Right now, I’m not taking the Nurse’s advice too well. On Sunday night I began to feel a tickle in my throat and Tuesday morning I woke up rather disinclined to do anything but stay in bed, drink tea, and watch romantic period pieces featuring a strong female lead (thanks for the stereotype, Netfliks). It really was just a sore throat, but it put me in a rather bluesy mood. I bought a bunch of fruit from a produce stand and some orange juice, so I’m hoping a bit of sleep and vitamin C will kick it. I figure that it is a result of having stayed up all hours for the Festival of Mercè, one of the biggest and craziest weekends in Barcelona. But this night is currently not our concern. (I think it will take me three years to go through the pictures and videos, ha ha!)
I’m going to take you all back to Friday, September 9, my last day in the residencia. With two of my friends, we ventured to a famous shoe store on Carrer Avinyó in the old city where they sell traditional Catalán shoes. I didn’t buy anything and instead had a tortilla de patatas and pa amb tomàquet at a charming little café down the street. Tortilla de patatas is not actually a tortilla as we know, but more like an omelet with egg, potato, and sometimes onion, fried in olive oil. Delicious! Pa amb tomàquet is Catalán for bread with tomato. Now, my family knows I’m not too fond of tomatoes, but Spain is, so when in Barcelona, I eat tomatoes. Before everyone gets excited, there really isn’t that much tomato—just a little bit smushed over most bread. Pa amb tomàquet is bread, olive oil, salt, and tomato—super simple, but a very yummy and traditional snack.
I went back to the residencia, grabbed my luggage, and began to make my trek to the other side of town. I took a bus to one of the streets that cross near my apartment and I suddenly realized how much of a slant I lived on. From the peak of the street, I could see all the way down to the beach! The street was so slanted that at one point, you have to take an elevator or stairs down to the lower part.
I moved in all of my belongings to my room, showered, and took a nap before Abel came to the piso. He laughed when I stumbled out of my room and shuffled over to say hi to him, but now I do believe he is quite used to this spectacle—I am notoriously incommunicative in the mornings. For our evening out, I wore some of the new clothes I bought earlier that week and thought I looked pretty darn good. This was about the time that Abel, being the darling big-brotherly type that he is, began to bemoan that he would have to beat back hoards of men.
And thus began, “Classy Nights, Part 1,” with interludes of “Wine and Judgment” and “Struggle City.” It is important to note that the word “classy” is being used very ironically. However, up until the Mercè, this was definitely my favorite night in Barcelona.
It began with a bottle of wine and a pair of scissors. I had traveled back to the residencia to eat dinner with my friends and enjoy some wine before going to the bar that Abel works at. You see, we failed to realize that a cork opener would be helpful in situations like this. It was already after 10 pm, stores were long closed, and so we had to improvise. This lead to slowly excavating our way through the wine cork with scissors until we managed to push it through. I somehow made an art of it and managed to not get any cork bits in the wine, nor did I get wine all over myself. Never before has a €1.75 bottle of wine tasted so good. My friend Diego did not have as much luck (he lacked a feminine touch, I suppose) and had to change his shirt.
After finishing our wine, we took the metro to the bar and got a little lost on the way, to the point where Abel proclaimed that he thought we would never make it to the bar and we all desperately had to pee. The bar was really cool: it’s called El Jardinet d’Aribau and its interior is sort of like a little garden, complete with trees and swings. We bought a giant strawberry daiquiri to split between the four of us and Abel bestowed us all with shots.
At one point, it became clear that one of my friends had overindulged and it was time to go home. Not wanting to leave this friend alone, my other friends decided to catch a cab and return to the residencia. I was a little bummed until Abel declared that if I just sat around and waited until closing, he would take me over to the club with some of the waiters. I sat and listened to all their conversations, laughing whenever I heard a swearword I knew. Abel told me that everyone in Spain yells when they talk to each other and I explained, “Abel, my family is Italian. This is normal for me.”
Abel knows everyone in this city. Or at least it felt that way. From the bartenders at the club to the bouncers, to the old people in our apartment, everyone always greets him with a smile and a wave. People in Spain are just very affectionate, I think. Pet names (ranging from nice things like guapa to calling each other bastards in jest— ¡cabrón!) and people stand close to you as they talk and will often touch your arm or leg to make a point. It’s just something to adapt to.
I was doing pretty good, making the usual conversation (“I’m from California. I’ve been here three weeks. Oh yes, I like Barcelona a lot. I’m studying literature at the UB.”) and then I had to open my mouth.
“Spanish girls can’t dance.”
In my defense, it’s true. Okay, so they can salsa (I’m learning how!!!) but just hanging out on the dance floor, one would think they had forgotten they had hips. Of course, I couldn’t be all talk and no game, so I got pulled onto the dance floor and passed around to all of Abel’s friends. People in Spain dance face-to-face, which is quite nice, and the boys here can dance. And lead. It is brilliant!!!
The night wore on and the general theme of the night became confusion: a sleepy Courtney plus Spaniards assuming that they could talk a mile a minute and be understood led to a lot of awkward silences where I realized that people were asking me questions and I had completely zoned out, unable to keep up with conversations. And then there were moments where I was pondering if I had heard right, and if he was talking about his boyfriend in Panama that he hadn’t seen in awhile… or was it his girlfriend? Brother? A few people tried to speak their broken English to me, assuming I didn’t understand at all, but I explained in Spanish that they just needed to slow down and not all talk at the same time and I would be just fine. Well, they tried. It is a good thing Abel knows all too well my “confused” face because he will stop and explain things to me.
Eventually we went out to breakfast at a bar/café where Abel knew one of the waiters (surprise surprise). Breakfast consisted of a grilled ham and cheese with OJ for me, a hamburger for Abel, and a hotdog for Eric (one of the waiters from the bar). Odd, I know, but we ended up at the bar around 1 or 2 am and had gone to the club around 3 or 4 am, so we needed the pick-me-up.
As we finished our meal, the sun was beginning to rise, slowly lighting up the wide, grid-like streets of L’Eixample. The boys were trying to catch a cab when I made my first joke in Spanish (it’s really hard to be funny in another language). I announced that I was a girl in a skirt and that I could do anything easier, especially catch a cab. Abel was in the middle of crossing the street when I announced this and stopped then and there to laugh.
The drive back to the piso was lovely. I stuck my head out the window like a dog and Abel made fun of me for having my eyes as wide as saucers as I drank in the sleepy city. I changed into my pajamas and grabbed my blanket before sitting with the boys on the comfy terrace. Eventually, I forgot how to speak Spanish (granted it was about 9 am at this point) and fell asleep.
The rest of Saturday was spent sleeping and watching movies with Abel. He’s kind of my best friend here and sometimes I really don’t know what I would do without him because he’s a fountain of knowledge and yet still really cool, funny, and laid back. I’m so lucky to have such an awesome roomie!
It’s now the end of September and my other roommate, Clara, is moving out and we’re getting a new roommate! I wonder who it’ll be…
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