I arrived in Berlin two Tuesdays ago after taking the train from Nice to Milan and flying on EasyJet to Berlin. I arrived pretty late at the airport, around midnight, and took the train into town with the gracious assistance of Carlos, a super nice half Spanish, half German guy who led me to the right stop. We chatted in English and Spanish and he shared his salami sandwich and orange with me. He was the perfect introduction to Berlin- young, open, and totally kind, in favor of sharing and conversating. These were the kind of people I encountered over and over again in Berlin and now the prime reason I find it totally irresistible.
The city itself is absolutely gigantic, but the metro and bus systems are extensive and efficient. Marcus, my host from Hamburg, had lived in Berlin for four years (?) and is doing his masters in engineering at the technical university. He had just finished a six-month stint roadtripping around the us, and happened to couchsurf with my good friend Taylor while he was in Austin. Marcus was probably the best host I could have had in Berlin. We checked out museums, he lent me his bike and we went on an awesome ride through the city, I met his amazing group of friends and they all welcomed me as one of them the many occasions I saw them. We went to Karnaval der Kulturen, which was a huge parade/cultural festival in Kreuzberg (the young/hip neighborhood, more or less) on Saturday and Sunday, which was wild and awesome (especially after a caipirinha). we did a lot of dancing and revelling. We explored the funkier bars of kreuzberg one night and stayed out til it was completely light outside a few times- that was a trip for me. marcus had a huge apartment on the top floor of his building in moabit with stairs that led up to the roof. we spent a few nights talking and drinking beers with friends on this roof...it was an unforgettable part of my experience. which brings me to the beer. We drank a lot of it. And it was cheap, for once! i saved some of the labels of my favorite ones. As marcus' good friend Al explained to me, if you don't have a beer in your hand at all times while in Berlin, something is wrong. I adapted readily. i definitely drank more beer in berlin than i have on my entire trip thus far, and loved every minute of it.
I got to spend one nice day with my couchsurfing friend Andre, who lives in Berlin, walking through Prenzlauer Berg, an ultra hip and lovely neighborhood with great restaurants and cafes that seemed to be primarily inhabited by hip 30something parents with stylishly outfitted children. I met andre in San Francisco a few months back when he was auditioning at the conservatory of music for classical guitar. He got in with a scholarship, and will move to sf in January, so the next time i see him will proabably be there.
Berlin was intoxicating for me. Maybe I just got lucky with my host and his delightful friends, I mean I know I did, but the place itself got into me nonetheless. I understood why everyone I told I was going to Berlin responded with envy and longing enthusiasm. The vibe is young and hip, but open-minded and truly genuine, with a serious committment to partying. it was like San Francisco but flat and affordable, and lacking the snotty hipster masses, and with all it's best aspects in excess. I could have stayed for months and been totally happy. I daresay Berlin was in the top 2 of trip highlights. Maybe if I overcome my winter intolerance one day, you will find me living happily in Berlin. For now it remains my darling city.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Cannes... you dig it?
When I last wrote, I was in Mallorca, in the delightful comforts of Kelly's apartment in Alcudia, and although I knew I'd be doing some major traveling in the following days, I hardly knew it would be the most hellaciously stressful and exhausting travel experience of my life. I am speaking in superlatives because I've officially decided to never do anything like it again.
I woke up too early the next morning in Alcudia, to a day of perfect blue skies and warm temperatures. It was so sweet and delicate I could have stayed there for a week. My sweet host Kelly was sitting drinking tea and reading when I blew downstairs with my 50 kilos of weight and a forced determination. I actually felt incredibly unnatural to be leaving Alcudia that morning, but I had a plane to catch so there was no time to change my mind. I stumbled into the sunshine bound for the bus that would take me back to Palma and the airport. There was a huge street market between me and the bus stop, and maneuvering all my crap through the crowds with a quick step proved highly challenging. I arrived at the stop just as the bus pulled up, and got in line to board, relieved. When I finally stepped up, the driver stopped me, explaining that the bus was full and I'd have to wait for the next one. I couldn't wait for the next one, however, because it took an hour to get to Palma and I'd be too late. I was more relieved at this point, because it meant I might be able to stay in this delightful town a little longer...
I hauled my stuff back to Kelly's place again, where she and her roommate were surprised to see me and hear the news. The next 20 minutes consisted of me stressing out on vueling.com trying to weigh the pros and cons. I concluded that if I took a taxi to palma it would cost the same as it would to change my flight or lose the money on it- might have been less- so i jumped up with the last 60 euros I had and went for it. I arrived early for my flight to find that the plane was delayed for an indefinite period of time. I walked around the airport for three hours trying to find someone to tell me what the hell was going on but no one was there. All the people on my flight were just sitting in the terminal with blank faces. I love Europe, but all i could repeat to myself during that sequence was 'this would never happen in america'. the american in me totally came out- i really wanted (expected) someone i could bitch at and get some bureaucratic groveling in response, but there was no one around to care. one woman in the terminal looks at me and goes, 'welcome to spain'. great.
finally, they announced that the plane existed and would actually leave at some point, and i eventually got to barcelona around 7pm. i was staying one night with a guy named duro, friend of my friend drew from sf, but i didn't have his address or a phone to call him. I took the shuttle to placa de catalunya and decided to figure it out there. i tried to find a wifi spot where i could give him a skype call, but it proved ridiculously difficult. I was still with my bags and just wanted to sit down at this point. i went into a restaurant and they let me use their phone. duro told me to take the metro and meet him at the Sants stop. However there were two Sants stops, Placa de Sants and Sants estacion. I stood at estacion while he was waiting at placa de sants for one hour, until i gave up, frantically looking for a locutorio where i could call him again. when i got him he sounded frustrated and we decided to meet in the train station. we finally met and walked back to his place. duro is an artist and lives in a single studio with all of his work. i was really impressed with his paintings and his living space, though all i could think about was sitting down- i was exhausted. but in an email some days before, duro had mentioned an art opening he was going to, and by the time we finally made contact it had already started. so i had five minutes to set down my bags and wash my hands before we were back on the metro, and then on a train across town to get to the gallery. i was starving, sincerely hoping for some arty snacks, but the offerings were slim- a few carne bunuelos which i finished the last of. i tried to be nice by chatting with duro's friends and checking out the art, but i couldn't hide my complete exhaustion. after the gallery, a few friends of his latched on and everyone moseyed to a cafe for some wine. i felt like i was getting a cold or something, my throat was really starting to hurt, so i abstained from drinking. i got some patatas bravas to hold me over until we left, which was around midnight. we took the train back to the metro where a guy tried to pickpocket my purse while we were walking up some stairs. i turned around like lightning and he tried to act like nothing had happened and scurried away. he's lucky cause i was about to bust out some kung fu shit on his ass. travelling alone has really made me cutthroat when it comes to self-protection.
