By mid afternoon Sunday, we had successfully checked into our place, a beautiful modern apartment in the Eixample area, unfortunately between starvation, sleep deprivation and dehydration
, the only acknowledgement I could muster was a grunt, a nod and an “uh huh”. Not having eaten a meal since the previous day at around 4 p.m. and still recovering from Ibiza aftermath, I couldn’t tell you, which I wanted more – sleep or food.
The general consensus was food, so we meandered a few blocks to a place called Zian that Saumya and Nick had eaten at the week prior and was in her words, “A-maz-ing.” At this point, it is fair to say that everyone, myself included, was in a mood, which only made the situation worse. As was bound to happen eventually, this was the first time in the trip wherein a clash in not only our moods but budgets, caused a bit of unspoken, but not unnoticed tension within the group.
We arrived to the restaurant easily enough, and after a few table shifts to position us all in the sun, we settled in and opened the menu. “Ack!” I thought to myself as I perused the selection of entrees. Not a single entry under 12 Euro (approx. 18 US dollars). Now, despite being on a travelers’ budget, I am totally fine with spending this for a nice dinner where I plan to dine and enjoy the food and atmosphere, but at this moment in time, all I envisioned was a large coke and a big fat, cheap to-go sandwich drenched in layers of turkey, lettuce, tomato, mayo, mustard and every other fixing known to man … wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Done. And for the finale … a nice, restful 12-hours of uninterrupted sleep. (Yes, so American-like, I know) Unfortunately, this was not exactly the place to facilitate my craving. After exchanging looks, it was clear that Sagar shared my sentiments too.
Sagar: “This place is pretty fancy, eh?”
Translated: “Umm, so kind-of pricey, huh?”
Having lived in Barcelona for six months several years ago, Sagar was familiar with the local spots for our to-go sandwich cravings.
Sagar: “I wonder if there is a Pans around here? They have really good, cheap bocadillos.”
Response: Silence.
Me: “That sounds good, Sagar, you and I can go grab that and you guys can eat here.”
Response: Everyone looking around for something to focus on other than the situation at hand. Silence.
After an awkward exchange of scenarios in which we could excuse ourselves from the table without embarrassment, there was no resolution, so we asked the waiter if they had a “bocadillo” menu. Apparently most places in Spain have this, though it may not always be offered outright, especially at “fancy” establishments such as this place.
It turns out they did, in fact, have a separate bocadillo menu. Printed on cheap, laminated neon blue paper (to further reinforce the cheapskate that I am…) and of course only printed in Spanish, I had no idea what I was looking at. After a millisecond of consideration, I went with the only thing I could translate, the “Bikini”, a bocadillo con jamon y queso, “ham” and “cheese”. Can’t go wrong with that, right?
Fifteen minutes later, Saum and Nick were adorned with proper place settings and white cloth napkins by the waiter, while Sagar and I, ignored by the restaurant wait staff, sat invisible across the table. Following a beautifully prepared salad of prawns, artichokes and other festive accoutrements along with a pizza fit for a king delivered to Saum and Nick, my first meal in Barcelona amounted to cold grilled cheese with ham on regular American white bread. That’s it. No veggies. No mayo. No special “bocadillo” bread. Bummer. Or more accurately, my thoughts at this moment in time, “Are you f*ing kidding me?”
The end of the meal left me unsatisfied with a still ever-present hunger and a bottled water costing more than the grilled cheese. Welcome to Barcelona.
My only recourse was to not say another word, walk straight to the apartment and focus on getting the rest that my body so desperately craved. While the others took care of errands at the bank and Internet cafes, I walked the three flights to the apartment and collapsed onto the couch like a corpse falling out of its tomb, not even enough energy to make it to a bed.
[Note: In Saumya’s defense for Zian, we had missed the “lunch” menu, which ends around 2 p.m. and was also the menu her and Nick ordered off of the week prior. This menu is indeed a good value and includes olive appetizers, a bottle of wine, plus two courses all for 10 Euro. In Spain these types of menus are very common, but end after 2.]
So I didn’t get the 12 hours I had initially envisioned, but 4 hours was enough of a re-energizer to rise from the dead and turn around the awful mood I had been in earlier in the day. We all roused from our naps around 8 p.m. and leisurely took showers to clean up for a night on the town. Night 3, here we come!
