Regular Morning in Barcelona

The plan for today was the following: get up, check out, put stuff in car. Find café with internet for breakfast, find non-hostel in Valencia for the night. Locate Euros from a Citibank. Buy Rey a green tie and pair of black shoes. And finally, find an electronics store to end the ipod-free radio insanity. All of this happened, in addition to me learning how to drive in round-abouts. I don’t mean the happy little things in small, northern-California towns. I mean the massive free-for-alls that litter Spanish (and if I remember correctly, every other Spanish-speaking country’s) cities.

Actually, we didn’t find any black shoes for Rey. But everything else happened. I also decided I wanted an Amelia Earhart hat, possibly because I was just about as cold as could be (the blue skies and sun had tricked me into thinking it was warm…leading me to not wear enough clothing, hence the jacket zipped up like I'm tomb raiding or star trekking…). I found the perfect hat, but the store was closed for lunch til 5 so we put the AE hat, along with the black shoes, into the next day’s list.

Although not on our list, we welcomed a stumble across the liberation of a wild balloon swarm. I recommend such an event so highly that, when combined with a life-long fear of killing both bird and fish with such an engagement, I have been inspired to create fish food- (for watery regions) or fertilizer- (for landy regions) based balloon.

Actually, we didn’t find an electronics store either. But it was a nice, sunny, not so long drive to Valencia and the Holiday Inn welcomed us with a nice, sunny front desk lady who spoke to me in Spanish even with my terrible Mexicamerican accent and even though she spoke English. And, unlike the Barcelona hostel, there was no squatter in Rey’s bed upon his arrival. And my shower had been cleaned at some point this year. And there was a watercooker. So I made some coffee.

Early, Early Morning in Barcelona

I picked up the Peugeot in Lindau, Germany in a fluffy snow storm a little before 10am. I drove slowly to get used to the car, the weather, the infrastructure, the GPS. Tom, a friend from school, gave me a crash course in German and Swiss road signs and driving etiquette and I tried to balance my new knowledge with not caring so I didn’t get too stressed out. Unfortunately my ipod adapter didn’t work, but I jammed out to Austrian radio (for some reason I tend to prefer it over German or Swiss) and felt very at home and comfortable (minus the aforementioned car, weather, infrastructure, GPS) almost like I was back in California in my Honda with Latino 96.3. The snow let up just long enough to pick up Rey (another friend from school & my co-pilot for the first, week-long leg of my trip) and the ridiculous amount of luggage a rental car enabled. By 11, we were off.

It was a long drive. A vicious, unmanned BP gas station in French Switzerland ate 80 dollars of cash without giving me any gas in return, helping me realize how much more German than French I speak. (Write this one down: 'Gaz' means 'Natural Gas' not 'Gasoline'.) (Oh, and don’t let me forget to mail in those receipts to get my money back.)

I had hoped to make it to above freezing temperatures before dark, and although measuring distance in kilometers instead of miles makes the journey go by much faster, it wasn’t until 11 pm, just outside of Barcelona, that the temperature finally hit a degree (Celsius). This was also about the time that two other great sources of stress were relieved (well, three if you count distance from destination): the radio became constant (providing unrelenting electronica instead of intermittent static, French babble and Christmas songs) and what I have come to regard as the largest, windiest place in the world ended. Proof that only time can give: my arms are actually sore now from trying to keep my Cowboy Windbox [see Peugot Partner Tepee. Yes, that is what my car is called.] inside one lane.

We dropped our stuff at the hostel, which brought back all of my summer promises never to stay in such an establishment again and planted a vow to find some other sleeping venue for my next few stops. At nearly 2am the streets of Las Ramblas, a large pedestrian area in the city, were chilly and void of all but the finest of characters. They maintained an unmistakable air of intention about them however. I imagined they sang something like this: para siglos detrás y siglos delante, he dado la aventura únicamente para las almas silvestres quien la anhelan. (Or in the blandness that is English: for hundreds of years I have been and will continue to facilitate adventure late into the night for those curious souls who wish to enjoy it.) The alleys are tunnels practically dug into apartment buildings, churches and Christmas decorations. In every corner is tucked a ghostly park or a perfect hole of a bar or enchanting little restaurant, the last of which we ducked into as soon as possible...the Bolognase-flavored chips and Mom's gingersnaps had warn off after the twelfth or so hour of wind wrestling. We walked out of dinner at nearly 3am, an incredibly agreeable feeling after the last few months with the incredibly unagreeable Swiss consumption hours. (i.e. want to eat after 6p? on Sunday? there is one, single, sad place for you: the gas station. Enjoy your pretzel.)

Leaving tomorrow!