You guys. I can't even...I mean...Barcelona.
Don't get me wrong. It's the most beautiful city I've ever seen. It was about 20 degrees warmer than Amsterdam. I got to speak Spanish! Sangria! TAPAS! Churros!
But just about everything that could go wrong did. I am fairly convinced this trip was cursed from the day we bought our tickets. It was like every great amazing trip was coming back to be laugh in my face and say, "SEE? THESE THINGS ACTUALLY HAPPEN."
Okay. I'll take a breather. You look at this pretty picture while I do so.
Okay, still not ready to write this. Look at this one, too.
I KNOW, PALM TREES, RIGHT?
Also, this thing is called the Arc d' Triumf. Which would not be weird at all because it's a pretty triumphant arch, but they kind of have one in Paris already. I mean, whatever.
Okay, here's how we'll do this. I'll tell you a crappy thing that happened, and then show you something pretty. If I run out, I'll just post some pictures of kittens. I won't run out though, because the city was so gorgeous I took approximately 50,000.
We got to the airport. EasyJet, or NotEasyAtAllMostStressfulAirlineEver, decides not to post the gate until after the gates technically close. Cue travel anxiety, and strong consideration of buying an extremely overpriced airport cocktail. Resist. Like money.
When they post it after a billion hours, we run to the gate and wait for our boarding passes to be scanned so we can go outside and sit in the plane (or glorified child's plaything...I'm still not so sure...). My friend Chelsea goes first, and the flight lady looks at it, squints, and says something in Dutch with an irritated tone. "Um, sorry?" Chelsea replies. "This ticket is for yesterday."
We all hurriedly look at our tickets, but ours are correct. They send her out the door. "Try tomorrow."
A woman down.
PRETTY PICTURE
The Olympic Port. I'll have a yacht, please?
We white-knuckled the flight and giggled through it, despite the shock of having lost an entire person. Once we got to the airport, it was dark outside, but we saw palm trees. Therefore, we were pretty upbeat. We found the bus that would take us to the city center, where we could take the metro to our hostel. The bus was 5 euros for approximately ten minutes of travel. Sigh.
We exited the bus around the tourist mecca that is Las Ramblas. There was a metro station right there, and we began to root through our belongings to get out our cash to buy passes. Behind me, I heard, "Guys. OH MY GOD. GUYS."
Heart stops.
Behind us is Gaudi's Sagrada Famila. Coolest building I've ever seen. Also, I wear the same exact outfit every time I travel. Sorry.
Danielle's wallet had been stolen exactly 2 seconds after arriving in the city of Barcelona.
We stood there in kind of a shocked silence among the flashing lights and never ending bustle of the city.
With our rusty spanish skills, we managed to find a police station nearby. They barely spoke spanish, because the official city language is Catalan. So they directed us to another, which supposedly had a translator. They didn't but we got a form for her to fill out.
After a 30 minute Metro ride we got to our hostel and managed to find it, even though it was kind of a hole in the wall. Even though it was nearly midnight by that point, they directed us to a nearby pizza place.
THIS PART IS REALLY HAPPY, BECAUSE I GOT PIZZA!
We were able to get in touch with her parents, so they could start figuring out how the heck we were going to get money. See, we had four people and only two people with cash. Before my friend Bre had left, her debit card had been "compromised." So, no cash for her.
The next day, we got money wired to Bre and the IES office in Barcelona got cash for Danielle. We spent the rest of the day reveling in the sunlight and exploring. It was great.
That night, we went out. Past 2 a.m. Unbeknownst to us, this meant the metro was closed, and we walked an hour back to our hostel, getting directions from creeped-out hotel desk workers who only came up to the door when we banged on them. You see, my family has this saying that nothing good happens after 3 am. You've probably heard it. It's probably really common, but I'm planting our flag there, okay? Anyway, my parents are right. Fine.
Our hostel was on the side of a busy road and so incredibly loud none of us could sleep. And when I say it was incredibly loud, believe me. I live directly in front of train tracks in Amsterdam and I sleep like a baby.
We expected to get Chelsea that day and had heard from her when she left from the airport. We didn't know that she would sit on the tarmac for two hours, until the pilot came on and said, "Well guys, air traffic control just went on strike in Spain, so, we're cancelled."
She may have been lucky.
Because the next day, we went to the Olympic port and gazed out at the sea, the beautiful buildings and markets, went to the maritime museum (which is...actually a boat) and basked in the sun. Oh wait, that's good. What I've failed to mention is that drinking the water got us sick and at least one of us ended up puking in a trash can on the beach and a few of us took high advantage of the Starbucks bathroom.
Yeah, you needed to know that.
But hey, Spaniards love their Starbucks. The things were everywhere.
Okay. So, that night. Ever heard of the Rocky Horror Picture Show? Well, it's this cult classic movie that people act in front of and sometimes interrupt to throw food at people--apparently--and Danielle is a huge fan. So when she found out that a Spanish theatre does it the first weekend of every month, we decided to go. A cult musical in Spanish? I'm in.
We found our way there. Well, not actually because it was the wrong theatre. They helped us figure out where it was, and we ran/walked to the real theatre. We got there with ten minutes to spare, breathless with self-satisfaction and success. "Oh, I'm sorry, December is the only month of the year we don't do it."
Really.
REALLY.
But, we made the best of it. How? We spent our allotted ticket money entirely on gelato and strolled through the city, gazing at the blinking Christmas lights and eating iced sugary goodness while wearing scarves and gloves.
The next morning, we hiked up the mountain until it started to rain, at which point we ran down the mountain.
We grabbed our stuff. Exhausted, queasy, delightfully pink-cheeked, and one wallet and one girl fewer, we made our way to the airport.
Barcelona is the most beautiful place I have ever seen, hands down. I'm glad I went and had the experiences I did. But dang, Barca, you sure know how to make a girl want to leave.
I did have a little moment when we arrived back out our apartments. It felt like I was home, and crawling into bed was a relief. After four months, the canal houses, winding bike lanes, clanging trams, and cold winds have become the familiar. Amsterdam is the best city in Europe. Go. Pictures mean nothing to this city--it's an atmosphere you have to live. I am going to hate, hate, HATE to leave. But at the same time, going home, really going home, will be the best Christmas present ever.
Oh. And, this happened.
