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.

The Longest Day Yet

After my immune system was ravished by a Diplo concert on Thursday, I stayed in Friday night in order to prepare for a highly anticipated excursion on Saturday. We took an hour train and a 15 minute cable car to Monserrat, a monastery nestled into the edge of a mountain. The hike was presumed to be very lackadaisical with perhaps some great views scattered here and there. We were so unbelievably wrong. Our crew of 20 quickly fragmented and I found myself setting the pace for a group of 7 girls. The set-up had all the makings of a terrible horror movie. The hike brought us up the steep, eroded face of the cliff, through a forest that resonated with the feel of a certain J.R.R. Tolkien trilogy, and finally up a gravely incline. My masculinity occasionally felt threatened, so I stayed in front and frequently exclaimed facts I learned from the Discovery channel in order to establish some sort of intellectual dominance. After an hour, we found ourselves close to our destination. No one was quite sure what we were hiking to, but it had a large point on the map and that was all the motivation we needed. We finally arrived to find a dilapidated chapel. Everyone muttered "Is that it?" as they keeled over in exhaustion. Slightly defeated we meandered past the chapel and discovered perhaps the greatest view I have ever seen in my young life. We sat, speechless peering out over the seemingly endless landscape. The diverse stretches of harsh terrain culminated in snow capped mountains on what may well have been the other side of the world. This moment of serenity was swiftly cut short when we realized we were in danger of missing the last train home. We hustled back down the trail, ignoring any feelings of dizziness that the altitude so crudely delivered.

We made the train in time and everyone passed out almost immediately. Except me. I was in a four seater with three army buddies who were swapping stories of their time in the shit. It gave me a whole new insight to the life of a soldier. For once in my life I fell silent in a roundtable discussion. These guys were talking about their nights on patrol and their barrack shenanigans, I clearly could not interject with any of my pampered college life stories. It was humbling.

The evening continued in a routine fashion. No time to nap, I ate and showered with haste and ventured over to the other residencia to begin the night. I was under the impression we would be trying out a new bar, however, at 1:30am I found myself heading straight for a club called Catwalk. I entered, took a couple laps around and was not surprised to be disappointed once again. The scene was the same convoluted mess that has so often ruined my social motivation. The rooster flask, my trusty companion, kept me away from the bar just long enough to find two girls who were also tired of the locale. We opted to go next door to the casino where we were instantly denied access to the card tables in the basement. We did not let this subdue our spirits, however, and spent the next hour ignorantly pressing the flashing buttons of the Spanish slot machines. Whereas American slot machines have such themes as Wheel of Fortune and the Price is Right, the Spanish apparently got their hands on every machine that the US declined. Specifically, the Stargate Atlantis machine garnered much of my attention on the night. We finished playing and I dropped the girls off at the train station. The walk home was a straight line. However, this straight line was littered with transvestite prostitutes. Their cat calls reverberated off of the ancient walls of Sardenya Street and I could not help but laugh the entire way back. I arrived to find my door wide open. I entered, expecting to see my roommate innocently passed out in his bed. I was met, instead, by a whole different scene. I slyly shuffled my way back out the door. I was now in sexile. I went down to the common room and played ping pong with a sprightly man named Pablo for 30 minutes. I returned to find my room still occupied. I fell asleep in the stairwell for a bit until I finally was able to enter and lay atop my rock hard bed.

Clubs. How I love to hate them.

Let me begin this post by apologizing for the background picture of this blog. I don't think the "heroin addict's apartment" feel was really what I was going for. I will attempt to change it but all the editing options are in incomprehensible spanish.
Clubs- the fogged up cesspools that so douchily don the names Sutton, Duvet, and Opium are the epitome of the wasted American youth abroad. Do not get me wrong, I appreciate a good night at the club as much as anyone, but it is a matter of quality over quantity. I have been semi-successful at shooting down nightly club excursions by opting for hearty nights in the beer halls, but sometimes it is just unavoidable. It is comparable to a new age interpretation of Hemingway's "A Well Lighted Place." In it, Hemingway proclaims his distaste for places that try too hard to establish an atmosphere. He argues that they are not intellectually or socially stimulating. The same may go for the current club scene. I will take a pitcher of beer and a soccer game over a 15 dollar gin and tonic and a washed up stripper dancing in an over-sized martini glass. Yet there are hoards of people who just can't get enough.
 My classes are filled with New Jersey bred, Penn State educated, finance majors who swap rehashed club stories every morning. I am not sure what is fading quicker- the sides of their crew cuts or their chances at a decent job. Not only are these kids spending 200 euro a night, but by doing so they are sleeping through the day and not touring the city. I believe in the "to each his own" mentality but that is nothing but a waste of an experience. On a similar note, since when is it acceptable to wear a deep v with a blazer? Those douche bags don't get called out but when I tie my wind-breaker around my waste it is as if I just contracted leprosy. If these are our ambassadors to Europe, then I am deeply embarrassed to be American. They are ignorant to any world history or culture and they have inane, 8th grade based humor. I have already come to appreciate how fantastic the Mid-West really is.

Introduction

Perhaps the most vital thing I can tell you at this moment is that this blog will attempt to shy away from the stereotypical rants that many other travelers frequently write. It will avoid touristy reviews and suggestions and will hopefully highlight the shenanigans and cultural predicaments I may stumble into. For those of you who do not know my writing style, it is abrupt, light hearted and desperately existential at points. For those of you who don't know me, I have an unearned sense of confidence, no filter, and I have an unhealthy addiction of trying to command a room. This preliminary post is much longer than any of its predecessors due to the fact that I have already been in Barcelona for a week. This first post will also deal more with the city in order to give you an idea of my surroundings. Hopefully pictures will be a rare occurence. I am embracing the true challenge here of making you see this world through my highly elevated eyes.
In Midnight in Paris, undoubtedly my favorite movie of 2011, Owen Wilson's character says,
"..how is anyone ever going to come up with a book, or a painting, or a symphony, or a sculpture that can compete with a great city. You can't. Because you look around and every street, every boulevard, is its own special art form.."
This statement was poignant when I first saw the film, however, it is now resonating on a whole new level. The rounded street corners, stylized balconies, and open air eateries create a catacomb of culure unlike anything I have experienced. Entering the Gothic Quarter at dusk is an immediate transportation to a world that I only thought existed in film and literature. As you aimlessly wander the car-less avenues, each corner spurs a sense of excitement. The atmospheric contradiction of shadowy figures in the distance and the smell of fresh baked bread trapped within the medieval corridors heightens your senses and baffles your intuition.
Every day puts forth a undeniable vibe of summer. All the shops close from 2pm to 5pm and the streets empty as people return home for lunch or stroll to the nearest park or beach. The parks are one of the two things that have amazed me most in my short time here. You can locate one within two blocks of wherever you may be in the city. And these parks are not your run-of-the-mill American swing set, slide, and a field set up. No. Even the most disregarded parks in Barcelona have some beautiful architectual achievement emerging from their core. I had always believed that Chicago's emphasis on architecture was strong, however, it does not measure up to what I have witnessed here. The second thing that has astounded me about this city are the dogs. No leashes, no pooper scoopers, no problems. Dogs promptly trot along side their owners and exchange looks of tranquility and respect to other canines as they pass. There are no ferocious territory battles and I haven't heard a bark yet. Perhaps their contentment lies in the fact that they can shit wherever they so please.