Two Sketches of Spain, Part I: "Now she's a little boy in Spain!"

Spanish train station. Awkward lack of socializing prohibited by language wall. Hoping not to be noticed. Awaiting phone call. These are my happy situations and I think I have a sinus infection. It shall leave fast. And so begins my story of Spain.

I've said, "See you in another life, brother," to many fellow viajeros since I last wrote. You meet so many people on the road but if you break out the goodbyes and the Desmond Hume "other lives" you really met them. Haha. I left the UK from a glorious city called Edinburgh. I was allowed to stay in this most desired of cities thanks to my good Polish sir "Sir Maciek Buczkowski" whom I met in Stornoway. Quite quickly he demanded I stay with him so I could see The Festival. That Festival is Noneotherthan The Edinburgh International Festival, IE THE Largest Arts Festival In Europe. Every Summer, for a frenzied, messy, hedonistic month the entire city turns into a festival ground for performance. I saw some free comedy, soaked in one last week of free precitipation, and had a little free Polish (the Language of the 1000 Z's) lesson from Maciek--Czesc ("cheshch") is "hello," Dziemdobry ("jain-dobre") is "good morning." I told Maciek how down I was with Kryzstof Penderecki so maybe he would think I was cool.

Since I was running out of money I decided to cut my trip to two countries. I found myself with Spanish phrasebook, pocket guide, and boarding pass to Barcelona in my pockets. When I stepped out a new knowledge of disorientation took me. I realized I had never been in a place where English isn't the first language. In fact, as if I needed the extra little fun challege, Spanish (that's Castilian to be precise) isn't even the first language in the east, the region known as Catalonia. Catalan shares similarities with Spanish and French and even some Portuguese. Oh and the Catalonians take extreme pride in their distinct heritage. Needless to say I tried not to speak. Luckily I met a British fellow tramp named Dave on the bus. Except oops, he's not British, he's French, and he has the most arrestingly realized pronunciation I've ever heard from a non-native speaker. No trace of a French accent, and he began learning at the ripe old age of nine!

Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia and, like London, a major tourist destination and cosmopolitan offering. Any business in the city is often trilingual. There's plenty to see but my fascination was largely focused on the narrow, pedestrian streets that wind below towel-draped balconies, Roman history, and small shops ("Hola, solo estoy mirando..."). I did a lot of walking by myself, for alleyways like this don't exist where I come from...just spectacular. Barcelona is defined by the architectural brilliance of Antoni Gaudí. The city was his playground and he turned parts of it into little Dr. Seuss-esque visions:







I really loved the Sagrada Família and especially Park Güell. Gaudí rocks.

I shared Barcelona with: Joelle and Martina (Swiss Italians), Eduardo (Mexican), Roman and Ronek (Indian Chicagamericans), Mike (Kenyan German), Lea (French Canadian), Rohan (Brazilian), Maximo (Argentinian), Andres (Mexican), Paola (German), David (English), Weber (Taiwanese), Tim (Singaporean), Sophie and Annabel (Australian), Jon (Denverite), Catya (German), Lauren and Ruth (English), Brook (Thai), and Brendan (Illini).

What a group of friends! This is the pinnacle of hostel experiences: a group becomes comfortable and you start to feel like you own the place; it becomes home. Remember that overwhelming feeling of community you had when you lived in a dorm? It's that lost feeling back again, for a hostel is simply a college dorm you don't ever have to leave for class. The real difference between a dorm and a hostel actually is that the group is only temporary...members come and love and wake up and must move on dropping off little bits of themselves in the hostel. This is the way of travelers. We set out to love intensely but only for a short time, then we leave. Content with the value of absence we leave no trace but a name to plug into Facebook and vague promises of a future revival. Anyway it's weird.

So one night the Centric Point group went out to the excellent Traveler's Bar, a ruddy Irish pub where you can get a meal for one euro at 8. The only free seats for me were at a table occupied by two girls, so after my sangria I was chatting with these giggly Australians. They were identical twins, save that one, Annabel, thankfully had died her hair blonde. They became part of the Group, somebody mentioned something about a free street festival, and we hopped a Metro. We occupied most of that car--fifteen strong, looking and sounding much like excited tourists. Like City Stages each street at the festival had its own music, activity, and spirit. We danced a lot and people insisted on buying me beer. During a rousing game of Flip Cup (I rock but Rohan needs some practice), I got a startling call from back home: somebody had used my debit card in Ohio to the Ohio tune of $350. My debit card was in my pocket. Must have used it at the wrong Spanish place of business. I tried not to get upset and focused more on flirting with the ever more receptive Annabel, and just like that we were making out in the streets. She was cute and a big fan of Arrested Development. I was down $350, what the hell else was I going to do?

The next night we went down to the Barceloneta beach to do the same. We were pretty tired when we got there and she fell asleep in my arms. My camera bag and her purse had been sitting four feet to my right yet I looked over and they were gone. Ten minutes prior they were there. We'd been robbed, I again, and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. Curse the little Spanish bastards who put a blemish on an otherwise beautiful city. You'd stand with your back to the sea and picture a thousand little paths a thief could have taken in ten minutes. We cursed and flailed and ran around hopelessly and attempted confused conversation with high Spaniards (I couldn't stop thinking that anyone could have my camera). And my camera. All my photos. The rest of my traveler's checks, and cash. Her credit card and phone. It was simple: I had failed. My trip was over. All I'd set out to prove and do had been proven wrong and undone. On our way to the police station we met another group of recent victims of the beach...then another. There was a line of them at the station. I apologized profusely to Annabel and Sophie and told Mom and Dad I was coming home.

But I wasn't. I decided that going home was what another Me would have done. I've managed to defy most of who I used to be and here was my biggest challenge yet. I made some phone calls and thanks to the love of my friends I should be able to stay in Europe until the 18th. I was very moved in Tuscaloosa earlier this year when I witnessed a young man's Nikon camera (nicer than mine) get run over by a car because an acquaintance had borrowed it and absentmindedly set it on the ground. He quite simply shrugged it off and said, "It's just a thing." Well it was my turn.