Karate Chop Extreme!

Waiting on Opinions

In the past post, I was little rough on Barcelona. I had yet to see Las Ramblas or the museums, or even some of the prettiest neighborhoods and downtown areas. But after walking kilometer after kilometer and touring nearly the entire place on foot over the past few days, I can safely say that I shouldn’t judge a place so quickly.

Barcelona is packed with character- and by that, I mean the people and the infrastructure. The turning point for my mind and opinion occurred during a walk through the tree-lined, tourist-filled Las Ramblas to a giant, fresh market called LaBoqueria. Here, Catalan architecture reigns supreme and thin alleyways stretch and bend in ways that could get anyone lost in a series of shops and houses. It is dark and mysterious, a wild milieu of stone.

Here, I let myself get lost- flowing with the mixes of grays and browns, pressing against the waves of people and keeping my eyes opened for the infamous pickpockets. Las Ramblas allowed me to feel and understand the city of Barcelona. This was key to taking my mind away from the negative and into the positive. It let me see the picturesque and splendid sense of personality that I had previously blocked from my vision.

The Rooms of Barcelona

In Barcelona, we stayed in three different locations. The first was a twenty-euro-a-night hostel, situated just north of Barceloneta station. It was nice, but cost a little more than our budget allows for. We ditched it and moved to a place three-and-a-half kilometers northeast.

This place was called UrbanyHostel. For only twelve euros each, it gave us small beds and access to a gym. It was towering and modern. The gym pass was nice, but overall we hoped to get out and find a place with character.  In our next location, back in the heart of Barceloneta, we did.

Small room rented via Airbnb

Through the use of the online website, Airbnb.com, we rented a room in one of the oldest of Barceloneta’s row homes. It cost us a whopping twenty-three dollars (not euros) for two nights. Sure, we had to share a bed and we lacked WiFi, but character streamed through the dusty stone walls and steps of the building. It was actually so old that it was about to be torn down and renovated- it was beginning to become unsafe. Our “roommates”, two people that had lived in Barcelona for the past ten years, said they only had three days left before the reconstruction began.

Rest in Peace, Joe Cool

Chris has an alternate identity. It is a man composed of all that is suave, built to relax, built to be smooth. Almost an enigma, this character is marked by sunglasses and sunshine. Inspired by the famous version of Snoopy from the Charlie Brown comics, Chris masks himself with shades and follows the same name- Joe Cool. In Barcelona, our third place of stay was a small room in one of the oldest buildings in a series  of row homes in Barceloneta, a neighborhood on the beach. It used to be a port, but a while back, the city filled it with sand and extended the docks. Back in the older days of Barcelona, the poor lived on the beach. The water was polluted, and the state of life wasn’t as good. With the clean-up, though, things have been reversed- now the tourists and hotels line the waters and the homeless and poor manage their days in the grime of the concrete jungle.

Our room was a five minute walk from the beach. Midway was a market and several bakeries and vegetable stores. Since we didn’t have WiFi in the room, we had to find the nearest place with free access. Where was it? Five feet from the crashing waves of the ocean. Chris and I would make plenty of trips to and from the sand, and there Joe Cool was at his prime. Chris enjoyed throwing on his sunglasses and lying in the sand. It was by the ocean that Joe Cool lived. His persona became a reference point as we toured the city.

Yet, our departure from Barcelona was hectic. We attended a Knife Party concert where the doors opened at midnight. We left the show halfway through, and by then it was already 03:00. Getting back to our place we had pre-packed our things- but there was one important item we forgot: the sunglasses. Chris was able to transform into Joe Cool with those shades. Without them, Joe Cool was gone. Dead. Never to return unless purchased at a vendor. So, as we said goodbye to Spain and to Barcelona, we said goodbye to our good friend and master of the chill. Maybe it wasn’t his time. I don’t know. Either way, there is one phrase to say.

Rest in peace, Joe Cool.