By 9:30 p.m. we were out the door and set out for a night of adventure in Barcelona. Since Plaza de Catalunya was only two stops away by Metro, we ventured underground for my first trip on the Metro. WOW! Talk about easy! Coming from me, the most directionally challenged person you will probably ever meet, the Barcelona Metro system is genius. All of the lines are color-coded and everywhere you look, there are signs directing you to which color line you are looking for. It is so user-friendly, that it is virtually impossible to get lost.
The plan for the night was to go check out the Plaza Catalunya, a famous square that is also relatively central to the nightlife scene in the city. After that, we figured we would find a nice tapas café with outdoor dining for dinner and then head over to a fun, locals bar that Sagar hasn’t stopped raving about since we arrived.
Dinner was an absolute success! We picked a cute place called Piscolabis on Rambla de Catalunya. The tapas was everything I had envisioned from Spain and more. Paella, goat cheese and cucumber, three cheese risotto, potato omelet, veggies, potatas bravas, battered squid and the list goes on … it was all decadently fantastic. Following coffee and a leisurely dessert of cheesecake and crème brulee, both different from the American versions, but s
till just as tasty nonetheless, we closed our bill and realized that it was already midnight. You never would have known it with the buzz on the streets. Everyone was out and about as if it were 8 p.m. Was this a typical Sunday night in Barcelona?
After leaving the restaurant, we ventured over to Sagar’s favorite bar located a few streets over called La Oveja Negra (The Black Sheep). While walking the streets, it was interesting to see men every twenty feet or so selling canned beers off a six-pack for 1 Euro a piece. All you could hear when walking by was, “Cerveza!” “Cerveza!” Where was I? An MLB baseball game? I guess open containers on the streets aren’t a concern here. I could get used to this …
It was also on our walk over that we discovered that Monday was actually a holiday (only celebrated in Barcelona) and that was why everyone was out and about. When we asked the locals what the holiday was celebrating, no one really knew, all they knew was that is was an excuse to party all night long. Here we go again …
La Ovella Negra was located in a secluded alley off of the main streets. When we arrived to the entrance, we were immediately accosted by an overly animated guy with his finger over his lips warning us to whisper and be quiet. I seriously thought it was a street mime just trying to earn an extra dime, but no, he was part of the bouncer crew regulating outside. Since the bar was in the middle of a residential alley, they had to make sure to stay weary of the noise from patrons coming and going.
After surpassing the mime and his more appropriate-looking muscle-bound bouncer friends, we walked through a small stone tunnel and into a cacophony of noise. Filled with wooden tables and jovial people pouring sangria and beer from pitchers, the stone walls of the bar reverberated with voices and laughter from every angle. From the outside, this is the last atmosphere you would have expected to see in this place! Game on!
A pitcher of Sangria later, we had secured a prime spot at a wooden table near a fire place perfect for the four of us. After noticing several of the groups engaging in different drinking games, I introduced the game of “Zoo” to the group, only discovered a few months earlier from Kathryn and her Triager crew (thanks guys). The game involves a series of hand gestures specific to each player and a semi-obnoxious pounding on the table in between gestures. For anyone who has never seen the game before, it looks pretty ridiculous. Thirty minutes into the game, we had all gotten pretty good and our rounds were lasting longer and longer. Pretty soon, the majority of the bar was gaping at us, trying to figure out what in the hell we were doing and why we were having so much fun.
In between rounds and a pitcher refill of beer, I excused myself to go to the restroom. Not knowing where it was, I tapped a guy waiting in line at the bar on the shoulder and in my best Spanish asked, “Donde esta el bano para las chicas?” The guy looked at me and in plain English said, “Do you speak English?” Apparently, I wasn’t very convincing.
He then said, “Where are you from?”
I replied with, “Well, I was born and raised in Texas,” wherefore he cut me off and said, “Where in Texas?”
“I’m from Houston,” I yelled back over the noise.
Just then, his eyes widened and he said, “Shut up! I’m from the Woodlands!”
“No way, this is such a small world, I’m really from Spring.” (5 minutes from the Woodlands … he knows this, obviously being from the area)
After oohing and awing over this very crazy coincidence, I meet all of his Houston buddies and we high five like we have been friends since the beginning of time.
