Alicante the Whitest Beach? The Verdict

On the heels of too many consecutive all night forays in Barcelona and Ibiza to count, I was long overdue for a few days rest. A self-proclaimed beach-enthusiast, the beauty of taking this Euro Trip solo has been the freedom to tailor my travels according to the kind of activities, weather and surroundings I enjoy most. Let’s see … beach, check … warm sunshine, check … ocean, check …

From the research I did on the Internet prior to my trip, Alicante, located on the “Costa Blanca” (translated, “White Coast”) of southern Spain, is supposed to be home to some of the whitest beaches in all of the world. Since you can’t believe anything you read on the Internet these days, I felt it was my civic duty to beach-combing fanatics across the globe to conduct a full on-site review of this “alleged” coast flanked by visions of white. Hey, everyone has to take one for the team every now and then.

Traveling to Alicante also marked the first time in the trip in which I was truly “on my own”. On Thursday morning, nearly a week into my 40-day journey, I successfully took the five-hour RENFE train from Barcelona to Alicante without a hitch; however, I ran into a little bit of trouble getting from the bus station to my hostel. After traversing a few wrong buses, I finally managed to find it thanks to the help of several sympathetic locals who not only told me where to go, but physically walked, yes walked, me there too.

One man actually got off the bus we were on (the wrong one for me), walked me to the “right” bus stop and then made sure the bus driver would tell me when we had reached the stop I needed to get off at. And that was that. I got on the correct bus and he carried on his merry way, presumably to go get back on the next bus coming on the line that he was on previously with me.

“Well that was really nice,” I thought to myself after showering him with about 25 gracias-es and a final, “Adios!.”

Once I was dumped at the right bus stop (the beach within sight, only 30 paces away!), I was then faced with a maze of narrow alleyways criss-crossing and dead-ending at every turn. Not yet having a map, all I had was an address and the extremely detailed set of directions provided on the hostel’s website. “We are two blocks from the Plaza Puerto Del Mar bus stop.” This proved to be about as helpful as saying, “We are somewhere in the town of Alicante.”

Graced by the good will of an old man, who I swore might keel over and die any second, I made it to La Milagrosa Hostel, only after he insisted upon walking me the entire three blocks to the address. Even after seeing the sign for it, he still walked me all the way to the doorstep. All I could think was, “Please dear God don’t let this man have a heart attack while walking me here. I could never live with myself if this man dies because of my hopeless lack of directional intelligence.”

Having heard a share of hostel horror stories before my trip and having experienced a pretty downright terrible one (my first hostel ever) the night before in Barcelona (No AC, room the size a closet, four beds, three stinky dudes and me – hugging my purse for dear life), I checked into my hostel in Alicante fully expecting the worst.

Instead, I lucked out with a place that was, as Borat would call it, “Very niiiiice!” I had a SINGLE room for two nights at only 20 Euro a night. The shared shower, was, get this, a rain shower (the shower head that “rains” straight down, as opposed to your typical angled shower heads) – only my number one request for the bathroom in the house that I will eventually have built one day in the far, far distant future. Boys, are you paying attention? It’s all about the little things. A day by the beach and a rain shower and you’ve got yourself a happy lady.

Since I have now been traveling for more than 30 days (sorry for the lag!), I have realized that single rooms in hostels are, first of all, few and far between, and if you do find one, you are going to pay an arm and a leg for it. From some of the travelers I’ve talked to, it sounds like these types of deals (cheap, good quality single rooms) are common in the lesser talked about cities of Europe such as Alicante or perhaps, Bourge, France for example, but are practically nonexistent in the main tourist city centers we all inevitably flock to on our Euro trip excursions.

It’s the big cities, such as Barcelona or Rome that you get the 10-bedroom, mixed dorm, bottom-of-the-line, questionable facilities that pack backpackers in like sardines and all for a pricey (in my opinion) average of 30 Euros a night. Why? Because they can. These hostels can get away with charging higher prices and offering less amenities than places in more remote areas because, bottom line, there will never be a shortage of people looking for beds in Rome.

Don’t get me wrong, communal living is great when traveling because it’s a great way to meet people, but every now and then everyone could use a night to themselves.

