"The Battle of Spaghettisburg," or, "The Miracle at Funkirk," A Ballad.

Wow. I...wow. Just looked at this here blog, and realized that the last post is from February 18th. FEBRUARY. EIGHTEENTH. It is currently March 6th. For those of you keeping score, that's what the Spaniards call, "A long-ass time-o." However, I am not going to apologize, if only because my dear friend Gareth delivered perhaps the best call-out I've heard in a long time - he sent me this link, which is so close to my actual life, it's scary. http://xkcd.com/621/

That being said, there is so much to cover at this point that some of the details may get lost. But I'll do my best to cover the highlights of the last...month or so (damn), because there was some stuff that happened before the Milan post that I still need to cover. So, to work.

First, I suppose I should cover Sitges. Sitges is a small town on the Mediterranean about 45 minutes away from Barcelona by train, world-famous for its Carnaval celebration (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sitges) and its beaches. I've been hearing stories about Carnaval in Sitges ever since I got here, so, with a little nudging, I was convinced to set out for the (purported) Debauchery Capital of Spain on a beautiful Fat Tuesday night (it helped that I had no class until 3:45 on Wednesday). We got in a little after 11:00 p.m, meaning we were waaaay early. Stepping off the train in Sitges was surreal - hell, the whole night was surreal - as we waded through an enormous crowd of revelers, all dressed in outrageous costumes and most already reeking of stale sweat and cheap booze. As the night went on, moving 10 feet in any direction became a challenge, as the normally-sleepy beach community found itself run over by a small army of drunk, blissful Spanish and foreign tourists dressed like fairies, devils, and (in my favorite group costume of the night) an entire set of interlocking Tetris blocks. At around 2:00 a.m., the party moved from the streets and the parade route to the beach, where a DJ spun for thousands of revelers until after sunrise, with strobe lights and fire-twirlers lighting the whole scene. Unreal.

Spending Carnaval sober - which, granted, was an unusual decision considering the circumstances - proved to be a good choice, for two reasons. One, it made navigating the hordes of people and locating lost friends 'n' such much easier. Two, the people-watching was the best I've ever experienced, and remembering every little detail of what proved to be a massive sensory overload is a nice reward. That being said, I still managed to squeeze perhaps the most fun into a single night than at any other point in my life. So many memories spring to mind from different points in the night...bypassing the fences to dance in the middle of the parade route, surrounded by cross-dressing men and non-dressing women. Staring at the sea from the one quiet corner of the town we could find, watching the waves crash against the sea wall. Dancing knee-deep in the Mediterranean at four in the morning, not caring how much sand was collecting in our shoes [editor's note: it was a lot] or how many men were peeing into the water nearby [editor's note: it was A LOT]. Getting on a train at 6:00 a.m., exhausted, filthy, and utterly content. Again: unreal.

Whew. Moving right along, now. I suppose the next highlight would come the following weekend, courtesy of an epic trip up a mountain and the subsequent rush to make an FC Barca game. Joe (my roomie, if - for some baffling reason - you don't follow this blog religiously) and I set out on a Saturday afternoon for Tibidabo, the mountain overlooking Barcelona from the north. We caught the metro all the way to the northernmost section of the city before hopping on a tram that we thought would take us to the top of the mountain. Turns out, that was unreasonable expectation. Instead, it takes you halfway up the mountain (because who doesn't like to say they climbed half a mountain?), and you are then expected to disembark, walk 10 feet over to a funicular operated by a different company, and pay another eight Euros for a ticket the rest of the way up. Now, dear readers, if you know me at all, you know that - if nothing else - I am a profoundly cheap man, and refusing to pay for the funicular became a sort of moral crusade on my part. As usual, being cheap would end up costing me in the long run, but goddamnit, it's the principle of the thing.

Thus, Joe and I set out on foot, walking up a road that seemed to lead vaguely to the top of the mountain, confident that we were finding a way to beat the system and smiling at our own cleverness. Now, to Tarantino this for you a bit (to borrow a phrase from Scot), the day that started with us walking calmly up a road would end with us sprinting flat-out down a mountain, giggling like schoolgirls and praying that we didn't permanently injure ourselves. More on that in a bit. In the meantime, after walking for about 15 minutes up this road, Joe and I stumbled across a dirt path that veritably screamed "shortcut" and appeared to be a much more direct route to the top. So, armed with jeans and some beat-up Chuck Taylors, we...climbed a mountain. Which was awesome. As we continued up the disconcertingly steep, rocky path, the view of the city below became progressively more breathtaking. Halfway up, we stumbled across an old, abandoned concrete bunker buried in the mountainside that, rather bafflingly, had been spray-painted with a friendly-looking bunny by some unnamed graffiti artist. Needless to say, I dubbed it the "Bunnyker," and moved on assured of my own unstoppable funniness.


Fortunately, we eventually reached the top of the path. Unfortunately, it turned out we still had 20-minute walk up another road to get to the actual top of the mountain. Making use of that funicular to get back down was looking more and more appealing, pride be damned, but, right as we finally reached the top, an automated voice informed us that the final funicular of the day would be leaving in five minutes. Having spent roughly two hours getting to the top of the mountain, we weren't ready to pack it in quite yet, so we resolved to figure it out later. We explored the top of the mountain, which was breathtaking. The view of the city is indescribable, with the Mediterranean shimmering in the distance, the Sagrada Familia towering over the residential neighborhood of L'Eixample, and the Torre Agbar (lovingly known as the "Space Cock" locally...http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torre_Agbar) doing its thing to the south. We explored the Catholic church, the Temple de Sagrat Cor that sits atop the mountain. The Temple is a gorgeous building, subtle in all the right places but grand in every way you would expect a church on top of a mountain to be. There is also an amusement park at the top of Tibidabo, which was closing right as we arrived. Some of the rides are holdovers from the turn of the 20th century, making them simultaneously charming and shit-a-brick frightening, especially since most of them dangle you off the edge of the mountain by one method or another.