Following my return from the bano, I sit down and Nick also returns claiming, “You are never going to believe this!”
“What?” we all inquire.
“I just met a recent IU graduate over at the bar!”
Besides myself, the other three in our group, Saumya, Sagar and Nick all attended undergrad at Indiana University. What are the odds that we would have these random encounters in this random alley bar?
After jumping back into our game of Zoo, we are approached by a tall, lanky guy with shaggy hair and facial hair. He asks how to play and we tell him to join in. So, sure enough he pulls up a seat and picks it up quickly. In between rounds I introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Kylie, what’s your name?”
“I’m Josh.”
“Where are you from Josh?” we all ask simultaneously.
“California,” he retorts.
“Where about in California?”
“The Bay Area,” he says.
We all look at each other with the look of, ‘are you really serious right now?’ and I say, “No way, we all live or have lived in San Francisco. What part do you live in?”
As if we really needed to guess, he said, “The Mission.”
And as if he really needed to guess where we lived, I shout out without thinking, “Awesome! We all lived in the Marina and North Beach!”
I’m sure he was thinking, “No shit Sherlock, I couldn’t have guessed that one!” But then again, he was probably too stoned to even notice.
Following this third encounter, it was becoming more and more obvious that Sagar’s “locals” bar was more of a “locals” bar for Americans, as opposed to the residents of Barcelona, but regardless, we were having a good time and it was nice to talk to people that actually understood what I was saying.
As the time approached 2:30 a.m., Sagar had befriended a group of about 10 American students in town for the summer for a study abroad program. As a group, we all decided to head to the Roxy, a club near Las Ramblas that we had gotten flyers for earlier in the night. After negotiating with the bouncer for gratis “free” entry for the senoritas and 15 Euro plus a free drink for the senors, everyone was happy and we made our beeline for the dance floor. The DJ was off the hook and same as Ibiza, to my surprise, all of the music was American with a few Spanish numbers here and there. From hip hop to salsa to, I believe there was even an Offspring number in there towards the end, the music and the energy was contagious. Caparina drinks in hand and a big group of nearly 15 of us, we rocked that dance floor like champs until 6 a.m. …again.
Night 3 of 40 = definite success.
, the only acknowledgement I could muster was a grunt, a nod and an “uh huh”. Not having eaten a meal since the previous day at around 4 p.m. and still recovering from Ibiza aftermath, I couldn’t tell you, which I wanted more – sleep or food.The general consensus was food, so we meandered a few blocks to a place called Zian that Saumya and Nick had eaten at the week prior and was in her words, “A-maz-ing.” At this point, it is fair to say that everyone, myself included, was in a mood, which only made the situation worse. As was bound to happen eventually, this was the first time in the trip wherein a clash in not only our moods but budgets, caused a bit of unspoken, but not unnoticed tension within the group.
We arrived to the restaurant easily enough, and after a few table shifts to position us all in the sun, we settled in and opened the menu. “Ack!” I thought to myself as I perused the selection of entrees. Not a single entry under 12 Euro (approx. 18 US dollars). Now, despite being on a travelers’ budget, I am totally fine with spending this for a nice dinner where I plan to dine and enjoy the food and atmosphere, but at this moment in time, all I envisioned was a large coke and a big fat, cheap to-go sandwich drenched in layers of turkey, lettuce, tomato, mayo, mustard and every other fixing known to man … wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Done. And for the finale … a nice, restful 12-hours of uninterrupted sleep. (Yes, so American-like, I know) Unfortunately, this was not exactly the place to facilitate my craving. After exchanging looks, it was clear that Sagar shared my sentiments too.Sagar: “This place is pretty fancy, eh?”
Translated: “Umm, so kind-of pricey, huh?”
Having lived in Barcelona for six months several years ago, Sagar was familiar with the local spots for our to-go sandwich cravings.
Sagar: “I wonder if there is a Pans around here? They have really good, cheap bocadillos.”
Response: Silence.
Me: “That sounds good, Sagar, you and I can go grab that and you guys can eat here.”
Response: Everyone looking around for something to focus on other than the situation at hand. Silence.
