Tuesday, July 12
Barcelona Day 0 - Train.
Our train has successfully delivered us in Barcelona. It was an interesting overnight, we befriended the guy across the aisle, a redheaded German with waist-length dreadlocks named Dominic whose Bavarian accent was apparently so strong that Tobi could identify it just from hearing the guy speak English. Partway through the trip, we were descended upon by a flock of teenage French girls who repeatedly demanded to know why I spoke French, which swear words I knew, why I was travelling with a German, why he spoke French, if he was my boyfriend, whether it hurt to pierce my lip, if I could take it out, and if they could play with Dominic's dreadlocks. Then, a few stations later, they all disappeared as suddenly as they came, and the three of us were left more than a little shell-shocked.
Wednesday, July 13
Barcelona Day 1
We arrived at Barcelona Sants at around 11 am, having no idea where anything was or what we were doing. By standing outside a cafe, I managed to pick up a wifi signal and google-mapped youth hostels. The area on and around La Rambla looked like it had chicken pox, so we found a map and started walking. We worked our way all the way down to the coast, weaving back and forth through the small side-streets. When we got to the port, we took a break to sit and find coffee and internet, and then backtracked to a few other hostels that we found online. In total, we went in to about 8-10 hostels, a few of them twice, and everything was completely booked.
We had a tent and sleeping bags, so we decided to walk down the beach and scope out a spot that might have some tree cover near the water. We were forgetting of course, that we are in Barcelona, and thus, literally every square foot of coastline is groomed and cleared into vast, yawning tourist beaches. At this point it was almost 11 pm, and it had started threatening to rain. We had passed some scaffolding covered with a tarp at a construction site a few blocks in, and resolved to go back and sleep there if we didn't find anything.
Finally we came across an empty pier that stuck out about 60m into the water, with big cement blocks jutting out of the waves around it at funny angles. There was one that was about 2x2m, relatively flat, and high enough out of the water not to get splashed, but low enough not to be seen. We climbed out onto it, took off our shoes and spread out our stuff. I had saved one bottle of Guinness that I brought with me all the way from Ballyvaughan, and Tobi had hoarded some soy nuts from the gas station in Denmark, so we had a little picnic. We were just starting to lay out our sleeping bags when it started to rain. Not the light, sprinkly shit it had been doing on and off all day, but for real rain. Tobi had a fly for his backpack, and I wrapped mine in my raincoat. We took off extra layers that we wanted to keep dry, stuffed our shoes under our bags and hunkered down to wait it out.
A few minutes later, the man who had been sort of aimlessly hanging out on the dock drinking beer and chain-smoking spliffs this whole time wandered over and sat on the edge of the pier closest to our slab, dangling his feet off. He introduced himself only as Rasta, informed us that he was a fisherman, and that he came to Barcelona with Manu Chao, who was his best friend. He told us that he was pretty drunk, that he grows some of the best weed in Spain, and that he lives by the principle that everyone is your brother, and you help people out, so we were welcome to come stay at his house, come and go as we please, eat his food, drink his beer, and of course, smoke his weed. We didn't want to get too carried away, but he assured us that we would have our own room and that it was less than five minutes from the beach, so we decided to do it.
The flat was on a well-lit and populated corner with several little pubs and cafes open all night, so we went up. And I mean up. Rasta's place was six floors up a spiral staircase that wound so tightly we could barely fit through with our backpacks. He squeezed past us to unlock the door and throw the deadbolt, which, once inside, proved to be pretty useless, since the door was completely rotted through on the other side, and the lock mechanism was held in place with duct tape. He showed us to our room, which consisted of a double-bed mattress on the floor, touching three of the four walls. He then gave us the tour of the place. There was a living room with a cot where he slept, a futon couch, and a coffee table overflowing with "paraphernalia." The kitchen looked like it hadn't been used for much besides "agriculture" in at least several months, and the bathroom was just big enough to fit inside the door with the toilet if you didn't sit down all the way. Also there was a spoon in the toilet, and no light fixtures (or electricity as far as we could tell) in the whole apartment.
Rasta went to sleep pretty much right away, so we took a quick vote in hushed tones, and decided that he seemed pretty harmless, and since we had a lock on the door to the room, and our own sleeping bags (since the bedsheets looked pretty well used) it beat sleeping outside in the rain. Especially on the beach which at this hour was populated with drunk tourists and very happy pickpockets. So we slept, and in the morning we packed up our things, thanked Rasta profusely, gave him some beers, and got the fuck out of there as fast as we could without being rude.