Finally, content that we'd seen everything we could, we set about trying to make it back down the mountain for a 6:45 rendezvous with friends to head to our first FC Barcelona game. We found a road that appeared to be a better way down the mountain than the dirt path we'd taken up. Twenty minutes later, following a road that (as it was becoming increasingly apparent) did not remotely lead back to Barcelona, Joe and I had a pow-wow, turned around, and seriously mulled the idea of hitch-hiking our way back to the city. We finally made it back to the top of our beloved dirt path. Now, with a half-hour left until the meet-up, we realized that time was not on our side. So we ran. The whole way. Down a mountain. The tram had stopped running as well, so we had to run the whole length of the tramway, too. And then we had to run to the metro station [Editor's note: Charlie ran a 13-minute mile in high school]. By the end of the trip, I was sweating like Nixon in a sauna and wheezing like an asthmatic in a scuba suit. [Editor's note: Charlie is also disproportionately proud of those terrible similes in the previous sentence. What an asshole. Feel free to mock him for it].

We made it to the meeting point by 7:15, a half-hour late by "objective" standards, but coming in first place in our hearts.

...Yeah. Anyway, we met up with our friends and made our way over to Camp Nou, FC Barca's massive stadium (the largest in Europe). Thanks to our good friend Mat and his impressive dealings with a [totally legitimate] ticket broker, we scored tickets for 15 euro. Epic win, Mat. We were in the top section, but there isn't a bad seat in the house, and just being in the stadium is such an experience. I got to see the likes of Lionel Messi and Thierry Henry in action, with Henry even scoring a goal off a ballin' free kick. Barca ended up winning 4-0 over Racing Santender, so spirits were high, and a good time was had by all. Excellent day.

Jump forward if you will, beloved readers, to the next weekend (that is to say, last weekend...confused yet?). Rome. Woah. My program (API) included an "international excursion" to Rome in the price of admission. So, come last Friday morning at 10:00 a.m., I found myself in the Barcelona airport preparing to jet off to Italy once more. Imagine then, dear readers, how my initial excitement was tempered by serious concern, knowing that I was returning to the country that also lays claim to Milan, the center of all that is awful in the world (see previous post). After a hefty flight delay (something about the transportation workers in France being on strike...I don't know. All I know is that my hindquarters were hurting after sitting on a tile floor for two hours), we finally boarded. Landing in Rome, it became immediately apparent that the soul-fuck that is the city of Milan was truly a world away. As our bus drove us into the city, we passed the Colosseum and any number of other ruins just popping out of the ground everywhere you looked. Turns out, preserving the history and cultural heritage of your Italian city is actually a good idea (listen up, Milan).

Anyway, we arrived at the hotel two hours later than scheduled, and our hungry selves were granted 20 minutes to find something to eat before our scheduled scenic bus tour of the city. We rushed over to a nearby restaurant, where our Group of Six (which would remain more or less intact all weekend, and which was so epic that it deserves a Lord-of-the-Rings-style capitalization) requested anything that could be cooked and consumed in our very limited time frame. With the assistance of a very friendly waiter, we ordered six plates of lasagna and two pitchers (read: jugs) of wine. Twenty minutes later, the wine was nearly gone, but the lasagna was still nowhere in sight. Finally, as our bus tour was scheduled to depart, the promised pasta was properly procured, and we came as close to "inhaling" our meals as the human esophagus will allow. It was generally excellent, and well-received after a day without food.


The bus tour was, of course, delayed, making our effort to turn dinner into a gastrointestinal wind-sprint completely unnecessary. We finally set off, just in time for there to be absolutely zero daylight remaining. Thus, while the tour was nice, the darkness made all of my first-day pictures of the city virtually worthless. We drove by the major sites (most of which we would visit in the next two days, anyway) and took a few minutes to disembark and walk around St. Peter's Square. When the bus tour ended, we napped in the hotel for a bit before setting out in search of dinner. The Group of Six found a nice-looking outdoor restaurant in a quiet part of town and managed to have a meal that was just a little more relaxed - in the sense that we made it into an excellent two-hour-or-so experience. Pizza with ham. Very good, but (as would be the case with all the pizza eaten that weekend), slightly disappointing after the UltraPizza we found in Milan). The waiter was again a character (and, like almost everyone we encountered, spoke excellent English), and gave us a few free shots of limoncello after the meal. From there, we wandered down to the Trevi Fountain and our first gelato, both of which are pictured below...


The Trevi fountain was beautiful at night, if a bit crowded, and [full disclosure], I actually DID NOT manage to toss a coin into it. Why? Because I only had 1-euro coin, and I would be damned before I threw in that much money (did I mention I'm cheap?). Clearly, I only want my wishes to come true if they cost 25 cents or less.