After an awkward exchange of scenarios in which we could excuse ourselves from the table without embarrassment, there was no resolution, so we asked the waiter if they had a “bocadillo” menu. Apparently most places in Spain have this, though it may not always be offered outright, especially at “fancy” establishments such as this place.
It turns out they did, in fact, have a separate bocadillo menu. Printed on cheap, laminated neon blue paper (to further reinforce the cheapskate that I am…) and of course only printed in Spanish, I had no idea what I was looking at. After a millisecond of consideration, I went with the only thing I could translate, the “Bikini”, a bocadillo con jamon y queso, “ham” and “cheese”. Can’t go wrong with that, right?
Fifteen minutes later, Saum and Nick were adorned with proper place settings and white cloth napkins by the waiter, while Sagar and I, ignored by the restaurant wait staff, sat invisible across the table. Following a beautifully prepared salad of prawns, artichokes and other festive accoutrements along with a pizza fit for a king delivered to Saum and Nick, my first meal in Barcelona amounted to cold grilled cheese with ham on regular American white bread. That’s it. No veggies. No mayo. No special “bocadillo” bread. Bummer. Or more accurately, my thoughts at this moment in time, “Are you f*ing kidding me?”
The end of the meal left me unsatisfied with a still ever-present hunger and a bottled water costing more than the grilled cheese. Welcome to Barcelona.
My only recourse was to not say another word, walk straight to the apartment and focus on getting the rest that my body so desperately craved. While the others took care of errands at the bank and Internet cafes, I walked the three flights to the apartment and collapsed onto the couch like a corpse falling out of its tomb, not even enough energy to make it to a bed.
[Note: In Saumya’s defense for Zian, we had missed the “lunch” menu, which ends around 2 p.m. and was also the menu her and Nick ordered off of the week prior. This menu is indeed a good value and includes olive appetizers, a bottle of wine, plus two courses all for 10 Euro. In Spain these types of menus are very common, but end after 2.]
So I didn’t get the 12 hours I had initially envisioned, but 4 hours was enough of a re-energizer to rise from the dead and turn around the awful mood I had been in earlier in the day. We all roused from our naps around 8 p.m. and leisurely took showers to clean up for a night on the town. Night 3, here we come!
By 9:30 p.m. we were out the door and set out for a night of adventure in Barcelona. Since Plaza de Catalunya was only two stops away by Metro, we ventured underground for my first trip on the Metro. WOW! Talk about easy! Coming from me, the most directionally challenged person you will probably ever meet, the Barcelona Metro system is genius. All of the lines are color-coded and everywhere you look, there are signs directing you to which color line you are looking for. It is so user-friendly, that it is virtually impossible to get lost.
The plan for the night was to go check out the Plaza Catalunya, a famous square that is also relatively central to the nightlife scene in the city. After that, we figured we would find a nice tapas café with outdoor dining for dinner and then head over to a fun, locals bar that Sagar hasn’t stopped raving about since we arrived.
Dinner was an absolute success! We picked a cute place called Piscolabis on Rambla de Catalunya. The tapas was everything I had envisioned from Spain and more. Paella, goat cheese and cucumber, three cheese risotto, potato omelet, veggies, potatas bravas, battered squid and the list goes on … it was all decadently fantastic. Following coffee and a leisurely dessert of cheesecake and crème brulee, both different from the American versions, but s
till just as tasty nonetheless, we closed our bill and realized that it was already midnight. You never would have known it with the buzz on the streets. Everyone was out and about as if it were 8 p.m. Was this a typical Sunday night in Barcelona?After leaving the restaurant, we ventured over to Sagar’s favorite bar located a few streets over called La Oveja Negra (The Black Sheep). While walking the streets, it was interesting to see men every twenty feet or so selling canned beers off a six-pack for 1 Euro a piece. All you could hear when walking by was, “Cerveza!” “Cerveza!” Where was I? An MLB baseball game? I guess open containers on the streets aren’t a concern here. I could get used to this …
It was also on our walk over that we discovered that Monday was actually a holiday (only celebrated in Barcelona) and that was why everyone was out and about. When we asked the locals what the holiday was celebrating, no one really knew, all they knew was that is was an excuse to party all night long. Here we go again …
La Ovella Negra was located in a secluded alley off of the main streets. When we arrived to the entrance, we were immediately accosted by an overly animated guy with his finger over his lips warning us to whisper and be quiet. I seriously thought it was a street mime just trying to earn an extra dime, but no, he was part of the bouncer crew regulating outside. Since the bar was in the middle of a residential alley, they had to make sure to stay weary of the noise from patrons coming and going.After surpassing the mime and his more appropriate-looking muscle-bound bouncer friends, we walked through a small stone tunnel and into a cacophony of noise. Filled with wooden tables and jovial people pouring sangria and beer from pitchers, the stone walls of the bar reverberated with voices and laughter from every angle. From the outside, this is the last atmosphere you would have expected to see in this place! Game on!
