¡Barça, Barça, Baaaarça!

Monumental shit happened last Saturday.

Every Saturday is phenomenal here -- then again, every day is if you take the initiative. This was a day where I both fucked up, as well as did things right. Keep reading, you'll see.

So, as I mentioned in the last part of my previous post I missed the bus to Girona. While it is true I set a few alarms to wake myself with ample time to make the necessary metro transfers to the meeting point at Plaza Universitat, it's also true that I went out and had a few drinks the night before at an Irish pub called Ryan's. Two other people in the program -- Tracy and Andy -- and I weren't content with a quiet night in, and opted to partake in three or four rounds of 2€ beers and 5 for 5€ tequila shots. We met some Austrians, who were happy to partake in aforementioned shots as we had odd numbers for the three of us. I wasn't aware tequila was popular in the country. The two Austrians chicas -- both sweethearts and both attractive -- told us to let them know if we were going to be travelling through the area. The two Austrians dudes suggested the same. Pretty sure I'm Facebook friends with them now. Also, the Austrian dudes were REALLY into metal. But...like...odd, Euro black metal and shitty American tunes a la Korn. We couldn't relate on that, but it was engaging to speak English...in an Irish bar...in Barçelona...with Austrians. Those are my favorite moments -- when I find myself in situations where to sheer level of cultural diversification causes me to step back and reflect for a moment. Okay, wait. what was I talking about again??

OHHH YEAH. Missed the bus to Girona. In my half-conscious state at around 4:30AM I'd set my phone alarm, iPhone alarm, and had instructed una amiga to call me to make sure. She did so, at approximately 8:32 and 34 seconds in the morning, and I -- in a state of sheer panic -- realized I would have to haul ass to make the bus. I threw on the first articles of clothing I could find, which thankfully included both a shirt and pants. Here's where I really fucked up: after walking halfway to my metro stop I realized I'd forgotten my camera. This, necessary for recording memories as well as sharing with you guys, seemed vital at the time. I ran back, adding another 5 or 6 minutes to my mad rush to get to the meeting point, and by the time I burst out of the metro and sprinted to where the busses SHOULD have been...I had to call Will only to be informed that I was minutes too late. That being said, I will be taking a day trip to Girona via train one of these weekend. It's cheap, and I will hate myself forever if I don't get to see the Dalí museum. So, that's that. No regrets, no shame. Qué será, será. Although, it was probably a little strange for anyone within a 50 yard radius of me to witness an American shouting a wide vocabulary of profanities into a cell phone at 9 in the morning. Seriously, as you might gather from this blog...I could give Tourette's guy a run for his money.

Anyway, I returned home to explain to host madre how pissed I was and proceeded to sleep -- honest to Dios -- until damn near 5PM. I'm not sure how that happened, but it did. As a result, I felt great, went to the gym, and got ready for an opportunity I couldn't miss a bus for -- Barça v. Real Societat at Camp Nou that night.

I'd gotten tickets at a discount through my friends' dorms. Fifty bucks a seat instead of the typical price, which can be upwards of 100-300€ depending on the match. This night -- a Liga matchup -- wasn't anything special. It was a must win, as Barça is behind Madrid a few points in La Liga, but Societat isn't much of a squad. Either way, we were pretty goddamn excited. I mean, my first Barça game. Fucking BARÇELONA. Shit was about to get real.

I met everyone at the Melon District -- the dorms de mis amigos. Down by the entrance, my friend Aaron and I met this guy Jeremy. The dude has lived in London for 10 years and is not studying in Barça. He's originally from France but we forgave him for that and invited him to join the group. Buena gente.

We proceeded to eat and drink in preparation for this monumental day night in my life. A bowl of pasta and a couple Red Labels (sin hielo -- I swear the Spanish don't believe in ice), we were on the way. What follows is a series of photos from the night, which tell the story better than I do. If some explanation is needed I'll put it in the caption, but this post will primarily be photos. And Scott, if you're reading this: chupalo, cabrón.

Some incredibly good looking man and Tracy.

Jeremy y yo. Note: sangria in hand.

Peter y Garrett.

CAMP NOU.

This place fits damn near 100,000 people, but was only around half full tonight. Still amazing. Still loud.

I'd only ever seen this playing FIFA.

Right after a goal. 

Corner.

Multiple cameras taking pictures.

