Wandering I

I awoke early this morning to head to Madrid with Steph and Kathryn.  It was a painful awakening since I had only gone to bed two hours earlier.  As I was putting on my shoes in the dark, the door swung open and Kathryn barged in.  I had asked the girls to wake me up if they didn’t see me downstairs in the lobby, but I hadn’t given much thought to the logistical challenge: How would they wake me up without waking up everyone else in the room?  Frankly, I figured they would leave without me.  To my pleasant surprise, however, they turned out to be quite resourceful and determined.  They asked the receptionist on duty to unlock the door, and that’s how Kathryn turned up in the room looking for me.  I assured her I was awake and almost ready.

We raced to the train station to catch the 7:30am train.  I didn’t have a reservation, but I didn’t think I needed one.  In the past I often just showed up at the station and produced my Eurorail pass.  We took the metro to the main train station.  There I gave my metro pass to a girl heading towards the metro station.  I didn’t need it anymore, and it still had at least one more ride available.  Steph, Kathryn, and I arrived at our gate, and the two of them showed their passes and walked through.  When it was my turn, I handed the woman my Eurorail pass.  She shook her head no and told me I needed a ticket with a reservation.  But I have a Eurorail pass, I insisted.  A man, another member of the staff, approached us, and the woman showed him the pass.  No, he asserted shaking his head, I needed a reservation.  Fine, no problem, I thought.  I’ll get a reservation for the next train leaving in an hour, or if I was lucky, I could maybe even get a ticket for this train since there were still a few minutes remaining before departure.  I said good-bye to the girls, and they headed off.  At the ticket counter, I asked the woman for a reservation for the same train.  That was not possible, she informed me.  In fact, the next train I could get on did not depart until 6:30pm.  I was dumbstruck.  How could that be?  They didn’t have even one seat available?  I weighed my options, the few that I had.  I would have to take the 6:30pm train.  There was no way I was going to wait at the station though.  I decided to book the ticket and return to the hostel.  Too bad I gave away my metro pass though.  I would have to buy another one.  I saw then a discarded National Rail pass lying on the counter.  There was no way it would work on the metro, I thought, but I pocketed it anyway.  I’d give it a shot.  As I made my way back to the metro, cursing my stupidity for not making the reservation earlier, I thought again about throwing away the used pass.  For some reason though, I hung on to it, and when I got to the metro, the pass worked.  Thank God for karma.

Back at the hostel, the guys were kind enough to give me back my bed until check-out at 11:00am. I relished the opportunity to sleep for a few more hours.  I returned to the train station later in the evening and took the 6:30pm train to Madrid.  I finally arrived in the capital late at night as a light drizzle blanketed the city.

After lunch at the Chinese buffet today, I headed to the Barcelona beach with two guys also staying at Hello BCN.  Jael is a Haitian Quebecer and Daki is an Irishman.  Neither Jael or I can understand Daki most of the time due to his heavy Irish accent coupled with his usually intoxicated state.  Jael and Daki decided they wanted to buy some hashish first, so we wound our way through the city towards the beach as the two of them asked random people whether they had hash.  We got a lot of angry looks, but finally a seedy-looking man sold them some.  We then continued to the beach.

As one friend told me before I got to Barcelona, the beach here is “quite revealing.”  Enough said.

Several South Asian men selling drinks passed by where the three of us lounged on the beach.  When they were close enough, they offered to sell us hash, too.  It was all done on the sly.  They spoke out of the corners of their mouths, glancing around furtively to make sure no cops were nearby.  Then they passed a can of beer to you with a wad of hash hidden behind it, making it look like it was the beer they were selling.  The boys bought another wad.  They offered me some, but I politely declined.

Today, I decided, would be my “Gaudi Day.”  As in, I would check out all of the artist’s sites I could in one day.  I managed to visit Casa Batllo, La Pedrera, and Park Guell before I grew tired.  I had seen La Sagrada Familia from the outside on the bike tour, and I decided not to return there.

Though I am inspired by Antoni Gaudi’s commitment to emulating Nature in his art, at times I find his adaptation of it too – excuse the pun – “gaudy” for my tastes.  Many – not all – of his facades don’t seem to fit in to the “natural” scheme – striped, twisting steeples look more like something out of a fairy tale than something suited to and harmonius with the location in which the building is located.  I don’t think many of his buildings would “fit” anywhere except deep underwater (he takes much of his inspiration from aquatic life).