A pitcher of Sangria later, we had secured a prime spot at a wooden table near a fire place perfect for the four of us. After noticing several of the groups engaging in different drinking games, I introduced the game of “Zoo” to the group, only discovered a few months earlier from Kathryn and her Triager crew (thanks guys). The game involves a series of hand gestures specific to each player and a semi-obnoxious pounding on the table in between gestures. For anyone who has never seen the game before, it looks pretty ridiculous. Thirty minutes into the game, we had all gotten pretty good and our rounds were lasting longer and longer. Pretty soon, the majority of the bar was gaping at us, trying to figure out what in the hell we were doing and why we were having so much fun.
In between rounds and a pitcher refill of beer, I excused myself to go to the restroom. Not knowing where it was, I tapped a guy waiting in line at the bar on the shoulder and in my best Spanish asked, “Donde esta el bano para las chicas?” The guy looked at me and in plain English said, “Do you speak English?” Apparently, I wasn’t very convincing.
He then said, “Where are you from?”
I replied with, “Well, I was born and raised in Texas,” wherefore he cut me off and said, “Where in Texas?”
“I’m from Houston,” I yelled back over the noise.
Just then, his eyes widened and he said, “Shut up! I’m from the Woodlands!”“No way, this is such a small world, I’m really from Spring.” (5 minutes from the Woodlands … he knows this, obviously being from the area)
After oohing and awing over this very crazy coincidence, I meet all of his Houston buddies and we high five like we have been friends since the beginning of time.
Following my return from the bano, I sit down and Nick also returns claiming, “You are never going to believe this!”
“What?” we all inquire.
“I just met a recent IU graduate over at the bar!”
Besides myself, the other three in our group, Saumya, Sagar and Nick all attended undergrad at Indiana University. What are the odds that we would have these random encounters in this random alley bar?
After jumping back into our game of Zoo, we are approached by a tall, lanky guy with shaggy hair and facial hair. He asks how to play and we tell him to join in. So, sure enough he pulls up a seat and picks it up quickly. In between rounds I introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Kylie, what’s your name?”
“I’m Josh.”
“Where are you from Josh?” we all ask simultaneously.
“California,” he retorts.
“Where about in California?”
“The Bay Area,” he says.
We all look at each other with the look of, ‘are you really serious right now?’ and I say, “No way, we all live or have lived in San Francisco. What part do you live in?”
As if we really needed to guess, he said, “The Mission.”
And as if he really needed to guess where we lived, I shout out without thinking, “Awesome! We all lived in the Marina and North Beach!”
I’m sure he was thinking, “No shit Sherlock, I couldn’t have guessed that one!” But then again, he was probably too stoned to even notice.
Following this third encounter, it was becoming more and more obvious that Sagar’s “locals” bar was more of a “locals” bar for Americans, as opposed to the residents of Barcelona, but regardless, we were having a good time and it was nice to talk to people that actually understood what I was saying.
As the time approached 2:30 a.m., Sagar had befriended a group of about 10 American students in town for the summer for a study abroad program. As a group, we all decided to head to the Roxy, a club near Las Ramblas that we had gotten flyers for earlier in the night. After negotiating with the bouncer for gratis “free” entry for the senoritas and 15 Euro plus a free drink for the senors, everyone was happy and we made our beeline for the dance floor. The DJ was off the hook and same as Ibiza, to my surprise, all of the music was American with a few Spanish numbers here and there. From hip hop to salsa to, I believe there was even an Offspring number in there towards the end, the music and the energy was contagious. Caparina drinks in hand and a big group of nearly 15 of us, we rocked that dance floor like champs until 6 a.m. …again.Night 3 of 40 = definite success.
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