Barcelona's Weird Attempt at Disneyland

Tibidabo is a mountain on the fringe of Barcelona that is famous for its views, church, and ancient amusement park. This is my last weekend in Barcelona so I figured I would cross off the final item on my To-Do checklist and enjoy what it had to offer. We all awoke in the afternoon feeling abysmal. Spirits were low as we took three trains, a trolley, and a lift up to the park. Upon arrival, our mood instantly changed. The amusement park was not the run down, tacky, mess that I expected, but instead, a very legitimate, wonderfully designed complex of classic rides. After admiring the views, we purchased the all day ticket for the rides and slightly descended down the mountain, unable to wipe the smiles off our faces. We began with bumper cars, and the hilariousness commenced. We followed that with the chair swing carousel which twirled you over the edge of the mountain, circularly gliding you above the park. It was inexplicably euphoric.

We then attempted to go on some sort of flipping, spinning contraption, but I was stopped at the front and told I could not partake due to my height. I watched from the sidelines. It was humiliating. We made our way through the Pirate ship swing, two roller coasters, and a log flume. We had time for one more ride and hesitantly chose the haunted house. It was called “Krueger’s Hotel” and appeared to have not been culturally updated since 1986. This was appealing to me. We waited far too long and eventually entered with our enthusiasm at a pretty low level. At first, the actors spoke Catalan and wore ridiculous face make-up. We could not help but laugh. However, things quickly turned around and we found ourselves transported into the setting of movies like Silence of the Lambs, the Exorcist, A Nightmare on Elm Street, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Friday the 13^th. One after another, the settings changed drastically to perfectly match the movie’s atmosphere. The actors had no moral code; they swung their blades inches from your face and cornered you relentlessly, shrieking and moaning with all their might.

The piece-de-resistance was the second to last room. It was a dark, unassuming child’s bedroom. Beneath the window sat an array of dolls. This was it, my 5 year-old self’s worst nightmare. I knew what was coming. Suddenly, one of the dolls stood up. A little person dressed as Chuckie drew a knife and sprinted our way. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed. Afterwards, we descended the mountain and stopped at an all you can eat Chinese buffet for dinner.  I am writing this, bracing myself for the digestional storm that is heading my way.

Ruined in Rome

Homelessness is something that has surrounded me my whole life. However, until my visit to Rome I didn’t realize the horrors that it brings. Upon returning from Florence, my friend Lawson and I found that our presupposed spots on our friend’s floor were no longer an option. They had decided to travel for the weekend in order to avoid the hectic atmosphere of Easter in Rome. Due to that fact, almost all the hostels were taken except for an unrated bed and breakfast on the other side of the city. It was 40 euros for the night so we braced ourselves for sketchiness as we took the terrible Roman public transportation further and further out of the city center. We arrived in the sweltering afternoon heat, only to find an unassuming apartment building with a small, hand written “Bed and Breakfast” label next to the buzzer of the 4^th floor. I rang it with a sigh only to receive no answer. We stood there, allowing the feeling of hopelessness to sink in slowly. Finally, an old woman with a heinous amount of facial hair exited and used her phone to call the owner of 402. Ten minutes later we were greeted and let in to a surprisingly nice bed and breakfast.

We used the rest of the day to tour the city, culminating in a Pope sighting at the Coliseum for the Stations of the Cross. The giddy nuns and priests placed amid an atmosphere that was entirely ominous created a spectacle I doubt I will witness again. We slept at the B&B that night and were kicked out the next morning at 11am. Our flight was not until 7am Sunday morning and we were what society would call “homeless.” We talked our way into keeping our luggage at the B&B until midnight but had to occupy ourselves during the day. We were out of energy, money, and things to see. This resulted in perhaps the longest day of my life. Highlights included playing cards and reading in Plazas, falling asleep on a sidewalk next to the river, waking up dusted in irritable pollen and seeking shelter in the Pantheon from the unwelcome Italian rain. It was hell. We picked up our bags at midnight and had to wait an hour for a taxi. This time was spent at a gelato shop where we drank the remainder of their seemingly untouched Jack Daniels bottle. By 2am we arrived at the airport only to be greeted by locked doors. We, however, were not giving up after coming this far. On the third try we got the attention of a machinegun-clad, Italian soldier who graciously checked our passports and let us sleep on the marble floor. We awoke, boarded, landed, and returned home with nothing but a bitter taste in our mouths from the putrid ending to our Spring Break.