we finally got back to Duro's around 1am. i had some peanut butter crackers and water packed my stuff all over again- i had to catch a train at 8:45 the next morning at the station on the other side of town. Duro kind of explained that he didn't really have anything for me to sleep on but a duvet cover, and on the marble floor that wouldnt really fly...thank god i had my sleeping bag. I set up on the floor, next to the door, just as a huge rainstorm began outside. By this time my throat was really starting to hurt. I got really stressed out that I would be sick travelling and then in Cannes, stressed that I wouldn't sleep enough or miss my train, still emotionally reeling from the intensity of the day. Between the rain and the hard floor and all my worries I could hardly sleep at all that night.
7am came quickly but at least the rain had stopped. Duro got up with me and we rushed outside to find a cab to the Franca station. It was 8:25 when I finally got in a cab and bid a flustered goodbye to Duro. He had assured me it would be no more than ten minutes to Franca by cab, but the driver said it would be 20 at least. I would surely miss the train that way, so I just told him to take me to Sants which was basically walking distance. I got out and ran inside, to a line where the clerk told me it would be impossible to get to franca and make the train. She gave me a pamphlet with an explanation of the trains I would need to take to get to Cannes.
So i took six trains that day. The first was three hours from Barcelona to Cerebeu, on the french-spanish border, then Cerebeu to Narbonne, Narbonne to Montpelier, Montpelier to Marseille, Marseille to Toulon, and finally, Toulon to Cannes.
The train stations were packed because the volcano had cancelled tons of flights, so everyone was travelling by train this day. This caused a onslaught of delays. I wrote this while waiting at the train station in Montpelier, note my muted angst:
'Because of the goddamn volcano the train stations are jammed with people and bags galore, the lines are 40 people deep, and the bags under everyone's eyes look like robert downey jr. after a weekend bender. The trains are all delayed so we're standing in one gigantic mass in the middle of the station with our eyes glued to the departure screen waiting for an update. Moving is unadvisable during this pregnant period due to sneers and collisions. And then it happens like a tidal wave- the platform number appears on the screen- and it's like a gun blew, the gates open, the greyhounds are charging forth. People are moving in every direction in catastrophic frenzy, we're tripping over each other's rolling suitcases, trampling grandmas and strollers, old and young, falling all over ourselves for a coveted seat on the train. It's like 300 MacAllister families storming through the station except they all hate me because I can't speak french. It's a fucking free for all. Yet I can't enjoy how hilariously stupid it looks because I'm too busy shoving people out of the way and foaming at the mouth just like the rest of em. God knows I'm getting out of this shitstorm if I have to crawl.'
So it was a bit of a cutthroat afternoon. I finally arrived in Cannes around midnight, after 14 hours of travel, and set out into the night to find 44 Boulevard Carnot, where Carleton was living. I got to the bulding but didnt know the number, so I had to go into a hotel nearby and call him on skype, which turned into kind of an hourlong ordeal. Finally, he met me in front of the place, after a creepy drunk french guy was boldly staking his claim on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette while obnoxiouslý hitting on me. These things I simply don't tolerate so he was walking away with tail between legs within 60 seconds, but not before the pissed-off parting words of 'uh...ï'm just saying zat because, uhh, you would be nice to have some sex with.' Right.
Even though I was beyond exhausted, I was excited to be there, so I changed clothes and we walked down to the Promenade, called La Croisette, where most of the festival action took place, and met up with the two other flatmates for the week, Sarah and John. They were a couple, and friends of Carleton's from film school in France. Sarah is from Paris and John from Dublin, respectively. They greeted me with open arms- both very kind and down to earth people- and i was happy to be with them, relieved that they weren't uppity or self-absorbed (it seemed that would be plenty easy to come by). Down on the Promenade it was glitzy indeed- if you weren't in a tuxedo or a sparkling dress nobody even looked at you, but the ones who were dressed the part had swarms of paparazzi blinding them with flashes, knocking the commonpeople out of the way. There weren't many commonpeople to note, however.
We walked around, checking out the scene for a few hours, until about 2am. We were sitting down for a drink (i was still abstaining) when i started to feel really exhausted and very strange. I was shaky and weak, dizzy kind of, and began to feel naseaous. We slowly made our way back to the apartment, and i could barely keep my eyes open on the walk back. I was feeling very bad now. We got inside and I immediately went to the bathroom and puked. The three of them were shocked and confused...I then began to explain my last three days and the level of exhaustion my body was experiencing...and sickness had to be the culmination of taking it too far.
The whole incident really shocked me too. The three days had been pretty stressful though, physically and mentally, and it made sense why it was happening, I was just sad for my poor body and not treating myself well. I vowed to be kind and gentle for that point on, so I abstained from alcohol for nearly the whole week in Cannes (despite the free champagne in the pavilions). It definitely took three days for me to get back to normal, from the travel hangover of a lifetime.
The rest of the week at Cannes was great. I spotted some stars, like Pedro Almodovar and Naomi Watts. Sarah saw Woody Allen. We almost went to a party on a yacht. We had 20 euro cocktails at the swanky hotels where you couldn't get in without a festival badge (I did not shell out for these drinks). It was very Cote D'Azur, sundresses and sunglasses by day, heels at night. It was very much about playing up to a fantasy of what it should be like to be at Cannes, but it was all very false. It was the real Cannes experience, in all it's exclusivity and outrageously expensive glory. But honestly, it was way too much for me. Monday rolled around and we packed our stuff and went to the train station where we would all part ways. Carleton and I tok the train to Nice where we stayed one night, saw a movie and had some dinner near the beach. It was good to spend time with him.
Berlin update to come next.
I woke up too early the next morning in Alcudia, to a day of perfect blue skies and warm temperatures. It was so sweet and delicate I could have stayed there for a week. My sweet host Kelly was sitting drinking tea and reading when I blew downstairs with my 50 kilos of weight and a forced determination. I actually felt incredibly unnatural to be leaving Alcudia that morning, but I had a plane to catch so there was no time to change my mind. I stumbled into the sunshine bound for the bus that would take me back to Palma and the airport. There was a huge street market between me and the bus stop, and maneuvering all my crap through the crowds with a quick step proved highly challenging. I arrived at the stop just as the bus pulled up, and got in line to board, relieved. When I finally stepped up, the driver stopped me, explaining that the bus was full and I'd have to wait for the next one. I couldn't wait for the next one, however, because it took an hour to get to Palma and I'd be too late. I was more relieved at this point, because it meant I might be able to stay in this delightful town a little longer...
