barthelona.

WHAT a fuckin' vacation. Ho-ly Jesus. Where to begin, where to begin...

Ok, so I forgot to mention in my Amsterdam entry the fact that much of my time there was spent sitting in front of Katie's computer in a desperate attempt to find some sort of shelter for my time in Barcelona. EVERY hostel in Barcelona was booked - no joke, every HOTEL was ridiculously expensive, and my phonelessness prevented me from being able to get in touch with any of my other friends who I knew would be in town to ask if there was any way I could crash with them. So if it weren't for my guardian angel/best friend from preschool who was studying abroad in Barcelona at the time, I would have been completely fucked. She gave me the name of an obscure little "hostal" (more expensive than a hostel but more bootleg than a hotel) that one of her friend who had visited her a few weeks ago had stayed in (unfortunately the NYU program through which she is studying is really bitchy about not allowing overnight guests), which I promptly sent a desperate email, literally BEGGING for any type of accomodation that they had, and by a stroke of luck, I got a response within a few hours notifying me that there had been ONE cancellation of a double room with a bathroom, which they would give to me for the price of a single since they knew I was only one person. VA FUCKIN' BENE. Needless to say I promptly booked it, laughed that I would be staying by myself in Barcelona with no way to know if my phone would work once I arrived, and hopped on my plane. Oh lordy...

So I arrive in Barcelona to a desperate text message from Sam and Tyler, who were also going to be there that weekend but had told me that they aleady had their accomodations booked a while back. However, the girl who booked their hostel dropped off the face of the Earth without ever telling them the name of the hostel where she had made their reservation, so they were left totally homeless and freaking out. And let me tell you, seeing that I was that person only a few hours prior, it felt SOOO great being able to say "hey, I actually have an extra space in my room if you guys need it", which they DEFINITELY did. Hostal Levante to the rescue!! They had some friends from Vassar who were in town for the weekend as well who were able to add one of them to THEIR hotel, so in the end we all managed to party it up in Barcelona without anyone having to resort to sleeping on the street. Not too shabby...

What was a hilarious twist in the story, however, was that apparently Tyler and one of the girls in the other hotel had an, ahem, INTERESTING history, and therefore instead of Sam staying with me in my double bed, I got Tyler instead. Hahaha. And although he's incredibly attractive, he's just such a man-whore that there was never any risk of us becoming any more than the "estranged married couple" that we began to call ourselves by the end of the trip. Hahah, gotta love it.

And needless to say, the trip itself was IN-FUCKING-CREDIBLE. I do not know WHAT it is about that city, but the second I step foot on those windy streets in the Gothic Quarter, or look up at one of those crazy Gaudi creations, or find myself suddenly face to face with the Mediterranean, I just know that at some point within the next five years, I NEED to live here full-time. There is just something about the people there, the pride they have for their history and the unique culture that has sprung from that is just so damn cool. And having spent several weeks here a few summers ago, the dawning sense of familiarity made the whole experience just that much better - I actually got to play tour guide a bit since I had so many great memories of this place.

And since I was literally sharing a bed with Tyler, it made coordinating with them a complete no-brainer. So I got to spend my weekend in an architectural theme park with a bunch of relentlessly passionate architecture geeks. Who just happen to love food. And dancing. And are just generally hysterical. So needless to say, I had a freakin' great time.

My first evening I was flying solo, as Sam and Tyler's flight arrived a good five hours after mine, so I had plenty of time to get settled, actually UNPACK a little, get showered, and do some serious exploring and re-familiarizing with this incredible place. And thank you, Nina Moffitt, for directing me to a hotel in my absolute FAVORITE neighborhood in the whole city, the Barri Gotic (Gothic Quarter), so that all I had to do was step outside my door to be amidst the best boutiques and most beautiful, tiny streets imaginable. I grabbed myself a KILLER falafel with fried cauliflower, roasted mushrooms, super-tangy hummus and tabouleh (for €3, mind you - thank you, street food) and wandered the 'hood in garlicky bliss.

