I'm writing this offline as I couldn't get wireless to work at Barcelona airport, and they're out of wireless access cards at our hotel here in Amsterdam. It seems they're out of everything everywhere we go.
Most noticeably in Spanish bathrooms.
If you need toilet paper, it's a crap shoot. No pun intended. Soap? Don't even think about it. Hot water to make up for the lack of soap? Hope you packed a travel pack of Purell. Hell, there aren't even any paper towels, and half the hand dryers are broken. Even on our Transavia flight from Barcelona to Amsterdam, there were no paper towels left in the lavatory, and when we collected our luggage at Schiphol airport, Sarah's bag had been torn open. Not too badly, but still...
Must... find... a coffeeshop!
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Viva Barça
My time in Barcelona has been the opposite of the last time around. Whereas before I got the touristy shit out of the way the first two nights and spent much of the rest of the time incognito amongst the locals, we've spent our last days here being cheesedick tourists.
While Sarah and Spencer slept in, New Year's Day found myself, J and Elena taking the metro out to Gracia to check out Parc Güell. Apparently, everyone and their mother had the same idea. We made the hung over, uphill walk to the park gates, only to find that there were even more people mobbing the place than when I'd last been during the peak tourist season in July. Oh well, at least it wasn't 110 degrees and I was only sweating minimal booze.
Yesterday we got on the damn open top tour bus. It's damn slow, and it's full of damn tourists. I lost my damn ticket mid-circuit and had to spend another damn €19 on a second one. I don't know why I agreed to get on the damn thing. I've already seen every damn thing in the city from a tourist perspective, and it was damn cold up on the open deck. (Can you tell I wasn't exactly thrilled about doing this?).
The best part of the tour came when it dropped us off at Plaça Catalunya, and we stumbled upon Desigual's "sale" store, separate from their full-price flagship store. Discount prices on a unique Barcelona fashion label that you can't find in the States? Sign me up!
On the way home, I bought us a few slots for the evening's "Smashed Bar Crawl" from Travel Bar. Elena wasn't too enthused about this, knowing that it's going to be a cheesy, drunken pub crawl with a shitload of foreigners to a bunch of crappy bars, but I need my outlet. When I travel, I need to meet and get smashed with random people, not hole up with the same few people every night.
Unfortunately, the crawl was less what I'd experienced (scads of young, good-looking Europeans and Australians getting really drunk and rowdy) and more what Elena had feared (scads of not-so-good-looking Americans who showed up already drunk and obnoxious.) At least J had a nice Austrian girl to talk to and I occasionally had some cute British arm candy on and off through the night. Elena had done the smart thing and called it an early night after our third bar. We went on to the horrendous awfulness that is the Green Room at Maremganum, and the even more horrendous awfulness that is the nightclub in the same complex. It was even worse than I remembered.
At least by night's end, J and I both got some action. First, it was the ugly-ass hookers throwing themselves at us on the south end of the Ramblas as we were attempting to locate some drunk food. Bocadillos in hand and headed home, we were then attempted to be robbed by a couple of rank amateurs among the craggy streets of the Barri Gotíc. One came up to me, asking for money...
"¿Tiene dinero?" "No." Next thing you know, he's asking me for a light and making several botched attempts to blow out the lighter repeatedly while making a grab at my back pocket. Too bad my wallet was well out of reach, bitch.
Then they both were on J, humped up on either side of him. It wasn't even the artful robbery that Barcelona's known for at this point, but an act on the verge of mugging.
I started cursing in Spanish and English at full drunk volume. Which is LOUD. My gut instinct was to smack them on the head with my jamon serrano sandwich and start kicking them in the shins, but the yelling was enough to get them off and to make sure no one else on the street was fucked with. Being full of booze and having just gone on a lame pub crawl, J and I would have had no issues rumbling. But I have a feeling that getting into fist fights in the streets of Barcelona isn't the way to go on your last night in town.
Oh well. These guys were such amateurs that they're sure to get dropped or hospitalized by week's end. At least when I got my wallet lifted in Prague, I didn't see, hear, or feel a thing.
Off to Amsterdam today...
While Sarah and Spencer slept in, New Year's Day found myself, J and Elena taking the metro out to Gracia to check out Parc Güell. Apparently, everyone and their mother had the same idea. We made the hung over, uphill walk to the park gates, only to find that there were even more people mobbing the place than when I'd last been during the peak tourist season in July. Oh well, at least it wasn't 110 degrees and I was only sweating minimal booze.
Yesterday we got on the damn open top tour bus. It's damn slow, and it's full of damn tourists. I lost my damn ticket mid-circuit and had to spend another damn €19 on a second one. I don't know why I agreed to get on the damn thing. I've already seen every damn thing in the city from a tourist perspective, and it was damn cold up on the open deck. (Can you tell I wasn't exactly thrilled about doing this?). The best part of the tour came when it dropped us off at Plaça Catalunya, and we stumbled upon Desigual's "sale" store, separate from their full-price flagship store. Discount prices on a unique Barcelona fashion label that you can't find in the States? Sign me up!
On the way home, I bought us a few slots for the evening's "Smashed Bar Crawl" from Travel Bar. Elena wasn't too enthused about this, knowing that it's going to be a cheesy, drunken pub crawl with a shitload of foreigners to a bunch of crappy bars, but I need my outlet. When I travel, I need to meet and get smashed with random people, not hole up with the same few people every night.
Unfortunately, the crawl was less what I'd experienced (scads of young, good-looking Europeans and Australians getting really drunk and rowdy) and more what Elena had feared (scads of not-so-good-looking Americans who showed up already drunk and obnoxious.) At least J had a nice Austrian girl to talk to and I occasionally had some cute British arm candy on and off through the night. Elena had done the smart thing and called it an early night after our third bar. We went on to the horrendous awfulness that is the Green Room at Maremganum, and the even more horrendous awfulness that is the nightclub in the same complex. It was even worse than I remembered.
At least by night's end, J and I both got some action. First, it was the ugly-ass hookers throwing themselves at us on the south end of the Ramblas as we were attempting to locate some drunk food. Bocadillos in hand and headed home, we were then attempted to be robbed by a couple of rank amateurs among the craggy streets of the Barri Gotíc. One came up to me, asking for money... "¿Tiene dinero?" "No." Next thing you know, he's asking me for a light and making several botched attempts to blow out the lighter repeatedly while making a grab at my back pocket. Too bad my wallet was well out of reach, bitch.
Then they both were on J, humped up on either side of him. It wasn't even the artful robbery that Barcelona's known for at this point, but an act on the verge of mugging.
I started cursing in Spanish and English at full drunk volume. Which is LOUD. My gut instinct was to smack them on the head with my jamon serrano sandwich and start kicking them in the shins, but the yelling was enough to get them off and to make sure no one else on the street was fucked with. Being full of booze and having just gone on a lame pub crawl, J and I would have had no issues rumbling. But I have a feeling that getting into fist fights in the streets of Barcelona isn't the way to go on your last night in town.
Oh well. These guys were such amateurs that they're sure to get dropped or hospitalized by week's end. At least when I got my wallet lifted in Prague, I didn't see, hear, or feel a thing.
Off to Amsterdam today...
Monday, January 01, 2007
¡Feliz Ano!
Feliz año, mis amigos. I hope everyone had a killer NYE, as we did.
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!
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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