I hauled my stuff back to Kelly's place again, where she and her roommate were surprised to see me and hear the news. The next 20 minutes consisted of me stressing out on vueling.com trying to weigh the pros and cons. I concluded that if I took a taxi to palma it would cost the same as it would to change my flight or lose the money on it- might have been less- so i jumped up with the last 60 euros I had and went for it. I arrived early for my flight to find that the plane was delayed for an indefinite period of time. I walked around the airport for three hours trying to find someone to tell me what the hell was going on but no one was there. All the people on my flight were just sitting in the terminal with blank faces. I love Europe, but all i could repeat to myself during that sequence was 'this would never happen in america'. the american in me totally came out- i really wanted (expected) someone i could bitch at and get some bureaucratic groveling in response, but there was no one around to care. one woman in the terminal looks at me and goes, 'welcome to spain'. great.
finally, they announced that the plane existed and would actually leave at some point, and i eventually got to barcelona around 7pm. i was staying one night with a guy named duro, friend of my friend drew from sf, but i didn't have his address or a phone to call him. I took the shuttle to placa de catalunya and decided to figure it out there. i tried to find a wifi spot where i could give him a skype call, but it proved ridiculously difficult. I was still with my bags and just wanted to sit down at this point. i went into a restaurant and they let me use their phone. duro told me to take the metro and meet him at the Sants stop. However there were two Sants stops, Placa de Sants and Sants estacion. I stood at estacion while he was waiting at placa de sants for one hour, until i gave up, frantically looking for a locutorio where i could call him again. when i got him he sounded frustrated and we decided to meet in the train station. we finally met and walked back to his place. duro is an artist and lives in a single studio with all of his work. i was really impressed with his paintings and his living space, though all i could think about was sitting down- i was exhausted. but in an email some days before, duro had mentioned an art opening he was going to, and by the time we finally made contact it had already started. so i had five minutes to set down my bags and wash my hands before we were back on the metro, and then on a train across town to get to the gallery. i was starving, sincerely hoping for some arty snacks, but the offerings were slim- a few carne bunuelos which i finished the last of. i tried to be nice by chatting with duro's friends and checking out the art, but i couldn't hide my complete exhaustion. after the gallery, a few friends of his latched on and everyone moseyed to a cafe for some wine. i felt like i was getting a cold or something, my throat was really starting to hurt, so i abstained from drinking. i got some patatas bravas to hold me over until we left, which was around midnight. we took the train back to the metro where a guy tried to pickpocket my purse while we were walking up some stairs. i turned around like lightning and he tried to act like nothing had happened and scurried away. he's lucky cause i was about to bust out some kung fu shit on his ass. travelling alone has really made me cutthroat when it comes to self-protection.
we finally got back to Duro's around 1am. i had some peanut butter crackers and water packed my stuff all over again- i had to catch a train at 8:45 the next morning at the station on the other side of town. Duro kind of explained that he didn't really have anything for me to sleep on but a duvet cover, and on the marble floor that wouldnt really fly...thank god i had my sleeping bag. I set up on the floor, next to the door, just as a huge rainstorm began outside. By this time my throat was really starting to hurt. I got really stressed out that I would be sick travelling and then in Cannes, stressed that I wouldn't sleep enough or miss my train, still emotionally reeling from the intensity of the day. Between the rain and the hard floor and all my worries I could hardly sleep at all that night.
7am came quickly but at least the rain had stopped. Duro got up with me and we rushed outside to find a cab to the Franca station. It was 8:25 when I finally got in a cab and bid a flustered goodbye to Duro. He had assured me it would be no more than ten minutes to Franca by cab, but the driver said it would be 20 at least. I would surely miss the train that way, so I just told him to take me to Sants which was basically walking distance. I got out and ran inside, to a line where the clerk told me it would be impossible to get to franca and make the train. She gave me a pamphlet with an explanation of the trains I would need to take to get to Cannes.
So i took six trains that day. The first was three hours from Barcelona to Cerebeu, on the french-spanish border, then Cerebeu to Narbonne, Narbonne to Montpelier, Montpelier to Marseille, Marseille to Toulon, and finally, Toulon to Cannes.
The train stations were packed because the volcano had cancelled tons of flights, so everyone was travelling by train this day. This caused a onslaught of delays. I wrote this while waiting at the train station in Montpelier, note my muted angst:
'Because of the goddamn volcano the train stations are jammed with people and bags galore, the lines are 40 people deep, and the bags under everyone's eyes look like robert downey jr. after a weekend bender. The trains are all delayed so we're standing in one gigantic mass in the middle of the station with our eyes glued to the departure screen waiting for an update. Moving is unadvisable during this pregnant period due to sneers and collisions. And then it happens like a tidal wave- the platform number appears on the screen- and it's like a gun blew, the gates open, the greyhounds are charging forth. People are moving in every direction in catastrophic frenzy, we're tripping over each other's rolling suitcases, trampling grandmas and strollers, old and young, falling all over ourselves for a coveted seat on the train. It's like 300 MacAllister families storming through the station except they all hate me because I can't speak french. It's a fucking free for all. Yet I can't enjoy how hilariously stupid it looks because I'm too busy shoving people out of the way and foaming at the mouth just like the rest of em. God knows I'm getting out of this shitstorm if I have to crawl.'
So it was a bit of a cutthroat afternoon. I finally arrived in Cannes around midnight, after 14 hours of travel, and set out into the night to find 44 Boulevard Carnot, where Carleton was living. I got to the bulding but didnt know the number, so I had to go into a hotel nearby and call him on skype, which turned into kind of an hourlong ordeal. Finally, he met me in front of the place, after a creepy drunk french guy was boldly staking his claim on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette while obnoxiouslý hitting on me. These things I simply don't tolerate so he was walking away with tail between legs within 60 seconds, but not before the pissed-off parting words of 'uh...ï'm just saying zat because, uhh, you would be nice to have some sex with.' Right.