So, a little dispensable advice from yours truly, the novice nomad: If you get a chance to take a two-day jaunt to a smaller town along the way that piques your interest – do it! It may be a good relief from the lack of privacy and nasty showers that don’t exactly leave you with the squeaky clean feeling you’re used to getting at home. I was pleasantly surprised and decidedly, spoiled during my short stay in Alicante. What La Milagrosa Hostel lacked in adequate directions to the hostel, they made up for in pleasant accommodations. I’ll take that opposed to the latter any day!

So, what of the beaches? Conveniently following my long morning of travel, I walked across the street to the main and most visited beach in Alicante, Playa del Postiguet, literally a two-minute walk from where I was staying. I have to be honest here. I expected more.

The beach was nice, the water was clear and the sand was indeed white, but not the fine powder white I was expecting. It didn’t take my breath away the way some places have on my trip thus far, but it certainly was beautiful nonetheless and more importantly, it served the purposes of allowing me to decompress and spend a little time relaxing and writing. If given the choice over to take the extra train rides to Alicante between my visits to Barcelona and Madrid, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.

Also overlooking this beach was the Castillo de Santa Barbara (picture below), which I hiked the next morning. A great hour and a half hike round trip, it felt good to get some exercise and take in the impressive view from above. However; unfortunately, in the journey up, there was a lot of restoration and construction going on near the top, which I didn’t necessarily have a problem with. What I did have a problem with was the offensive cat calls from all of the construction workers as I tried to maneuver my way through their work sites. There’s a similarity for the books – in Spain and America, construction workers are equally slimy, patronizing and downright gross. I guess some things are universal everywhere you go.


After the hike, I decided to venture to the other, less crowded beach in Alicante, Playa del San Juan. Now an expert on the buses in Alicante, I made it there with no trouble and scoped out a nice spot to sunbathe for the proceeding hours. Without even thinking twice, I followed suit (haha, no pun intended) with the other ladies on the beach and tossed my top aside. Ironically, in those three hours of topless solitude on a remote beach off the coast of Spain, I have never felt less self-conscious about my body or about the person I have grown into over the past 26 years. Not to get deep or anything, but it is fair to say I had a bit of a moment on that sultry Friday afternoon in Alicante. Not one I will soon forget.

Would You Like the Good News or the Bad News First?

Following the near miss, we were escorted to a small, five-seater van with the back seats filled by an Australian trio of middle-aged women who had apparently encouraged our bus driver to leave the two incompetent stragglers who couldn’t bother to show up on time (aka: Nick and me).

Guess I overlooked the part of the overview that detailed how large our tour group would actually be. Wasn’t expecting Charter Bus’s dwarfed third cousin, Van, Tiny Mini-Van.

Needless to say, I preferred a more personalized experience anyway, and after a brief introduction and explanation of the reasons behind our tardiness, we were back in the good graces of the Aussies and on our way.

Of course, the first thing out of my mouth was an animated proclamation about how excited I was to tour Freixenet. I had, in fact, booked this tour specifically based on my familiarity of the sparkling wine, as many more bottles than I’d like to admit have been consumed back at home … yes, sometimes alone … and maybe possibly accompanied by some ridiculously cheesy teen flick (High School Musical comes to mind) … Ok, TMI … The point being, I have a bit of a close kinship with Freixenet and I was pumped to see how and where it comes from.

Our tour guide/driver cleared his throat and followed with an uncomfortable, “Weeeell … would you like the good news or the bad news first …?”

Obviously aware that something was up, I refrained from speaking out loud and instead displaced verbal communiqué with an internal sequence of thoughts. “Are you serious man? If we aren’t going to Freixenet, you better turn this little pee wee special bus right back around and give me a refund ASAP. False advertising is what you are. This is crap. I may be a foreigner here in Spain, but I know a rip off when I see it, and you are not going to get away with it …”

What I really said: “I guess I’ll take the bad news first.”

Driver: “Sooo, we are not actually going to Freixenet today.”

I knew it! Oh you are going down mister.

“BUT!!” he exclaimed. “The good news is that we are going to a cava winery that is actually FAR superior to Freixenet!”

He went on to explain how Freixenet had changed its tour and no longer took participants into the impressive underground cellars and how Cordoniu (the place we would be touring) offered far better cava, a far better tour and a much more beautiful property.

Whatever.

Disappointed, I refrained from demanding a refund and escort back to my rather unappealing hostel back in Barcelona and instead went along for the ride. Mr. English Liar Tour Man was not going to ruin my day.

