The day started out a bit rocky, what with the inevitable hangover from copious wine drinking and just about everything being closed. After all, Sundays are a legal holiday in Europe. We split up and roamed around the city, some in search of clothes, some in search of shoes, some for tacky souvenirs; all in search of a buzz. Reconvening at the apartment in the evening, we solidified our plans for the night.
The plan: Head to Plaça Catalunya to ring in the new year, then off to a club to party 'til the wee hours.
We got to Plaça Catalunya in time to eat our 12 grapes at midnight (a Spanish tradition), chug a bottle of cava, and watch an unimpressive fireworks display with thousands upon thousands of drunks. The people-watching alone was priceless. Watching drunks stumble over the riot barricades should be a spectator sport.
We quickly made our escape to the Metro station to catch a train out to the 'burbs and Razzmatazz, a sprawling 4-clubs-in-one complex for their New Year's Eve party. Of all the parties in town, this was among the most reasonable: €32 for two drinks, a commemorative t-shirt, and watching Andy Rourke (bassist of the Smiths) spin a set behind the decks. Or rather, his iBook.
It was one sloppy night. Pours here are stiff. We're talking half a tall glass filled with booze on each round, even with the included drink tickets. It didn't take many cocktails to get shitfaced. Most of us got separated for much of the night, making for an ordeal getting organized to leave. It took us at least an hour to find Elena - we all assumed she'd hooked up with the French guy she was talking to, and we looked for her all over the sprawling megaclub, but it turned out she was just dancing a few meters away from us the whole time. d'OH!
The ride home wasn't too harsh, what with the metro running all night for New Year's Eve. The only trouble is that we needed food to ease the burning in our booze-filled stomachs, yet as I had discovered here two years ago, there's little by way of early-morning drunk munchies. However, I remembered the infamous hot dog stand near the Maremagnum from last time around and dragged J with me to have a disgusting, lukewarm, mayonnaise covered excuse for meat before crashing.
I've been burping hot dog all morning, and just now got a pint of Kronenbourg to wash the taste away. This is how I'll remember New Year's 2007, I'm afraid. But it's still awesome. Happy New Year!
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