My unfortunate incident notwithstanding, Barcelona seems to be a nice enough city. Though we planned our trip a bit too early in the year (leaving us often cold and eventually wet), I can imagine the summertime there would be beautiful, with miles of beaches and numerous parks and plazas acting as playgrounds for the young and old alike. There aren’t many skyscrapers, but there is quite a bit of impressive architecture - most notably that of Antoni Gaudi. La Rambla is always alive with activity, as is much of the area around it, and some of the living statues there are actually quite impressive (my favorite being the genie who appeared to be floating 4 feet off the ground), as are the sand sculptures on the beach, for that matter. Good food can readily be found (though we hit on a bit of a dud for our final meal) and there is plenty of nightlife to keep one busy late into the evening and into the early morning hours.
That said, I don’t think I will be in a hurry to get back. Yes, I had a terrible experience that colors my perception, but even before that (though admittedly also before I had seen a lot of the city) Barcelona seemed to be not much more than any other big city in Europe. There are beggars and graffiti everywhere and, though it may have a slightly different look about it, it doesn’t seem to be terribly aesthetically appealing outside a few small neighborhoods. Maybe I am being too hard on it after what happened. And maybe I should give it another shot. But there are a lot of other cities in the world I haven’t seen yet…
Immediately after my post on March 18 when I had first arrived, I went out to explore Barcelona on my own while Brian continued on his journey to meet me. I walked up and down La Rambla, one of the liveliest streets of Barcelona, having a large pedestrian walkway/median with flower and gift stands, living statues, artists and dining areas set up by many of the numerous restaurants lining the street. Along La Rambla and only a block or so away from our hotel was La Boqueria, a covered market with stands selling fresh fruit and all kinds and combinations of fruit juices, peppers, chocolates, nuts, Iberian hams and more. And then there was also the stinky section with a wide variety of fresh fish, mussels, shellfish, etc.
At the Southern end of La Rambla is the waterfront with a big marina full of sailboats and a statue of Christopher Columbus pointing out to sea (towards America, maybe?). From here there was also a nice view looking back toward the hills that surround and overlook Barcelona. I walked around the marina area and headed for the beach, another ½ to ¾ of a mile away, where I grabbed a snack and a beer before lying down on the beach for a short siesta.
From the beach, I wandered rather aimlessly through the city and found part of an ancient Roman wall and then the Barcelona Cathedral in the middle of town before winding my way back to the hotel to await Brian’s arrival.
After Brian arrived, showered and settled in, we went back out to explore some more, find a pitcher of sangria, and then head to a tapas restaurant called Cal Pep that came highly recommended by a co-worker. It was a small place with no tables - only counter space - and we watched a number of larger parties (basically more than 3 people) be turned away. We were quickly sat and our server asked us what we would like. No menu, we were just asked to choose between fish, meat, or pork. Brian doesn’t like seafood, but the server didn’t like that answer, so I said I would eat a little fish. Of the four dishes he brought, two were seafood and Brian was less than ecstatic. Of the seafood, the plate of mussels was very good, but the other dish (a variety of fried seafood) was more “interesting” than tasty. After I had peeled most of the miniature crawfish-looking buggers, the server finally told me that I was supposed to eat the whole thing (head, tail, legs, antennae…). I couldn’t argue, so I downed the rest of them as instructed. They weren’t terrible, but it was definitely different. Otherwise, the calamari was great and the other unidentifiable fishes were decent. The other two plates (a potato and egg concoction and sausage with beans) were excellent and, while we thought the restaurant may have been a bit overrated by my friend, I was pretty satisfied that we had an authentic Spanish meal.
We didn’t do much after dinner. In fact, I’m not sure we did anything except walk back to the hotel and go to bed. Brian and I both had a long day of traveling and I had every intention on waking up Friday morning to get in my scheduled 2hr 45min marathon training run so I could enjoy the rest of the weekend without worrying about how or when I would squeeze it in.
As planned, I woke early Friday morning and started my run around 7:30am. Brian had brought me a new Garmin GPS watch from the U.S. so, though I wasn’t terribly excited about the run, I was excited about using my new toy, which keeps track of time, distance, and pace while running, cycling, or doing just about anything outdoors (and indoors if you have the proper accessories). It probably has three dozen other functions/uses, but my real purpose for wanting it was to track my distance and pace when running, and for that, it works quite well.