From there, we made our way over towards the Pantheon in search of a bar to spend some time. Turns out, we should be careful what we wish for. We did find a bar, which looked nice from the outside. However, walking in and sitting at a table in the back room, it became immediately apparent that we had wandered into some alternate, Italian-flavored dimension. The "house band" was two oddball guys with a keyboard and a guitar, who seemed to cover exclusively 80s soft-rock hits ("We Are the World," "We Belong Together," and apparently the collected works of Michael Bolton). AND EVERYONE IN THE AUDIENCE WAS TOTALLY INTO IT. It was just...weird. We left quickly. From there, we found an Irish pub that was absolutely packed, mostly by members of the massive horde of Scottish people who had descended upon Rome for the weekend (for the Rugby Six Nations tournament). Lots of fun, lots of 90s music.

Saturday morning began early with a group trip to the Colosseum. It was legitimately pretty amazing to be standing in the same place where Russel Crowe once stabbed a trident through a man's neck. Jokes, jokes. The sense of history in the air was pretty palpable, and it turns out it's pretty cool to visit one of the Wonders of the ancient world. The Group of Six kinda...detached itself from the rest of the group. Our tour guide (who was probably more peeved than she let on) had to come find us so that we could return our little listening devices. Oops. Oh well, we got a more leisurely tour, so...win?

From there, API took us over to the Forum, which was really, really impressive. The sheer number of ruins was almost overwhelming, but in general really cool. It's a very odd feeling to be standing in a place that's older than the oldest (European-settled) city in the US by over two millenia. And I always brag that our family's barn is a hundred years old....

Anyway, after that, we had free time the rest of the day, so we set out on an epic walk that covered a huge chunk of the city, walked along the Tiber River for quite a ways (very pretty), and eventually wound up back at the Vatican, where we would also return to the next day. That's right, the kid who co-founded a school group called "Service Enacted through Nonreligious Students' Efforts" went to the holiest Catholic site in the world THREE DAYS IN A ROW. You can take the kid out of Catholic school, but you can't....

Anyway, we toured St. Peter's Basilica, which was, in a word, breathtaking. You could spend days in there and still not see every little detail that went into making it. We visited the tombs of the Popes (John Paul II had a small contingent of pilgrims prostrating themselves in front of his) and saw St. Peter's tomb. We saw the preserved bodies of the Popes in the Basilica itself (I thought of my beloved high school religion teacher, Mrs. Burden, when I saw John XXIII, whom she lovingly referred to as "my little fat friend"), and saw the mf'ing Pieta in the corner (I forgot it was there, and just kinda stumbled into one of the most famous sculptures in the world).

From there, we set out (on foot, once more) to the Spanish Steps, which were very cool. It was a bit baffling to find out they were one of the top 3 attractions in Rome for tourists, because they were slightly underwhelming compared to much of the rest of the city, but they were some lovely...stairs...and had a very nice view of the city from the top. We then went back to the hotel before going out to celebrate Amberlyn's birthday (Haps, Haps!), when we went to a really charming restaurant we had seen in our wanderings the night before. We sat outside, ordered the two-course meal and some bottles of wine, and had our best meal of the trip (gnocchi and pizza diavolo, for me...excellent). Afterwards, we stopped in for five minutes at the bizarre bar from the night before - partly for shits and giggles, and partly because we thought it would be a fitting place for Amberlyn's midnight birthday shot. From there, we made our way to a bar-heavy area and made the rounds, where discussions of metaphysics and the meaning of life were held as I sat uncomfortably close to a creepy old man, who apparently only stopped in the bar to use the bathroom and breath heavily in my direction.

Sunday was spent in pursuit of the Pope. As it should be. Il Papa gives an address from the window of his swingin' bachelor's apartment overlooking St. Peter's square, and we smiled and nodded along as he said a bunch of things in Italian that we didn't understand. During the address, a man about 15 feet in front of us collapsed, so we divided our attention between looking at the Pope and surreptitiously sneaking glances at the misfortune of a stranger, as they brought in an ambulance to wheel him away. Nothing like feeling like a bad person in the presence of the most famous religious figure in the world.

"Guilt: Because you can take the boy out of Catholic School...."

Most of the rest of Sunday was spent killing time and eating gelato. Sooooo much gelato. Our flight got in super late on Sunday night, and the "crushing" reality of a 12-credit hour work week came flooding back... oh, who am I kidding, I don't really do any schoolwork here. This week has been spent mostly catching up on that admittedly-light homework and doing radio station business via Skype.

Thus, that finally brings us more or less to the present. I will therefore end this post with another story (not as good as the awkward high five, but still awkward, nonetheless). I had to go to the MACBA, the contemporary art museum in Barcelona, earlier this week for a class project. I had already been there, so I wanted to just go, get a few pictures of the works I was going to analyze, and then go home. I thought that pictures were allowed, but I walked up to the security guard in the gallery to make sure. She told me that I was, in fact, mistaken. However, due to the (relative) obscurity of the pieces I was analyzing, I knew it would be hard to find pictures of them on the internet (I needed to turn in an image of the paintings with my report). Thus, I very sneakily waited until she wandered around a corner before quietly removing my camera from my jacket and snapping a picture of a painting. A few minutes later, I was in another part of the gallery when the same security guard approached me from across the room. She walked up to me and said (in Spanish) a sentence that roughly translates to:

"Sir, you do realize that we have security cameras, don't you?"

I left shortly thereafter.

Fin.

"Milan: A Crucible of Suck," or, "You Can't Polish a Turd" : A Children's Fable.