Beaning on the Coast

The Almafi Coast- I only knew it as that place where Matt Damon killed Jude Law with an oar, however that was my destination for the first leg of my Spring Break. Thirteen people, including myself, rented out a villa just outside of Positano for the first weekend in April. To say it surpassed my expectations is an understatement. The Villa sat alone on a treacherous road, perched along the jagged decline of the coast, peering out upon the chilly Mediterranean. Its permanent residents were a never-ending family of Italian simpletons. The woman of the house was at least eighty years young and was still doing daily farming and household chores. She spoke no English but loved to smile and tug on your ear, it was fantastically stereotypical. The villa had a chicken coop, lemon trees, and a herd of sheep, led by the aptly named Clementine. Our openly rambunctious crew brought nothing but positive vibes, and that made all the difference. It was four days of lounging, drinking, leisure-diving, and soaking in the 360 degrees of nature that sensationally overwhelmed one’s senses. Behind us, the evergreen drenched mountains climbed into the clouds, disappearing into what we called “King Kong Land”. The face of the coast was littered with vegetation reaching off the rocky façade, extending their limbs to the warm Mediterranean sun. In the distance a small island rested alone, garnering the name “Shutter Island.” It was a weekend that no one wanted to end, however, with another day we would have assuredly run out of food and momentum. Nonetheless, I was willing to proclaim it as one of the enjoyable memories of my life only minutes after watching it disappear behind the first bend of the coast.

The European Sun Feels Strangely American

The home stretch of my abroad journey is now beginning. These final five weeks are going to be a blur of sketchy airlines, cramped trains, and language barriers. However, it all starts with my family’s arrival to Barcelona tomorrow. As my Facebook News Feed has so thoroughly informed me, it has been in the 70’s and 80’s in Chicago the past two weeks. During that time, Barcelona has stayed consistently beautiful. Temperatures have flirted with the 70’s and not a single drop of rain has fallen upon the city in over four weeks. So it is only fair that on the eve of my parent’s arrival, a seven day rain marathon is set to commence. This poorly-timed precipitation has inspired me to provide you with insight into a typical sunny day in Barcelona.

Firstly, the lazy option for such a day is my rooftop pool deck. Like the rest of my residencia, it is garnished with broken Ikea furniture and contains a sickening array of primary colors. I retreat there between or after classes to soak in a ray or two, convincing myself that my inevitable paleness can be altered. Beforehand, I venture down to the market around the corner and fetch a sixer of Bud-Heavy. The warmth of the sun coupled with the refreshing taste of America is a temptation I cannot deny.  We drink, talk, and gaze out over the ancient city until the sun is finally consumed by the distant mountains.

Another alternative for a beautiful day is the park. The sprawling lawns of the park are full of an eclectic mix of race and social standing. This is a prime spot for people watching. You can listen to a man play the didgeridoo while watching fire twirlers and Tom Cruise inspired bartenders practice their moves. It is more than ideal for a hilariously stereotypical European picnic.

However, the place to be on a sunny day is undeniably the beach.  The same portion of beach that hosts staggering club goers at night, transforms into an American safe haven in the daylight. The same clubs that blast nightly house music, instead play classic rap and other audible remnants of last decade’s pop-culture. This music, coupled with football and volleyball games seemingly transports you from a Mediterranean Beach to an American boardwalk. Only the inexorable Pakistani beach merchants serve as obnoxious reminders that you are, in fact, still in Barcelona.

I currently have that undeserved feeling of guilt for the weather my family is about to experience. But I believe that a truly great city is still great in the rain. Starting tomorrow, my family will put that outlook to the test.

