Barthelonaaa

By now I have come to grips with the fact that leaving Paris is just not that easy. Not because I have some emotional attachment that I have trouble parting with but it’s the physical aspect of it that I have struggled with. Physically getting my body out of the city has been a bit of an issue. First, it was Switzerland when we missed our train because we were at the wrong station. Then they cancelled my train to Normandy because there was a nationwide transportation labor strike (see “would you like some cheese with your whine” below). As far as I can remember London went off without a hitch, but then there was Barcelona. Our flight was delayed 2 hours putting us into town at about midnight and the flight back would be even more of a debacle.

We had forgone any ideas to book a hostel ahead of time because we were told that one of the guides there ran an illegal hostel out of his apartment and that we were more than welcome to stay with him. This turned out to be a terrible idea. We arrived in Barcelona at midnight and still had not been able to get in touch with him. We had a back up plan though or so we thought. Being early November, one would think that the travel season was at an end and that there would be plenty of hostels or even hotels to choose from. So this was our backup plan. Just wing it. We walked the streets of Barcelona, back packs and all, for the next 3 hours trying to find anyone that had an open bed. Whatever sign we saw that looked remotely open we walked in and asked for rooms only to be incessantly turned down. About this time Graham Robinson had formed a genius plan in his mind to trade out sleeping on the city benches for 3 hours at a time while one guy stayed up and watched the bags. During the first 2 hours I laughed at the idea but at 3 a.m. and after about 20 hotels and hostels with no rooms it was looking like a legitimate plan. One last hail mary we had in our pocket was to go back out by the airport and see if any of those hotels had rooms. Two 4 star hotels later we had a place to crash. A little higher end than an illegal hostel in the center of Barcelona but at this point it was that or a park bench.

The next day we woke up to a beautiful sunny day in Barcelona. Unfortunately we still had no plan for where we were going to sleep for the rest of our trip and we couldn’t really go see the sights until that was figured out. From here we went to the Fat Tire shop and met up with the owner and some of the guides and tried to see if they could help us out. Finally at 4 p.m. and after they had called 20 more places they knew of that were all full, J.J. from South Africa came to the rescue. J.J. volunteered to let us have his place for the next two nights and he would sleep at his girlfriends. We didn’t realize this meant that we would be partying with him for about ehhh….the next 36 hours…..straight. J.J.’s girlfriend owns a bar on the beach with some of the best sangria I have ever had and his roommate Matt is a bartender at one of the more popular places in Barcelona so the table was set for one hell of a time.



For those of you that have been to Barcelona and made it out alive, congratulations. For those of you that have been to Barcelona and claimed to have studied for a semester, stop lying to yourself and pay your parents back. No possible way anything productive gets done in that city, especially during school hours. Let me just give you a little idea of what I am talking about. People eat dinner at about 10 o’clock. At this time they go to the bars which close around 2-3 a.m.. Now where most people would call this a big night and take it to the house, these folks do not. At this point the clubs OPEN and will generally go until about 6-7 in the morning. I like to have a good time as much as the next guy but damn. If you are not used to this type of partying, which no one should ever be, then its tough. Believe it or not we would manage to pull through somehow though.

The next day we crawled out of bed to go on J.J.’s bike tour and that’s when it really set in to just how ridiculous this whole city is. People do this sort of thing regularly; cant be healthy. Anyways, the tour was great and J.J. made sure to tell everyone that the guys from Paris in the back were the reason he was a little hungover so that kind of set the tone for the rest of the tour. We saw a few parks, monuments, and Sagrada Familia which is this ridiculous church design by Gaudi started in the 1800’s and still has a good 30-40 years to go. In Barcelona, they end the tour at a café/bar on the beach that fortunately for us is once again owned by J.J.’s girlfriend. So we just hung out here for a little longer and watched the day go by. From here we hiked to the top of one of the hills in the city where there is a park designed by Gaudi as well.





After the day was over we decided we probably couldnt hang with J.J. anymore so we better not even try. So the 4 of us went to a place a little more low key to play pool and foose ball, L'ovella Negra (The black Sheep) for those of you that have been there, then called it a night because our flight was leaving at 7:30, or so we thought.

We get to the airport at about 6 a.m. running on fumes and all we want to do is get on the plane, get back to Paris, and sleep all day. About 7:20, they decide to tell us that the plane was cancelled. Now if you have flown around Europe before or even read my scholarly article on customer service then you know what is likely to happen in these situations. They don’t automatically put you on the next plane and they damn sure aren’t giving you a place to sleep for the night. From here it’s all up to you. They basically tell us that there are 9 spots on the 11 a.m. flight and that the later flight is full. So at this point 400 people rush downstairs to get in the ticket line and scavenge for whatever chance of hope might be left to make it home. After waiting in line for about 30 minutes and coming to grips with the fact that we were probably staying in Barcelona for another night they decided to charter another plane for us all at noon. How thoughtful!

We make it back to Paris safe and sound; worn the hell out and ready to lay low for a few days. Fortunately for me, Dylan and Charlie were arriving fresh and ready to go in Paris in a little less than 18 hours so I would have try and keep up.