Well, here we are, dear readers. We've reached the point in my still-tender blogging career in which I allow almost two weeks to pass before updating. You, I'm sure, are furious. As is your right. But before you write your respective local newspaper editors, politicians, or deities of choice, trying desperately to get SOMEONE to force me to update this thing more often, let me offer this in my defense:

I am - and always have been - a very lazy man.

So, with that out of the way, let me begin this post with yet another story. This past weekend, I went to Milan (the name of which will be mentioned as little as possible after this...enjoy the many colorful euphemisms I've crafted for it). While in The-Place-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named, Sarah and I went to Castle Sforzo (or something like that - I honestly don't care enough to look up the real name), where we were confronted by a Senegalese man "selling" colorful wristbands. After refusing to accept his wares multiple, multiple times, we found ourselves helpless as the man proceeded to tie one on each of our wrists anyway. After inquiring whether Sarah was my wife, the man (of course) demanded money for the wristbands we had "purchased." We refused, and he eventually left. However, as I type this, the wristband remains firmly affixed to my left wrist. Why?

Because, beloved blogosphere, whenever I'm down-and-out, or having a bad day, I can always look at the reminder on my wrist and gently whisper to myself, "Well, things suck. But at least I'm not in Milan."

This is my overly-wordy, roundabout way of segueing into the main topic of this post: the extreme awfulness of one particular Italian city, the Crown Jewel of Horrible, the Epicenter of Suck, and the Poster Child of All That is Wrong with the World.

Yes, I know what "hyperbole" means.

Sarah and I arrived in Sucktown on Friday around midday. Correction: we arrived at the Sucktown AIRPORT on Friday around midday. We then had to catch an hour-long shuttle to get to the central bus/train station. The whole ride in, we kept thinking, "Well, maybe everything only looks so bleak and hopeless because we're on the road from the airport - clearly once we get off the commercial roads, things will improve." How young and foolish we were. We got to the train station, which is legitimately an impressive building (although, by the end of the weekend, any building that wasn't covered in graffiti or decomposing at the edges would have been considered impressive). From there, our directions to the hostel told us to get on Bus 90 and ride it to a certain stop. We finally found Bus 90, but had no idea how to use the bus system (pay when you get on? Buy a ticket somewhere?). So we just hopped on. And rode it out to our stop. And got off. Without paying.

It turns out it didn't matter, because no one pays to use the bus system, since the wizards in charge of public transit in Awfulburgh didn't think it important to find a way to enforce the bus ticket system (which we did eventually pay for, you moralists). We arrived at the hostel, which was one of the major bright spots in Blemishton (Hotel Rossovino, if, God forbid, you ever find yourself there). The staff was incredibly nice and very accomodating of our complete lack of Italian, and the rooms were clean and much more than I'd expect out of a hostel. After settling in, Sarah and I asked for restaurant recommendations, and they pointed us to a pizzeria called "Mama Oliva," where, we were told, they crafted "a perfect pizza."

This, my friends, was an understatement.

I had the best pizza of my life on Friday night, topped with scallops (in the shell), pesto, spinach, basil, cherry tomatoes, and some sort of miraculous cheese (I wish I knew what kind). The dough was fired in a clay oven and was perfectly soft and warm. I talked about this pizza for 20 minutes straight in a skype call to my family. It was that good.

At this point, dear readers, you may be asking why, in the midst of such praise for Upper Gagton's institutions, I found it so disagreeable. This would be a good time to insert a disclaimer of sorts. There were a few legitimately nice things about Milan: the hostel, the food, the Duomo (more on that later), and the incredibly friendly populace. Moreover, I would like to point out that I try to keep a very open mind when traveling, and my repulsion towards this place is not based on any American sense of entitlement or expectation that things be "the way they are at home." My single favorite travel memory is probably being stuck waist-deep in a dirty river in Costa Rica. But in the strictest, most objective sense, Milan is simply not a nice place. Its city planning makes no sense. Old and new buildings are thrown together haphazardly without any consideration for the aesthetic qualities of either. Almost everything appears to be covered in a thin layer of grit, and trash roams the streets freely. More than anything, there is simply nothing to do. All of the nice aspects of Milan (read: the Duomo and the Piazza) are concentrated in the city center, and all can be seen in roughly an hour. Travel five minutes outside the center, and its more gray buildings, ugly streets, and mystifying disregard for all things interesting. Forget what you've heard about Milan being the "Fashion Capital of Europe" (one of the tourism websites we found before we arrived labeled it "A Crucible of Chic"...hence the title of this post). The designers' touch does not extend to the rest of the city.

With that out of the way, I'll resume my unabashed bashing. On Saturday, we headed to the aforementioned city center, and saw the Duomo (a true treasure...it's the central Cathedral in Milan and features stunning architecture, a wealth of paintings, and miles of stained glass) and its Piazza (which features Armani, D&G, and all those other stores I don't care about), as well as the nearby city park and the Castle Sforzo. And then we were done. We wandered around for good chunk of time, hoping to stumble upon something cool or interesting. We failed. None of the museums looked particularly appealing or worth the trouble of finding/paying for them (although we resolved to go to one the next day...the free one). We eventually retired (or retreated, rather) for the night early with the hope that we would somehow manage to occupy our time come Sunday.

