My much-needed week break in Barcelona got off to a flying start, albeit eventually. Escaping grey colours and shadowy relationships, I was in generally good spirits at Luton Airport as a Polish toddler had kept me entertained me by running away from his mother every time she tried to sit and have a coffee. I often feel like that. I used to scream when she left the room. Now only when she enters. He got the better of her for an hour! I did not even mind too much when the X-ray security team spilt all my loose change on the floor and as I bent to pick it up, my belt-less trousers almost came down. Then, the blood started creeping down the wall. My mother called whilst I was buying a toothbrush to tell me that “Andrew was not well again, Keith and Linda could not make it up after all because of his diabetes and Elana has had trouble breastfeeding and that Ilan Aarons, a friend from Scouts 20 years ago, was now living in Germany and that I should not get robbed”. Then the cracks in the walls. BAD Time. Budget Airline Delays. Ours was at least not an unoriginal excuse. The pilot picking us up had hit a bird. Presumably, this was not an aggressive attack on his wife but a winged creature, who was betrayed by his sat nav and flew straight into a fireball. Once respects were paid at his immediate cremation, we were allowed on board, where I was subjected to two women chatting about Kylie’s fears of turning 40 and a “shall I dump him or marry him dilemma?” I told her at the end to finish it, though I did not say for his sake. We all need to stop analysing and start living. Already irritated, people decided to clap wildly at the end of the flight, in appreciation of a murderous pilot, who had carried out a job he is not expected to fail in and belatedly. You’d think we had just defeated the Luftwaffe. God, I hate audience participation.After arriving in Girona, I jumped on a bus, arriving just after 1, at my hostel, which was still under construction. Although I did eventually fall asleep in my nice private room for 12, it dawned on me that my hostelling days were probably behind me. A lack of air conditioning, snoring strangers, broken computers, lifts that don´t listen and a check out policy even for people staying all combined to slowly drive me nuts. The city itself, you cannot fault. It was a little confusing at first as the main streets weaved in and out of each other, surprising for an urban grid system planned by the Romans. But then they always had it in for suffering Jewish martyrs. Cafes con leche, estrella beers and walks down the Rambla, where chickens, rabbits and birds went stir crazy in cages, conmen tried to rip off gullible tourists and Native Americans play panpipes for money in front of designer shops few have the pesetas for. I also observed how much better the Spanish seemed to take better care of their health, diet and appearance than the English and North Americans. Generally speaking. That said, I do feel that in the humour stakes, the English are light years ahead.
After a month falling in love with Spain, Lucasz, my Canadian friend from a lifetime ago, arrived in tow with Melissa, a blonde tattooed smiley punk, who talked with a slightly irritating inflection as though everything was a question, was tattooed everywhere, pierced everywhere, even Jesus was on her ear, which may expain why some people have struggled to find him. She was pro choice for plastic surgery, which seemed odd as I never thought people had nose jobs against their will. She was a vegan, who quit her hairdresser job in Canada by sending a postcard home. She spent eight hours in a Spanish A&E while we were there as her ankle tattoo showed signs of a blood infection. The very sight of it, and her other tattoos, made me need a siesta. That is why Lucasz and his media colleague Wes, an amiable ubercamp bearded man, went out instead. We tried bars on the gay scene, among them, one called Zeltas, where Melissa (blonde punk) stole the thunder of the male dancer on the podium by doing yoga stretches in front of him and on the second night, I met Rui, a 34 year-old Madrid-based sales manager from Lisbon, who offered me his fluffy pillows and hotel room for the evening. Thoughtful man. Melissa was less thoughtful the following day when she screamed I had a love bite on the Rambla. Rui, apologising after, said he wanted to give me a souvenir. Somewhat embarrassed, I had already got some postcards, I told him.
The OTHER sights I saw plenty. The Gothic quarter, Picasso Museum, the beach with its harassing masseuse, who looked like she was kneading bread not relaxing this British pensioner, markets with pain au chocolats the size of your feet and cheeses whose odours would knock you off you them. We took a sweltering bus ride to Park Guell, which was made all the more heated by a busdriver, who insisted on cramming the bus to capacity and then some. This was not London. As nice as Mrs Pavarotti’s cleavage seemed to be, soft, I thought I may ask to sit on the roof at one point. The park offered great views of the city and Gaudi-inspired buildings, one of which, according to Melissa, looked like Fraggle Rock. Gaudi’s most impressive creation has to be the towering Sagrada Familia, given to Gaudi by a Barcelona businessman on the basis of Gaudi’s blue eyes. Apparently he had a premonition that the task would be completed by a bloke with blue eyes. So Gaudi got the job. It was kind of like my bizarre interview here. I could not help thinking that for all the impressive detail of Jesus and his posse, Gaudi’s vision and attention failed him at a crucial time… when he was killed by a tram in 1928. Still, they all end up with bizarre endings. Picasso went so mad at the end, he was painting pigeons that did not even deserve to go on the fridge and Van Gogh cut off his ear and mailed it to his girlfriend. Poor cow. Expecting something from Amazon. Imagine her surprise. An artist´s life is not a happy one. A traveller´s one is not an easy one.
Mine got no easier as I moved out of Centric Point Hostel and into a noisy Hostel Paradiso, where I learned Finnish people are attractive but a little on the bland side, Americans are funny to laugh with and at and hostel staff are generally useless. I moved out of there and into Hostel Centro for some rest. Although this was a dingy private room with musty wallpaper, a crackly tv and with the ambiance of a monastery, I was in heaven. It is the type of hellhole you’d be grateful if Norman Bates owned. At least there would be some action. Other than that a budgie twittered in a cage the size of a matchbox. Down the street in the Plaza de Catalunya, there were several protests. One was carried out by monks against the situtation in Burma, another for rights for transgender folk and I tried to drum up support for Operation Pigeon Wipeout but with no luck as the bastards continued to plague me, assault me and try to shit on me.
Shortly after, Lucasz headed home after five weeks, Wes contemplated France and a somewhat stooped Melissa with a 100 litre rucksack on her back keeping her almost horizontal, she headed to Zurich on the bus. I headed to the airport in Gerona, having enjoyed breathing in another city, albeit one with lots of noise and graffiti, and I learned that I can be more forceful with my opinions, that when people are fighting to be heard, I can walk away and not try bring it back to centre, and that a smile changes everything. I also learned that the Spanish are not the most advanced nation in airport etiquette and that having three flights to London, Luton and Pisa take off from the same gate within 10 minutes is not probably going to change that reputation.
I arrived back to miserable skies and pouring rain but my world.. it seemed a lot less grey for it.