I will say that the tour was great. We first drove up to Montserrat, which is a parkland area made up of high hills and a knockout view to boot. According to our tour guide, this very area served as the inspiration for much of Goudy’s work. Check out the pics! These are two of his buildings we passed on Passeia de Gracia, as well as a photo of the view from Montserrat. Definitely see the similarity (for once, do not insert sarcasm here).














There is also a church atop this area nestled into the mountainside, which is home to the oldest boys choir in the world. We were lucky enough to sit in on their 1 o’clock serenade inside the church, which can also be heard echoed throughout the entire surrounding mountainside.



I liked the setup of this tour because it allowed for us to explore the area on our own for a few hours without the claustrophobia of staying with the group. My kinda tour. Nick and I bought a pair of bocadillos for lunch and took them with us on the “difficult” one-hour hike around the area. They weren’t lying. It was a calf-burner! But nice to get some fitness in, nonetheless. After lunch with a ridiculous view and a much easier descent than the climb up, we checked out the church (gorgeous) and met up with our “group” for transport to the second half of the tour.



Cordoniu did not disappoint. I have been on my fair share of winery tours back home, and this far exceeded any I have been on in California to-date. Nick, the brains of the group (recently graduated to “doctor” status!), could probably recall the exact numbers of case production, but from what I saw, this place is ENORMOUS!!! While touring the underground caves storing the wine, we had to take a motorized train cart to navigate through the neverending maze. I want to say it was somewhere in the range of over three miles worth of cellaring wine. That’s a LOT of bubbly. Yum.

Ironically, we had been talking about wineries back home while on the way to Cordoniu. Among mentions of my favorites was Artesa in Napa, introduced by Shannon (thank you Shannon!) -- now a family favorite of my dad and mine. Wouldn’t you know, in the ten-minute video expounding on the history of Cordoniu appeared Artesa! They are totally affiliates! It was a little unclear as to the exact connection between the two (another Google search to embark on), but still … really? At some point, I should stop being surprised by how small this world really is, but I can’t help myself. It’s like every time I see the Golden Gate Bridge. It never ceases to amaze.


I won’t spend too much time on Cordoniu, but I do have to bring up one part that was particularly well, hilarious actually. So, here we are on our classy tour in the caves when all of a sudden, one of the train carts drives by with… no lie… a class of about twenty fifth graders. You know, totally normal … just a bunch of ten-year olds taking a field trip to the winery. Huh?

To top it off, when we went into the tasting room to taste our complimentary selections, all of the kids were there too! Drinking! I can only presume it was sparkling grape juice or something similar, but seriously! Can you imagine being in the middle of a winery tour in Sonoma with something like that?

Gotta love Europe. Gotta love it.

I Can Always Spot an American When …

My last day in Barcelona was dedicated to an all-day tour in Catalonia (about an hour outside of Barcelona), which included a hike in the Montserrat parkland area and a tour and tasting at the facilities of Freixenet, my favorite affordable go-to Spanish cava (sparkling wine).

The meeting place for the tour was in front of the Hard Rock Café in Plaza de Catalunya at 8:45 a.m. for a 9 a.m. departure.

After bidding adieu to Sagar earlier in the morning (he was catching a return-flight back to London that afternoon), we also took care of the chores of checking out of the apartment and into a nearby hostel for a place to sleep and store our bags for our last day in Barcelona.

By 8:35 a.m., Nick, who was also accompanying me on the tour, and I arrived to the meeting spot with time to spare.

As a small reward for our punctual arrival, we ducked into a nearby café for coffees (not grande and not iced – see June 19 blog) and breakfast. By 8:45, equipped with caffeine and food, there still wasn’t a sign of anyone for our tour. Putting our problem-solving skills to work, we assessed the situation and as most logical people would do, we approached the line of four charter buses parked one after the other in front of the Hard Rock. After three strikeouts, the driver in the last bus confirmed that indeed, his bus would be going on a tour of Freixenet.

Bueno!

Feeling smug with our minor victory, we hopped on the completely empty bus and settled in. A pastry and an empty cup of coffee later, the time was nearing ten after nine and incidentally, we were still the only people on the bus. Oddly, at this point, I (the girl who has a panic attack if I’m even five minutes late to a dentist appointment) was completely oblivious to even the thought that we might not be on the right bus. Hey, the driver said he was going to Freixenet, an entire hour out of the city! How many other buses could there be going to the same winery, in the same meeting spot? Come on!

Nick, on the other hand, was a little uneasy. “I’m gonna go see if there is anyone over in front of the Hard Rock. This doesn’t feel right.”