The Good, The Bad, The Ryanair

Chris and I found out what we suspected- with a $20 flight comes the criminal act of fees and consequences. Ryanair’s favorite torture device is a cage built with metal piping to the exact dimensions of their baggage restriction.  Days before your flight, the emails begin to come: “Make sure you bags fit our standards”, “Don’t go over the limit”, “No more than ten kilograms” If you break the rule, you pay up to ninety euros.

Yikes.

Here is the issue: Chris has a very tall bag. It doesn’t weigh a lot, but it could probably join the NBA. When it came our turn to place our bags in the torture chamber, mine fit, but very snuggly. I was waved off. Chris placed his pack inside, and it slid into the metal rungs easily. We thought we were good.

Nope.

The attendant, hovering nearby, bent down with her clipboard pressed to her chest. She eyed the top of the red fabric, stood back up, and said, “No.” with the sternness of the Soup Nazi.

“Why?”

“It is five centimeters too tall. Go to the desk and pay.”

“Can’t you let us by? Five centimeters isn’t that much.”

“It is over,” She pointed to the measuring device. “So you have to pay.”

Chris, understandably frustrated, took his bag out of the rungs and onto the ground. I walked over and told him we had to do it. Not pay- but bend the bag. Since we have large packs, they have aluminum supports through the back. They run all the way to the top of Chris’s pack, so even though his pack isn’t stuffed to the brim, he can’t prevent the height issue due to the immobile structuring. Instead, he had to kneel, grip the bag in his hands, and bend it back.

With the aluminum mangled, he shoved the backpack into the device yet again. I put my hand over the top of it, making it clear that it fit the requirement, and, rudely, stared at the attendant and stated, “Cool, it fits. Let’s go, Chris.”

No fees, but a bent pack. Luckily we could press it back into place. The bad thing is, we will probably have to do this for every Ryanair flight.

Job Life of the Working Class: The Eyes of One that Searches

People in Spain and Italy are suffering from unemployment. Construction layoffs and ruptured housing bubbles splintered the working class, throwing populations into the confusing mesh of the homeless categorization. En-route to Domodossola, a man with a dirty backpack, black slacks, and a button up with a royal crest stitched on the chest sat juxtaposing us.

“So tough to get a job in these countries,” He said, scratching his arm. “You guys looking for work, too?”

“No, no,” I responded, “We’re just travelers wandering around Europe.”

“Ah, so you got the money then?” He smiled, rubbing his fingers together, back and forth. Chris and I laughed and quickly assured him that we were the opposite, that we were students on a budget’s budget.

“What kind of work are you looking for?”

“Anything.  You know, cleaning, cooking, building. I’ll do anything.”

“Just something stable then.”

“You got it. This,” He grabbed his backpack and we noticed he had a brown sleeping bag next to it. He opened it up, pointed inside. “It’s my home. I got nothing more. Now, since I can’t find a job in Italy, I’m going to Switzerland to try my luck here.”

Shortly after, he got up and left. His stop was soon and he waited by the door. I watched as he departed, home on his shoulder, sleeping bag underneath his arm, surprised, yet not shocked at the measure he needed to go to for a consistent income.

The Swiss Alps: Mountains, Trees, and the Abundance of Green

A border passes before you can blink. It’s there then gone. After all, it is only a line drawn on a map- it isn’t like someone marked it with a the same kind of paint runner they use to make the markings on a football field.  As we traveled by train from Italy, which was already vibrant with trees, we hit the forests and the rising mounds of earth that mark the entrance to Switzerland. We had an “Amazing Race” kind of moment in Domodossola, where we had eight minutes to buy another set of tickets and find our train. It was a sprint-fest of stairs and people-dodging, but, with a solid thirty seconds, Chris and I made it, shirts slightly damp with sweat. As we crossed the border into Switzerland I jammed out to The Black Keys album, El Camiino, and the snow caps of the Alps stared down at us. Soon, the scenery disappeared, replaced with a tunnel and the feeling of building pressure in our ears.

No words really can describe the ride through the mountains and fog. I think Hemmingway tried in AFarewell to Arms, but really, not even a picture can show the sight. The mountains, the trees, the cities, towns, and rivers all have an aura. It is magical.

Arrivederci,

Sam