The Return of El Tuna Grande

In the overly quoted words of the early 2000’s band Staind- it’s been a while.  My literary hiatus is not as much accredited to laziness as it is to the fact that I simply don’t feel comfortable telling glory stories of whacky adventures. I didn’t want this to be that kind of blog. I didn’t want to be that kind of guy. However, a man has to write, and I have bottled up that urge for long enough. Allow me to update you from the last post. I was semi-successful at avoiding the clubs for a period of time, during which I found a bar attached to the wax museum that had a “Midsummers Night Dream” theme to it (I called it a grown up Rainforest Café) as well as an 80’s bar called Polaroid, in which classic movies are projected onto the wall, E.T. and his bicycle hang from the ceiling, and a playlist that would make Patrick Bateman proud fills the air. However, my bar exploration did not last long. I am now back into the weekly club rotation, however, I am slightly more optimistic about it. I am sticking mainly to the two clubs on the beach, Shoko and Opium, where you are able to meander in the sand and return back into the club through the back door. I spend most of my time on the beach, gazing at the city, carelessly drinking 1 euro beers sold to me by the relentless hoards of Pakistani beach merchants. It is walking distance from my apartment and it is definitely a scene I can dig. Friday, however, we ventured to a scummy little venue called Otto Zutz. Usually a Monday night spot, it was at full force Friday night and it was as sloppy as ever. I am confident that I attributed to the debauchery more than others. The highlight of my evening was when I positioned myself on a structural beam in the middle of the dance floor and gave a relentless performance of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” After the act, I channeled my inner Mulan and attempted to shimmy up said beam only to fall 15 feet onto the already parted dancefloor. Needless to say, the past two days have not been very comfortable. After the club, I found myself wandering through an unknown neighborhood, searching for a metro stop. I finally stumbled across one and was greeted on the train by two European men who asked if I wanted to “go to a party with a lot of hot girls.” In the hypothetical “Going Abroad 101” manual, you are told to always say no to this. But I wanted to see where this was going. Burger King, that’s where. They bought me three burgers and a beer on La Rambla. They stepped away for some reason and I decided it was time to flake out and go home. I did just that and made it back just before the judging glare of the morning sun.

The Speak Easy

In a valiant attempt to break away from the club scene, my buddy Geoff, three girls and I decided to take the night in a different direction. We began with a fantastic dinner in the Gothic Quarter around 11pm. We then stumbled around the harbor area in search of an elusive blues bar. Finally we saw the shady moniker in the distance and weaved through an array of strange, cigarette-equipped characters just to reach the door. We stumbled down the spiral staircase into the basement of this ancient building. Called “La Monasterio,” the place was literally an old brick monastery with a stage and a bar thrown in for good measure. They played all the blues classics. However, where they lacked in their inability to pronounce the English lyrics, they made up for with their high energy and perfect rhythm. A homeless man relentlessly attempted to play his harmonica on the stage and, instead of kicking him out, they silenced him with a beer at the bar. That is a perfect testament to the attitude of this city.

