L'Hiver becomes L'Enfer: That Time Europe Turned Against Me (Part 2)

 SO. Even though I had been telling Jen for 7 hours what time I would be arriving and at which train station, when I arrived, she said she didn’t know where I was. So I went inside the train station (which was the first station to resemble an American one! More specifically, the Newark Train Station, which I am well familiar with thanks to my excellent adventure from Jersey City to Red Bank. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. Now is not that time.) and wandered around aimlessly until I saw a sign that basically said, “You are here. Too bad the nearest metro station is over there.” As I am wont to do, I sets to walking.
            I texted Jen to say that I was waiting at whatever stop I was waiting at. So I waited for her to come find me. When she did, we made our way to her friends’ place. When we got off the train, Jen asked if I was hungry/wanted a beer. I said I was alright, but Jen loved beer. So we stopped for some Spanish beer (the only brand that I saw being sold there) and some patatas bravas—Jen’s Barcelonan obsession. Then we went next door to Greg and Liz’s apartment.
Greg and Jen went to preschool or something together. The thing about Europe is that it really brings Americans together. Anyway, Liz is Greg’s girlfriend, and they were both studying in Barcelona for the semester. When we got inside, they asked if I wanted to some something of the herbal variety. I declined, but, well, of course Jen was essentially reliving her Amsterdam trip. (Pun intended.) So I just sat in the room while they helped themselves.
              Then, surprisesurprise, everyone was hungry. So we went out in search of paella. We made it basically down their street a bit and ducked into the 4th or 5th restaurant that was offering the dish. Greg said he had been there before. So we went inside and had a seat. They were playing the soccer game, but my back was to the screen so whoops. Liz and Greg split some paella with chicken, but Jen and I are vegetarians (though she’s WAY stricter than I’ll ever be. When I say I’m a vegetarian, I actually mean I’m a flexetarian. It’s a real thing. I saw it in a magazine once.) so I started looking for seafood paella. But then I found out that Jen doesn’t actually like seafood. Except in gumbo. Because her family is from Louisiana. Most everyone should know that I like all food—except peppers and sautéed mushrooms—but we got the vegetable paella. Well, that’s what we thought. But there were definitely shrimp in the dish that they brought to the table. Jen also ordered croquettes. She bit into one and saw that it had ham in it and ate around the seafood in our paella.
             At this point, Jen reminded me that we needed to get to the outdoor store because Greg and Liz didn’t have any bedding for us so we had to buy sleeping bags. The store would close at 9:15. It was probably 8:45. So Jen and I left some scrilla (actually left 10€ extra that we never got back) and booked it to the metro. When we got off, I quickly realized that Jen actually didn’t know where we were going so we asked some fellow on the streets and we literally ran all the way there. We found the bags and got two of them instead of 1 (thank God because we were sleeping on a bed that reeked! Like, I zipped my head into the sleeping bag because it smelled so horribly and I didn’t want to sully my tresses.) So then Jen wanted some gelato. We wandered around the area (which was okay, because it was the center of the city, I think?) looking desperately for gelato.

Lights.  For Navidad, yo.

          We eventually found a subway where Jen settled for 2 cookies. Then we headed back to the metro to go back to Liz and Greg’s. As we were making a transfer, I saw the largest vending machine ever!

Supermarket Rapido.  Because why not?

            When we got back to the apartment, they decided to smoke a bit more while I called my aunt Kemo to wish her a happy birthday. After their smoke sesh, we had plans to go out. But we didn’t make it. So we went to sleep.
             The next morning, around 11, I’d say, I got out of bed. I think we managed to get out the door at about 1. Since it was the only day of sight-seeing I was going to get in Barcelona, I knew I’d have to make the most of it. So we started off by taking the funiculaire to Montjuic. We got off to see a lovely sight.

Top of the world and lookin' down on creation.

