Finding My Fix: Chronicles of a Travel Junkie

Barcelona won the European Cup. Thousands of Spaniards, Brazilenos, and even Arsnel fans flocked to the city’s bars to witness the event. And in Barcelona it was the event of a lifetime. Sitting in a bar with a beer and temporary friends, cigar smoke rising from the floor below, heads glued to the big screens mounted on the walls, fans from both sides and from neither side came together with an energy unparalleled in the US and definitely in New Zealand.

I sat with four new English friends and a Russian. Being American, from a country that couldn’t care less about a European soccer game, I got to root for the winning team. So Barcelona it was.

Decked out in blue and red stripes, Barcelona fans jumped and yelled for joy and hugged each other, and flooded the streets headed for La Rambla. And then the explosions started, the fireworks and the glow of orange flares, and drums and chanting and dancing and blasting of horns. Traffic lights were torn down. Fans climbed light posts and trees to string up their flags–Barcelona, Senegal, Brazil, Catalunya.

Men stood by tins of ice and beer selling for a euro or two. Hands were loose and found their way to pockets and purses and asses and other hands in celebration. The entire Rambla was packed tight. The English fans couldn’t be depressed for a moment with that kind of fiesta.

According to my Russian friend, the next morning the news stations around Europe broadcast these images, and reported how unsafe La Rambla was that night. But the next day, the streets were sparkling clean and the decapatated light posts had been removed. If it weren’t for the few hardcore fans roaming the streets with their banners and blow horns, no one would know what had happened the night before.

What a wonderful time to come to Barcelona on a whim. I had no idea until an hour before just how wonderful my timing had been. See why having only flexible plans is a good thing??? And now I have again settled into the travel routine, overcome the culture shock, the loneliness, and stepped back out of my shell. And I can painlessly skip down European streets with my 10 kilo pack fitted to the curves of my back. No regrets now!

Estoy enamorada de Barcelona. ¡Es una ciudad increíble!

I have fallen in love. And with whome? With Barcelona. From the minute I arrived, I have been in heaven. It was wonderful to arrive in Spain, get the passport stamp, get my baggage and launch into Spanish. Now, it was a bit surprising to see signs for the “sortida” rather than la “salida.” All of the signs here are in Catalan, and some of the shop keepers have spoken only Catalan. But otherwise, the Spaniards are surprisingly easy to understand, a million times easier than any carribeano o sudamericano.

My pensión, La Pensión Mari-Luz, is on a quiet street in the heart of the Barrio Gótic. You enter through an enormous gothic black door into a courtyard, and climb stone steps that snake up to the right and branch off in different directions. And my room has a balcony that looks out onto the street. The Spanish know how it´s done, how to beat the heat with cool stone courtyards.

The streets in the Barri are a maze of stone alleyways that wind among beautiful six and seven story buildings. They all have balconies with shuddered windows and cascading flowers. And vespas buz among the pedestrians. Motor scooters are the only thing that will fit down these narrow streets.

Across La Rambla there is a market that has been around for a hundred years or more. It´s enormous with stands of fresh fruits and vegetables, nuts, fish, wine, preserves, olives, fresh spices, the kind of unpackaged freshness you won´t find on any grocery store shelf.

And the Spanish themselves, or the Cataluñans, are friendly, respectful people. They are gorgeous people, on the whole probably the most attractive Europeans I´ve ever seen. They dress well, but without trying too terribly hard. They seem more laid back than the French about appearance. And they look entirely diverse from natural blondes to died blondes to brunettes, from white skin to dark skin. There are also a good number of Indians and muslims wearing colorful headscarves, some covering their entire face except their eyes.

And they´re not afraid to make a little noise. Out my window between the bursts of vespas rumbling by and the street cleaners with their hoses, I hear Barceloneans laughing and shouting to each other.

On a final note, men here are surprisingly respectful, well mostly.  When I ask them for directions, they act annoyed, but on the street I’ve recieved next to no harrassment of any kind, nor have I witnessed any.  I have, however, recieved the occasional suggestive “hola.”  But all in all, I feel safer in Barcelona than I do in New York City.  I will definitely be returning to this city as soon as possible.  Would six months be enough for me to learn Catalan and become fluent in Spanish?