Even though I was beyond exhausted, I was excited to be there, so I changed clothes and we walked down to the Promenade, called La Croisette, where most of the festival action took place, and met up with the two other flatmates for the week, Sarah and John. They were a couple, and friends of Carleton's from film school in France. Sarah is from Paris and John from Dublin, respectively. They greeted me with open arms- both very kind and down to earth people- and i was happy to be with them, relieved that they weren't uppity or self-absorbed (it seemed that would be plenty easy to come by). Down on the Promenade it was glitzy indeed- if you weren't in a tuxedo or a sparkling dress nobody even looked at you, but the ones who were dressed the part had swarms of paparazzi blinding them with flashes, knocking the commonpeople out of the way. There weren't many commonpeople to note, however.
We walked around, checking out the scene for a few hours, until about 2am. We were sitting down for a drink (i was still abstaining) when i started to feel really exhausted and very strange. I was shaky and weak, dizzy kind of, and began to feel naseaous. We slowly made our way back to the apartment, and i could barely keep my eyes open on the walk back. I was feeling very bad now. We got inside and I immediately went to the bathroom and puked. The three of them were shocked and confused...I then began to explain my last three days and the level of exhaustion my body was experiencing...and sickness had to be the culmination of taking it too far.
The whole incident really shocked me too. The three days had been pretty stressful though, physically and mentally, and it made sense why it was happening, I was just sad for my poor body and not treating myself well. I vowed to be kind and gentle for that point on, so I abstained from alcohol for nearly the whole week in Cannes (despite the free champagne in the pavilions). It definitely took three days for me to get back to normal, from the travel hangover of a lifetime.
The rest of the week at Cannes was great. I spotted some stars, like Pedro Almodovar and Naomi Watts. Sarah saw Woody Allen. We almost went to a party on a yacht. We had 20 euro cocktails at the swanky hotels where you couldn't get in without a festival badge (I did not shell out for these drinks). It was very Cote D'Azur, sundresses and sunglasses by day, heels at night. It was very much about playing up to a fantasy of what it should be like to be at Cannes, but it was all very false. It was the real Cannes experience, in all it's exclusivity and outrageously expensive glory. But honestly, it was way too much for me. Monday rolled around and we packed our stuff and went to the train station where we would all part ways. Carleton and I tok the train to Nice where we stayed one night, saw a movie and had some dinner near the beach. It was good to spend time with him.
Berlin update to come next.
Monday, May 10, 2010
the balearics
first off, the balearics ball. as in the verb to ball, to wreck shop, to trump others with sheer dope quality.
i arrived in ibiza by plane last tuesday, escaping the rainy sh*thole that was barcelona for two days straight. getting off the plane after a brisk 1 hour flight, the weather in ibiza was noticably clearer and warmer, and it felt wild and intimate- appropriate for an island in the middle of the mediterranean. (i can't spell mediterranean for the life of me, and it really irks me, as i am, by nature, an excellent speller).
after a bus ride and a lot of crap-lugging, i found cal's apartment in the very center of ibiza town. cal is a berkeley grad and santa barbara native- cousin of kara valeriano, hence my connection- and has been teaching english to primary school kids in ibiza town for the last 7 months. cal and his roommate chase, a texan from lubbock (hell yes), kindly received me in their sweet apartment for four looney days and nights, where i was introduced to la vida ibisenca. it consists of sun, spaniards, bocadillos (sandwiches of jamon y queso, or cured ham and cheese, among other things), cafe con leche, paddleball, canas (beer), bare-breasted women, and stunning turquoise water. i got a tan and got to befriending my intelligent, good-natured american hosts. i was even allowed in as an honorary member of their weekly poker night- me and four hot dudes, plus beer, olives, and a 5 euro buy-in. im proud to say i held my own.
a few sun-splattered days and booze-saturated nights later, i bid adieu to my new buddies, and set off (running) to catch my ferry to mallorca. i made it just in time, still tipsy from beer and bocadillos, and found myself a seat next to the window. i snuggked up for a riveting onboard feature: he's just not that into you. thank you, douchebag producer and director, for letting me enjoy an oversaturated all-star cast play their types all too well (scarlett johannson= the seductive mistress, drew barrymore= the ditsy hippie chick)...why am i talking about this...
i arrived in mallorca sans plan. it was the most disorganized id been all trip, but id adopted the 'dont worry until you have to' mentality. it was 10pm when we docked, and i walked toward the bus stop with 40 euros and advice to go to arenal- a nearby beach community with cheaper and more available hostels than palma proper.
the bus didnt seem to be coming for the first hour, and i started inquiring of taxi drivers the going rate to arenal. the answer was 'at least 17 euros', basically my night's room rate, give or take, so i held off committing for a while.
two guido-y looking guys noticed my lonerhood and obvious distress, and asked me where i was trying to go. i said arenal, but that my goal was merely a cheap place to stay, and that my real reason for coming to mallorca was my friend kelly (from the hostel in barcelona) lived in an apartment in alcudia (on the north shore). they lit up. "alcudia! WE'RE going to alcudia!" turned out they were from germany, and their italian father owned a restaurant that catered to tourists on the marina in Port d'Alcudia. They had just arrived to begin their annual six-month stint working 7 days a week in their father's restaurant. they insisted upon giving me a ride to alcudia. i was overjoyed. we began talking, and i learned they were brother of 26 and 23 years old, the younger being the one with a spiky blow-out and unbuttoned shirt revealing a rosary. the older brother, denny, asked me out of nowhere if his younger brother sergio resembled a guido. i tactfully asked if it was a compliment or an insult. he replied "a compliment!" and i quickly said "yes. absolutely." sergio began to wax poetic on his love for the show jersey shore, and namely his high esteem for mike "the situation" (though he had purposefully gotten his hair cut two weeks prior in the exact style of DJ Pauly Delvecchio). He then jovially explained that when the two of them first saw me, he motioned to his brother, saying, in true mike form, "looks like we've got a situation". I chuckled forcedly, mentioning my genuine love for this, the trashiest show on television, while hating for a moment being a girl.
they were very sweet, despite the guido 'do and 'tude. but when their father pulled up to pick them (and now me) up, he drove a tiny car with his wife and young daughter already in it. it quickly became clear that i would not be going to alcudia with them tonight. they gazed at me wistfully and apologetically, and after an awkward greeting with father and wife, i dove into the ferry station, now actually somewhat frantic, and had a mini-cry on a bench. the taxis were now all gone, there was no bus to arenal, it was midnight in palma and i was all alone.
