Barcelona: It's not you, it's me

I loved Barcelona. I tried paella and cava for the first time, which is stronger than you would think or maybe I'm just a "very cheap date," like Sarah said.

The palm trees reminded me of LA.



I saw what I had to see. As expected, Gaudi blew me away.

I also had an awesome partner in crime tour guide who thought it would be a good idea to search for a movie theater in the middle of nowhere just so we could watch "New Moon" in English. After an hour of wandering around and asking for directions, we found it and laughed throughout the entire thing, earning the silent wrath of everyone around us. (Glittery vampires are funny. So is crap acting. End of story.)

The rooftop of Casa Batlló, my favorite Gaudi building.

Looking out to Passeig de Gràcia during the audio tour.

I haven't finished uploading all my pictures yet but here are a few.

I bet you if I had a Mini, I would never miss a flight.

I spent my last few hours in Barcelona at this place. It's in Barri Gòtic, the city's Gothic quarter (think dark, narrow and winding streets). Order the chai tea with Baileys. You'll thank me later.

We all need happy pills, every now and then.

I bought this Banksy tote bag in a store near Park Güell. CINCO EUROS, PEOPLE. I love me some cheap Banksy. I used it to carry all the stuff that didn't fit in my bag.

....

So Barcelona was great and I had a lot of fun BUT...

There's always a but.

I've spent the last couple of days formulating an opinion about Barcelona and I've come to the conclusion that it is a beautiful cosmopolitan city I could never live in.

Queeeeeee, you say? Estas loca! Maybe. But venturing up north was really eye-opening, in many ways. It made me realize just how traditional Madrid really is. I like traditional.

You know what else I like? I like it when waiters at restaurants reply to me in Spanish when I order in Spanish. (I'm looking at you, waiter at Les Quinze Nits who replied in English to my Spanish, repeatedly. SERIOUSLY? IS MY SPANISH NOT SPANISH ENOUGH FOR YOU? OR IS IT BECAUSE I DON'T SPEAK CATALAN? AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE KITCHEN CLOSES IN FIVE MINUTES SO WE HAVE TO ORDER NOW?)

Ahem, moving on.

There were moments when riding the metro that I felt like I had stepped into a dark, post-apocalyptic world. It didn't feel like I was in Spain.

As much as I loved it, I kept glancing at my watch on Sunday night. I was aching to get back to Madrid. When I was roused by the pilot who said we would be landing in 10 minutes, I was so happy. I was going home, to the non-scary metro!



The following day, I was waiting for the train home when a woman approached me. I took out my ear buds. She was lost and needed to get to Diego de Leon (Line 6). I told her how to get there from Line 1. As she walked away, I wondered why -- out of all the other people standing on the platform, not listening to music -- she asked me for directions.



I think it's starting to happen. I'm being mistaken for a Madrileña.

You had to be there

In a dark room in Vilafranca del Penedès. It is 1 a.m.

Stephanie: I'm cold.
Raisa: [Mumbles, shuffles out of bed and turns on the lights]

A minute passes.

Raisa appears at the foot of Stephanie's bed, struggling to unfold a thick Jacquard- woven fabric.

Stephanie: [squinting] That's a...curtain.

[There is a pause]

Raisa: [Blinks a couple of times]

[Uproarious laughter]

END SCENE.

Planes, trains and Gaudi

I missed my flight to Barcelona yesterday. It wasn't anyone's fault, really. I was on time but the metro ran late that morning. As it turns out, five minutes can make a huge difference. I arrived at the gate as the plane was pulling away.

It happens.

Out of the handful of people who also missed the 7 a.m. flight, I was the only one who didn't get hysterical or raise her voice. I think I just sighed, freaked out for a second and then asked, "When's the next flight?"

Being calm and polite worked wonders on the Vueling employees. They asked me where I was from ("your last name is SO Spanish!") and gave me tips on how to get to the airport for a morning flight (take a taxi). One of them even wrote my boarding pass, by hand.

While I waited for my flight, I took some pictures of Terminal 4 at Barajas.





As soon as I got there (30-minute flight!), Raya took me to the 9th floor of El Corte Ingles for lunch and the breathtaking panoramic view of the city.




Even with most of the morning lost, I saw Sagrada Familia, Casa Milà, Plaza Catalunya, Plaza España (all the pretty fountains!) and Casa Batlló.

Riding the lift was the best part.



Today? Park Güell and Las Ramblas.

De viaje: Barcelona

I'm spending the weekend in Barcelona. I haven't left Madrid since I got here so it will be nice to be a tourist again. I'm really looking forward to Gaudi, Las Ramblas, paella and the Mediterranean. I don't care how cold it is, I'm going in for a swim.

