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.
Sam