“Alrighty,” I said airily. “I’ll stay here.”

A few minutes later, the door to the bus opened and a mad rush of well-dressed Arizona State students began piling onto the bus like hungry cattle.

“Umm, are you guys going to Freixenet?” I asked, now feeling a little unsure.

Your typical jerk-ass frat guy replied to my quandary. “Yeah, WE are, but I think you’re on the wrong bus, sweetie. We passed some dude outside looking for you. Looks like you missed your tour. Sucks for you.”

“Shiiiiit!”

Under normal circumstances, I would have retorted with some kind of snarky reply to put this first-class jerk in his place, but time was of the essence. I jumped off the bus quicker than Carl Lewis himself and ran to find Nick who was pacing in front of the Hard Rock.

I was now in full freak out mode. Not only was I out a hundred bucks if we missed the bus, but so was Nick, and it would be 100% entirely my fault. To make things worse, despite having my folder containing over 50 pages of hotel, tour and travel reservations with me (yeah, I like to plan, layoff!), the confirmation sheet with the phone number for this tour was in my computer case in my backpack back at the hostel.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Without any phone number, our only real option was to walk around the meeting place (10 minutes past the departure time) and cross our fingers that the tour people find us as opposed to us finding them.

As we scanned the premises and faces of hundreds around us, a man with a killer tan, graying hair and a beautiful British accent approached us. “Excuse me, are you looking for the Montserrat and Cava tour?”

“Oh my gosh! … Yes! … We got on the wrong bus! … We thought you had left!” I shouted in between deep breaths as my heart struggled to return to a normal rhythm. “How did you know we were with the tour?!”

“That’s easy,” he said. “I have in my notes that you are American. I can always spot the Americans. You silly blokes don’t go anywhere without a bloody cup of coffee on your hand.”

“If you only knew,” was all I could think to myself.

“Grande” Coffee in Barcelona

After a solid day at the beach, we occupied the remainder of our day walking up and down Passeig de Gracia, the main strip of shopping for the non-backpacking visitors of Spain. From Gucci to Hermes, this street is the Disney Land of designer names. Don’t worry Versace, I’ll be back one day, and I promise to leave you with more than a storefront window smudged with fingerprints.

By the time we returned to the apartment, the time was nearing 8 p.m. Exhausted, I opted out of dinner and drinks with Nick, Sagar and one of Sagar’s old friends from the school he attended in Barcelona. In the nonstop excitement of the past week, I hadn’t even had a spare second to put a single thought down on paper. It was only Day 5, but I felt like I had a month’s worth of experiences to recount.

With the apartment to myself for a few hours and my computer booted up, all that was missing was a large iced coffee to ignite the brain cells and shake the fatigue setting in from the antics of the preceding days.

At a café cross the street from the apartment, I did my best to order what I was looking for.

“Una café grande con leche y hielo por favor … Quiero frio … no calor … comprende, si?”

What I think I asked: “One large coffee with milk and ice please … I want it cold … Not hot … Do you understand?"

Not knowing the appropriate way to say I wanted it to-go, I said, “Umm, to-go!” and made some kind of embarrassing gesture to help translate the English request.

After gauging that the guy behind the counter could understand my English, I ordered again in English and also asked twice if he understood that I wanted it iced, not hot.

He nodded confidently and I felt pretty good about the whole transaction.

Yeah, that lasted about, oh, 45 seconds.

It turns out that a “grande” coffee at Starbucks and a “grande” coffee in Spain are about as similar as me standing next to Yao Ming.

My barista compadre returned with a smile and a styrofoam cup the size of a shot glass. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling because he was proud for getting my order right, or if it was because he was trying to keep himself from outwardly laughing at this stupid American asking for ice in her coffee.

Indeed, he got the order right, save for the other half liter of drink that I thought I was ordering. The cup had everything I asked for: one part coffee, one part milk and one sole ice cube, already half-melted from the heat of the piping hot coffee.
Disappointed, but moreso amused at the hilarity of my mini-coffee to-go, I paid the 3 Euro tab, nodded in thanks and thoroughly enjoyed the hell out of all two sips of my luke warm grande Spanish iced coffee.

Just Another Morning on the Metro

Tuesday in Barcelona afforded yet another picture-perfect day in the city. With a full day tour in Catalonia scheduled for the following day, we chose to forego the Dali museum (an hour and a half outside of Barcelona by train) and instead spend the day relaxing in the sun at Barceloneta Beach.