i sucked it up, grabbed my bags and started walking toward town. after fearing for my life a little bit while walking through a park and psyching myself up to beat the shit out of anyone who tried to touch me, i found a main road, and finally, a taxi. he was a really sweet man in a pimped out new van who really wanted to play me some authentic flamenco music on the way to arenal. i mentioned i was in need of a hostel, and he dialed something into his gps. he seemed to know where he was going.
we got to arenal and circled around for 20 minutes looking for hostels. the beach was within reach. i considered camping on it but was afraid id get in trouble. jail in mallorca wasn't part of my ideal beach vacay. i scrounged up the address of a place i had written down earlier, and we finally arrived in front- i have never been so relieved to see the 'hostal' sign. however, i was horrified to see the meter- 26 euros. i pathetically explained to my kind driver that i only had 40 euros, and feared my hostel could be upwards of 25 so late at night. i said i thought i could only afford to pay 15, but gave him 20 because i felt bad. he calmly and happily handed me back 5, saying it was his pleasure and good luck. i was saved.
i walked into the hostel to see george, from republic of georgia, and asked desperately if they had a room for one person. he replied, "yes of course" and led me outside to the reception in a nearby sister hotel. i was treated kindly and calmly, just like the taxi driver, and was led back to my room by george. we walked up to the second floor to number 21, where he opened the door to a single room with two beds, a private bathroom, and balcony, for exactly 20 euros. I was ECSTATIC. not to mention, the beach was literally a 60-second walk from the door of the place.
the following day, i awoke at 9:30am to take advantage of my free hostel breakfast, which always sucks, though I still always have a twinge of hope that it will be huge and gourmet. Afterwards i walked out to the promenade to take in the beach and the am crowd. it didnt take long to learn that german tourist own arenal. it is theirs. there is no spanish spoken nor written on signs or menus. it is german, everywhere, on everything. i blended in only until someone tried to talk to me or sell me something, and i proudly responded in spanish, which quickly deterred them. the white girls didnt do that here.
i dove back to the hostel for a swimsuit and spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach. by this point, i was starting to look genuinely tan, like people who beach with a real sun-sucking fervor, and you can see it in their eyes...
i later went for a run on the beach, showered, and went to look for some dinner. i found a nice place outside facing the beach, and watched the sun set while skyping with my mom on my iphone while i drank a beer and ate pizza because the restaurant had wifi. oh, technology.
i ended up having a beer later with a nice lithuanian guy, and we spoke about his 11-year relationship with his girlfriend Ramona, and how they would get married in 2 months, but that he had just come to Mallorca to start working and he missed her terribly. it was refreshing to hear someone talk about his loved one of eleven years with such loving desire and joy. i ended up at a dutch bar talking with hilarious dutch bartenders and dancing to techno jams. i asked for water and got free beer, and woke up late and hungover.
hunger forced me out of bed, and i sluggishly packed my stuff, knowing i would be taking the bus to alcudia at some point in the day, but my first and most crucial goal was to get coffee and a croissant in my face as soon as possible. i had that times two, and dawdled around, fatigued, till i got some water and my act together. i emailed kelly for some advice on the bus, as the info from internet and locals was wildly unclear, and kelly responded with exact directions. an hour later, i was on the local bus en route from arenal to the bus station in palma, with a crushing headache surrounded by seven drunk as hell middle-aged german women, laden in tourist schwag, literally yelling into my ears. 55 minutes later we had reached the bus station. i slept all the way to alcudia.
i arrived at kelly's apartment, where she and her roommate lanie were making soup and biscuits for dinner. it felt so good to be in a house with people. it was comforting, i always forget how different it is. we chatted and had dinner and a special beverage of mashed quinoa, cinnamon, and pineapple juice from their spanish roommate cristina.
i feel bad because not only did kelly give me her bed for the night, i completely commandeered her computer and skyped with sam for three hours. she is really the sweetest thing. tomorrow morning we willgo to the alcudia farmers market, and then I will get back on the bus to palma, and then a bus to the airport to make my 2pm flight to Barcelona. In Barcelona I will stay with a friend named Duro, who says we will go to an art opening. Then I have to be at the train station in Barcelona at 7:30am on Wednesday in order to get to Cannes by 7pm. Twelve straight hours on the train. The festival starts Wednesday and I will stay with Carleton, a good friend from high school, as his film is screening there and he rented a house for the week.
Planes, trains, and autobuses for 48 hours and then Cannes...wooohooo!
i arrived in ibiza by plane last tuesday, escaping the rainy sh*thole that was barcelona for two days straight. getting off the plane after a brisk 1 hour flight, the weather in ibiza was noticably clearer and warmer, and it felt wild and intimate- appropriate for an island in the middle of the mediterranean. (i can't spell mediterranean for the life of me, and it really irks me, as i am, by nature, an excellent speller).
after a bus ride and a lot of crap-lugging, i found cal's apartment in the very center of ibiza town. cal is a berkeley grad and santa barbara native- cousin of kara valeriano, hence my connection- and has been teaching english to primary school kids in ibiza town for the last 7 months. cal and his roommate chase, a texan from lubbock (hell yes), kindly received me in their sweet apartment for four looney days and nights, where i was introduced to la vida ibisenca. it consists of sun, spaniards, bocadillos (sandwiches of jamon y queso, or cured ham and cheese, among other things), cafe con leche, paddleball, canas (beer), bare-breasted women, and stunning turquoise water. i got a tan and got to befriending my intelligent, good-natured american hosts. i was even allowed in as an honorary member of their weekly poker night- me and four hot dudes, plus beer, olives, and a 5 euro buy-in. im proud to say i held my own.
a few sun-splattered days and booze-saturated nights later, i bid adieu to my new buddies, and set off (running) to catch my ferry to mallorca. i made it just in time, still tipsy from beer and bocadillos, and found myself a seat next to the window. i snuggked up for a riveting onboard feature: he's just not that into you. thank you, douchebag producer and director, for letting me enjoy an oversaturated all-star cast play their types all too well (scarlett johannson= the seductive mistress, drew barrymore= the ditsy hippie chick)...why am i talking about this...
i arrived in mallorca sans plan. it was the most disorganized id been all trip, but id adopted the 'dont worry until you have to' mentality. it was 10pm when we docked, and i walked toward the bus stop with 40 euros and advice to go to arenal- a nearby beach community with cheaper and more available hostels than palma proper.
the bus didnt seem to be coming for the first hour, and i started inquiring of taxi drivers the going rate to arenal. the answer was 'at least 17 euros', basically my night's room rate, give or take, so i held off committing for a while.