            We then walked through a garden before going back up to the main drag. We started to go into the art museum, but since it cost money, Jen vetoed it. Jen needed to use the toilet, so we considered going into the Olympic museum (because Barcelona is all about having hosted the Olympics. Strangely, I don’t think that’s ever been a big part of LA’s calling card.), but that also cost. All in front of the museum, they have these bronzed footprints of athletes on the floor. (Speaking of which, Kobe just got added to Mann’s Chinese!? WHAAAAT!?) So I took some photos.

I was once in a yogurt commercial with Pete Sampras.  AKA I (along with at least a hundred others) watched him hit a ball back and forth for hours.  I wanted to be discovered.

            Then we went into the Olympic Stadium, which was pretty cool. It also had free restrooms, so Jen went to work that out while I took a photo of an apron to steal the sangria recipe written on it. Enjoy the recipe!

3 ¼ cups dry red wine

1 tbsp sugar

Juice of 1 large orange

Juice of 1 large lemon

1 large orange, sliced thin crosswise

1 large lemon, sliced thin crosswise

2 medium peaches, peeled, pitted, and cut into chunks

1 cup club soda

Combine all the ingredients except for the club soda in a large punch bowl or serving pitcher, mixing well. Refrigerate overnight. Immediately before serving, mix in the club soda for added fizz. Ladle into cups with ice cubes.

Official title: Estadi Olímpic de Montjuïc Lluís Companys.  Obvio.

Also pretty empty. A sign reminded me that I was “standing before real evidence of sporting history in Catalonia.” It went on to not that the stadium was “[b]uilt to house the Popular Olympics in 1936, a bid which failed due to the Spanish Civil War, it became centre stage for the ’92 Barcelona Olympic Games.” Chillus Munillus.

From de outside.

We then went back through the garden in search of a different metro stop. Not because we knew that there was another one, but just because. So we started to head down the super steep hill. We found some signs towards it, but I was distracted by an impressive looking building. (No joke. When we had seen its roof from the hill, Jen told me it was the Sagrada Familia.) I told Jen I was going to investigate (because this is sometimes how you find important things to see in a city on which you have done 0 research), and Jen said okay but she was going to have a sit on the bench.

It looks like my photo of St. Paul's in Landan!
(http://jubileejuice.blogspot.com/2008/09/and-after-two-weeks-with-no-word.html)

              So I wandered over and, well, looky here. I stumbled upon the art museum housed in a building built for the 1929 World's Fair, the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya. I texted Jen that it was open for 30 more minutes so I was going inside. It was a pretty enough building inside, but they weren’t allowing photos. So I went to the restroom and then walked around a bit. I decided to open one of the doors and go inside.
              “Where’s your ticket?” the guard asked me after I had popped in.
              “I don’t have one.”
               “You need a ticket,” she said as I shamefully turned around and walked out.

NBD.

So I went back outside and took some pictures of the view before walking back to find Jen, who I honestly thought had left me. But there she was posted on a bench. So I told her there were some nice views, and we walked back so she could take some photos. And we went down the stairs. Reverse shot!

Reverse!  Reverse!

             We eventually found the metro and took it to the Park Guell (pronounced G-way) area. We got off and started looking for an ATM because Jen never has any money. That’s not me being mean. She genuinely always needs to go to an ATM. So we found one and then stopped in for some lunch. I decided to risk paella again, and I also got some zuma (Spanish Spanish word for juice/jugo), which should never be confused with Zima. While we were eating, when we were ready to pay, we searched for our waiter. He had decided to have a seat and a glass of wine. Apparently, this is something that happens quite often in Spain.
             We left to get to Park Güell for realsies. Jennifer had a general idea of where we were going, but certainly no specifics. So we just turned up a random stret that magically worked. Stopped for art.

Also Viva el Revolucion!

We went into the park and, immediately, I saw why the park is so special. The amount of work that certainly went into the park is just remarkable. So many sculptures in the architecture. Not like France, who just puts statues in a garden. This was clearly very deliberately thought through:

Lean like a Cholo.