As we descended the stairs to the Metro platform to take us in that direction, I could hear Nick and Sagar snickering behind me.

Nick: “Nooo, it couldn’t be.”

Sagar: “Yes it totally is!”

Nick: “Oh my gosh, it is!”

Wanting in on the revelations behind me, I turned and inquired what the fuss was all about, “What’s so funny?”

Trying to stifle his laugh, Sagar nodded his head and said discreetly under his breath, “Look behind my shoulder.”

Still not understanding, I complained, “What? I don’t get it?”

This initiated a synchronized point from Sagar and Nick. And that’s when I saw her. “Noooo way!”

Behind Sagar was a girl with blonde hair sitting against the wall slumped over, eyes barely open and face noticeably ashen. Beside her, a guy, presumably her boyfriend or perhaps a concerned stranger, was crouched down poking her arm to see if she was ok. She had clearly had a long night.


Mind you, it was 12 noon and we were at the Metro stop in front of our apartment, clear across town from the bar we were at the night before.

Before leaving Jamboree at around 4 a.m. earlier in the morning, we all had the entertaining pleasure of talking to a very obviously inebriated local. Between taking pictures with her on our cameras, trying to understand her slurred Spanish and perhaps cheers-ing a shot with her from our rock star bartender, she left enough of an impression for all three of us to remember her eight hours later, in the train station across town, in the same clothes from the night before. Priceless.

Barcelona in a nutshell.

Perseverance Prevails on the Town in Barcelona

After finally making it to the beach, Barceloneta, we had about an hour and a half before our 4:30 meeting time with Nick in Plaza de Catalunya. The combination of the gorgeous weather and the local holiday naturally ordained the beach as prime real estate on this particular Monday afternoon in Barcelona.


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 millions 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 visible 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!

The Crappy Side of Traveling, Pun Intended

Believe it or not, after returning back from the Roxy at 5 in the morning, the four of us managed to set alarms for 10 a.m. to hit the streets for a day of sightseeing in Barcelona. Not surprisingly, we all likewise, utilized the luxury of the snooze button until noon …

At 1 p.m. we emerged into a sun-soaked afternoon without a cloud in the sky and the temperature parked at a comfortable 80 degrees. With a Metro stop conveniently located right outside our apartment door, we hopped on board and headed over to see one of Goudy’s most famous works, a church still in progress, La Sagrada Familia. Fantastically impressive, Sagrada Familia was a sight to behold. From the crazy architecture to the intricate details, it was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Definitely a recommended sight worth checking out while in Barcelona.


After circumventing the church a few times and snapping several photos, we stopped for lunch at a Greek café across the street. Famished, the four of us cleared a communal bowl of hummus in approximately 3.2 seconds flat. A Coca Cola (as they call it over here) and a mouthwateringly delicious meal of greasy chicken pitas and hot sauce later, the group was content and it was agreed that life just doesn’t get better than this.

Following another stroll around the church, Sagar and I parted with Nick and Saumya as she had to catch a flight to Glasgow, Scotland for work the duration of the week. Not having cell phones (Sagar’s fell victim to a drowning incident in the Mediterranean while in Ibiza), we decided to meet back up with Nick in the center of Plaza de Catalunya at 4:30 p.m. So old school, I love it! In the meantime, Sagar and I jumped on the Metro to go and check out the local beach, Barceloneta.

Since it was a holiday in Barcelona, making our way to the beach was relatively easy as we just followed the throngs of people decked out in swimsuits and beach bags. After de-boarding the train, it is about a 15-minute walk to the beach along a vast promenade lined with restaurants and shops. It was at about the 5-minute mark into this walk; however, that an all-to-familiar rumbling in my stomach triggered the alarm that I needed to find a restroom and I needed to find one quick.

It is no secret that I have a sensitive stomach and the combination of traveling in a foreign country, drinking the night previous and following up with a greasy meal drenched in hot sauce was, in retrospect, a disaster waiting to happen.

So, I turn to Sagar and as casually as I can, I say, “Um, I think we are going to need to find a bano soon. And I mean really soon …”

He looks at me and understands the urgency, so we quickly assess our options. Apparently Barcelona sees no value in public restrooms because in four days there, I never saw one. That option was out. My next option was sneaking into one of the restaurants guarded heavily by men waving menus right outside the entrance.