Did we ever. DISCLAIMER: THIS PARAGRAPH FEATURES GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF BODILY FUNCTIONS. IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH - GO READ A BOOK. I woke up Sunday morning and promptly vomited. I rallied, briefly, and then vomited again. Though I wanted nothing more than the comfort of the hostel bed, we had to check out by 11 a.m., so we set out in search of a pharmacy. We stopped briefly in a cafe, where I bought a Sprite to settle my stomach. I then proceeded to vomit again, this time all over the top of one of the tables in the establishment. In a remarkable act of stealth and cunning, Sarah managed to effectively secure a rag from the owners of the cafe without them knowing that one of their patrons had returned their Sprite to its rightful place on top of one of the tables. Then, for reasons which can only be explained as incomprehensible-yet-awesome, Sarah cleaned up my vomit as I retreated to the bathroom to wash up. I'll use this as a chance to thank her for the thousandth time.

The next hour or so was spent searching for an open pharmacy. Turns out Italy's a Catholic country, and, to borrow a phrase from Pope Benedict XVI, "we don't open jack-shit on Sundays." Finally, we found one (after receiving help from the loveliest man on the face of the planet) that was "open." Those air quotes, dripping with sarcasm, are there because we inexplicably had to conduct all of our business with the pharmacist through a 1' x 1' square cut into the metal shutters that were pulled down around the rest of the shop. Luckily, he spoke English and gave me some mystery stomach medicine that would eventually work miracles. We then spent the next six or so hours getting to the train station once more, vomiting, getting to the airport, and waiting for our long-delayed EasyJet flight. Finally, boarding the plane, our nightmare was over. The troubles of Unlikeville faded away as the wheels left the tarmac, and within an hour and a half we were safely back in beloved Barcelona. My sickness, too, seemed to be lifted as we flew away.

So there it is. I know I have significantly more to write about, which I promise will be completed in a much more timely manner than this post. The next entry will feature tales from Carnaval in Sitges, which we went to on Tuesday night. SPOILER ALERT: it was unlike anything I've ever seen and one of the best nights in recent memory. Which means that my misanthropy will be ending with this post, and my usual sense of boyish wonder and optimism will return with the next (non-Milan) related post.

My sincerest apologies to the Milan Board of Tourism, the Milan City Council, and anyone who doesn't read this blog to hear me whine for extended periods of time.

Turns out that "slumber party" is NOT translated as "Fiesta de la Siesta"

Dear readers, allow me to begin this post with a story.

Last week, we had a substitute professor in my Spanish class because my beloved regular professor, Lola, had unfortunately taken ill. The substitute was very nice (if a bit dry), and we were working on some exercises involving the subjunctive tense. I had already attempted a few exercises using the particular sentence structure we were studying, and had failed spectacularly. However, on her third pass around the room to see how we were progressing, she read my sentence and exclaimed, "Aha!" This, I assumed, meant that I had finally gotten it right. So when she extended her hand in my direction, I did what I thought any rational person would do in such a situation.

I gave her a high-five.

After three or four seconds of her looking very confused (not to mention failing to reciprocate the bro-slap with any sort of enthusiasm), she cleared her throat and quietly informed me that she had, in fact, been reaching for the pencil in my hand...so that she could fix my woefully incorrect sentence.

So, beloved readers, it just goes to show that - even half a world away, in a different language, immersed in a whole new culture, and living in a brand new city - I still manage to be the most awkward human being alive. Cheers!

Now, to the chase. My last post was a week ago. It's incredible how quickly time is passing here. In a few days, I will have already spent a month in this amazing city. It feels like I just got here last weekend. But such is life.

Last Thursday classes went by without fanfare or spectacle. Thursday night marked my first foray down to Las Ramblas at night. For those of you not familiar with the municipal layout of the city of Barcelona (let's get with the program, guys), Las Ramblas is the big, famous pedestrian promenade here. It's touristy, it's crazy, it's kind of wonderful. Anyway, at night it turns into an entirely different animal. There's a small army of men who wander around and offer to sell you cans of beer for one Euro. Between them, the almost-as-large fleet of pot dealers, the prostitutes (supposedly), and the hordes of drunken tourists, Las Ramblas feels kind of like the Wild West at night, only with fewer cacti and more guys in Ed Hardy t-shirts.

ANYWHO, we went to a crowded tavern not far off Las Ramblas, where, in celebration of Sarah "Thug Empress" Moss's birthday [I know you're reading this], we ordered the first sangria I've had since I arrived. I was informed that it wasn't real sangria because it just kinda tasted like grape juice with alcohol in it. But I love grape juice. So, you know. Whatever.

Friday we went to see a documentary called "Garbo, el espia (El hombre que salvo el mundo)," which translates to "Garbo the Spy (The Man Who Saved the World)." It was about Juan Pujols Garcia (codename "Garbo"), the Spanish double agent in World War II who was ultimately responsible for feeding the Germans the false intelligence that the Allied invasion would come at Pas-de-Calais instead of Normandy. Turns out, he was probably a little crazy - he invented an entire network of 35 people whom he listed as his "sources," even though they didn't actually exist - but, as the title suggests, the Allies probably wouldn't have won WWII without him. So, you know, big ups, Garbo. It was a really interesting documentary (mostly in English), and the theater itself was pretty excellent. They also had bathrooms INSIDE the indivual theaters, so you didn't really have to miss more than a minute or two of the movie. These Europeans are so advanced.