I look like Sloth from the Goonies.

L-R: Sam, yo, Aaron, Tracy, Julia, Bryan.

¡Lo fue de la putra madre! Loose translation: it was the shit!

Pretty sure this is a strange Spanish symbol meaning "soccer."

Metro was packed. Seriously, people gave zero fucks and boarded until movement was impossible.

Tracy was not amused.

So, that's it. It was fucking FREEZING. Couldn't feel my legs or face by the end of the match, but there was NO way we could have left early. It was too much of a defining moment in my life. I'm going to another game in March through ISA. Again, 50€, and we (I can say that now, right? I mean...I live in Barça.) play Bayern Leverkusen in a Champion's league matchup.

I've learned all the words to El Himno de FC Barçelona. They sing it before and after every game. También, it's helped me to make a few Catalan friends when I just so happen to belt it out whilst leaving concerts and bars. So, I fucking love sports, and this is a great piece of tradition. The club means more to this city than just a team -- I mean, look at the words in the stadium: "Mes que un club." It was the only piece of Catalan culture than persisted through the Franco years, and it's amazing how intertwined the city and the team are. It's more than sports -- it's an identity which exists in tandem with the unique nature of the city. Pasión, passion, however you say it, lives here.

Life is good, and I hope that things are going well back in the States.

Mom and Dad, I apologize in advance for the first paragraph of this post...But I think it's a decent piece altogether.

Okay, so I’m stoned. I mean, like, pretty fucking stoned. It’s 2am and I just came home and made a bowl (haha) of chocolate mini wheats (seriously though, over/under 3 legitimate friends for the guy in the link I just posted), corn flakes, banana slices and these awesome little tiny chocolate peanut butter cups Jo Ellen keeps in the fridge. But that’s not the point.

The point is, on the way home I just so happened to get into a cab driven by this guy named Sisqo (for those of you that clicked that link, what the shit was that dude thinking with the silver hair?? I mean, really?). Like, the rapper. I mean, I’m sure it’s not spelled like that – actually it’s short for Francisco – but that’s how I imagine it. SO ANYWAY, this cab was driving away from la resedencia de mis amigos and I flagged him down. We traded words in Spanish while I gave him my address, and he broke into some decent English. He said his English wasn’t the best, and after I described my Spanish in a similar fashion he suggested that he speak inglés while I use español. We had ourselves a regular intercambio (remember when I taught you guys that word?). How fucking cool was this, you ask? Well, my friends, it was pretty damn cool.

We carried on in our respective second languages or the entirety of a 5,80€ cab ride (about 10 minutes, 15 in weed time), and honestly were both speaking muy bien. The content generally focused on pleasantries, where I was from, and the finer points of learning a foreign language. I guess the dude had never taken a class – he just picked it all up from TV and movies. If that doesn’t impress you, I’ll just go ahead and assume you’ve either experienced some serious shit in your life or you’re just a jackass. Or both.

So, he’s only been a cab driver for two months but good ole Cisco figures it would help him out to speak English to his international clients (I taught him that word – “muy cerca de clientes,” I said).  No one in his family had ever spoken English, and while I don’t remember how long he’d been teaching himself, he was a lot better than he gave himself credit for. Apparently I was too. I say this because: One, he commended my Spanish skills, and two, I heard myself spitting off sentences out of nowhere. They made sense, too. Towards the end, the conversation even shifted gears as I touched on Franco’s influence on the artistic value of 20^th century Barcelonan architecture. God I wasbaked.

We said our goodbyes, then that was that. While it isn’t particularly a testament to the profundity of this beautiful moment in human interaction, all I could do as I walked into my apartment was giggle and whisper  “what the fuck.” This is where you find me now, sitting on the couch in the knock off Barça jersey I bought from some Pakistani guy en Las Ramblas, watching a rerun of a Barcelona match on TV and generally just loving life. It’s the little things that make it all worth it, right?

You bet your fucking ass it is.

EPILOGUE:

The only shitty thing about today is that I finally joined the “spider webbed iPhone” club. I couldn’t find a gym I was looking for, so I just decided to take a run home next to the beach. Halfway back, the bottom of the goddamn drawstring backpack I had my phone/wallet/keys in split open and the previously suspected indestructible iPhone took a serious hit. Shit still works, so whatever. But it still sucks…you know?