In a moment of desperation, I sprinted past one of them while he tried to accost an unfortunate tourist. Head down, my eyes on the prize, I power-walked directly to the back. To my disappointment, the only door available was marked with a large sign in all caps, “PRIVADO”. Even I knew what that meant. Damn.

After this dead end, I returned to Sagar waiting outside and shook my head frantically to let him know it was a no-go. Before I could say anything, we were on the move. Then, we both saw it at the same time: a beautiful beacon shining amid the cafes. Fifty paces ahead was a Best Western with sliding glass doors offering entrance into the lobby. I darted through the crowd like a criminal evading capture. Sagar followed close behind. Past the sliding door, directly to the left was a stairwell leading down to a floor below. It could only lead to one place.

“Go down. I’ll keep the receptionist occupied,” Sagar whispered.

Without hesitation, I scampered down the stairs and, as if it was meant to be, a door was propped open leading directly into the only available room at the foot of the stairs – a bathroom with two stalls. “Thank you Jesus!” I muttered to myself as I quickly barricaded myself inside.

Several minutes later, I hear the shuffle of feet and the slam of the stall door next to me.

“Welp, I feel sorry for this dude,” I think to myself.

Then I hear a voice and it is Sagar. “Kylie, I have to go too…”

Me: “Oh gawd.”

And so it went, two friends vacationing in Barcelona ended up with a vastly different kind of life “experience” in Spain than either of us had bargained for …

Upon my attempt to hightail it out of there as fast as I could, I was thwarted at the door of the bathroom by a hefty, short-haired Best Western female employee with her arms crossed, staring me down. Just beyond her, at the top of the stairs was another portly Best Western woman employee, arms also crossed and fixed with the stare of a wild cheetah about to attack its prey.

So, here I am standing in the bathroom (which I have just blown up simultaneously with my friend) with two scary Spanish women staring me down and Sagar, not more than 8 paces away, still behind a stall suffering from the consequences of our Greek lunch.

All I wanted to do was check out the beach … was that too much to ask?

I briefly consider sprinting up the stairs, but am afraid that the odds of making it past two of these Helgas are not in my favor. One, I could totally take … two, not so much.

Suddenly, the one at the bottom of the stairs speaks. “You stay in dis hotel?”

Me: With a tentative head nod, “Umm, si.”

Helga 1: “You have room key?”

Me: Think fast, think fast. “Umm, si. My boyfriend. He has key.”

Clearly not buying my story, Helga 1 presses further. “What your room number?”

I have now taken on Helga 1’s accent and do not speak in coherent sentences. “No se! My boyfriend. He know!”

Helga 1 is not amused by my feeble lies and thrusts her finger into my face. “You use this bathroom, it cost you two fifty Euro!”

She wasn’t playing around. As soon as she brought out the finger point, it was evident that I was not going to win this standoff.

Acting as if I was just caught stealing a pack of cigarettes from the convenience store, I put my hands up in surrender and nodded to the demand, “Si, si. I pay your stinkin’ 2.50 Euro.”

After an escort up the stairs, Helga 1 lightened up a little and decided to sell me a bottle of water for 2.50 Euro, as opposed to a straight cash-for-toilet transaction. I would have liked to see that receipt – scrapbook material right there!

“Sweet, a bottle of water and a toilet … you are too kind Helga, really, you are.”

I buy two, one for me and one for my bathroom buddy for life, Sagar. Helga appears to be a bit bewildered as to why I bought two. Perhaps she thinks I thought I owed double the price since I spent double the time I should have in there.

Meanwhile, Helga 2 has disappeared and we hear a banging coming from down below.

Helga looks at me and questions, “Someone else down there?”

“Si, si!” I reply.

Helga 2 appears from around a corner and the two Helgas exchange hurried, indecipherable Spanish between one another. Helga 2 then runs down the stairs below to release Sagar from the cell that is the Best Western bathroom. She had locked him in.

I am convinced that this must be how they entertain themselves during the day. Leave the bathroom door open as bait for tourists who think they are being clever by sneaking in unnoticed and then, BAM, as soon as they are in, lock the door and don’t let them out until they have been completely humiliated and forced out of whatever cash they think they can get from them. Well done, ladies, well done. I hope you had a good laugh. But just as a PS … Your toilet and my bottle of water were worth every penny … I would have paid 10 Euro … thanks for the bargain ladies, joke’s on you!