Having just arrived in Barcelona the day before, I didn’t exactly have the “lay of the land” or know where I should run my 17-18 miles, so I started out heading toward the beach. Around the 4-mile mark, the beach started to become less and less nice, so I turned around and decided I would try to run the city streets. Knowing generally the direction of the Sagrada Familia, and knowing I would be able to navigate by the sight of its towering spires, I turned off of the quiet beach path and into the bustling city streets. I quickly learned that running the streets of Barcelona at 8am on a Friday morning is not the same as running the streets of Rome at the same time on a Sunday. I had to avoid cars and pedestrians and found myself zigzagging through the city blocks to catch as many green lights as possible so I wouldn’t have to stop at every intersection. It was much more mentally taxing than I had anticipated, but I did finally make it to Gaudi’s impressive Sagrada Familia.
From there, I decided to run back toward the hotel and potentially give up on the rest of the run whenever I got there. After more zigzagging across town and mental fatigue, I was back on La Rambla around the 1 hour and 45 minute mark. Though I was very tempted to call it a day, I convinced myself that, as I had already come this far, I should suck it up and finish the last hour. But tired of the stress of the city streets, I headed back toward the marina/beach where I could finish the run in relative peace.
After cleaning up and recovering from the run, and after Brian returned from his breakfast, we put a call into my old church friend, Robin, who now lives in Barcelona teaching English. Our plan had been to meet her for lunch and then take a little walking tour of the city. While we waited to hear back from her, we took a walk to the beach as Brian hadn’t been that far yet.
We eventually met Robin at Quatre Gats (http://www.4gats.com), another recommendation – this time from one of my co-workers and one of Brian’s. It was a cool little place in a cool little neighborhood and the food was great. But the biggest claim to fame was the fact that Picasso used to hang out there.
Robin’s walking tour was not quite as informative the as one I took in Rome, but she was certainly enthusiastic and obviously loves Barcelona (and Spain in general). We spent most of the afternoon with her until she had to leave us to attend her friends’ soccer game. She had given us a number of suggestions for dinner (and generally for things to do the rest of the weekend) and we made plans to try to meet again either later in the evening or the following day.
We weren’t able to locate our first choice for dinner, but somehow stumbled upon a Mexican food place that Robin had also mentioned. Having not eaten Mexican food since arriving in Luxembourg, I was happy to be there, and even happier that the margaritas and the food were both fabulous.
Fast-forward a bunch of hours later – after having been to multiple bars and multiple dance clubs – and we were back on La Rambla, near the hotel. Fast-forward another hour and a half (or so) and I was on a back street (near La Rambla?), alone and not in the best of conditions. The rest of the story is a bit of a blur, but it started with one guy leaning against me as I was walking down the street. Immediately after I pushed him away from me, another guy jumped me from behind and I was quickly pushed around a corner. The next thing I know, I’m on the ground, in a headlock, struggling to get free while the pockets of my jeans are being emptied. I’m not sure at what point exactly I was hit in the nose, but there is no doubt that I was. The front of my jacket was covered in blood, as were my jeans from wiping my hands on them. Somehow, I made it back to the hotel, where I had to explain that I was mugged and needed a new key to my room.
I fully expected Brian to have beaten me back to the hotel, but when I got upstairs, he wasn’t in the room (don’t ask how, where or why we were separated to begin with…). I immediately sent him an e-mail from my laptop (my Blackberry was gone) to make sure he was safe and to find out where he was. His response was that he had no idea where he was. We traded e-mails a few times until he finally found a cab and arrived safely back at the hotel.
It was obviously a traumatic evening, but I was relieved when I found that my money clip, with all of my credit cards and what little cash I had with me, was in my jacket pocket, and hadn’t been stolen. My nose and face were a little red and swollen, my neck and back were sore and I had a few bumps and bruises, but for the most part there was very little visible damage. Though I lost my Blackberry, digital camera, and a watch, things could have been much worse.
We woke up the next morning to the phone ringing. It was Robin calling to see if everything was okay, as she had seen my facebook messages about what had happened. I assured her that I was okay and still intended to make the most of the weekend. As bad as the night had turned out to be, I had no intention of hiding out in the hotel room for the rest of the trip. I gave her Brian’s phone number so we could stay in touch and we made tentative plans to meet for lunch.
