This weekend was our first weekend of solo travel, so naturally we chose to take the easy route and hop on over to Barcelona (ha ha joking, good one!!) I traveled with eight other people, a number that made it difficult to take taxis, but we’re problem solvers by nature and made it through transportation with minimal disasters. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Let’s start with the flight from Luxembourg to Barcelona.
In true airline fashion, we were delayed. I lost track of exactly how long it had been after a while, but we were stuck in the Luxembourgish airport for upwards of two hours with nothing to do or eat. Since the country is only 49 by 35 miles (or maybe kilometers), the airport is but a small baby. Waiting around there wouldn’t have been a huge issue if Barcelona wasn’t the end destination because, let’s be honest, Spain is kind of a big deal. Time was a wastin’ in departure gate A12.
Eventually we boarded, and it seemed as though life was good once again. False. The flight was my personal downfall. I had a seat on the emergency exit aisle, which is automatically a recipe for disaster. Conveniently placed between a French dad and a Eruo businessman, I popped my headphones in and began to doze off, as one does when sitting on an aircraft, but my slumber was soon interrupted by the flight attendant, who informed me that
a) I needed to remove my headphones and
b) I was not allowed to have personal items under the seat because I was responsible in the event of an emergency.
Ugh. I complied, though mildly annoyed. Then she spotted my trusty Nalgene and confiscated that too. I’m unsure how liquids would affect liftoff, but no matter. I was waterless and headphone-less on the world’s most uncomfortable airline.
After three hours of close calls with the shoulders of the foreign men, we landed in Barcelona. It was beautiful and…rainy. The good news is, we got lost in the airport, and by the time our bus to the center of the city departed, it was sunny and nice and life was grand.
Barcelona is insane. People drive like maniacs; taxis mow down people on bikes, mopeds weave through traffic like small girls at music shows, and natives can spot American tourists like that. It’s also beautiful. There are fountains everywhere, people hang their laundry outside their windows, the architecture is ridiculous and ornate and beautiful and the dream is just so alive.
In true airline fashion, we were delayed. I lost track of exactly how long it had been after a while, but we were stuck in the Luxembourgish airport for upwards of two hours with nothing to do or eat. Since the country is only 49 by 35 miles (or maybe kilometers), the airport is but a small baby. Waiting around there wouldn’t have been a huge issue if Barcelona wasn’t the end destination because, let’s be honest, Spain is kind of a big deal. Time was a wastin’ in departure gate A12.
Eventually we boarded, and it seemed as though life was good once again. False. The flight was my personal downfall. I had a seat on the emergency exit aisle, which is automatically a recipe for disaster. Conveniently placed between a French dad and a Eruo businessman, I popped my headphones in and began to doze off, as one does when sitting on an aircraft, but my slumber was soon interrupted by the flight attendant, who informed me that
a) I needed to remove my headphones and
b) I was not allowed to have personal items under the seat because I was responsible in the event of an emergency.
Ugh. I complied, though mildly annoyed. Then she spotted my trusty Nalgene and confiscated that too. I’m unsure how liquids would affect liftoff, but no matter. I was waterless and headphone-less on the world’s most uncomfortable airline.
After three hours of close calls with the shoulders of the foreign men, we landed in Barcelona. It was beautiful and…rainy. The good news is, we got lost in the airport, and by the time our bus to the center of the city departed, it was sunny and nice and life was grand.
Barcelona is insane. People drive like maniacs; taxis mow down people on bikes, mopeds weave through traffic like small girls at music shows, and natives can spot American tourists like that. It’s also beautiful. There are fountains everywhere, people hang their laundry outside their windows, the architecture is ridiculous and ornate and beautiful and the dream is just so alive.
We stayed in a hostel, which was an experience. It was nice on the surface, but the rooms were like barracks or the sleeping areas on submarines and the breakfast was a pathetic array of toast and cereal with warm milk. I’m not really sure what we were expecting for twenty euros a night, though.
We ventured out on the town looking very American, ready to eat and ready to party. We had been informed that Barcelonans ate dinner late, between 8 and 10, so we weren’t too worried about fining a local place that was open. Needless to say, we should have been. Everywhere was packed with customers, but they were all finished with seating people for the night. Alas, we were driven to a touristy place to eat overpriced paella. However, they had outdoor seating and wine so life was bueno.
We ventured out on the town looking very American, ready to eat and ready to party. We had been informed that Barcelonans ate dinner late, between 8 and 10, so we weren’t too worried about fining a local place that was open. Needless to say, we should have been. Everywhere was packed with customers, but they were all finished with seating people for the night. Alas, we were driven to a touristy place to eat overpriced paella. However, they had outdoor seating and wine so life was bueno.
