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.