españa part 1: barça-bound

There are many adjectives you could use to describe me, but concise is not one of them. Because of this, I’ve decided to break my Spain-related entries into (at least) 3 installments. I’m doing this for the sake of you guys (I can handle my own long-windedness), so bear with me.

My trip began somewhat fittingly in a crowded train station across from a bug-eyed girl in bright red glasses. As she and I sat there waiting for them to announce our voie (platform), the percussive humming of music spilled out of her gigantic green headphones. Her suitcase, the color of fresh orange citrus – of which I would soon consume a shameful plenty – lay at her feet in stark and almost rebellious contrast to the otherwise monochromatic black-and-grey landscape of metropolitan France. This intriguing, insect-like girl, who I secretly hoped was my travel partner (at least for the next two hours), would become a kind of caricature for my week-long Spanish vacation, her music the rhythmic pulse of my dissociated self, beating with increasing force as I began to perceive and discover this alien land through my own pair of rose-colored glasses.

My fleeting dream of getting to know her, however, vanished as quickly as it had appeared as she boarded the one o’ clock train to Paris. Instead, I got stuck next to a bespectacled 10-year old boy who had long ago outgrown his “cute” phase, but neither he nor his mother had realized it. In fact, his non-charming behavior was only aggravated by maman, who encouraged him to talk to the people around him (including, unfortunately, me) and who had clearly bestowed upon her son no conception of personal space. By the end of our 2-hour voyage I was relieved to dismount the train, released from the suffocating confines of my window seat and away from this boy’s spastic elbow jabs. After a series of piercing Blake-like glares, it’s safe to say that he and I were not amigos as we parted ways in Montpellier.

Because my train from Lyon departed fifteen minutes late, I was forced to jump off of it in Montpellier and immediately leap onto the next as the conductor’s whistles blew and the train I prayed was on its way to Barcelona began to leave the gare (station). So that I wouldn’t have to wonder for 5+ hours if I was actually going to make it to Spain (and perhaps come up with a new plan in the event that I ended up hundreds of miles away from my intended destination), I confirmed with a woman in my voiture (car) that we were indeed Barcelona-bound before locating my seat and falling into it with a great sigh of relief.

For the next several hours (or as long as there was still daylight), I sat with my eyes glued to the window. What an awe-inspiring ride! At uncomfortably high speeds, we wobbled precariously along the edge of the Mediterranean (literally the edge; at times, I’d look down and see nothing but an inch or so of iron track separating me from the water, which crashed into the cliffs nearly a hundred feet below me), passing every now and then through terracotta-roofed villages and stopping occasionally to let people on and off the train. The sea was framed by the winter skeleton of a paysage (countryside) that, although completely barren, possessed its own sublime beauty. With increasing frequency, we burrowed through tunnels that penetrate the ancient hills and mountains of the Mediterranean coast. As grey dusk approached, a dense haze hovered heavily over the wavering waters, the horizon a distant and blurry abstraction existing more in theory than in actual reality. Inside the train, an idle silence fell over my fellow passengers and me. Aside from the slow, somnambulistic traffic of travelers wandering through our taupe-and-beige-colored car on their way to the dining compartment, things seemed to be at a complete standstill; time itself appeared to have stopped. That is, of course, until we crossed the Spanish frontière (border).

We appropriately entered España at nightfall. As darkness closed in on our windows, so did it close in on my ability to communicate, and the reality of my not being able to speak Spanish became quickly apparent. I followed the actions of others, doing but not fully understanding why, and nodded confusedly as three Spanish policía took my passport into a neighboring car before returning it to me five minutes later, seemingly untouched (I still don’t know what that was all about). From the moment I stepped off of the train an hour or two later (my first view of Barcelona was through the train’s window and consisted of nothing more than a series of black hills against black skies, which were illuminated by the frenzied twinkling of lights), I entered a world of chaotic energy. Barcelona is huge and finding my way to the hostel, which was on the other side of the city, was a daunting task for this country boy, especially at night.

My leaving the half-shelter of the Estació de França marked the true beginning of my Spanish aventura. I navigated my way to the Barceloneta metro station, and there entered the bowels of the city, only breaking the surface 10 stops, 2 connections, and 35 minutes later. Of course, at that point, the rain was coming down – and hard. Somehow, the directions I’d copied from Google Maps were wrong, and I spent nearly an hour wandering Barcelona’s poorly marked streets, failing to communicate successfully with its citizens given their lack of English and my lack of Spanish, and confused as to why I seemed to be on the right track but couldn’t find the street I was looking for. Finally, I managed to find the correct passatge (a narrow alley I’d already passed two or three times but had somehow missed; I’m convinced, now, that you had to pass it three times before it magically appeared out of thin air like the Room of Requirement), and reached the refuge of my hostel. My clothes and luggage sufficiently drenched, I entered the warm hostel after being buzzed in, and got my room key, a map of Barcelona, and a list of sites to check out from a friendly Spanish girl who spoke (thank goodness!) perfect English. From there, I settled into my room, momentarily (but never seriously) considered trying to find something to eat close to the hostel, and put on some dry clothes. Perched in the Yellow Nest (the name of my hostel), I passed out by 11:00pm (ridiculously early by Spanish standards), excited to explore Spanish culture for real the following day.

Phew, voilà part uno of my babblings. I promise to get part dos (Barcelona + pictures!) up as soon as possible! Thanks for reading. ¡Hasta luego!