The Siroker Brothers

Stewardessing Across Europe Part 3: Barcelona

I have the rather enviable task of describing what might possibly prove to be the most memorable leg of our European vacation: Barcelona. I'm attempting to do this like I spent a good deal of my time in Barcelona: drunk. I am therefore forgiven for repeating sentence structure, giving unnecessary details, being excessively wordy, outright lying on occasion, and for omitting the usual literary flair and gusto I typically infuse my epic writing with. My arrogance may be judged as usual.

The bells of a nearby basilica ring to announce the changing of the hour. It's nine in the evening on Wednesday, the sixth of July. Dan, Matt, and I lay in our beds in the hostel Matt so masterfully picked out in Florence. I don't mean to confuse you by writing about Florence in an entry intended to be about Barcelona, but drunkards have hard times focusing.

I'm lying in a comfortable bed in the corner of our room while Dan braves the bottom bunk of a bunk-bed across from me and Matt stretches out on a not-so-comfortable bed right next to me. I earned the right to pick the best bed because I won the second to last game of Toepen (a Dutch card game we taught Matt) on our train ride over to Florence from Venice.

I'm drunk from my third of the bottle of wine we shared during dinner. Drinking some sort of alcohol during dinner has become a pleasant routine for all of us. I am, however, usually the only one to get drunk from the relatively small amounts of alcohol we consume. Matt doesn't usually get drunk because he's a (self-described) tank. My brother doesn't usually get drunk because either he's built a tolerance for alcohol from years of college debauchery or he's too concerned with making sure I don't drink too much. Probably the former.

It was in Barcelona where my travel companions first let me drink without restraint. Coincidentally, it was also the first time on this trip Dan and Matt got really, really toasted. Needless to say, Barcelona was awesome.

Lazy bastards sleep alike (on the train we had to take after our overnight train).

Previously on Stewardessing Across Europe, our three merry adventurers had departed from Paris on an overnight train to Barcelona. Spending more than a couple hours on a train gives a person a condition what Matt termed “train legs.” We basically had the wobbles the day after our overnight train. We'd be standing still on firm ground yet feel the world sway back and forth as if we were still on a train.

Matt clears out the ‘ole nasal cavity while I politely look away (in Barcelona’s main train station).

We ascend the escalator out of the train station staring into the bright Spanish sun for the first time.

Wobbles aside, our introduction to Barcelona was pretty cliche. At the top of the escalator leading out of the train station, a live mariachi band played (what we'll pretend to be) traditional Spanish music. After a couple of songs, the band paused for a moment as the best looking member of the group put down his instrument, pulled out a collection bag, and expertly coerced hard-earned tourist euros out of the people sitting down across from the mariachi band. Suckers.

A group of guys mariaching out.

After dropping the band around ten euros in change (the one and two euro denominations only come in coin format just to help street performers get a little more from clueless Americans who are used to coins being worth less), we navigated our way to what we all agreed was a really nice hostel. To be fair, our standards had been set really low from the closet we stayed in in Paris.

One striking difference between our hostel in Paris and our hostel in Barcelona was that, in Barcelona, we shared a large room with strangers for the first time. I think we were all a little wary as to how safe it would be. Our fears were slightly assuaged when we met two fellow Californians in our room, Michelle and Tammy. We later met some Canadians who introduced themselves as our “humble neighbors to the north.” Who could possibly be afraid of a Canadian?

Having settled into our hostel and showered (international travel can be a sweaty proposition), we were keen to sample the local cuisine. The five Californians set out into the blazing Spanish sun. Right when our distance from our hostel became great enough to make a return non-trivial, I realized I didn't have my passport on me anymore (as it had been every day prior). I had not yet gained the indifference to the open availability of precious personal goods that I would eventually attain, so I told the others I needed to go back and get my passport and I then proceeded into a full-on sprint back to (where I thought was) the hostel.

It was rather convenient that our hostel was really close to one of Barcelona's more visible landmarks, the cathedral. I relatively easily found my way back to the cathedral, but from there there were many different streets, all of which seemed potentially likely to house our hostel. So I engaged in a linear search and went down each street a little bit and tried to see if I could spot the hostel.

A man approached me after he noticed me running up and down the streets. He flashed a badge and then repeatedly made the motion of one removing his wallet from his pocket. Unfortunately he only spoke Spanish so I couldn't figure out what he wanted. I thought either he was an off-duty police officer offering to help me find my wallet (the way I was running up and down the streets and scanning for something might have looked like I was trying to find someone who just pick-pocketed me), or he was a thief pretended to be a police officer trying to get me to hand him my wallet. I got away from him fortunately without consequence, made it back to the hostel, found my passport (in the shorts I was wearing before I showered), and then sprinted back to the group.

I return to the group with my passport in addition to a rather thick layer of sprint-induced sweat.

After rejecting a restaurant suggested by our travel guidebook (for too closely resembling a dungeon), we settled on a modern authentic Spanish restaurant which advertised reasonable prices. A couple sangrias (Spanish drink typically consisting of wine and fruit juice) and a broken wine glass into it, we're having a good time.

Some of us are drunker than others.

The females of the tribe are entrusted with the care of the young as the males scour the Serengeti for food.

Satisfied with a full stomach and an inebriated sense of invincibility, we thought it best to get a nice view of Barcelona from the top of a large hill to get an overview of where we'd eventually be going. We would have to take the metro to get there. This at first was a troubling prospect for me, Dan, and Matt because we were used to the uncomfortable saunas that were Paris metro trains. Fantastically, the metro trains in Barcelona were air-conditioned. That's not all that's different about the metro system…

A vending machine for books!

Let's not forget about the guy who crossed the tracks to get his friend a drink. Another sweat storm walking uphill from the metro station later, we reach the summit.