I'm also excited to see Raya! One of my oldest friends (4th grade, people!), she's the happiest, most sane person I know who gives me giggle fits. The kind where I can't breathe and someone better hold me or else I'M GOING DOWN.

I have 72 hours to see as much as I can. There won't be much sleeping but that's what caffeine is for, right?

p.s. It's going to be hard to walk around the city without at least humming this tune.

(photo via Movie of the Week)

I don't need a Nikon. I have an Erin.

"Don't move."

I froze by the antique mirrors.

Erin adjusted her lens and took the picture.

I love having photography crazy friends because I'm that person who takes pictures and never uploads them.



Luckily for me, I have Erin and her fancy shmancy camera, which she brought to El Rastro on Sunday. She kept apologizing for trailing behind or waiting for the perfect shot.



I had a Dorian Gray connection with this painting. The grumpy old man selling it knocked the price down to 20 euros but the voice of reason told me to walk away. I thought about how my sister would feel about having to haul this back to the States. You're welcome, Jen.

At least I have a picture of it.

(photos by the lovely Erin Birney, who by the way fellas, looks a LOT like Kirsten Dunst. A single, drug-free Kirsten Dunst)

The Metro Striptease

There is something truly wondrous about El Rastro before 10 a.m. Stray dogs run about the cobblestone streets as vendors set up their stands for another Sunday. Old men step outside for the day's first cigarette and for some fresh air, which already smells of leather.

But pretty soon, the place is filled with tourists, which is why I left earlier than usual this morning because finding particular stands is a lot harder when you're being elbowed/pushed/trampled.

The metro was pretty empty and I was sleepy but excited about the day ahead. I sat down next to two men, who were speaking English (my guess was that they were Scottish).

At Callao, three men boarded the train. They looked funny. Pretty soon I realized they were drunk. Let me remind you that it was around 9 a.m.

Now, I've dealt with drunks and with metro crazies (I rode the metro on Halloween night), but nothing could've prepared me for what happened next.

One of the men was clearly more drunk than the others. He refused to sit down and he started clapping. Everyone looked at him in disgust or with annoyance. I didn't look at him. I picked a spot on the floor and stared at it. I was only two stops away from La Latina. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

But then he started stripping. RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.

He took off his sweater, swung it a couple of times above his head and let it fall to the ground. He did the same with his shirt. And then he went for his belt.

If he pulls down his pants, I thought, I could easily kick him in the gnads.

Everyone looked on, horrified. I felt everyone staring at me. Part of me wanted to laugh and part of me wanted to die. I kept staring at the floor.

I had two options: I could get up and walk to the door (and give him the satisfaction of knowing he had made me uncomfortable) or ignore, ignore, ignore!

I chose the latter.

The next thing you know, there's a shirtless guy thrusting his pelvis in my direction, roaring and about to fall down. The men next to me shifted uncomfortably in their seats. His friends asked him to sit down and behave. Instead, he started swinging from the handrail and set off a sensor.

As soon as we reached La Latina, I made a beeline for the door. The Scottish men were right behind me.

"It's too early for some people," I said over my shoulder, as the train came to a stop.

"No kidding."

Roommates

(photo via songbirds)

I spent most of today wandering around IKEA with Eli. We seemed to forget that we were riding the metro home so we kept throwing things into the cart. Wine glasses! Salad utensils! Pillows! A brand new down comforter! A full-length mirror!

Oh yes we did.

We bought all of that (and MORE) and managed not to break/lose anything on the metro. But the walk from IKEA to the metro stop was a slow one, because Eli was sore from this morning's run.

Amateur.

On the metro, we sat across each other to protect our Swedish goods. We spent the entire ride complaining of hunger and catching yawns from one another.

....

I remember thinking during my flight to Madrid, what if we don't get along? What if she's weird? I was so tired and nervous when I arrived at Barajas that rainy afternoon, scanning the faces at the gate, looking for someone -- who exactly, I didn't know. I was wearing my blue coat and a scarf, just like I said I would. A girl stared at me long and hard. I thought it was her, until she looked away. Sorry, wrong stranger.

And then I saw a piece of paper with my name on it and the dark-haired girl holding it looked at me and I just knew. I waved and smiled. So did she.

As brain dead as I was, I noticed how surprised she looked. I asked her why a couple of nights later, when we'd stay up until 2 a.m. sharing our life stories with nothing but the light from a reading lamp to illuminate our faces.

She said she was expecting someone entirely different.

"What do you mean, different?"

"You know, like those girls from LA. Paris Hilton, dog-carrying types."

"Ah."