After that, we had an (awesome, fantastic) homemade Italian dinner courtesy of Kim "The Situation" Ciccolini [I hope you read this too, Kim] before heading out to the clubs for birthday celebration Parte Dos. Good day.

Saturday was spent sleeping in late. Eventually we made it out to Doner Kebab for lunch [Leigh, you're getting a shout-out here, too] before heading to the Parc de la Ciutadella for the second weekend in a row. We watched a cricket match, scoffed at hipsters, and encountered more than a couple of Furries just kinda wandering around. I love that park. Saturday night was a lazy movie night in, replete with ice cream and a pair of (totally legit, 100% legal) movies on the old interwebs.

Sunday was, as the Spaniards say, "El Lazy." Well, sort of. Even though I spent roughly the whole day in bed, I managed to complete a job application and more than a little homework. Go, me.

Monday featured more class. Note that I said "class" instead of "classes," as I only had one, which started at 3:45 in the afternoon. Damn all this work! Monday night was spent questing for what are supposedly "the best churros and hot chocolate in Barcelona," but we were stymied by the fact that the Xurreria was closed (fail). Last time I trust a food blog for accurate hours-of-operation. After that, I tried cutting my hair. I say "tried," because I had no access to a second mirror, and I ended up just kind of taking chunks out of the back, sight-unseen. Turns out it's not a great idea.

Thus, rocking the lobotomy-patient-gone-wrong look on Tuesday morning, I proceeded to class. Longest Spanish class ever, with another substitute and a few too many grammar drills.

Yesterday was again short on classes, but I managed to complete this semester's first paper and get the rest of the week's homework finished. Last night was an all-too-familiar scene, in which we went searching for what is supposedly "the best gelato in Barcelona," only to find (you guessed it) that said Gelateria was closed. Dammit. The food blogs tricked me again. We ended up walking around Gracia instead, which is probably my favorite neighborhood in the city (lots of weird little shops, boutiques, and restaurants...and remarkably crowded on a Wednesday night). So...win.

Today was my last day of classes for the week (I love this schedule). Not too much happened other than that. Which more or less brings us to the present. This weekend, we're going to try to go to the Picasso Museum and maybe go on one or two other "cultural" excursions (fancy). And next weekend I'm going to be in MILAN!!!!!!! EasyJet comes up big.

So that's it. If you made it to the end, you're either a glutton for punishment or just really, really bored. Either way, you're welcome.

Fin.

"Lady Chatterley's Lager" and Other Tales.

Dear Friends, Family, and Connoisseurs of Hastily-Written, Amatuer Travel Blogs:

Well, once again a week has gone by and I'm just now dragging myself over to this here blog to update everyone. I'm going to stop apologizing for the lateness, because this is probably going to happen every week. Also, I've been told on several occasions recently that I apologize too much. So instead: go to hell, everyone.

Jokes, jokes. Last Thursday was my final day of class for the week, with Spanish Contemporary Art and Spanish B2.1 going by without incident. I still really like both classes, and I hope it stays that way. Thursday night we went out to a local bar [this is going to start sounding very repetitive. It's not that I'm an alcoholic or anything...that's just what people do here to hang out. I swear.] and had a pretty quiet evening.

Friday was pretty excellent. A group of us went to the Palau de Mar, the Catalonian History Museum (which was free with our student cards). They had some pretty interesting exhibitions ranging from prehistoric Spain to the Catalonian textile industry of the 1930s and 40s. The museum itself was pretty impressive - it's a converted factory that looked very modern. And shiny. Very shiny. Pic below:


Friday night was a lot of fun. A couple of us stumbled upon a little hole-in-the-wall bar called El Pajaro Loco ("The Crazy Bird"...which is what they call Woody Woodpecker in Spanish). The bar is owned by several Dominicans, who were not only some of the nicest people I've ever met, but who also broke out into spontaneous dance every few minutes. The music was great, the vibe was perfectly quirky, we were the only Americans in sight, and they were very liberal with their "paying for drinks" policy. Great place. We followed that up with a trip to Shoko, one of the huge dance clubs down by the beach, where we danced until 4 a.m. Then we killed an hour walking around on the beach, waiting for the metro to re-open at 5. I made it home close to 6 again. I'm getting too old for this ship! [hey, 30 Rock fans. I see you.]

Saturday was my birthday, featuring a nice video chat with the family in the afternoon and tons of well-wishes from people here and at home (thanks for the Facebook love, errbody). I didn't do too much during the day (a present in itself), but Luisa surprised me with a very special dinner of chorizo and Iberian ham (knowing somehow that pork products are the way to my heart), followed by chocolate cake and champagne. I continue to fall deeper in love with her.

Saturday night was fantastic, thanks to the efforts of a wonderful group o' friends (shoutouts, y'all), who not only surprised me with an ice cream cake, but then proceeded to take me out to our new favorite bar for the second night in a row. For those of you wondering, YES, I can remember my entire 21st, and am all the better for it, because I enjoyed it thoroughly. And now I'm 21. Weird.

Sunday afternoon, Joe and I went to the Parc de la Ciutadella, which has to be one of the top three moments I've had thus far in this city. Even though it was a grey, kinda chilly Sunday afternoon, the park was busy. We sat down under a random tree, and ended up staying for 2-3 hours. Why? It started with a single juggler/magician guy who posted up about 20 feet away and started doing insane tricks with a little crystal ball. As the day went on, he was joined by more and more performers/friends, until there was just this insane, hippie-Bohemian, juggling/spinning/dancing free-for-all going on next to us. A few guitar players and singers showed up, so the whole thing was set to a bunch of fantastic, largely improvised flamenco music. Dogs and children were running around everywhere, and the whole thing was a little surreal. And amazing. On a Sunday afternoon. Who knew?