Brian and I had purchased tickets ahead of time to tour Camp Nou, the futbol (i.e., soccer) stadium where FC Barcelona plays, and we had originally planned on going first thing Saturday morning. Having not gone to bed until almost 7am, our plans were modified slightly and we must have arrived around noon. To be candid, It wasn’t all that impressive. I mean, I guess it is cool that the club has been around for a really long time and they have won a lot of championships, but it was a little difficult to get to and then it was just a big, empty stadium and a museum full of trophies, jerseys and equipment. Maybe if I was a bigger soccer fan, it would have meant more to me, but well, I’m not.
We jumped in a cab at the stadium and headed back to Barceloneta and the beach to meet Robin and her friend for what was touted as some of the best paella in Barcelona. We told our tales of adventure, ate some extremely tasty paella, and started to feel better, if not more tired, after our long night. Instead of joining the girls to watch a rugby match at a bar, we opted to head back to the hotel for a siesta before dinner.
Still completely worn out after our rest, and my being a little on edge in the crowded streets, we ate dinner near the hotel, walked around La Rambla for maybe 5-10 minutes and then headed back to the hotel and our beds.
Sunday was not terribly eventful, though we did finally make our way around town to see a few of the sights, including Segrada Familia, Montjuic, the outside of the National Art Museum of Catalonia (it was closed) and Placa d’Espanya. For lunch we stopped into a restaurant for pinchos, which are essentially self-service tapas where you pay at the end based on the number of toothpicks you have on your plate. Dinner was a not-so-good Mexican/tapas restaurant in Placa Reial. Not able to find a bar at which we would be able to watch Texas A&M’s NCAA basketball tournament game, we again returned to the hotel early - to watch the game online and pack our things to leave the next morning.
Thanks again to RyanAir, I had to get up extremely early on Monday. I took a cab from the hotel to the bus station at 5:15 to catch the 5:45 bus to Girona to take the 8:55 flight back to Frankfurt, from where I would ride the 11:00 bus back to Luxembourg to arrive home at 13:00.
To add insult to injury (literally) in Barcelona, I was the last person to board my bus to the airport. I felt like Forrest Gump as I walked toward the back looking for the one remaining empty seat. When I finally saw it (a window seat 3 rows from the back), I motioned to the girl sitting in the aisle seat that I needed to get by her. She said something about “mojado,” a Spanish word I knew I had heard before, but just couldn’t place…until I sat down in the seat and felt the water (or whatever it might be) seeping through my jeans. It was then that it dawned on me where I had seen that word before and I could picture the yellow sandwich boards in grocery stores and other places that warn “Caution, wet floor….Cuidado, piso mojado.” As the girl had tried to warn me, the seat was fucking “mojado.” And did I mention this was an hour and fifteen-minute bus ride to the airport? But what were my options? It was the last seat on the bus.
I took off my waterproof jacket and covered the wet seat so I could try to avoid having a wet seat myself. Then, within a few seconds, I discovered the root of the problem as the air-conditioning vent above my head started (or continued, I suppose) to drip. All I could do was shake my head and curse myself for making this ill-fated trip in the first place. After holding my backpack in my lap for a few minutes to avoid the water dripping directly on me, I decided I didn’t really want my bag and its contents any wetter than I wanted myself. So I pulled the window curtain across my body and let the water drip on it while I dozed off. That is, until the curtain was so wet that the water just ran down onto my hand and leg and woke me up. I tried tucking the curtain into the vent itself to stem the tide, and this solution also worked for a while, but for the final 15-20 minutes of the ride, I was reduced to staring at the vent as the water droplets formed and then wiping them off with the curtain before they grew so fat that they could no longer hold on. I had never been so relieved to get off of a bus in my life (including the “vomit comet” bus ride on my first church ski trip as a 7th grader…let’s just say the vomit originated, but did not end, with me...but that’s another story altogether).
Though it has taken many months to finally complete this post, the following thoughts were recorded shortly after the trip and give some sense of my mental state and thought process at that time…
Life is shaped by experiences; this just wasn’t a fun one.
I am sure I am a changed person, but I wonder whether I have been changed for the better or for the worse. Am I simply more cautious or am I overly paranoid? Am I more discerning of character or am I unfairly judgmental? Am I strengthened or am I hardened? Will I give people the benefit of the doubt or will I expect the worst from everyone? Maybe I’ll never be able to answer those questions, at least in as they relate to this specific experience. After all, every new day brings new experiences that can push the needle in one direction or the other…
Leaves me wondering what experiences my muggers had that led them to the life they are leading now…
So there is it…4 months later and much too long, but I have finally completed my write-up from Barcelona. Hopefully the next will not take (or be) so long.
The town:
Victor Hugo and his apartment:
The lake:
The balloon:
