The Ryndex

Barcelona is an awful place. There’s nothing to see, nothing to do and every single damn thing gets on your poor, raw, jangled nerves.

Okay, you’ll have to take that with a pinch of salt. Consider the story — on your rest day in Paris, you stay out at the bar making ridiculous claims about the lead singer of The Cure. Getting home after midnight, you get up at 4:30am to catch a bus at the other end of the city at 5:50am… And then you discover the metro doesn’t open until after 5:30, so you throw a cab into the mix. Miss a bus, catch a bus, then two hours out to Beauvais, sitting next to a crying baby, then milling about in front of the check-in desk (France is the millingest!) while listening to a crowd of gospel singers determine who is exactly accountable for a bag being sent back with the rental car, and who is just about ready to offer their natural black ass for kissing. Here’s a hint — it’s not mine!

Then, the flight to Barcelona. Well, not Barcelona, but Girona… Two hours out. That’s the problem with RyanAir — the flights were only 79 centimes, but they’re always from distant airports that require a two hour bus, plus associated costs and time.

Once we were actually in Barcelona, at the bus station, we were still far too early to meet our landlord. We actually rented a private apartments in Barcelona and Rome via craigslist, and I was a little worried that one or the other might be a scam. We killed time at Terrablava, an all-you-can-eat buffet. Not authentic Catalan cuisine, and the hot buffet was unspectacular, but the large bar of colourful and fresh salads and vegetables was exactly what we needed.

Our landlord was exactly on time, and showed us the cute second story studio that would be our Barcelona home. It was exactly as described — two monk-like twin beds, a well furnished little kitchen, an old wood-beam and brick ceiling that was just a tetch too low, and pleasantly clean. He was extremely helpful, and gave us a little flyover of the city on a map, explaining the closest market, some good restaurants, and where to find Sangria.

It was early afternoon, and we were exhausted. We took a nap.

Then we visited La Rambla, the long avenue connecting Plaça de Catalunya (where we were staying) to the harbour. I expected this famous strolling ground to be similar to the Champs-Elysées in Paris, but there’s no comparison except for the crowds. For one, the buskers along La Rambla are very, very good. They make Parisian buskers look like total crap — their costumes and acts are surprising and delightful!

We stopped for fruit, vegetables and meat at the covered market by our place (Mercat St. Josep), and Barcelona gained a few points. It was colourful and interesting, with a variety of local products. We bought some Catalan sausage and cheese with our produce, and some of the vilest sangria conceived. We went searching for supplementary toilet paper for the apartment and got completely lost in the tiny streets, but made it home to cook,watch some TV and go to bed early. We didn’t get much sleep — the street was very, very loud. Until 6am.

I got up early and went out to find us coffee and croissants.

We started our day wandering the Barri Gòtic, the Gothic quarter. It’s like a puzzle, still the tiny winding streets of a historic centre, but you can see the overall symmetry of the original Roman city lines. Not knowing really where to start, we popped into a church, Iglesia del Pi, and started to look around. Five minutes later they kicked us all out. I don’t know why. Apparently, I don’t speak either Catalan or Spanish.

Duckie bought a Vespa bag, which is an incredibly tourist thing to do when you’re in Spain. But it was probably the coolest Vespa bag ever, admittedly, so she didn’t have a choice. With her fashionable Vespa tote, we went to a little English-style pub in the quarter for tea and club sandwiches.

Our next stop was the cathedral, dedicated to Saint Eulalia, who looks over the city. It has a large cloister filled with palm trees, geese and a fountain capped with St. George killing the dragon. It’s said that if you drink from this fountain, you will be forever cursed to visit Barcelona again… (Those who are familiar with “reality” will note that I made up that particular “fact”.)

The interior of the cathedral is great! Each chapel is a little religious museum, and extremely interesting. I bought the little guidebook at the gift shop.

There was a little antique market outside the cathedral, so I bought some old postcards and smacked my head good against an awning support. Ouch.

Then we went to a dollar store… Don’t laugh. I was still practically concussed, and a cultural anthropologist can discover amazing things about a place and it’s peoples in the oddest places. I actually love going to big grocery stores in different countries. At one level, they all resemble each other, but there’s always the little unique things that surprise you.

People were handing out bills for a classical guitarist that was playing at the Palau de la Mùsica, one of the modernista buildings that I really wanted to see, so we decided to go buy tickets. Kind of expensive, long line to get tickets, and in the end, well, more than a little dull. I can’t gush with enthusiasm.

The Palau was really something though — the stained glass ceiling fluidly dripped a huge stained glass chandelier, the flowing stairways, the lilies in the tile work, and the half-sculpted figures surging out of the stage… Some more points for Barcelona. It gave us something to look at during the incessant encores from the world famous guitarist.

It poured on the way home, and we were in our fancy clothes. It was great! Not cold, but very, very wet. We didn’t get much sleep, despite being frantically exhausted. People were having a screamingly good time walking between bars. I imagined a large hammer smashing them flat, like in a cartoon.

Tin Foiled Travel