This week is brought to you by the letter B: Barcelona

This week is brought to you by the letter B: Barcelona, Booze, Bruges, Belgium, Breweries, bread, beer, buses, bastard (waiters, that is), Belgian (waffles and chocolate), break dancers, beach, and bad decisions.

Barcelona: a three day trip planned on the basis that I wanted to see Gaudi works in person. The fact that its on the Mediterranean Sea just happens to be a bonus. Also; Spain = Sangria. ...Only the best I've ever had.

We landed around midnight, and managed to get to our hostel without too much trouble. We were located in one of the busiest plazas in the city, with constant partying, drinking, and general all around carousing were always in progress. The Kabul Hostel was arguably the nicest hostel we stayed in throughout our Eurotrip, but it was still a hostel. See, also: drunken guys puking in the doorway of the girls’ bathroom at 1 AM…and management not cleaning it up until 830 the next morning.

Despite the unpleasant environment and the lack of sleep, we arose bright and early on Wednesday to begin the “Maria needs to see all the Gaudi she can get to” adventure. Our main goal was to climb to Parc Guell – an undertaking that several other hostel stayers had warned us was going to be less than gentle. Armed with a map and two very good sports, I led up to the Parc, pausing along the way to see the Casa Batillo and Mila.

Parc Guell was beautiful; organic curves throughout adorned with sparkling mosaics, Gaudi’s style is uniquely breathtaking. The Parc and the view of Barcelona below were both truly worth the walk.

The Gaudi-Maria love fest continued the next day, with a tour of the Sagrada Familia, or the Holy Family Cathedral. Still in construction – now in its 125th year or so – the Cathedral is a monumental Modernist structure, which is supposed to have 18 steeples when complete. Completion date? 30 – 80 years.

Segueing right to the ridiculous adventure-filled part of the trip, we make new friends – again. I am totally honest when I say I don’t like making new friends, especially foreign male “friends.” Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure this Ecuadorian street performer (he was actually quite good at break dancing) was looking for a sugar mama. They always know how to pick me out; I have experience as one, you know.

Molly home sick in bed, Kristen and I sat to watch them perform like the total tourists we can be. By the time they were through, they waved us over. One, told me I was beautiful and proceeded to kiss me. This prompted a mental letter.
Dear American Men,

I forgive you; you aren’t really that bad.

Love,

Maria.

Furthermore:

Dear European/South American/ETC Men,

Please learn what “law suit” means, and act accordingly.

Kind Regards,

Maria – and her lawyer.

“Beautiful” and “I love you” appear to be all the English he knows. Supposedly, they are all brothers, the oldest has been in Barcelona five years; the other two have been here five days.

Since I obviously don’t learn, and I’m amused I can understand some Spanish, I agree to hanging out the next night. Of the three guys, the oldest speaks a little English, so he and Kristen are the main communicators for all of six of us, though I discover I can translate some, and end up doing so for Molly. Molly just responds in French; and I love her for it.

The evening progresses into the regular shit show that is our lives, during which Molly and I used “law suit” in conversation regularly before finally heading home. Not before, my new friend asks me if I’m single, then proclaims me taken (Kristen “Maria doesn’t like being told her relationship status by others.”), promises he’ll know English when I come back in a year or two (who said I was coming back), and asks my parents’ names, which worries and confuses me.

Foregin language overload hits its threshold around 1 AM or so, and Molly and I depart hand in hand, done with this adventure. We’re all in bed by 2 AM, only to be woken by a very loud trio of very drunken Frenchmen at 5. Then by the shattering of glass as the recycling bins are emptied at 7. We drag ourselves out of bed around 9 to go to the beach. Now remember, we are in a 8 man dorm. It’s the three of us, the French alky trio, and two other girls. Beach preparation is in session; Kristen is topless…and in comes the French! And out they go, doubly as fast. After clothing herself, she welcomes them in, and we all continue to get ready, while Molly eavesdrops on their French. The one lucky fellow is currently recounting to his friends the glimpse he caught. Packed and ready to go, Molly passes them in the hallway, wishing them a fun voyage – in French. A weak “merci” follows the stunned silence. Shazam, mofos! And if the adventures and mishaps aren’t numerous enough, the airport provides us with the crowning glory.

We always make jokes about “those assholes” whose names have to be announced throughout the airport because they are delaying the flight. The Schiphol lady is a ruthless voice from the sky, demanding “your immediate boarding, or they will begin to offload your luggage.” With a delayed flight – I know how to pick them – we head upstairs to get food, over 40 minutes before our flight. We walk back into an empty terminal, as I hear “passengers Hodavance, Segala…” Oh shit! We run to the bus (we had to be bussed out to the plane) and realize we have become “those assholes.” My accomplishments this semester are complete.