Monday I had class. At 3:45 in the afternoon. It's tough waking up this early. Haha. Until then, Luisa and I killed the day with laundry and Spanish-language Simpsons episodes. Still getting used to the voices for the characters, but I'm glad it's on TV (and that Luisa likes it). Felt a little bit like home.

Yesterday I had Art and Spanish again, both of which were fine. I spent a largely fruitless, frustrating afternoon trying to by my Spanish textbook. I finally found the bookstore where we had to buy it, only to find out that I was 50 CENTS too short to afford it. And then I took the wrong metro and had to burn an extra ticket (and an extra half-hour) getting home. Ugh. But it picked up last night, when after dinner we went to an "authentic" Irish pub, Michael Collins', a few blocks away. It was a good time, and they had English Premier League soccer on the TV.

Today I didn't have class until 3:45 again. I spent the afternoon returning to the bookstore to finally claim the Spanish textbook. It's the little victories that count.

And that more or less brings us to the present. Another update will come whenever I get time to do it. In general, it's hard to believe that I've already been here for two and-a-half weeks. I'm starting to settle into a bit more of a routine with classes and all, but we're still finding new things to do and see almost every day. I continue to be madly in love with this city.

Hope everyone back home is doing well, and that it's not too terribly cold wherever you all are. Toodles.

-Charlie

"Vertical Chorizons," or, "Tapas Lightly on the Shoulder": A Play in Three Acts

Wow. Ok. So it's been over a week since my last post. My bad. In my defense, every day has been incredibly busy thus far, my internet went out for a few days, blah blah blah.

Excuses aside, I'll do my best to cover all of the major stuff. Like I said, last Tuesday Joe and I moved in with our host mother, Luisa. I loooooooove Luisa. She is incredibly welcoming (but not above delivering a firm thwack on the head if you leave the light in the bathroom on overnight), well-versed in Castillian and Catalunian culture/politics/history, and a fantastic cook. She also loves Miami Vice, Family Matters, and Spongebob Squarepants (not necessarily in that order). We usually eat dinner around 8 (early for here), and Joe and I will just sit around talking with her for the next hour or two. The post-dinner conversations have been the best practice I've had with Spanish since I've been here, and I'm really, really happy that I decided to do a homestay.

Last Wednesday we toured the Sant Pau campus of the Universitat Autonoma de Barcelona, where I'll be taking all of my classes this semester. The building is gorgeous: it's the former recovery building for a hospital, and also happens to be a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Which is why it would have been good idea for me to get pictures. Which I didn't. But I might.

Wednesday night, we went to a tiny local bar to watch the FC Barcelona match against Sevilla. It was really low-key, but there was a really nice atmosphere, and everyone there was sooooo into the team that it ended up being one of the best nights I've had here yet. Also, beer was really cheap.

Thursday we went to the MACBA, the contemporary art museum in Barcelona. The building alone was worth the price of admission, but there were a number of pretty fantastic exhibitions inside, too. Favorite museum thus far. We spent probably two hours in there. After that, we ended up on a 4-plus hour walk around the city, starting in El Raval (the artsy student-heavy neighborhood around the MACBA), winding our way through the Gothic District, and ending up down by the sea. We found a ton of cool little alleys, shops, etc. that you don't really see unless you take the time to get a little lost. Great day.

Friday morning was spent on a bike tour that covered a really sizable chunk of the city and gave me a much better idea of how Barcelona is laid out. The weather was perfect - low 60's and sunny. We made it to the beach, where Barcelona's more hardcore surfers were busy with 10+ foot swells (no casual bathers...I think the water was still pretty damn frigid). We rode past the zoo and to the City Park, where there was a gorgeous, ornate fountain the size of a little league field. Friday afternoon was spent at Parc Guell, Gaudi's unbelievable park sitting atop a mountain and offering a 360 degree view of Barcelona. Every detail in the park is precisely thought-out, but Gaudi's style makes the mix of plant life and whimsical architecture in the park seem wild and even primal.

I continue to be more and more impressed with this city's style, layout, friendliness, and general attitude with each passing day. Friday night we went out to bar, where there was an interesting mix of professional tennis and Lionel Richie music videos on the TV. Awesome.

Saturday was another success. We went over to Montjuic, the mountain that overlooks the city from the southwest. It's a gorgeous area, and the fact that we got lost on our expedition to the Museo Nacional d'Art de Catalunya proved to be lucky when we stumbled into the system of public gardens that sprawl across the east side of the mountain. We eventually made it to the MNAC, where I bought a season pass due to its relative cheapness and the fact that it's essentially impossible to take in the museum in one day. The MNAC has a pretty wonderful art collection, and the building itself is majestic, sitting atop Montjuic directly up from the Placa Espanya. We saw several Salvador Dalis, a whole roomful of Picassos (the only paintings they don't allow to be photographed), and numerous other Catalunyian artists from the 17th century onwards. Great museum.