The next morning, our architectural tour of Barcelona commenced: Tyler and I set off to meet up with the girls at the Sagrada Familia, stopping by the most incredible juice bar a few blocks from our place for a kiwi-honeydew-banana-strawberry concoction, only to arrive with 20+ minutes to kill, during which time we dashed a few streets over to ogle yet ANOTHER Gaudí masterpiece, La Pedrera. When we finally met up with Sam and their two friends Whitney and Maria who were also in Barce for the weekend, we gabbed incessantly about the first 7 days of our respective trips (final conclusion: I NEED to make it to Morocco ASAP. Perhaps it will be my first vacation once I get myself settled in Barcelona...), and then commenced the "ooh"ing and "aah"ing once inside the Cathedral. It's so crazy to conceive how incredible it already is, yet how much further they have to go. It is projected that the Cathedral won't be completely finished until 2040! Crazy man. Quite possibly even cooler than the unfinished Cathedral itself, though, was the museum below it, which I had missed on my first trip to Barcelona; it displayed all of Gaudí’s original architectural plans and drawings of the project, completed and signed in his hand, plus this whole section that reveals all of his direct references to nature: the columns inspired by rainforest trees, tiny geometric details in the façade reminiscent of honeycomb, etc etc. SO cool.

After the Sagrada Familia we grabbed some bocadillos (Spanish panini) and set off on a lengthy wander through town: down Passeig de Gracia past La Pedrera and Casa Battló, and down through Plaça Catalunya for a little pre-dinner shopping. There we met up with their OTHER friend Kate, who was actually spending the semester in Barcelona, plus Jess and her friend Harry, who had done a different 1st half of the trip but were all meeting up in Barce for the last weekend. PAR-TAY.

With the gang in tow, Kate let us to a cute little plaza in the Barri Gòtic called, no joke, Plaça George Orwell, where there were a ton of little tapas bars and apparently the “best falafel in Barcelona”, according to Kate, but falafel was gonna have to wait – Sam, Maria and I had been DYING for tapas all day so we found ourselves a little outdoor spot and commenced a veritable feast: fried potato wedges smothered in a Spanish spicy sauce (“patatas bravas”), stuffed olives, grilled mushrooms (“champiñones”), Serrano ham and Manchego cheese, grilled bread rubbed with garlic and fresh tomato (“pa amb tomaquet”, in Catalán), and an omelette layered with potato and onion slices (“tortilla española”), this time with sliced zucchini as well. DEE-lish. Our first Spanish faux-pas of the trip, however, was committed by yours truly, when, having been ripped off several times during the day (they messed up our orders several times at lunch and tried to charge us for the extras, etc – the Spanish are particularly snooty towards tourists; probably why I love them so much), I expected the same treatment from our waiter at dinner, so when our regular sangría tasted suspiciously bubbly (they offered an €8 pitcher of regular red-wine sangria, and a €13 pitcher of sangria made with cava, or Spanish champagne), we were convinced he had given us the cava version to try to rip us off, so we sent Maria, the most advanced Spanish-speaker of the group (she is currently studying in Madrid) to complain to the waiter, who walked her back to our table and with quite the snarky look on his face, said “Querría enseñarte algo – en español, ‘cava’ significa ‘champagne’; champagne no es rojo. Comprendes?” Which translates to “I would like to teach you something – in Spanish, ‘cava’ means ‘champagne’; champagne is not red. Understand?” And sure enough, looking down into our pitcher, we turned about as red as the nice vino rojo. SO embarrassing. Sorry guys!!

After dinner, we all reconvened back in Plaça George Orwell, to wait for some of Kate’s “friends” to finish their drink at a nearby bar so they could join us at our next destination, Marsella. Well, these “friends” turned out to be none other than Miss Nina Moffitt, my best friend from PRESCHOOL and fellow Park-Sloper, and her best friend Sara Scott, Smith classmate of my best friend Kate O’Connor and ANOTHER Park-Sloper. Talk about a small freakin’ world… I knew Nina was studying in Barce but was having a hard time getting in touch with her with my shotty phone, and had NO IDEA that Sara would be in town, let alone on this side of the Atlantic, but it turns out the she is doing her junior year in – get ready – FLORENCE, ITALY! What the flip!?! The SMALLEST world. LOVE it.

