After nearly a week in Spain I have several tales to tell fine art, street hustlers and public masturbation.
I spent four full days in Barcelona after a tumultuous train ride from Nice (which is another story altogether, involving a Frenchman on speed). My first day in Barcelona I devoted to Gaudi, zipping around the Sagrada Familia -- the church that has been under construction for nearly 100 years, don´t have to cover up your shoulders to go in there, haha -- and poking around Parc Guell, both equally awe-inspiring works if architecture and art. I am officially a Gaudi fan, so it was a good thing I went to Barcelona because he´s everywhere.
The next day I did Picasso, visiting the museum and being somewhat impressed by his transformation from a classically trained painter during his teenage years to a complete nut by the end of his days. That was the fine art portion of this posting.
I took a third day to pop around Las Ramblas, the main market street that has a lot of FBC (that´s Barcelona futbol for you ¨football¨ fans) jersey shops adjacent to Cartier and Louis Vuitton. An interesting mix.
Las Ramblas has the best street performers I´ve ever seen. I think I´ve found a new calling in life because the job is simple: dress up like your favorite historical character, don´t move and people give you money. Jesus and Mary were particular favorites of mine, as well as a man painted white, sitting on a toilet reading the paper. Give him 50 cents and he mimicks constipation. Genius.
The people in Barcelona are smart -- they know stupid tourists are easy to rip off. There was a street game that always started as randomly as it ended involving three boxes and a little ball. You are supposed to find the ball, the catch is you have to pay 50 Euro each time to do so. Sometimes you win; often you lose because the other people playing with you are not in fact tourists, they are in on the scam. It looks like they´re winning all the time, and to the average joe, that means you could win too. I watched a poor Polish guy get suckered out of 150 Euros this way.
All in all, I really enjoyed Barcelona and met some very nice Australians to scout out the city with. The shopping there has so far been the best I´ve found, the mom and pop stores are unique and cheap, lots of jewelry and tapestries.
I must note that the Barcelonans are pioneering the fight to bring back the 80s. I´m calling it the Mullet Movement, because men and women alike, clad in striped 3-inch headbands and one-shoulder sweatshirts paired with stretch pants were walking around everywhere in Barcelona. Without realizing how horrible they look. I was thoroughly disgusted to see this trend, which should be quarantined in Sweden, infiltrating the rest of the world.
From Barcelona, I decided to travel to Madrid. But sometimes the journey is more important than the destination...
I hopped on a train thinking with my Eurail pass, I wouldn´t need a reservation.
Wrong.
I was quickly kicked off the train and told to make a reservation for the next one, which was coming in an hour. Fair enough, said I, but the next trains were booked solid until 11.30 at night. I would have to take an overnight train to Madrid and waste about 10 hours in a city called Tarragona, also on the Mediterranean coast.
Being the resourceful girl that I am, I decided to spend the day on the beach doing some ¨tan maintenance¨ after it dared to rain in Spain during my stint in Barcelona. After about an hour of basking near the rocks on an otherwise sandy beach, a huge wave came and threatened to draw my unsuspecting purse, clothes and lunch into the warm Mediterranean water, never to be seen again.
Being agile as usual, haha, I managed to catch all of my things but not before they were sopping wet with saltwater and sand. During the whole process, I managed to smash my knee into a rock and was gushing blood (I apologize if this is too graphic, but it gets worse). Disgusted with the day´s events thus far, I managed to collect my things and lay them out to dry. My camera doesn´t work anymore, my railpass and passport were soggy and my poor journal was dripping.
Well if that was the worst that could happen, I would be okay, right? God, who has a really sick sense of humor by the way, heard me say that to myself and decided to teach me a lesson.
Not more than five minutes later, I was nursing my knee and a dodgy man in a speedo emerged from his tent from down the beach and plopped down ten feet away from me. Being the sweet, innocent flower of a girl you all know and love, I wasn´t sure WHAT he was doing. At first I thought he was massaging his inner thigh with his fist; upon further inspection, I realized he was massaging a very different muscle. Definitely NOT something Don Juan would do.
Completely fed up with the whole day, I glared at the nasty old man, grabbed my wet stuff and headed for the hills. People were staring at me all day thinking I was a vagabond but I didn´t care. If they dared look me in the eye, they pretty much got my best ¨look of death.¨ I was in no mood to be friendly.
Finally I arrived in Madrid this morning and found a very lovely hostel to stay in. Madrid is lovely, the people here have been very nice so far and I have spent the day looking around the Sunday flea market and getting lost in the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, which has a Degas from his ballet sequence (whoopee!!!).
Tomorrow I will take a day-trip to Toledo and Tuesday I am heading up to Burgos to stay with a relative of a friend. Am looking forward to eating a home-cooked meal and being surrounded by actual Spaniards -- not more tourists.
