astute to get back to the hostel before the sky was blacked out and the crazy drinking English tourists were on the prowl.

I was walking away from Placa Maria Ma where I’d visited the beautiful gothic church and came to Plac de Olles. It was such a quiet and quaint space at the rear of another church, there was nothing but two small restaurants there. It felt rather local and I decided to sit down and look at my map to identify somewhere to eat. However, where I sat, was indeed a restaurant and promptly a lovely little man tottered out with two menu’s in hand, ‘No, just one’,
‘Uno?’
‘Ci’
‘Oh, ci ci!’ he said, I felt embarrassed at first, however my solitude apparently meant that he would provide his extra service, which included the largest glass of free wine I’ve ever been offered.

I got myself comfortable at a table outside of this restaurant, putting my maps and journal aside a moment to take in the menu and try to decipher the food items with my phrase book – I certainly was away from the tourist area, everywhere I’d seem along Las Ramblas had had both Spanish and English menu’s. I took out my little note book and started to interpret the menu (can I just say this is a very fun thing to do, and I always thought I’d make a good Egyptologist). I’d identified a potato dish, something to do with prawns and a tomato bread. I’d also decided I wanted two other things, however when the lovely old man came back out he said,
‘No no no, only two!’
‘Only two? But I’d like to try lots!’
‘No no no, only two…’ he rubbed his stomach and made a sick-like face as if more than two would make me very ill. I laughed and agreed. I showed him my piece of paper and implied, ‘which ones?’
‘Ci ci ci, Prawns!’, I was glad of that, I do love my prawns, and also loved the fact the Spaniards enjoy saying everything thrice,
‘Ah! Here, ci’, he was pointing at the potatoes, and it was he, infact, that decided I needed some tomato bread to go with the meal.
Oh, what fun I was having, I never felt so happy in solitude. A waitress came out to top up my wine, however, she asked my permission this time and I figured that one was free, the second would be on the bill. I asserted that I’d have some more, and the girl also took my bottle of water to fill up, after which I got onto writing my post-cards and going over where I’d been during the day. All the staff were just lovely, if only I could remember the name of the restaurant because I’d recommend it to any lone traveller.

While I was enjoying my meal and reading through my itinerary the heavens completely opened up… like nothing I’ve seen before. One minute, the sun was shining, the humidity was embracing, but as if within a moment the seasons changed, rain poured down in torrents. Luckily I was situated under an umbrella, but I scooted my chair so I was better protected from the rain as it danced in the sudden wind. There were people off to the right of me, laughing as they pulled out their own umbrella and continued to chuckle while sipping their wine. We made eye contact and cheers in complete ironic joviality to the air. Laughing at one another, there was me and them, the only ones dining, and the staff of the restaurant laughing from under the cover of the veranda waving us all in to the inner sanctum. The other couple, nodding at me in the direction of the main restaurant, but I waited… I enjoyed sitting there under th violent patting of the rain upon my umbrella top, sat watching the rain, now turned to waters, whisking its way past my heel, the walls and floor now gleaming white with its liquid blanket. Oh how can I say I loved this moment more? How can I explain to you that this is what I’ve wanted for years at a time, to have my pen in my hand, a civilisation I knew little about enveloping me, to have the heavens come down and be surrounded in everything that was different, unusual and perfectly me? I think there are such things as ‘meaning moments’, small crisp elements of time that are yours, and yours alone, that tell you that, you are here and here is where you need to be, however useless, frivolous, purposeless it may be, this is a moment where the black cat will never appear, where you are here in your own right, and there is no where else on the world where you need to be.

I did end up running in to the restaurant. I finished my food and wine and laughed with the others. I used their facilities and chatted for a while to the America tourists who I had cheer’sed earlier, paid my bill (including a substantial tip!) and made my way into the roaring weather. I had no umbrella but basked in the surrealty of the experience. My hair was plasted against my face as I sought out another church in the darkness. Along my way three gypsies approached me in turn trying to sell me umbrella’s. The first two I sent away with a gesture from my hand, but I was getting shaky in the subsequent cold winds from the rain and spoke to the third.
‘Umbrella! 5 Euros!’
‘5 Euros? I don’t think so’ and continued to pace away, the man followed me,
‘4 Euro’s!’
‘What? For an umbrella? No, I don’t think so.’ And carried on, but he followed me, ‘3 Euros?, 3? Bargain!’
‘I’ll have it off you for two’, I responded, he looked utterly frustrated at me, more than a little annoyed. I shrugged and carried on, he didn’t realise that I had no real issue with the rain other than the fact it was hindering my vision,
‘Fine fine’, he said with an accent, ‘two Euro’,
‘Excellent’, I responded, taking up my new red brolly and handing him over the two Euro. I think I was rather mean but it was also my first bartering attempt – I think I’m better than I thought, so there it was, my practically stolen umbrella, me and an ancient church as the sky was making itself known to the earth. Ah… what an experience.

It took my 40 minutes to get back to the hostel, I was drenched and tired, but so happy. I signed in and went across to my room. The interior of the hostel was lovely… well, until I got to my room. The lounge had chairs, a bar and a huge LCD television. There were a few computers that you could access the internet from and two kitchens that you could cook in or store your goods.

I went to my room, I had a top bunk bed in a room for six, the other five beds were being used by five Americans, all from Alabama and all doing Architecture at Uni. They had just been to Istanbul, and didn’t they want to tell you about it! I tried to have a chat with one of the girls but she didn’t seem very interested… they were a group, I was not, such is the way of travel as well as life it sees.

They were all going out on the town (they returned at 3am and woke me an, oh the effort not to scream at them!), so I had a glass of wine, a shower and did my bits and bobs. I had time to do a bit of writing before curling up in the bunk and trying to get some sleep. I could hear a party going on inside the hostel and felt very alone. I knew that going in there and joining in would result in getting up late and missing so much, but I wished that Nigel was here to see all this with me. It is wonderful to do these things alone, but when you hear the laughter of others, you cant but wish for laughter of your own.