So our big happy family migrated across La Rambla to Marsella, the favorite absinthe bar among the likes of Pablo Picasso and company, which didn’t open until 11:30 pm and by midnight was sardine-can packed. Being right on time, our monster group scored three out of the 12 or so tables in the place, and within 10 minutes were already constructing the perfect absinthe: they serve the full-deal, complete with sugar cube, mini-fork, and mini-water bottle with a hole poked in the top for a more even stream. You soak your sugar cube in the absinthe for a few seconds, then balance the fork across the rim of your glass, place the sugar cube on the fork, and light it on fire, letting it burn until it starts to melt; you then dunk the melty cube in the absinthe again and stir it like your life depends on it with the little fork, simultaneously squirting the water into the mixture until it turns cloudy. Et voila, a delicious, licorice-y, hallucinogenic treat. I must say, I think the whole hallucinogenic-properties rumor is false, but it DOES hit you pretty hard; after two or three, my friends managed to not notice that I wasn’t on the train with them as the doors were closing on our way to our next destination (some crazy dance club), and I managed to NOT freak out – uncharacteristic behavior on all parts. But it all worked out, I got on the next train, made it to the club, and have absolutely no recollection of the whole debacle. Hahah, ohhh man. But I DO remember that the club was crazy-fun, and SOO Barcelona, in the sense that it really didn’t pick up until about 2:30am and would have continued clear until morning if we hadn’t all been exhausted. I swear, I love these people more and more every day – they wake up at 11, go to work til 2, take a 2-hour nap/lunch break, go back to work, grab drinks and snacks at 10:30, drink til 3 and then dance til 6, and then do it all over again. Whoever routes the reincarnation highway must have been distracted when I came along – I’m pretty sure I was supposed to be Spanish.

We made like the Spaniards and slept in until noon the next day, and then made our way over to the Picasso museum. LOVE that place, almost as much as the chocolate store you pass on the way (Xocoa – best place ever. Meant to stock up before I left but alas, it was CLOSED; almost cried about it, but then realized that it’s just another excuse to come back to this awesome city). After the Picassos, I finally got a falafel from the fabled Buen Bocado, in Plaça George Orwell, and oh Jesus, was Kate right – that thing was like a fluffy cloud of heaven. The softest, moistest falafel I have ever eaten, dressed with crispy slivered cucumbers, tomatoes, onions and PICKLES, fresh lettuce, a generous squirt of spicy sauce on request (“picante, por favor”), and a handful of FRESH MINT – subtly elevates the whole thing into a whole new realm of deliciousness – all wrapped in a warm pita slathered with tangy hummus. OH. MY. GOD. I could have died right then, but then I wouldn’t have gotten to see the look of pure joy in the eyes of Sam, Jess and Tyler when we made it to our next destination: Mies Van Der Rohe’s Barcelona Pavilion.

What a BEAUTIFUL, serene place. Even my un-architectural self could really appreciate the clarity and simplicity of the design and the overall effect of utter tranquility. The archies promptly plopped down to sketch, while I took the opportunity to write some postcards and take some great photos. One woman actually approached me and gestured toward her camera for me to take a photo of her, and when I instinctually replied “Si, certo”, her eyes lit up and she asked excitedly “Sei italiana?” (you are Italian?), to which I obviously replied “Si!” She sighed with relief and we proceeded to make the whole exchange in Italian. SO cool.

After Mies we stopped off at home base to regroup and get dressed for dinner. We were on the hunt for paella, so we headed south towards the beach neighborhood of Barceloneta, popping into some cool little boutiques (records, clothing, jewelry) in the Barri Gòtic along the way (I snagged two fabulous scarves). We ended up at a semi-touristy place that nonetheless had DELICIOUS paella - we got one regular saffron one, and one "paella negra", or paella dressed with squid ink. Dark, rich and SO yummy. After sufficient seafood and sangria, we headed over to the Spanish equivalent of Florence's Shot Cafe, called Chupitos, with a list of shoots at least 200 strong, including "The Harry Potter," complete with flaming cinnamon that shoots up sparks, and some crazy green one who's name I forgot but clearly remember it entailing the inhalation of vaporized crème de menthe... oh my.

And just like that, fall break is over. I had to wake up at the ASS CRACK of dawn this morning to catch my plane, and after some minor travel-induced delirium, I am now back in my warm bed, the night before my 21st birthday, in Florence, Italy. This really is the life, isn't it? A presto...