two guido-y looking guys noticed my lonerhood and obvious distress, and asked me where i was trying to go. i said arenal, but that my goal was merely a cheap place to stay, and that my real reason for coming to mallorca was my friend kelly (from the hostel in barcelona) lived in an apartment in alcudia (on the north shore). they lit up. "alcudia! WE'RE going to alcudia!" turned out they were from germany, and their italian father owned a restaurant that catered to tourists on the marina in Port d'Alcudia. They had just arrived to begin their annual six-month stint working 7 days a week in their father's restaurant. they insisted upon giving me a ride to alcudia. i was overjoyed. we began talking, and i learned they were brother of 26 and 23 years old, the younger being the one with a spiky blow-out and unbuttoned shirt revealing a rosary. the older brother, denny, asked me out of nowhere if his younger brother sergio resembled a guido. i tactfully asked if it was a compliment or an insult. he replied "a compliment!" and i quickly said "yes. absolutely." sergio began to wax poetic on his love for the show jersey shore, and namely his high esteem for mike "the situation" (though he had purposefully gotten his hair cut two weeks prior in the exact style of DJ Pauly Delvecchio). He then jovially explained that when the two of them first saw me, he motioned to his brother, saying, in true mike form, "looks like we've got a situation". I chuckled forcedly, mentioning my genuine love for this, the trashiest show on television, while hating for a moment being a girl.
they were very sweet, despite the guido 'do and 'tude. but when their father pulled up to pick them (and now me) up, he drove a tiny car with his wife and young daughter already in it. it quickly became clear that i would not be going to alcudia with them tonight. they gazed at me wistfully and apologetically, and after an awkward greeting with father and wife, i dove into the ferry station, now actually somewhat frantic, and had a mini-cry on a bench. the taxis were now all gone, there was no bus to arenal, it was midnight in palma and i was all alone.
i sucked it up, grabbed my bags and started walking toward town. after fearing for my life a little bit while walking through a park and psyching myself up to beat the shit out of anyone who tried to touch me, i found a main road, and finally, a taxi. he was a really sweet man in a pimped out new van who really wanted to play me some authentic flamenco music on the way to arenal. i mentioned i was in need of a hostel, and he dialed something into his gps. he seemed to know where he was going.
we got to arenal and circled around for 20 minutes looking for hostels. the beach was within reach. i considered camping on it but was afraid id get in trouble. jail in mallorca wasn't part of my ideal beach vacay. i scrounged up the address of a place i had written down earlier, and we finally arrived in front- i have never been so relieved to see the 'hostal' sign. however, i was horrified to see the meter- 26 euros. i pathetically explained to my kind driver that i only had 40 euros, and feared my hostel could be upwards of 25 so late at night. i said i thought i could only afford to pay 15, but gave him 20 because i felt bad. he calmly and happily handed me back 5, saying it was his pleasure and good luck. i was saved.
i walked into the hostel to see george, from republic of georgia, and asked desperately if they had a room for one person. he replied, "yes of course" and led me outside to the reception in a nearby sister hotel. i was treated kindly and calmly, just like the taxi driver, and was led back to my room by george. we walked up to the second floor to number 21, where he opened the door to a single room with two beds, a private bathroom, and balcony, for exactly 20 euros. I was ECSTATIC. not to mention, the beach was literally a 60-second walk from the door of the place.
the following day, i awoke at 9:30am to take advantage of my free hostel breakfast, which always sucks, though I still always have a twinge of hope that it will be huge and gourmet. Afterwards i walked out to the promenade to take in the beach and the am crowd. it didnt take long to learn that german tourist own arenal. it is theirs. there is no spanish spoken nor written on signs or menus. it is german, everywhere, on everything. i blended in only until someone tried to talk to me or sell me something, and i proudly responded in spanish, which quickly deterred them. the white girls didnt do that here.
i dove back to the hostel for a swimsuit and spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach. by this point, i was starting to look genuinely tan, like people who beach with a real sun-sucking fervor, and you can see it in their eyes...
i later went for a run on the beach, showered, and went to look for some dinner. i found a nice place outside facing the beach, and watched the sun set while skyping with my mom on my iphone while i drank a beer and ate pizza because the restaurant had wifi. oh, technology.
i ended up having a beer later with a nice lithuanian guy, and we spoke about his 11-year relationship with his girlfriend Ramona, and how they would get married in 2 months, but that he had just come to Mallorca to start working and he missed her terribly. it was refreshing to hear someone talk about his loved one of eleven years with such loving desire and joy. i ended up at a dutch bar talking with hilarious dutch bartenders and dancing to techno jams. i asked for water and got free beer, and woke up late and hungover.
hunger forced me out of bed, and i sluggishly packed my stuff, knowing i would be taking the bus to alcudia at some point in the day, but my first and most crucial goal was to get coffee and a croissant in my face as soon as possible. i had that times two, and dawdled around, fatigued, till i got some water and my act together. i emailed kelly for some advice on the bus, as the info from internet and locals was wildly unclear, and kelly responded with exact directions. an hour later, i was on the local bus en route from arenal to the bus station in palma, with a crushing headache surrounded by seven drunk as hell middle-aged german women, laden in tourist schwag, literally yelling into my ears. 55 minutes later we had reached the bus station. i slept all the way to alcudia.
i arrived at kelly's apartment, where she and her roommate lanie were making soup and biscuits for dinner. it felt so good to be in a house with people. it was comforting, i always forget how different it is. we chatted and had dinner and a special beverage of mashed quinoa, cinnamon, and pineapple juice from their spanish roommate cristina.
i feel bad because not only did kelly give me her bed for the night, i completely commandeered her computer and skyped with sam for three hours. she is really the sweetest thing. tomorrow morning we willgo to the alcudia farmers market, and then I will get back on the bus to palma, and then a bus to the airport to make my 2pm flight to Barcelona. In Barcelona I will stay with a friend named Duro, who says we will go to an art opening. Then I have to be at the train station in Barcelona at 7:30am on Wednesday in order to get to Cannes by 7pm. Twelve straight hours on the train. The festival starts Wednesday and I will stay with Carleton, a good friend from high school, as his film is screening there and he rented a house for the week.
Planes, trains, and autobuses for 48 hours and then Cannes...wooohooo!