When I reached Park Guell, I continued to climb to the top.  There’s a steep incline that leads to the base of the park. From there, there’s a network of escalators and stairs that takes you up the rest of the way.  At the top, there’s yet another short climb to a hill that gives a nice, panoramic view of the city.  I trudged up the last few stairs, and as I climbed the final step, I saw sitting before me: Francesco! (pronounced Fran-ches-co! – the exclamation mark is my own addition and not really necessary. However, it makes calling his name immensely more fun and sounds more Italian.)

Francesco! is a 28-year-old, Italian engineer for Ferrari.  He’s the stereotypical Italian I have seen portrayed in America.  He speaks English with a thick Italian accent, expresses frustration by shaking his clenched hands at the wrists, and dances with his index fingers jabbing the air.  Moreover, he eats pasta almost every night, and his “Mama” calls him nearly every day.  He’s also prone to throwing out a “Mamma Mia!” ever so frequently.  An extremely nice guy, Francesco! and I first met when he was leaving Hello BCN.  We had been in the same room for one night, but we hadn’t really talked then.  Now that we had run into each other again, we decided to see the rest of the park together.  We quickly struck up a friendship.  He had also met Steph and Kathryn, and we all hung out later tonight.

This morning I took the bike tour with Steph and Kathryn.  It was fun riding around the city, and I enjoyed hanging out with the girls.  The tour was informative to some extent as well.  However, I didn’t think it was worth the €22.

Afterwards, Steph, Kathryn, and I walked back to the hostel. On the way, we passed a side street where I saw several clusters of men and women just standing around.  It was still only midday, too early for the partygoers, so I wondered what was going on.  I took a closer look.  The women were dressed and acting quite provocatively.  Yes.  They were prostitutes.  I had thought they only did their business at night.  So I was wrong.

We returned to the hostel, and the girls decided to nap.  It wasn’t such a bad idea.  It seems that the “siesta” – afternoon nap – is a reality here.  I thought it was only myth.  However, most stores and businesses shut down during the afternoon, and the streets lie deserted.  I indulged in this local custom as well and found my two-hour nap very refreshing.  Afterwards I went for a walk around the neighborhood.

By and by I found myself at the the street where I had seen the prostitutes earlier.  This time I walked right down the street.  Most of the women stood leaning against the walls or standing in doorways on both sides of the street.  I watched a man walking in the opposite direction down the sidewalk as one of the bigger girls (they came in all sizes, I noticed) slapped her arm against his stomach.  He was caught off guard and stopped abruptly.  She raised her eyebrows at him and asked him something.  He stopped to talk to her.  I was glad I was on the road and not on the sidewalk, even though I had the feeling all eyes were on me.  Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a young woman appeared at my side.  She was a petite, pale girl with blond hair down to her shoulder and light blue eyes.  As she turned to face me, a police car passed by at the end of the street.  She immediately took her hand off my shoulder and walked a few paces ahead of me.  I continued to walk along.  Once the car disappeared, she turned around to face me and grabbed my arm.  I knew immediately what was up.
  No, esta bein.  “No, it’s Ok,” I told her.
  “What?” she responded in English.  “I just want to talk to you.”
  She was still holding my arm. I stopped.
  “Where are you from?” she asked me.
  “New York,” I responded.  I tried to get her to release my arm, but she held on tight.  I was amused.
  “Where are you from?” I asked her.
  “Romania.”  She pulled me to the sidewalk.
  No, esta bien, I said again.  No me gusta.  “I don’t like it.”
  “What don’t you like?” she feigned surprise.
  No esta bien, I insisted.
  “You’re so beautiful,” she crooned.  “I love you.”
  I laughed.  This was definitely the fastest a girl had fallen in love with me.
  “Thirty euros only,” she persisted, getting down to business.
  No, gracias.  “No, thanks,” I responded.  No puedo.  “I can’t.”
  We were at the end of the street.  She was still holding my arm.
  Tengo que ir.  “I have to go,” I said firmly.  I pried her hand off and turned to go.
  “Bye,” she murmured wistfully and returned the way she had come.

I continued my tour of the neighborhood and later in the evening I found that I had to pass through “Prostitute Street” again.  I realized I was a bit nervous.  I took a deep breath, looked straight ahead, and marched down the center of the road.  I made sure not to make eye contact.  This time I got a few suggestive hisses, but no one accosted me.  I didn’t see the Romanian girl anywhere.  For her sake, I hoped she had found work.