Glistening.

Tammy and Michelle. Maybe if we could wear tank-tops we wouldn’t be sweating so much either.

They were so enthralled with the view…

…they neglected to notice the nuclear explosion behind them.

We can sum up the view as pretty awesome. As if the day hadn't been fun enough already, we went out for a little drinking and dancing that evening.

Some outfits may look familiar. We have only so much luggage space!

Never too busy to bust out the dual pointer.

Matt’s more of a single pointer kind of guy.

Our pointing powers combined can produce dangerous things.

With the pointing out of our system, we were ready to get to business. We found ourselves a very nice plaza and proceeded to drink ourselves silly. Some guys from Manchester shared our policy on drinking, resulting in a stirring rendition of Build Me Up, Buttercup. Don't be fooled: I am the drunkest of them all.

Like I said, Matt is a tank.

If you're still with us after that picture, then you may be able to stomach what comes next. Be warned: the following video contains nudity. And not the good kind. The horror.

Deer caught in the headlights.

This effectively sums up my (drunken) dancing.

Our hostel had a 3 AM curfew. That means if we didn't get back to the hostel by 3 AM, we'd be locked out until the hostel opened again at 7 AM. The prospect of sleeping in the streets for four hours didn't appeal too greatly to us so, after a couple “last songs,” we left the club and ventured home. And got lost. With the clock ticking.

Fortunately we were sober enough to remember we lived near the cathedral and drunk enough to yell “cathedral” at every person who passed us by without regard for disturbing the sleep of the locals. Someone eventually heeded our cries and walked us back to the cathedral. From the cathedral, we found our way back to the hostel and were rather reluctantly allowed back inside ten minutes past curfew.

How artistic.

How confused.

So after a long day we all went to sleep, some of us still pretty drunk. Some of us were so drunk in fact as to fall off the top bunk of a bunk-bed onto the floor. And not feel a thing. As much as I'd like to claim credit for that, it wasn't me.

Apparently Matt transformed into the Joker overnight.

We checked out a meat market the next day.

Matt’s so picky with his food.

What a beautiful building.

After really working up an appetite at the meat market, we decided to check out the cathedral near our hostel. We found out that you couldn't enter if your shoulders or knees were exposed, so Matt and the girls had to go back to the hostel and change.

Wild animals inside a church? The joke is on the goose. I got nothing in my hand.

Haven’t been on top of many churches before.

Matt decides to look in the least interesting direction.

Here's a slightly more panoramic view from the top of the church.

I’m clearly impressed with Gaudi’s famous apartment building, La Pedrera.

Matt makes the mistake of leaning a little too close over the edge.

Michelle just can’t get enough of these “sculptures.”

Apparently neither can we.

Again Matt misses what’s right behind him (at the Sagrada Familia).

I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of stairs.

Happy, excited, pissed, tired.

Oh, Dan’s on this trip as well.

“I am ruler of all I survey.”

“I am going to need a change of underwear.”

Yes, Matt’s head really is that big.

Part of our controlled fall back down the stairs.

Nap time.

Having Gaudied ourselves out for the day, we headed back home. On the way back, Dan caught a pretty cool street performer. We also stopped for some ice cream, something we end up doing a lot.

Shomeone’s a little exshited about hish ishe cream.

Ice cream can only heal so many wounds.

Another lovely meal together.

“Roast leg of kid.”

This is why Matt isn’t allowed to take pictures.

Matt practices his blank stare while at the other end of the table…

…I show everyone how a blank stare is properly done.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink, Eric.”

“Way too much.”

“Here, let me take your glass.”

“Sucker. More for me!”

Rose peddler Dan ripped off.

“Don’t mess with me, punk.”

Someone made a mess.

Laundry’s a dirty business. Particularly after a night of mess-making.

Sweatastic.

At least someone’s as equally as sweaty.

While others were born without sweat glands.

The streets can get rather narrow.

A little advice for Jacob Tokars.

Enjoying a nice Spanish beach.

We decided to have a little lunch near the beach. We sat down at a cafe adjacent the beach. The ambiance was captured.

This is what they call tapas.

Seven, eight, and nine are where one, two, and three should be.

They have some crazy tall people in Spain.

For many reasons the hostel we stayed in in Barcelona was very nice. One of the reasons was that drinks and usage of the Internet was billed on the honor system. You basically keep track of how much you drink or how long you're on the computer and pay afterwards. The trust placed in us by the hostel was refreshing and we wouldn't have thought to exploit it. A couple of beers into the evening however, it becomes harder to keep track of just how much you had. Consequentially, I may have honor systemed (i.e., stole) a few beers.

Honor systemed beers.

We met a Korean girl who was traveling all by herself and she joined us for dinner.

I picked up Korean culture quickly.

The Korean girl picked ours up just as quickly.

Apparently Matt doesn’t like it when I throw lemons at him. Go figure.

First victim: Matt.

Second victim: Korean girl.

Third victim: our waiter.

Fourth victim: Brent Spiner (another waiter).

We had to wake up early and catch a taxi to make our train out of Barcelona.

“What’d you do?”

Matt’s cuteness is upstaged by my gut.

I learn something new every day.

Look for the “retard probable.” Hint: there’s three of them in the picture.

You may have realized that this entry wasn't posted on the sixth of July (as I had early claimed it was written). It has taken a while to put this together and to find a means of uploading all the pictures and videos. In the end, I had to wait until we got home to America, which we successfully did earlier today. I started off this entry drunk and now I'm in an appropriately equivalent state of mental incapacity (having woken up 24 hours ago).

Barcelona was a lot of fun, but was it our favorite place? You'll have to wait to find out.

Enroute to our hostel in Nice, France.