             We then climbed the stairs to get to the “lookout point.” I took a photo for a mother and daughter (tender) and muddled my way through some frenish to tell them someone was in the photo in the background. Maybe they hate me. Tant pis. Anyway, I did get a photo of the view from Park Güell.

On the left in the distance is La Sagrada Familia!  Also, the colors, man!  The colors!

           We then went downstairs where some girl was having a photo shoot. There was also a guy playing some musica. It was this plaza-sort of thing with loads and loads of pillars holding up the floor of the “lookout point.” There was, of course, art built into the ceiling of the space.

The beauty's in the details.

            Then we went down the stairs a bit, and it took me about 15 minutes to get a photo of this mosaic lizard that’s famous or something. Each time I thought I had a shot, someone hopped his/her mug into the frame, and I was all, “Get out!” but everyone ignored me. Eventually, I saw my chance, so I took it! (In my original photo selection for this entry, I hadn’t selected the lizard, but after that story, you probs want proof of my success. The problem with this blog is I have to prove everything. I’m inadequate.) So, HERE.

Pretty lizard.

This is what all of that looks like from street level. Doesn’t it look like a little gingerbread village? And by “little,” I obvio mean “massive scale.”

Let's live in a Christmas movie!

We stopped for postcards and for me to take a photo of the pretty sunset. Hooray!

Mediterranean climate!

Then Jen and I got back on the metro to head over to the Sagrada Familia. NBD or anything, but it’s a church that’s been under construction since 1882. They say it will be done in 2026.

Someday it will be done!

I was interested in seeing the inside, but it cost, so no dice. Took some photos before going across the street to a Christmas market. One of the less impressive ones I’ve seen but to each his own.
We decided to head over to meet Liz and Greg at some bar. We actually got off the metro near the station where I went after the train. Jen didn’t actually know where the bar was, though, so we ended up wandering for a while. We stopped into an Irish bar so Jen could use the toilet and where the clientele was watching the 50 greatest Christmas songs or something on VH1 and they were playing Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmas Time,” which I’ve never heard before. Jen was disappointed in me, but I can’t trendset ALL the time. (Yes, I can.)
               We left and kept looking for the bar. Luckily, it was a nice walk along the harbor. Then we saw the symbol of Barcelona, which seems very LGBT-friendly.

