Well here I am!
After a rough start (not finding my hostel, confusing/scaring myself on the ATM machines, being dead tired and going to bed when most of Barcelona was ordering their first “tapes” of the night), I awoke twelve hours later to a new day.
“Off to the museum!” Thought a perky and determined Adam.
So off I went, to see a temporary Courbet exhibit in the Museo de Arte Nacional de Barcelona. After triumphantly conquering the public transportation, I arrived at the museum: closed on Mondays. Oh good. So I sat on the steps and listened to a man sing patriotic ballads on his guitar and watched a man in a green wig and dress blow enormous bubbles (these borbujas would blow you away, Elena and Julia).
And then it started to rain. Oh good.
Feeling a bit depressed and a lot defeated, I took shelter and waited it out. Shopping? Good idea.
I perused the shopping scene only to find that either I wasn’t interested to go inside or too intimidated. Most (read, all) of the stores I wanted to go into had a man in a suit waiting to open the door for people. I got the impression that I couldn’t saunter in, touch everything and just gawk at the prices. But one day…
I continued down to the famous Las Rambles street. Very cool, very bustling. I got lunch at a market there (a “bageta” with ham and cheese and fresh fruit juice), and then kept walking towards the beach.
Now at the beach, I started walking up the boardwalk towards what looked like later-to-be nightlife (it was only around 7). I walked awhile. I started to realize that I would have to walk back. So I turned and went.
Now that it was about 8:30, people started showing up. I started considering dinner, but not until later. I had heard so much about how late these people eat, I wanted to challenge that.
Back up Las Ramblas, I started noticing people sitting in patios with these gigantic sangrias. I wanted one, bad. But I got distracted- street performers.
Two of the best: a flamenco dancer guy who could have stomped a hole through the earth had there been no wood/cardboard/cement beneath him, and a group of breakdancers that made it look like art. I watched them both do both of their acts twice. I was likin’ Barcelona.
Time for sangria- I mean, dinner.
I sat down ordered “Una paella verdura y una sangria larga, como estos” I said pointing to one someone else had. And that’s what I got. My food came at about 11:30 (ha!) and I got my check just after midnight (royal ripoff, by the way, but I saw it coming). Okie doke, time to go home.
Silly Adam, the metro doesn’t run all night!
Well nobody told me!!! I thought Mr. BigPartyCityBarcelona would actually be up all night. What is everybody else supposed to do? So I stood at the bus stop, now nearing 1am, trying to figure out which night bus would get me closest to my hostel. I found a route that went through the general area, but that didn’t feel quite close enough. Wandering through the quiet streets of Barcelona sounded really scary. It was now past 1.
As I was trying to get the bus directions off my hostels website on my phone (which was not working), a group of Germans walked up to the bus stop and discovered that they had the same issue. I heard them say, “eekch doistch faaf koonmpt yahkt eedledorf taxi, ya ya, taxi.” That gave me an idea, I would take a taxi.
Completely wiped out and wanting a safe place to sleep, I bit the bullet and got a cab (in Spanish!) On the way home Shania Twain came on the radio (that don’t impress me much, oh, oh, oh, so ya’ve got the looks, but have ya got the touch, now don’t get me wRAAAOOONG…). Enough to comfort me.
I was dropped off next to my hostel, at that moment, 11,50 euros felt trivial. It was fifteen past two. It struck me then that my hostel might have a curfew… it didn’t. I went to bed.