Near the end of the show we met a man from Boston who is teaching English to young children here. After some surface-level chit chat he told us it was his birthday. We quickly realized that this poor guy was alone in a foreign city on his big day, so we initiated a new motive for the night. We asked if there was any late night bars to go that weren’t clubs and after a second of pondering, he explained that he knew of a secret place. The blues bar closed at 2:30am and we staggered down the bustling streets to a large square. Our new friend walked to the middle and contemplated where this secret saloon was located. Finally, we saw people with a similar plan and followed them from a distance. In the corner of the square there was an inconspicuous apartment door. These girls rang the bell of the second floor and were immediately buzzed in. We followed them up the stairs and we were met by a mountain of a man and a heavy wooden door. He gave us a nod and swung open the door to reveal a speak-easy straight out of the pages of an Ernest Hemingway novel. The lights were impossibly dim and the walls were clad with pipe collections, old ships, and dusty portraits. The music was low and was almost drowned out by the high level of conversation going on in every direction. We worked our way into the back rooms that contained an ancient, yet resilient, wooden bar, manned by a small woman who seemed incapable of expressing any sort of emotion. The next room contained a slightly undersized pool table and we were met with glares as we entered. Knowing our place we avoided the pool room for the rest of the night and posted up a table. Since conversation was encouraged, I found myself in my element. Shortly after arrival, I was standing in a circle containing an Australian, a German, an Englishman, an Italian, and a 50 year old man from the Congo. Our banter was at a high level; however, I cannot remember a single thing we talked about. I do, however, remember a heated drinking contest between the Englishman, the German, and myself.  I lost by about a quarter of a second. I have never been more ashamed. I then assumed a spot next to the man from the Congo at the bar and we exchanged general life stories accompanied by shots of Jack. The rest of the evening went by in a blur until I found myself with my new Bostonian friend and the others walking down La Rambla at 6am, beers in hand. The city was incredibly alive at such an ungodly hour as I made my way back to my rock hard bed. I will attempt to return to that unnamed hole-in-the-wall, however, I feel as though I have forgotten its location or it simply won’t exist any longer.

Touche, Paris

My initial thoughts of seeing all of Paris in three days were extremely confident. However, now I realize I must have been delirious. The city is a whirlwind of cultural chaos. Every building deserves praise; however, it seems to be cast in the shadow of whatever structure stands next to it. Not to say that the beauty of buildings and art is under appreciated but they are hardly given the notoriety and space that they each deserve. There is no better example of this than The Louvre. We spent a staggering six hours there on Saturday and I felt as though my mind was fried within the first 45 minutes. Incredible works of art blend into the ornate walls as they hang within inches of equally beautiful paintings. And once you circumnavigate a room, you crank your neck upwards to find a breathtaking mural on the ceiling trimmed with ornate, wooden molding. In a wave of anxiety, I eventually had to exit the halls of portraits and I made my way to the open courtyard, thinking some open space and a few statues would give my mind a rest. To my dismay the gargantuan, yet graceful, marble masterpieces were so cluttered that I swear I saw Hermes’ out reached hand touching that of Hercules. I found myself staring at the ground at times just in order to rest my senses.

Enough about art. The true interest I had in the trip was to see the people. America is given such negative portrayals of the French that I just had to see for myself if they were true. I brushed up on my Ricky Bobby quotes and anticipated a couple Peppe Le Pew references in order to keep my patriotism alive. But to my surprise, I was not confronted by the hatred that I had expected. Perhaps I blended into the crowd better in Paris, but I most definitely receive more glares here in Barcelona than I did during my time in France. The only anti-American remark I received was from a young, drunk man stumbling to the metro. And to be honest, that would have most likely happened to a Frenchman in the States. I have extended family in Paris who I visited on Sunday. They were incredibly nice and welcoming to someone whom they had never met and it gave me a chance to compare ideas with locals who would respect my thoughts. I brought up the idea that perhaps the French and Americans are so similar, in respect to national pride, that it makes it impossible for us to get along. It is the same mentality that can be attributed to the fans of two rival sports franchises. However, they pointed out to me that the biggest problem the French have with America are not the everyday people, but rather, the way our government was run. The conversation ended there in order to avoid going into a less than desirable lunch conversation.

Midnight beneath the Eiffel Tower, drinks in the Latin Quarter, and strong drinks at Jazz joints made the trip a fantastic experience. But I don’t think I can label it a complete success. My biggest regrets from the trip were pretty glaring. Firstly, I traveled with two girls. I can’t help but sound sexist saying that was a little rough. I could have used a bro, to say the least. Not that I didn’t enjoy their company, but frequent bathroom breaks and contradicting plans created a slight tension in the trio. Secondly, I needed someone who speaks French. I have never been somewhere where I haven’t known the language and I found it to be incredibly frustrating. Of course, I made an attempt with simple words and phrases and I could tell that the French appreciated the effort.