Thank Steve Jobs (or whatever deity you worship) for AppleCare and warranties. Going to take a trip to the Apple store in the near future.

Zero fucks ended up being given in the aftermath of the Great iPhone Fiasco of 2012, however, as tonight ended up being just quality in general. I met a few people at Satora (can anyone find a link to some info? I searched briefly but got nothing), this sports bar down on Carrer de Pompalona, to watch Barça play Osasuna in a La Liga match. They won, we had beers, we left. I was even able to tell some local guy the outcome when he asked. Although, I totally struck out on approaching a group of chicas bonitas on the way out. But, no me importa. There will be plenty of opportunities to work on my Spanish game. I tried to tell myself and everyone else that we should hit up Razzmatazz, the huge venue and club not too far from where I live in Poblenou, but it was decided that smoking a joint was a better idea. Like...yeah, man. Yeah.

We met another kid, who lived in the same international dorms as the ISA kids I was with, and we all walked to a little park up the street para fumar aforementioned mota. After a decent round of conversation and bullshitting we all parted ways, and that’s where I met up with mi amigo Cisco. Real cool shit going on here. That short-lived taxi ride was honestly was the coolest thing I’ve done since getting here, and I’ve been everywhere from clubs to castles over the past week. Really, though -- for serious. I left the situation with a full understanding of the gravity of it all, and couldn't have been happier.

So, I mean, that’s it. That’s the story for today. If you wanted more, you'll just have to wait for the next post, but I hope you're okay with what I've just written typed.

I see you Barcelona, and I think we’re going to get along just fine.

Finally Got Internet/Finally Can Post Again

Written January 8th:

It’s so strange being out of my element.

Don’t take that the wrong way. It fucking rules being here. But I guess it’s just different when I’m used to knowing every face and every place around home; everything being new comes with the territory in travel, especially international. And I love that shit.

That being said, I got to Barcelona last night around 7pm local time. Which would be noon or 1 back where most of you are. The bus ride wasn’t too unbearable, but goddamn was I getting sick of travelling. Seriously was starting to suck, dude. Coupled with the fact that I’d gotten around 5 hours of sleep since the second day in Madrid due to clubbing and exploring, I was feeling dead. You know that special kind of “finals week” tired? When everything seems like it’s coming from a distance and, while I swear I haven’t been getting stoned, my eyes are heavier than one of the Jersey Shore chicks? Yeah. I was catatonic. Still, the drive into the city was beautiful – little flickering lights in the distance just went on and on. Reminded me of summers when I was a kid catching the fire flies in hot summer nights. Tiny luminescent orbs against a pitch-black backdrop. Cool shit. I was excited to see it in the daylight, when the ocean would be visible. Sorry though, no pics -- the past couple sentences will have to do. One reason being that they’d look like shit being taken from the inside of a moving bus, another being that I was too sleep deprived to properly function a camera.

OH YEAH. Another couple things before I forget. This post is being written on the night of Sunday, January 8^th as a Word doc, and might not get online for a couple days. My host family has internet (and a really nice apartment, actually -- pics to follow shortly), but it’s one of those USB deals and isn’t Mac compatible. I used some wifi at a few girls in the program’s apartment close by today, and need to hit up a Movistar (like the Spanish Verizon) to see about getting my own interwebz tomorrow. Also, here are a couple photos from my hotel balcony in Toledo. I’m going to have to go back to that place. Fucking gorgeous.

Back to the matter at hand. Antonio, one of the ISA directors, handed out maps and we figured things out as far as the meeting point for the Spanish proficiency test we take on Monday and our respective proximities to la Universidad Pompeu Fabra. We were all plenty excited, which brings up a vitally important cultural point – unless you’re trying to hook up some Spanish strange in the most vulgar of ways, DO NOT say that you are “excitado.” It means you’re horny. Instead, try “estoy emocionado” – “I am excited.” Totally non-sexual. The more you know!

So, I was very excitado emocionado to meet my señora. I stumbled off the bus and, while everyone found their madres pretty quickly, I proceeded to walk back and forth around the drop off point like some kind of lost child. ¡Ayudame, estoy perdido! Kids still on the bus later told me it was pretty funny shit. YEAH GUYS REAL GODDAMN COOL. CAN’T FIND MY FAMILY. THANKS. It was whatever though, the “lost child” shenanigans only lasted a few minutes. Jo Ellen, my host mom, showed up shortly after.