Monday, May 3, 2010
MAJOR UPDATE
OK. I realize its been over two weeks since ive last written and i think i promised myself at the start of the trip and the blog that i wouldn´t be one of those people who writes four posts and then completely bails on the blog once she gets too distracted and doesn´t make the time, because i hate that. BUT i wont be that, and IM BACK. I´ve thought about writing all the time but can´t do it on the iphone and have not had access to a real computer in a while, so excuses aside, here is the two-week update.
I´m currently in Barcelona and the weather blows. It´s been raining incessantly since midnight last night and shows no sign of stopping, to tourists and travelers´ lament. Since i last wrote, much has transpired. I think I was last in Lisbon at John´s apartment and my mom had just arrived. Well we had an incredible time there, we partied and had great food and drink and visted tons of sights, including a small town north of Lisbon called Sintra, and saw castles and cathedrals and an incredible plant-filled paradise with ruins and ancient sites called Quinta da Regaleira. We went to John´s hometown of Alcobaca, and his house which resembled quite closely an LA director´s Mediterranean-style pad, and blew our minds. We saw the band Amalia Hoje (side project of the Gift) perform at Casino Lisboa, we stayed backstage with the band and milked the fame schwag, i.e. free booze and snacks, throughout the performance. Celebrity treatment is an understatement. We saw a game in a tiny local bar in Bairro Alto between Benfica (a much-loved regional futbol team in Portugal) playing some other team, while drinking Super Bock and eating ham and cheese mixtos. We began to understand John´s obsession and life committment to the team, as well as the country´s equally vehement passion for the ever-loved international sport.
After Lisbon, John drove us down to his beach flat in the tiny town of Monte Gordo, Portgual, in the Algarve on the border of Spain and Portugal. I could feel how close Spain was and couldn´t wait to be there. We arrived late at night and struggled to find an open food place, finally settling at a funny wi-fi cafe to eat sandwiches and laugh and drink vinho verde. Which is amazing, by the way; light, effervescent and only available in Portugal.
We stayed in MG one night, went for a run on the beach in the morning and had lunch at a restaurant with the most amazing queso de cabra as a gratis app. We drank beer in the hot sun and got a tan and marvelled at how good the cheese was. We liked it so much that we went to buy it at the market down the street before we left town. Meanwhile we were trying to figure out how to get out of town. After many confusing conversations, we showered and packed and I went on foot to fetch a triple-door mercedes benz cab to drive us across the border to spain, and into the town where we´d catch the bus to sevilla. we had our snacks- the amazing cheese, some crackers and ham in hand, and enjoyed it (with no bathroom) during our 2.5 hour bus ride. some young moroccan guys nearby saw me writing in my journal, and asked to write it it. i complied, and it was returned with a sentence in arabic from one guy, translated to english by the other. it read: "I want meet you If you want?? I wait your Answer!!! My name is Brahim"
Sevilla, for the one day we spent there, was great. We visited the largest cathedral in the world, which was breathtaking beyond belief. We saw the Feria de Abril, an annual mishmash of Spanish tradition and carnival lunacy, with women in flamenco dresses and men on horses, but also cotton candy and ferris wheels and crowds and kids... It was extremely overwhelming after we´d been walking for five hours on a croissant so we bailed after fifteen minutes.
We took the high-speed train to Madrid, where we stayed in the trendy Chuenca area (happened to be the gay part) at a very cool hotel called the Room Mate Oscar. John got us a discounted rate for three nights thanks to his Gift hookup (our celebrity experience evidently continued well after Portugal). We visited the Reina Sofia and saw Picasso´s Guernica, and snuck into the front of a 300-person line at the Museo del Prado like badasses just before its Sunday free-hour between 6-7pm. We saw Goya, Velasquez, and Bosch´s most famous works.
The next day, we trained on the AVE to Barcelona, and arrived bearing great expectations. We were greeted by a frustrated taxi driver when we didnt know the address of our hotel. He had reason to be pissed but it still harshed our buzz. We arrived at the sister hotel of the Oscar, to an equally enjoyable circumstance. We arrived at the beginning of a four-day gorgeous weather pattern in Barcelona, and basically spent all of our time on the beach. It was absolute paradise. So much so that Mona decided, after great angst and financial sacrifice, to stay an extra two days. And boy was it worth it, for as the rain pours, my tan still glows. Our experience together was absolutely unforgettable.
When my mom left I was pretty bummed...returning to travelling alone (and broke) was somewhat shocking. But I found an awesome hostel in the center of Barri Gotic, or the old town, called Itaca, where I met five absolutely wonderful and insane Portuguese guys from Lisbon, coincidentally. They took me under their wing for three days and we had dinners, saw sights, went clubbing, walked around the city, and had a ridiculously great time together. They were Francisco, Miguel, Nuno, Ricardo, and Ruey- a loud, boisterous, fun-loving and sweet army of Portuguese party machines, and I was their American darling. On their last night, we went to a massive club called Shoku on the beach, and left "early" at 4am after hours of drinking and dancing. I had forgotten that clubs in Europe were unlike American clubs...´normal´ people come to dance and party without the skank and bone factor. It was refreshingly fun. Side note: Gin and tonics are wildly popular in Spain, which is great. They are gigantic and tasty. Alcohol is at least four times cheaper than in the US.
My Portuguese buddies left yesterday, at which point I met a great girl named Kelly from Michigan, and went to have tapas with an American guy from Sacramento named Harris, Kelly, and a Swiss chick named Martina. We were in the midst of a very inspiring and heated conversation about America´s various cultural, structural, and governmental pitfalls when we noticed that it was pouring outside. It had been perfect all day, so we were in sandals and t-shirts. The bartender gave us plastic bags to cover ourselves before we ran screaming (i was screaming) all the way back to the hostel through the flooded streets. since then the rain hasn´t stopped. It´s 10pm the next night now. I bought a one-way flight to Ibiza today to stay with Kara´s cousin Cal for a few days. I will go to Mallorca afterwards to stay with Kelly from Michigan, as she will be based there for the next few months. I hope the weather improves so I can camp on the beach once or twice. Once might be enough.
Martina, Harris and I just got back from an unmarked bar that makes their own cava, and only serve cava and meat bocadillos. It was awesome. I had a sausage called Butifarra con Cebolla on a bun with hot mustard and four glasses of cava for under 5 euros. We hung out packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a wooden garage and a glass of cava was 80 cents. Harris and I discovered that we had the same birthday.
Now we will brave the rain once more to visit another local bar Martina knows (she lived here years ago) and I will rock my asics sneaks given that they´re my only closed-toed shoes (I ditched my green rain booties in madrid thinking summer had hit permanently and i wouldnt be needing them, MISTAKE). So here I go on my last night in Barcelona, Ibiza I will meet in the morning. Salud...
