Barcelona is a Dangerous Place

As we climbed down the stairs to the entrance of Parc Güell, Chelsea and I were damning Barcelona. Our feet ached and bled, the various straps of our bags had embedded themselves so deeply into our sunburnt shoulders that to shift them even slightly sent sharp pains through our skin, and our legs were raw from rubbing together as we walked.

And as we came down these stairs we stopped. Music echoed up from an artificial cavern conceived by one of Barcelona’s patron saints, Gaudí. A man sat over what looked like a metal tortoise shell, and by bouncing his fingers on the indentations of this instrument he produced a sound similar to a steel drum, but sweeter and so full of color that it matched the mosaics marching along the walls. And we forgave Barcelona.

This city made us forget, in one moment, how tired and resentful we had been a second before. The bitterness came back a short distance down the road as our flip flops dug into the tender flesh between our toes, and yet the enchantment lingered and we laughed on our way to the hostel.

Barcelona is a beautiful city, from the Gothic Quarter’s narrow streets to the curved and colorful architecture of the aforementioned Gaudi. And these too, have their dangers. The danger of the fabulous architecture in general is very mundane: one looks up rather than where one is walking.


This phenomenon is made more dangerous not only by the usual hazards (walking into other people, walking into each other, walking into walls, telephone poles, street vendors, bicyclists, etc…) but by the fact that around each of the many trees littering the streets and adding to the urge to look skyward, there is a pit. Now this is not always a deep pit; some are scarcely six inches. Others range to about a foot or so. One can, I hope, readily see the dangers inherent in this.

You are not convinced yet of the dangers?

Would you like to know how many pairs of pants we have bought in the two days since we arrived?

Four.

And this only, by exercising the greatest restraint.

Now, in my defense, three of these four are Chelsea’s.

In her defense. Well. Nothing.

I joke. These are giant poofy pants that come in all manner of colors and textures (including orange and soft. Chelsea got one of each. Well, two orange). They are magnificent and full of win. The pants have been our splurge. But so much more could have been.


The clothing here is amazing: bright colors and strange designs (http://www.desigual.com/#/videos/). And the sandals. You know there is something strange going on when Chelsea and I have to resist shoe shopping. And possibly also with somewhere where we both wanted to go to the beach.



One final word of warning: Chocolate con churros are wonderful.


Adios amigos!

Ponderings a Month Before - 1

Part 1 - Chelsea

It occurred to me at about 1 am this morning that I am going to Europe in one month. In 37 days, I will board a flight across the Atlantic Ocean to land on a continent I've never touched before. For the next three months, I will see over 20 countries, hear over a dozen different languages - none of which I speak, and hopefully return to the states with some modicum of perspective on how truly diverse our world is.

Reality hit like a kid's forehead against a freshly windexed glass door. Hanna and I had always seen this in our respective futures. We've been talking about traveling together since High School, but it had always been a vaseline smeared haze: we will do this, but when? Two years ago we started carving out a plan. When Hanna graduated, we would go. Not in the summer - too many tourists - but if we left in August we'd still get the heat.

I told the company I worked for - over a year and a half in advance - and got it approved by my manager. Of course, he couldn't guarantee I'd have a job when I came back; that sort of permanence is rare in my industry. I didn't care; it was worth it. Everyone says "someday", but someday won't come unless you commit. If that cost a job, it cost a job.

We started to save. Three thousand, five thousand, thirteen thousand dollars in my account. Add in Hanna's six, and we had nearly a twenty thousand dollar budget for our three months in Europe. "More than enough," friends assured.

My branch was let go in February, and I faced the difficult issue of having four months before our trip and needing a job. I decided the trip was more important, and said upfront in my interviews that I had to be in Europe August, September, and October.

Zynga, crazy bastards, still hired me.

I blinked and we were buying plane tickets: August 3rd because they're cheapest on Tuesdays. Then Eurorail passes. Hostel deposits. Backpacks.

I was fitted for mine (an Osprey women's backpack with a detachable daypack) at REI by one of the nicest customer service representatives I've ever had. I'm going to try and fit three months into that pack. I ached the next day when it had 25 lbs. The representative said I should expect a fully packed version to weigh closer to 40.

(I still have to buy a netbook, camera, walking/hiking shoes, American souvenirs for thank you gifts, a nice sheet set to double as a sleeping bag, and possibly more flexible clothing. Also possibly a compass. Lord knows I'm lost as is.)