So my wing fell off in Barcelona. It landed somewhere around Gracia. I think this means I should move there. My wing has also fallen off in my hands and at Café Del Giornos so if I’m going with this theory it could also mean that my life is in my hands or I eat at Del Giornos too often. But I’m sticking with the former: Barcelona. I didn’t expect to fall in love with Barcelona so quickly. In fact I didn’t even plan on starting in Barcelona (and I also didn’t plan to party in Barcelona…Honestly!).
The 12 hour flight from Singapore to Barcelona was stranded in Milan for a few hours as they melted ice of the engines and wings. It was at that moment I realized I should have packed a jacket. Also that when everyone was saying it was going to be cold I could have used this as advice instead of being a stubborn little shit, oh well. Aside from that, the interlude in Milan did give me time to make friends with the guy sitting behind me. Nacho was returning to Barcelona from a month in New Zealand with his girlfriend. International romance…airlines will make a fortune. Anyhow instead of wasting 30 euro on a taxi Nacho directed me onto the train and next thing I know I’m walking out of the metro station, looking up and staring at my favourite Gaudi creation in the city – Casa Batllo. A few doors down and I land in my hostel with not a wink of jet lag in sight.
The sight-seeing begins. A bike tour throughout the city. I feel like a local if only it weren’t for the bright orange flag of my guide in front of me. My disguise has been blown, clearly a tourist. Siesta time at the hostel stretches out until about 9. Slowly people emerge and the vino starts to flow. I didn’t plan to go out but an hour later I am in a small group walking through narrow streets in el raval and going into a tiny club where the beats are pumping. It fits maybe 30 people on the dance floor – packed. The drinks are expensive but the tunes are worth it and besides, I’m so excited to be dancing in Barcelona I hardly need a drink! I practiced my Spanish at the bar and told them their drinks were too expensive. A free shot of tequila and my Spanish is paying off.
I pull out Sigi’s golfing dance move and become the favourite of a few local punters who mimic the move and pass me some cerveza.
The next few days pass meandering through the cobbled streets, becoming lost in alleyways with washing hanging overhead, daydreaming in art museums, discovering astonishing architecture and cute tapas bars, siestas, Gaudi and Picasso, and making friends with the kids from South America who work at the hostel.
Partying starts at midnight and we don’t leave for the bars until 2. I get lost in Barcelona at six in the morning with no jacket and no amigos! I forget the rule about not talking to strangers, particularly when you are alone in a foreign city…but my new friend walks me to my street and asks only that I go out dancing the next night!
I do go dancing the next night but forgot about the helpful stranger. Actually, I think I forgot a little too much, such as my bus leaving at 10am for Valencia the next morning. Running through the metro, fumbling for my ticket, buying the wrong ticket, and then buying the wrong ticket again! ARGH! Dragging my suitcase behind me, “?Arc de Triompf?” “?Arc de Triompf?” I miss the bus by one minute so slept on the hostel couch for an hour and arrive in Valencia disoriented and lost, again! But the help of strangers is uncanny and I move into my new room ready for a week of serious studying and a rest from partying…
I miss Barcelona already. After all, my wing is still there.
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