After our meal of champions we headed over to a club called Opium that has received a lot of hype from past tourists. However, these past tourists failed to inform us that there was a dress code and the girls were not allowed inside if they were wearing flip flops. This was a slight buzzkill, and we had to go across the street to a lesser nightclub called Danzatoria, which I would not recommend. It was like a teenage Brick Street, or a high school dance. Fortunately, we learned our lesson, purchased appropriate footwear the next day, and made it to Opium on Saturday night. We said that we were on Ashi’s guest list, by recommendation of an experienced Opium goer, and got in for free. Such is the life of a socialite. To get the full experience of the nightclub scene, please enjoy this image of me raging.
Saturday was beautiful. We woke up, ate our pathetic free breakfast, and rolled up to the beach, loudly, as Americans do. The beach was peaceful, beautiful, and home to many naked bodies. Honestly it was too much for ten in the morning, but we kept our distance and it was all good in the hood.
For the rest of the day, we got lost and wandered through the city. It was a dream and a half. Eventually we found a place to rent bikes and rode them to various landmarks around the city. We hit the Parc de la Ciutadella, which is considered to be the “green lung” of the city (aka my one true love) and saw some noteworthy art there. We stopped by GaudÍ’s palace and the Casa Battló, with which I took a “selfie”, which I'm told is something the kids do these days.
We also decided to ride our bikes to the highest point in Barcelona, which we were warned was a bad idea but we decided to do it anyway. We discovered that indeed it was a bad idea. It was the baddest of bad ideas (yes, I said baddest). The ride was a torturous steady incline that slowly became a vertical trek. Although I was scared for my life, I sucked it up and built some quad muscles. The view was breathtaking, both literally and figuratively. There was a man selling water bottles at the top but I stayed true to my scruples and just imagined that I was hydrated instead. Surprisingly, it worked pretty well.
For the rest of the day, we got lost and wandered through the city. It was a dream and a half. Eventually we found a place to rent bikes and rode them to various landmarks around the city. We hit the Parc de la Ciutadella, which is considered to be the “green lung” of the city (aka my one true love) and saw some noteworthy art there. We stopped by GaudÍ’s palace and the Casa Battló, with which I took a “selfie”, which I'm told is something the kids do these days.
We also decided to ride our bikes to the highest point in Barcelona, which we were warned was a bad idea but we decided to do it anyway. We discovered that indeed it was a bad idea. It was the baddest of bad ideas (yes, I said baddest). The ride was a torturous steady incline that slowly became a vertical trek. Although I was scared for my life, I sucked it up and built some quad muscles. The view was breathtaking, both literally and figuratively. There was a man selling water bottles at the top but I stayed true to my scruples and just imagined that I was hydrated instead. Surprisingly, it worked pretty well.
After we returned our bikes (one flat tire, do NOT ride bikes on La Rambla after 5 pm, nine sweaty humans), we took off to a boat ride that we had reserved for sunset. If you have never ridden on a small boat off the coast of the Mediterranean in Barcelona, I would recommend that you do so as swiftly as possible. It was, as was everything else, a dream, dream, dream!
Before we returned to Opium for our comeback, we went to a bar called Dow Jones. We did this for explorative purposes but also for the practical reason that people don’t head to the clubs in Barcelona until 2 am and it was a mere 11 pm. If you were to say that Barcelona probably wore me out, you would be correct. The bar was pretty American touristy, but it was cool nonetheless. It’s modeled to mirror the stock exchange, so prices for drinks go up and down according to demand, and the market will “crash” intermittently, calling everybody up to the counter to order their drinks while they’re cheap. Classic Americans and their stock market.
Before we returned to Opium for our comeback, we went to a bar called Dow Jones. We did this for explorative purposes but also for the practical reason that people don’t head to the clubs in Barcelona until 2 am and it was a mere 11 pm. If you were to say that Barcelona probably wore me out, you would be correct. The bar was pretty American touristy, but it was cool nonetheless. It’s modeled to mirror the stock exchange, so prices for drinks go up and down according to demand, and the market will “crash” intermittently, calling everybody up to the counter to order their drinks while they’re cheap. Classic Americans and their stock market.
Instead of flying directly from Spain back to Luxembourg on Sunday morning, my three friends and I flew to Brussels to spend a few hours there before taking a train into Lux city. The transition from getting sunburned to buying scarves from a street vendor to stay warm would have been rough if we weren’t completely enamored with Belgium. It was beautiful, the restaurants served coffee and omelettes, everyone was beautiful and tall and fashionable, the streets were brick and European and chocolate shops were abundant.
All in all, this weekend was beautiful. Getting lost and finding our way back again never got old; we just saw more of each city. Actually, scratch that, getting lost got old at the very end of the trip, when we had slept maybe 7 hours total all weekend and just needed to get on a train to go home. That could have been when I cried a little bit, but hey, it's good to cry, right? That's what I tell myself anyway.