Barcelona Day 0 - Train.
Our train has successfully delivered us in Barcelona. It was an interesting overnight, we befriended the guy across the aisle, a redheaded German with waist-length dreadlocks named Dominic whose Bavarian accent was apparently so strong that Tobi could identify it just from hearing the guy speak English. Partway through the trip, we were descended upon by a flock of teenage French girls who repeatedly demanded to know why I spoke French, which swear words I knew, why I was travelling with a German, why he spoke French, if he was my boyfriend, whether it hurt to pierce my lip, if I could take it out, and if they could play with Dominic's dreadlocks. Then, a few stations later, they all disappeared as suddenly as they came, and the three of us were left more than a little shell-shocked.
Cool mosaic in the underground.
First real sight of Barcelona after the train station
Wednesday, July 13
Barcelona Day 1
We arrived at Barcelona Sants at around 11 am, having no idea where anything was or what we were doing. By standing outside a cafe, I managed to pick up a wifi signal and google-mapped youth hostels. The area on and around La Rambla looked like it had chicken pox, so we found a map and started walking. We worked our way all the way down to the coast, weaving back and forth through the small side-streets. When we got to the port, we took a break to sit and find coffee and internet, and then backtracked to a few other hostels that we found online. In total, we went in to about 8-10 hostels, a few of them twice, and everything was completely booked.
La Rambla
Finally we came across an empty pier that stuck out about 60m into the water, with big cement blocks jutting out of the waves around it at funny angles. There was one that was about 2x2m, relatively flat, and high enough out of the water not to get splashed, but low enough not to be seen. We climbed out onto it, took off our shoes and spread out our stuff. I had saved one bottle of Guinness that I brought with me all the way from Ballyvaughan, and Tobi had hoarded some soy nuts from the gas station in Denmark, so we had a little picnic. We were just starting to lay out our sleeping bags when it started to rain. Not the light, sprinkly shit it had been doing on and off all day, but for real rain. Tobi had a fly for his backpack, and I wrapped mine in my raincoat. We took off extra layers that we wanted to keep dry, stuffed our shoes under our bags and hunkered down to wait it out.
A few minutes later, the man who had been sort of aimlessly hanging out on the dock drinking beer and chain-smoking spliffs this whole time wandered over and sat on the edge of the pier closest to our slab, dangling his feet off. He introduced himself only as Rasta, informed us that he was a fisherman, and that he came to Barcelona with Manu Chao, who was his best friend. He told us that he was pretty drunk, that he grows some of the best weed in Spain, and that he lives by the principle that everyone is your brother, and you help people out, so we were welcome to come stay at his house, come and go as we please, eat his food, drink his beer, and of course, smoke his weed. We didn't want to get too carried away, but he assured us that we would have our own room and that it was less than five minutes from the beach, so we decided to do it.
The flat was on a well-lit and populated corner with several little pubs and cafes open all night, so we went up. And I mean up. Rasta's place was six floors up a spiral staircase that wound so tightly we could barely fit through with our backpacks. He squeezed past us to unlock the door and throw the deadbolt, which, once inside, proved to be pretty useless, since the door was completely rotted through on the other side, and the lock mechanism was held in place with duct tape. He showed us to our room, which consisted of a double-bed mattress on the floor, touching three of the four walls. He then gave us the tour of the place. There was a living room with a cot where he slept, a futon couch, and a coffee table overflowing with "paraphernalia." The kitchen looked like it hadn't been used for much besides "agriculture" in at least several months, and the bathroom was just big enough to fit inside the door with the toilet if you didn't sit down all the way. Also there was a spoon in the toilet, and no light fixtures (or electricity as far as we could tell) in the whole apartment.
Rasta went to sleep pretty much right away, so we took a quick vote in hushed tones, and decided that he seemed pretty harmless, and since we had a lock on the door to the room, and our own sleeping bags (since the bedsheets looked pretty well used) it beat sleeping outside in the rain. Especially on the beach which at this hour was populated with drunk tourists and very happy pickpockets. So we slept, and in the morning we packed up our things, thanked Rasta profusely, gave him some beers, and got the fuck out of there as fast as we could without being rude.
Here we are on La Rambla the next morning, having survived the night.
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