She’s a good-looking woman of around 40 (I think the ISA description said 46, but I won’t ask) who is actually from the States. Her surnombre is Klaustemeier, and she’s of German and Korean decent (cool mix, right?). Originally from Minnesota, Twin Cities I think, she’s lived in Barça for 17 years. SEVENTEEN YEARS. Pretty solid sabbatical from America if I do say so myself. She and her husband are separated, and she has two kids who I haven’t met, ages 15 and 18. I’m staying in what used to be her daughter’s room, and I’m pretty sure I’ll meet the both of them at one point or another.

Appearing to be stressed or hurried (or maybe I was too tired to judge normal capacity for movement and speech), we did that whole kiss-both-cheeks-and-say-what’s-up (“grab somebody sexy tell them hey?” ) and threw my bags into the back of a white Fiat – that cool little European-looking car from the shitty J-Lo commercials they made in the US. I assume they used her in the ad to talk up the Fiat’s massive trunk space  and sudden lack of musical success.

Anyway, it was pretty awkward first meeting a stranger who is taking you into their home for the next few months. She seems wicked nice, but not overly personable; we’ll see about that. It’s only day one two. So, we drove through the city and she showed me around during the brief trip to her place in the Poblenou area. This included pointing out a couple landmarks/buildings/talking about the city. We also got into a little back-and-forth convo that went slightly deeper than pleasantries. Likes/dislikes/interests/kids/family/expectations and aspirations for the stay.

The place is located in the 200 block of Calle Llull (in Catalán, this is pronounced yoo-ee) if any of you want to look it up on Google maps. I totally crept around the barrio before I came here, and got the weirdest déjà vu when we pulled up to the door I’d only seen, up to that point, via computer screen. I followed her and hauled my luggage up to the second floor apartment, which is actually pretty fucking nice. She went on a little bit about how small it is, but it’s actually a super modern cozy little spot. Once I get my own internet working at this place you guys can use FaceTime, Facebook or Skype and I’ll show you around. Naked. For now, these will have to do:

I bought all of these trinkets myself. True story.

Jo Ellen remodeled everything in this place. Looks pretty solid.

This is where I make eggs/pan/cereal/more eggs.

This is couch, good for things such as sitting or laying down or possibly both. 

I sleep here and oftentimes set things on the cama such as my backpack.

So that’s the place. I think I’m really going to like it. A lot of ISA kids are in resedencias, which are either dorm style apartment buildings with other international students in various programs, or apartments that ISA has helped kids move into around the city. As I am in a home stay, I won’t have to buy food/bedsheets/toiletries/other shit. Also, Jo Ellen is incredibly laid back. Seems like we’ll both be in and out of the place most days. Aside from being wonderful enough to let me stay here for a few months (I know, I know. She gets paid too.), she’s very accommodating in making it easy to adapt.

Remember that time I was in Spain? Yeah, dude, me too.

After getting between 12 and 14 hours of sleep (I needed that so goddamn much) I woke up and returned a couple calls from friends in the program I missed the night before. Turns out a group of people got a little loco last night at Razzmatazz, a decent club/venue close to where I live. Kat, una amiga en la programa, couldn’t find her apartment (Understandable, it was our first night here. This city is huge.) and ended up getting picked up by some rando mujer who let her stay at her place. This woman was so goddamn nice and generous that she not only took this poor lost girl, this pobrecita perdida, off the street and let her crash on her couch, but also took her to her work at a bar the next day to feed her and give her café. We’re going there later tonight to watch the Barcelona game on TV. What a country.

Today, after eating tapas and sharing a bottle of wine (hair of the dog for everyone else as I was the only one that slept last night) we walked down La Rambla del Poblenou (the main street/avenue in the barrio) toward the beach. Holy shit – THE BEACH. I’m from the Midwest, guys, and you are all very well aware that Nebraska is boring as shit in terms of large bodies of water. This place is phenomenal. Little niños everywhere (all of them, I swear, on little scooters and bikes), wide sprawling sidewalks along the sand with open restaurants and tapas bars, people roller blading and running everywhere (very active city – no fatties), and then there’s the actual water. I didn’t take my camera, because to be honest the ISA orientations were designed to instill the fear of God into us as far as pickpocketing goes. A couple other people took pics and maybe I’ll get ahold of them, but honestly I’ll have a shit ton of opportunities (accidentally just typed “poop” while typing the “oppo” in that last word) to take beautiful beach photos. I’m going to love it here. Oh yeah, there were also these odd collections of metal exercise machines on the beach. I had to say something about it because they were so goofy; they have things like that in parks in the US, but instead of pull-up bars and whatnot there were also ghetto elliptical machines. Funny, no?

