With more bodies covering the surface area of the beach than visible sand, we maneuvered our way through the sea of turistas and local sun-seekers to a small open space of beach, and for the first time in the trip, relaxed, wordless, taking in the scenery. While I admired the rhythmic rise and fall of waves in the glittering Mediterranean, Sagar sat beside me, equally mesmerized by the view, although, I would venture to guess that his admiration for the “natural” surroundings had more to do with the topless beauties decorating the coastline, as opposed to the latter.
Feeling rejuvenated after an hour of downtime at Barceloneta, we met up with Nick in the center of Plaza de Catalunya at the aforementioned time without trouble and decided to check out Plaza de Espana, the closest Metro stop to Olympic Park, home of the 1992 Olympics.
Although impressive, it was a shame to see a place that took milli
ons of dollars to build, now sit empty and completely deserted. From the Olympic Stadium to the plaza that once hosted thousands of famous athletes from all over the world, the entire area is now a desolate ghost town, unused by the locals (from what we could gather) and not even a sight of interest for the throngs of tourists traveling through this once-renowned Olympic city (concluded from the fact that we were literally the only three people there).It was just downright puzzling. There are no cafes or restaurants nearby, it isn’t easily accessible to public transportation … it is just there, in the middle of, what feels like, nowhere, gathering tumbleweeds and offering itself for the occasional photo or perplexing conundrum for inquisitive minds such as ours to ponder. I have to believe that the stadium is used for soccer games or perhaps concerts from time to time, but there was no v
isible evidence to support either theory. (**Note to self: Google Barcelona’s Olympic Park next time I’m bored while web surfing …)After observing the remnants of Barcelona’s fallen Olympic Park, we meandered aimlessly for a few miles on foot until we found a Metro stop to escort us back to our apartment for our routine late afternoon nap.
Refreshed with several hours sleep, by 10:30 p.m., we were out the door for another night. First on the agenda was stopping into an Internet café to email Mom and Dad proof that we were still alive, confirm that our bank accounts still had a few pennies left in them and indulge in other frivolous Internet luxuries that we had gone without for the past several days.
Before we knew it, it was 11:30 p.m. wherein we all realized simultaneously that we hadn’t eaten since our Greek lunch many hours prior. It was also at this time that we all became acutely aware of how incredibly hungry we were. Not wanting to spend a lot on dinner, Sagar suggested Pans & Company, essentially Barcelona’s takeout joint for bocadillos. Cheap, quick and filling … sounded good to me!
A twenty-minute walk later, we arrived to a closed Pans. Agghck! It was now midnight and our (maybe just my) patience was running thin. Hunger now superseded cost. Anything would do. The only problem was, all of the nearby cafés were closing their doors. What? I thought this city never sleeps? What is going on here? Where were all the street revelers and bustling cafes from the night prior? I need to have a word with whoever is in charge of the dining schedule in Barcelona because this, quite frankly, is unacceptable!After ten more minutes of walking, we happened on a restaurant, Divinus, that (thank you Jesus) was open until 1 a.m. After swiftly taking a seat and a five-second glance at the menu, I knew what I wanted and I wanted it as soon as possible.
Some advice for Americans. “Quick” meals do not exist in Spain. After seating you and your party (often without menus), the waiter, or at least the person you think is your waiter, will disappear for a minimum of ten minutes before even considering an approach to your table. If you do happen to catch their eye and assert the universal hand wave hastening their attention, this, in my experience, will actually reset their 10-minute “tease-period”, as I like to call it, in which they nod, smile and continue about their merry business of ignoring you and your ravenous party.
This, although endearing the night before, where we mused over the long-winded Spanish culture of “en-joy-ing” the “ex-per-i-ence” of dining out with friends (aka: excuse to give shitty service), was now the single-most annoying thing in the world. Screw the custom of letting us settle into our table and have a chuckle over the weather. I want a huge pizza to myself (tapas schmapas) and an extra large beer and I want it now!
By the time the ‘overworked’ waitress finally came over to take our order (we were her only table), the kitchen was, go figure, no longer making pizzas. I honestly don’t even know what I ordered at this point. My boiling point had been breached and the only option was to just ride it out. I pointed to something on the menu, asked for a cerveza grande and willed it, unsuccessfully, to come as fast as possible.
Following our disappointing dinner experience void of much conversation, we at least got some food in our bodies and sought to turn the night around. After a quick regroup, we decided to go over to a fun bar with live music called Quilombo that a friend from back in SF had suggested we check out. While at the Internet café earlier, I had mapped out exactly which Metro we needed to take and was fully equipped to get us there with no problems.
Of course, fitting in with the way our night had gone thus far, the Metro was closed.
Undeterred, we hopped into a cab and paid the 10 Euro fare to the Diagonal district where the bar was located. After walking up and down the eerily quiet block twice, we did finally find a darkened Quilombo exactly where the map said it would be. And whaddaya know … it was closed too.
