Barcelona, Uno
19 Apr 2010 1 Comment
We arrived in Barcelona in the afternoon. As soon as we were out of the bus station, I felt like I was in an Egyptian neighborhood. The stench of trash and petroleum, the camel-colored buildings, tall palm trees and motorcyclists writing their own road rules as they weaved between honking cars – all created the parallel. We walked along sidewalks with uneven tiling, below balconies-above-balconies jutting out of apartment buildings. They loved to watch each other. Some people even looked Arab because of their tanned skin and dark, thick hair.
We descended into the metro, which had the same basic routing system as that of Washington D.C. Because I had spent a lot of time in D.C. last summer, I was comfortable reading the colored map of lines to know where to go. Over the next couple days, I found out that at every one of Barcelona’s metro gates, a blue-vested man or woman stood to hand out metro guides.
We got on the blue line to Horta, as directed by the hostel in the confirmation email. Somehow, we walked into the same cart as some American students Lauren had met on her plane from Rome. They were studying in Barcelona, and had traveled across the city and back by the time Lauren and I got on the metro. Knowing their way around, they pointed us down the right street after we got off.
Looking at the city map we picked up at the ticket station, we realized that our hostel was far north east and the tourist area was on the opposite side of Barcelona. But we didn’t have the energy to worry about that. All we wanted was to be rid of our backpacks and sink into our 15 Euro a night beds. So we walked and walked, down the main street, up a hilly road, left at the fork, right at the bend.
“Oh my God,” we said in near unison. Between two rows of orange trees emerged a flight of 162 stairs and we stood before it gaping. Already panting, we readied our lungs to pump the oxygen that would gets us to the top. It was like the side of an Aztec pyramid had been sliced off and placed between these upright trees that dangled fruit in their own chilly breezy shade. 
“We better be in amazing shape by the end of this trip,” I said between breaths. Lauren, who wore four layers of clothing to fit all her belongings in her backpack and to board the flight without checking in the bag, made it to the top before me. After one last street to follow, we arrived at the Mellow Hostel gate and buzzed in.
A petite New Zealand girl managed the front desk and showed us to our room. From a short conversation, I found out that Mellow was newly renovated and had only been running for two weeks. Wi-Fi was free, but computers cost 50 cents for 15 minutes. It cost 8 Euros to have the staff wash, dry, and fold your laundry. We had 24 hour access to the kitchen.
The walls were a rich pink, purple, or orange, while ceilings glowed white. Amoeba blobs of contrasting color served as signs, text stenciled in the centers. Against the indigo walls of our room were lockers and six beds stacked in pairs. We met Esperanza, or Hope, and her friend, both of whom were Chile students studying in Italy. Esperanza had a dirty blonde mess of hair that was always loosely held by an elastic band. Her skin was a milky caramel and her thick lips were painted dress-up-game pink. She was skinny and carelessly pretty. When she spoke English, she didn’t mind her wrongly conjugated verbs or awkward word choices. Esperanza and her friend chattered away in Spanish when they weren’t talking to Lauren and me.
The view of the city from our balcony was well-worth the travel. Since Mellow was perched on a high hill, we were eye-level with the mountains that stood guard around Barcelona. Miles of congested buildings, old reddish brown and dusty white, laid before us. The wind blew stronger up where we were, but the air smelled cleaner.
After I unpacked and Lauren showered, we went to find an internet cafe because Lauren was set on meeting up with a boy she knew who lived in Barcelona. We spent an hour at a place run by two Pakistani men, who I spoke with while I waited for her. They recommended a gyro shop around the corner for dinner, and I strolled there to pick up a shawirma sandwich for 3.50 euro. When I got back, the guys offered me a mug of water – the first I drank since I arrived in Spain.
Lauren and I agreed to buy fruits and snacks to breakfast with the next couple days. From our wandering, I learned that the place with cheapest prices is usually the least attractive one. I bought bananas, pears, pastries and a 5L bottle of water for 5 euro and some change. But Lauren took her chances on finding some place even cheaper than Vidl and left empty handed. Turned out that everywhere else was more expensive. She insisted on carrying my 5L of water up the Aztec stairs to ensure that I would go back to Vidl with her, which I would have done without the service. But by the time we returned, it was closed. Her only option was OpenCar, the most expensive and attractive shop with the least selection of food, open until 2am. All she bought was a dry sesame seed baguette the length of her hand and a bag of shredded cheese. That was her dinner. On the long walk back and the third time that day we climbed the stairs, I listened to her repeatedly grumble, “I’m angry.” I didn’t say anything.
I set my phone alarm for 7am in hopes we would wake up early, refreshed for a more eventful day in Barcelona. The last sounds I heard that night were the rapid fire of fingers on laptop keys, a dog barking in the street, music blasting from the ceiling speaker right outside our door, and the loud laughter and conversation of a group spread between the patio and the dining room. I muted the world with earplugs. Sound waves were broken up and trapped in microscopic pockets of foam, millimeters from my eardrums yet miles from my awareness. Silence. Sleep.