My situation at home – my host home -- is going to be great as far as I can tell. The place is nice, and honestly for the past couple days I’ve pretty much had it to myself. The kitchen is open for me at all times, and Jo Ellen is going shopping tomorrow for whatever I feel like eating. She left a few minutes ago to go watch the Barça game, and I’m doing the same in 20 or 30.

For now, I’m going to nom on all this spaghetti I just made. A very Spanish dish, I know. I think I’m lucky to be both assimilating into this cultura tan rica, but also have a home where I can jump in and out of English or Spanish at will and retain some sense of the States. I’m serious dude, it gets tiring to translate things in your head all day while listening/speaking. And we’ve hardly scratched the surface in this little trip abroad I’m taking. Goddamn language. It’ll come naturally soon, though.

Sorry this post didn’t have as many pictures of gorgeous and historic places, or any shots of my handsome face. I’ll try and take the camera out and about when I explore over the next few days. Hopefully I can post this fucking thing soon too, as I’m currently sitting at my desk typing on Word. Gotta keep all you guys updated, ya know. Anyway, I’ve got a fútbol match to catch and beers to drink. Go Barça!

¡Adios! 

UPDATE – NEXT MORNING: The Barça game was horseshit. Not the experience of meeting around twenty international students at a Barcelona sports bar and knocking my cerveza back in anticipation any time Messi gets a touch around the eighteen – no, no, no. That was great. I mean the actual outcome; they didn’t win, man. Pedro should have one-touched the game winner in extra time, but in a total Uruguay  move, one of the Espanyol defenders bapped the pelota con su brazo and it ended in a draw. Both teams are from this city. If Barcelona were NYC, FC Barça would be the Yankees and Español would be the Mets. How fucking cool is it that I’m going to see game after game, with Spaniards, in Spain though?? I’ll have to make it to a couple at Camp Nou as well. I can’t wait to make Scott and you other fútbol pendejos back home jealous. If memorabilia isn’t too expensive maybe I can buy you guys some stuff too. Or I could just spend it on cervezas. Speaking of, Estrella is pretty common here. It’s actually pretty damn good, considering its generally cheap prices at most bars (1,75€).

The post-game chill time was almost better than the game itself, también. Most of the ISA kids headed back home because of the lack of seating and the fact that the metro closes at midnight on Sundays. Kat’s friend (remember, the one who saved her from the vicious Barcelonan streets??) Hallar – pronounced hah-jar with a soft j – brought us a few rounds and kicked it with the five or six of us left. She doesn’t speak much English, and we struggle with Spanish. So we traded a few phrases back and forth. Good way to learn, right? It’s called having an “intercambio.”

Naturally, I wanted to know the verb for “fuck” in Spanish. I kind of swear a shit ton, you know? Anyway, en México they say “chingar.” I was pretty sure that en España it’s “follar,” and I was right. Hallar wouldn’t say the actual word though, so she wrote it out on a piece of paper for me. What a sweetheart.

I ended up talking a walk home from El Resaurante Prince -- Hallar's bar. That rhymes, right? Going to make that my spot for fútbol matches I think. Funny how back home a 30-minute walk a casa would piss me off, but in Barcelona where everything is new and exciting, I love it. Except for the fact that I had to pee really goddamn bad the whole time. What, you didn’t need to know that? Sorry I’m not sorry – lo siento no lo siento.

Haha. But it’s Monday morning now and I’m about to go find some café downstairs en la calle and just straight up decimate this Spanish proficiency test we’re all taking today. I need to score in the superior category so my classes transfer – wish me suerte. Or not, if you want to be a dick about it. I’ll post this novel I’ve just written once I can use the wifi (pronounced weefee here, which is cool) on campus.

One last thing: try this pan con tomate thing. I’m making it for every meal. Split a piece of baguette in half and toast it, then rub/crush tomato halves on each piece. Drizzle a litizzle oil on that bizzle and enjoy. Spain swag on full.