Independencia!

Dear journal,

We seem to have taken a horrible wrong turn on our way to Barcelona...

Despite the chilly weather, I am not taking any chances with sun safety...

We got into our hostel at around 2 a.m., and despite our late arrival, the girl at reception figured it would be the perfect time to give us a 25-minute walkthrough of everything there was to do in Barcelona by covering in pen the comically oversized piano map of the city we carried around for the next few days.

The next morning we went to the amazing Bouqueria Market, which was incredible; bustling with people, and crammed tightly with vendors of practically everything, a maze of awninged alleyways hung with strings of sausages and great hocks of meat, lined with ice cascades full of colourful fish, shoppes with high-piled displays of bright candies, fruits, and exotic spices, and full of small, steam-filled kiosks peddling kebabs.  The food was all delicious, and it was one of the first places in my travels that has felt truly foreign– exciting, different, alive with a local flavour that made me truly feel I was in a different country, far from home.

lol

Our first night in Barcelona, we decided, had to be exciting.  So, we decided to go to one of Barcelona's infamous mega-nightclubs, which notoriously don't get bumpin' until after 2 a.m.  The place we went to was called Razzamatazz, and despite its terrible name, was not a gay club (although the distinction between "European" and gay fashion may be too subtle for a plaid-wearing schlub like me to appreciate, so who knows?).

The club was cavernous, with multiple rooms across multiple floors, each one with a different DJ spinning a different genre of music.  They even played "Debaser" by the Pixies and I peed a little.

This way to heaven.

The woman at reception had recommended a part of the beach removed from the main area, which she said was less crowded.  When we got there, we noticed there were a lot of nude dudes (sick band name, btw), either lying on their stomach with their plump, sunburnt buttocks held aloft in salutation, or walking around tugging absentmindedly at their dangling wieners.  Somewhat disheartened, Saringer and I stopped at a beach bar to grab a beer, which we soon noticed was a gay bar, with muscular servers and videos of shirtless men on the TVs, and a DJ spinning trance music.

Come to notice it, this whole area of the beach seemed rather gay– there were men laying together, there were some holding hands– in fact, there was a couple literally lying on top of one another right over there. I suddenly began to wonder if the woman at the hostel had recommended this place because she thought Saringer and I were a couple...

On our last night in Barcelona, we headed to the Born district for drinks and tapas.  As we left one bar for another, our attention was drawn by the cries of a torch-wielding procession marching down the Passeig del Born, chanting slogans for Catalan independence.  "Independencia!" they cried.  They cried some other stuff, too–they had a whole catchphrase going–but this was the only word we recognized.  But no matter!– tonight, they were our revolutionary brothers and sisters!  "Independencia!" we shouted along with them, rallying in the wave of esprit de la revolution as they passed with their banners and flames, Catalan flags draped round their shoulders.  This was our moment!  The world could ignore our voices no longer!  Take that, Oppression!

FUCKING BLOODTHIRSTY PROTESTER

There are few luxuries a traveler enjoys, between miniature towels, showers with palmfuls of handsoap and pilfered shampoo, budget breakfasts, and stiff hostel mattresses.  But there is an important one: non-commitment.  The ability to see a place with the freedom to fall in love with it or discard it casually, versus those who are bound there, and must accept it as home.  To become a revolutionary for a night, then head to the bar, and fly out the next morning.