Are you a man or a lady?--Captain Hook

               At this point, Jen said we should just go to the other bar to meet her friend form Emory, Melony. So we went to the bar, which was the same one where (NOT coincidentally) Jen fell in love for maybe the 349830948th time. Anyway, she wanted to stealthily see if the Argentinian 30 year old bartender was working there. Let me tell you. It is hard to stealthily creep someone when the bar has maximum 8 people in it. But try we did. And by “try,” I mean that we sat with Melony and never looked at the bar.
            We basically stayed there all night eating and drinking. Sometimes the bartender talked to us. As the night went on (as it became way more obvious that we were not being stealth at all), we moved to the bar and started chatting with the Argentinian and the other bartender, who was Irish. I don’t remember anyone’s names. You’re lucky to get Greg and Liz. Shmanyshway (for Stephi), eventually, Greg and Liz showed up. This prompted Jen to go outside with them for a remedy for a moment. Then it was time to leave. We stopped at McDonalds and I used the fancy touch screen to treat Greg and Liz to some grub as a means of a host/hostess gift. They gratefully accepted.
                The next morning, I got up and wanted to go take a shower. I walked in and re-realized how scary the bathroom was. I don’t think anyone had cleaned it since they moved in (there were 4 people living there). I went back into the room Jen and I were sharing to say I was concerned about the bathroom. She thought I meant I was worried about the water spilling over the side of the tub. Legitimately, least of my concerns. But I acted like she had quelled my fears and so went back inside. Daintily and speedily, I took a shower. I also got to use the toilet and the last bit of toilet paper. Masterful.
             When I came out, I sat while Jen moved about trying to get ready. But not actually since she was using Facebook. So the other roommate’s weekend guest went in and showered. When I went back inside, it was really scary. I don’t know what she had done in there, but the entire floor was covered in water. Whatevs. I brushed my teeth.
              Eventually, Jen was ready to go, so we did. As soon as we closed the door, Jen realized she had left her laptop (basically her child) inside. So she started knocking. But very lightly. I told her she could do it, put her back into it. She feebly tried again, so I stepped in with my big man hands (jokes. Someone once told me, “Aw. You have housewife hands.” Not a made up comment.) and started pounding. I didn’t know what was taking so long because the other guest was staying in the living room just on the other side of the door. Eventually she got off her arse and opened the door for Jen to scramble embarrassedly inside for her baby. Out she came, and off we went.
              We made it to the place where the stop for the airport shuttle and we got off to get the bus. We just missed the first one. So we waited legitimately 2 minutes for the next one (this is so NOT Belley) except, oh wait! It wasn’t stopping at our stop. It kept on moving. So after an older woman told me to watch my purse (because, Jen had told me as soon as she picked me up that Barcelona is number 1 for pickpocketing.), we ran across the street to where the bus actually would stop.
               The gold-toothed and gold-jewelry-ed bus driver let us on and we paid. As soon as he put his foot on the ignition, Jen fell over into her suitcase. Legitimately on of the greatest sights to behold. You should’ve been there. She recombobulated herself (too bad she didn’t have the recombobulation station that’s available at the Madison, WI airport just after security, eh?) by the time we got off. I was a bit wary of getting off at the first stop because it definitely didn’t say EasyJet on the list of airlines, but I was letting Jen take the lead on this one since she had been to Barça before. MISTAKE. We walked the length of the terminal before being informed that we needed to take the escalator down to take the bus shuttle to Terminal 2, which only houses EasyJet. So we did. After we got off the bus, we had this crazy long walk to the actual building that was the Terminal. Mess. Anyway, we got inside and got in line and got checked in (the EasyJet guy winked at me. I didn’t hate it, Sarah.), and went through to security. For some reason, the Barcelona Airport is idiot and has it set up so that you take off all your shizz and then put it in the bins and then carry everything to the scanners rather than having it on a table so you can rest it. So, since it was December and everyone’s going to colder places (even though Barcelona was gloriously warm. Why did I ever leave LA?), it took quite a few trips for all the junk to get to the scanning table. Basically: chaos.
               We made it through, though, and grabbed a seat near the food stand. Jen got a potato sandwich (Don’t ask. This is a concept I don’t understand. “I know what potatoes need! To be surrounded by bread!”) while I got a tomato/mozzarella salad and kiwi yogurt because it was intriguing. I also got some peach zuma. It tasted like baby juice. I can’t explain it, but that’s what it tasted like.
While Jen and I were innocently stuffing our faces, she spied a guy’s American passport sticking out of his hand. “Maybe we should say, ‘Hi,’” Jen said. And I asked her if she actually wanted to talk to him, knowing the answer was a no. Too late, though. He heard us speaking English all American-like and said,
             “Oh hey. You guys are American? I’ll come sit with you after I get my food.”
             This is almost definitely what he said. Verbatim.
             “Look, Jen. You got what you wanted,” I said after he was just out of earshot.  Except this is not what anyone wanted.
              Addy, as his name was, lived in Austin but was from Connecticut. He had his wallet stolen on the first day he had arrived in Barcelona. I sympathized with him but not enough because it was stolen by some guy who engaged him in conversation and started dancing with him. Rookie’s mistake. (Dramatic irony right now for some people reading this. Dramatic irony for me as I’m writing this.) Anyway, eventually, his flight to Gatwick happened and he peaced out. But not before asking for our email addresses so he could friend us on Facebook. Jen told the biggest lie of her life and said that she had deactivated her account because she “has a problem.” Okay, maybe only a half-lie. And I gave him my generic email address that’s not listed on Facebook. I also gave him my name because, well, there’s about 4873409587340958 Jessica Williamses in the world.
            Bye, Addy!
            Then our flight was delayed 2 hours. Then we got on the plane to Basel.
IT’S NOT OVER-ly,
Juice