I´m currently in Barcelona and the weather blows. It´s been raining incessantly since midnight last night and shows no sign of stopping, to tourists and travelers´ lament. Since i last wrote, much has transpired. I think I was last in Lisbon at John´s apartment and my mom had just arrived. Well we had an incredible time there, we partied and had great food and drink and visted tons of sights, including a small town north of Lisbon called Sintra, and saw castles and cathedrals and an incredible plant-filled paradise with ruins and ancient sites called Quinta da Regaleira. We went to John´s hometown of Alcobaca, and his house which resembled quite closely an LA director´s Mediterranean-style pad, and blew our minds. We saw the band Amalia Hoje (side project of the Gift) perform at Casino Lisboa, we stayed backstage with the band and milked the fame schwag, i.e. free booze and snacks, throughout the performance. Celebrity treatment is an understatement. We saw a game in a tiny local bar in Bairro Alto between Benfica (a much-loved regional futbol team in Portugal) playing some other team, while drinking Super Bock and eating ham and cheese mixtos. We began to understand John´s obsession and life committment to the team, as well as the country´s equally vehement passion for the ever-loved international sport.
After Lisbon, John drove us down to his beach flat in the tiny town of Monte Gordo, Portgual, in the Algarve on the border of Spain and Portugal. I could feel how close Spain was and couldn´t wait to be there. We arrived late at night and struggled to find an open food place, finally settling at a funny wi-fi cafe to eat sandwiches and laugh and drink vinho verde. Which is amazing, by the way; light, effervescent and only available in Portugal.
We stayed in MG one night, went for a run on the beach in the morning and had lunch at a restaurant with the most amazing queso de cabra as a gratis app. We drank beer in the hot sun and got a tan and marvelled at how good the cheese was. We liked it so much that we went to buy it at the market down the street before we left town. Meanwhile we were trying to figure out how to get out of town. After many confusing conversations, we showered and packed and I went on foot to fetch a triple-door mercedes benz cab to drive us across the border to spain, and into the town where we´d catch the bus to sevilla. we had our snacks- the amazing cheese, some crackers and ham in hand, and enjoyed it (with no bathroom) during our 2.5 hour bus ride. some young moroccan guys nearby saw me writing in my journal, and asked to write it it. i complied, and it was returned with a sentence in arabic from one guy, translated to english by the other. it read: "I want meet you If you want?? I wait your Answer!!! My name is Brahim"
Sevilla, for the one day we spent there, was great. We visited the largest cathedral in the world, which was breathtaking beyond belief. We saw the Feria de Abril, an annual mishmash of Spanish tradition and carnival lunacy, with women in flamenco dresses and men on horses, but also cotton candy and ferris wheels and crowds and kids... It was extremely overwhelming after we´d been walking for five hours on a croissant so we bailed after fifteen minutes.
We took the high-speed train to Madrid, where we stayed in the trendy Chuenca area (happened to be the gay part) at a very cool hotel called the Room Mate Oscar. John got us a discounted rate for three nights thanks to his Gift hookup (our celebrity experience evidently continued well after Portugal). We visited the Reina Sofia and saw Picasso´s Guernica, and snuck into the front of a 300-person line at the Museo del Prado like badasses just before its Sunday free-hour between 6-7pm. We saw Goya, Velasquez, and Bosch´s most famous works.
The next day, we trained on the AVE to Barcelona, and arrived bearing great expectations. We were greeted by a frustrated taxi driver when we didnt know the address of our hotel. He had reason to be pissed but it still harshed our buzz. We arrived at the sister hotel of the Oscar, to an equally enjoyable circumstance. We arrived at the beginning of a four-day gorgeous weather pattern in Barcelona, and basically spent all of our time on the beach. It was absolute paradise. So much so that Mona decided, after great angst and financial sacrifice, to stay an extra two days. And boy was it worth it, for as the rain pours, my tan still glows. Our experience together was absolutely unforgettable.
When my mom left I was pretty bummed...returning to travelling alone (and broke) was somewhat shocking. But I found an awesome hostel in the center of Barri Gotic, or the old town, called Itaca, where I met five absolutely wonderful and insane Portuguese guys from Lisbon, coincidentally. They took me under their wing for three days and we had dinners, saw sights, went clubbing, walked around the city, and had a ridiculously great time together. They were Francisco, Miguel, Nuno, Ricardo, and Ruey- a loud, boisterous, fun-loving and sweet army of Portuguese party machines, and I was their American darling. On their last night, we went to a massive club called Shoku on the beach, and left "early" at 4am after hours of drinking and dancing. I had forgotten that clubs in Europe were unlike American clubs...´normal´ people come to dance and party without the skank and bone factor. It was refreshingly fun. Side note: Gin and tonics are wildly popular in Spain, which is great. They are gigantic and tasty. Alcohol is at least four times cheaper than in the US.
My Portuguese buddies left yesterday, at which point I met a great girl named Kelly from Michigan, and went to have tapas with an American guy from Sacramento named Harris, Kelly, and a Swiss chick named Martina. We were in the midst of a very inspiring and heated conversation about America´s various cultural, structural, and governmental pitfalls when we noticed that it was pouring outside. It had been perfect all day, so we were in sandals and t-shirts. The bartender gave us plastic bags to cover ourselves before we ran screaming (i was screaming) all the way back to the hostel through the flooded streets. since then the rain hasn´t stopped. It´s 10pm the next night now. I bought a one-way flight to Ibiza today to stay with Kara´s cousin Cal for a few days. I will go to Mallorca afterwards to stay with Kelly from Michigan, as she will be based there for the next few months. I hope the weather improves so I can camp on the beach once or twice. Once might be enough.
Martina, Harris and I just got back from an unmarked bar that makes their own cava, and only serve cava and meat bocadillos. It was awesome. I had a sausage called Butifarra con Cebolla on a bun with hot mustard and four glasses of cava for under 5 euros. We hung out packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a wooden garage and a glass of cava was 80 cents. Harris and I discovered that we had the same birthday.
Now we will brave the rain once more to visit another local bar Martina knows (she lived here years ago) and I will rock my asics sneaks given that they´re my only closed-toed shoes (I ditched my green rain booties in madrid thinking summer had hit permanently and i wouldnt be needing them, MISTAKE). So here I go on my last night in Barcelona, Ibiza I will meet in the morning. Salud...
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