What in the world? This was just ridiculous. It was 1:15 a.m. in Barcelona. What bar closed before 4 a.m.?
As we stood there stupefied, a couple holding hands approached us. In English, we asked them if they knew why the city was so quiet. The man laughed a little to himself and in broken English, explained, “It is holiday. People partied hard last night. Today, they rest. It is typical of the people to close their doors early on holiday.”
Hmmm. Well, there’s a lesson for future travelers in Spain. What do you think people in America would do if the local Chili’s (posted hours, M-F 12 p.m. – 11 p.m.) just decided to close at 6 p.m. on a Monday night because they were tired after the prior night’s shenanigans. Yeah, I’d like to be there to witness the reaction of Billy and Mary Beth down in Some Town, Texas when that day comes …
At least there was an explanation. I felt better knowing that Barcelona was still the city I imagined it to be (except on holidays).
Feeling defeated, but unwilling to give up, we powered on in search of a chill bar with live music … or even just a bar for that matter. The next cab driver suggested that Plaza Real might have what we were looking for … In perfect synchronization, we all barked, “VAMOS!!”
The cabbie did not fail us. Plaza Real was happening. Bars were alive with thirsty patrons and the cerveza solicitors of the night before were out in full force in the streets.
After circumventing the alleyways near the plaza, we paused in the center of the square to survey our options. In the corner of the square, Sagar pointed out a discotheque he had mentioned partying at a lot when he lived here called, Jamboree.
Having done clubs the past three nights, a club was really the last thing any of us had envisioned for the night. But alas, one of those sneaky promoters with their fancy flyers approached us with free entrance until 1:30 a.m. (it was approximately 1:28 a.m.) and the promise of live music downstairs. Free entry. Live music. It really didn’t take much more persuasion than that.
We descended down the stairs to a cave-like basement and were greeted by the welcome sounds of a live band jamming out to a mixed crowd of well-dressed 20-somethings (presumably study abroad students) and Bob Marley wannabes complete with dreads and odors that I’d rather not recount. After surveying the scene, we purchased a round of drinks at the bar and worked our way into the crowd to watch the band.
The band was totally gnarly (the good, California type of gnarly) and incorporated an eclectic mix of instruments and sounds unlike anything I had ever seen or heard before. Weirdly enough, they made the following combination work: two Spanish rappers, an electric guitar, a trombone, a trumpet, a keyboard, drums, an acoustic guitar and a dude with a pair of lungs on him that could beat-box ‘til the sun came up. After one song, I was officially obsessed. 
Unfortunately, the set ended at 2 a.m. to open up the dance floor and make way for the DJ who started things off right with a series of American hip hop jams circa 2002. Songs I hadn’t heard in years played one after the other, Biggie, Jay Z, Mase, Fifty Cent and the list went on.
Content with my single glass of 5 Euro cava and a play list of nostalgic beats to nod to, I was not in any rush to drink more than that on the night, nor was I keen on joining in on the action on the dance floor. I had proved my moves the three nights prior and was admittedly feeling a little burnt out, much akin to the feeling you have after two big nights out in Vegas … I needed a break.
Next thing I know, Sagar has befriended the bartender and a shot of top shelf vodka has been poured for Sagar, Nick and myself.
“It’s free! You have to take it!” Sagar is yelling over the music, exultant in his abilities to arrange such a deal.
“No, I can’t … Ok, fine.”
So, we cheers to Barcelona and not five minutes later, our slick bartender buddy has lined up another three shots on the bar, courtesy of Jamboree.
“No, I really can’t … Ok, fine.”
A two-step and a few Fifty Cent tracks later, we are all back on the dance floor, déjà vu of the previous night, dancing up a storm and overtaking the band’s former stage.
Suddenly, as Nick and I are singing along to something memorable from hip hop’s past, I turn to see Sagar on stage hugging some dude and yelling obnoxiously like he has just found his long lost twin.
Since he had lived in Barcelona a few years ago, it made sense to
assume that he had randomly run into a local friend here, at an old haunt where he used to go out. But that, of course, would be too small of a coincidence. No, instead, the compadre Sagar was now wildly gesticulating at like an overexcited Italian was, in fact, a good friend, Neal, from the states whom he had just spent a weekend carousing with at a wedding in Indiana two weeks prior to this very weekend in Barcelona.Kevin Bacon, eat your heart out.
And so it went, despite a rocky start, night four in Spain did not fail to surprise or disappoint. And this was only the beginning. Cheers!
A+ on your Quilombo effort -- so disappointing you were there on a holiday. I love the picture, though!
ReplyDeleteAnd I am so jealous of all the Pans & Company references... I love their sammiches! Glad you're having such a good time :D