Saturday night we went to another small local bar to watch FC Barca play Sevilla (again), which resulted in a declarative 4-0 win for Barca. Around 2:00 (a little early by Barcelona standards) we went out to one of the city's famous dance clubs, Elefante. We got in free (as anyone who has known me for more than 5 minutes will realize is a dream come true), danced our respective asses off for roughly 3 hours, and made it home at 6:02 a.m. On the way, I met a lovely (if somewhat incoherent) drunken Irish man named Luke who cracked open a beer on the metro and proceeded to tell me a story involving his Cartier watch being stolen by a number of Nigerian prostitutes. Night One of Barcelona nightlife? Success.

Sunday, fittingly, was a day of rest. I mostly sat around on Facebook and Skype (as I am wont to do), and still completely failed to update this blog. Sorry. Sunday night we went out to a little bar called Vinilo, Spanish for "Vinyl," which proved to be just as indie and hipster (and awesome) as the name would suggest. I have found my trashy, hipster Spanish Home.

Monday was spent trying to return to the MNAC, only to be stopped in our tracks by the crushing reality of the museum being closed on Mondays. Regardless, we returned to the Secret Garden we had found on Friday, befriended a cat we named Pickles, and ate at a deceptively pricey restaurant for lunch. Then we went to La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's as-yet-unfinished masterpiece. The church is only about a block from my house, but I hadn't paid the admission to go inside yet. While still under heavy construction (for another 15-20 years, actually), the church is absolutely stunning, and the level of attention devoted to the tiniest of details is astounding. It was raining, so we couldn't go up into the spires, but it was pretty remarkable nonetheless.

Yesterday my classes started, and I'm (for a change) incredibly optimistic about how the semester will go. I'm taking Spanish Contemporary Art, taught by a very nice and interesting British sculptor, and found out that we'll be taking trips to some of the better museums and galleries in Barcelona as a class. Excellent. The afternoon was devoted to the first half of my 7 hour-per-week Spanish class. My professor is fantastic, there are only 8 students in the class, and it's the perfect level of difficulty (comparable to a 300-level Spanish class back home...many thanks to my high school Spanish teacher since I haven't studied it in 3 years).

Today I only had one class for an hour and a half: an Urban Approach to Spain and Europe. It seems like an interesting (if somewhat standard) sociology class with another excellent professor. And that's it. I'm taking 12 credit hours, and there are no classes on Fridays. Winnnnnnnnn.

So there yinz go. I'm currently sitting around as my host mom prepares what is sure to be another excellent dinner. I swear that the next post will be sooner (by "I swear" I mean, "probs.")

Don't stop, get it, get it.

But we kick them to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger

[Editor's Note: I apologize for the length of this post. It was supposed to be two, but they got combined, if not condensed. I'll airmail you some paella if you read to the end].

Hola party people.

To the chase: I'm here! We woke up Saturday morning at 5:30 and made it to the airport around 7. I had no problems with security or checking in. The only thing I forgot was the gift I had planned to take to my host mother (mid-grade chocolate), so we had to buy her another at the airport (mid-grade chocolate).

Saying goodbye to mom and dad for four months was tough. My flight from Cinci to Chicago was on time and uneventful, as was Chicago to New York. The flight from JFK to Barcelona wasn't so smooth. They were half an hour late boarding the plane, which isn't all that unexpected. But just when everyone had finally boarded and we were ready to leave, the power on the plane went out, leaving us all sitting in total darkness. It came back on, we thought we were ready to leave, and then...it failed again. Six more times. We ended up sitting on the tarmac for over an hour before they replaced it. Then, just when we were ready to leave again, one of the passengers (a 12-or-so Spanish boy) started freaking out and running up and down the aisles because he was nervous that the plane was going to malfunction in the air. The flight attendants calmed him down, and the pilot came on to assure everyone that the problem was with the auxiliary electricity, which only functions to run the lights, air conditioning, etc. when the plane is parked at the gate. We finally took off almost two hours late.

By luck, I sat next to two other members of my study abroad program on the plane, so it was really nice on the flight over to trade stories, expectations, etc. The flight was smooth until about halfway through, when we hit the worst turbulence I've ever had. Totes scary.

Anyway, we made it in alive. We flew over some gorgeous snow-capped mountains immediately after crossing the Atlantic, which I'm guessing were part of the Sierra Nevada range in southern Spain. The airport and customs were hassle-free. TestostoPack 3000 made it safely, and there were no issues with my visa or anything. API sent two representatives to meet us at the airport, and while we were waiting for them, numerous awkward introductions were conducted among all of the API kids. We took a bus to a hotel near the Placa Catalunya, which is essentially the city center here. Sunday and Monday were set aside for orientation activities. Sunday night, API paid for the whole program to get tapas at a local restaurant. They were generally excellent, and I tried some new things (ever wonder whether potatoes and tuna make a good combo? They do, actually). I generally spent downtime wandering around the city either by myself (loser) or with new acquaintances from the program.

Speaking of whom, a note on the kids in my program (or "brogram"): the flatbrim-wearing, Coors-chugging crowd is in full effect. One group showed up at the Barcelona program already drunk. Classy. Having that as a first impression made me worry about meeting people here, but (praise God and Robert Pattinson), it turns out that not everyone is only here to learn how to say "cerveza" in a flawless Castillian accent. I've already met some legitimately cool people, most of whom are here by themselves (as opposed to cobroordinating the trip with their frat buddies). Optimism returned.

Monday morning and afternoon were set aside for a practical tour of the city (where we learned how to use the metro and bus systems, which are both excellent) and a bus tour, which gave us the basic lay of the land. We went to Montjuic, which is the mountain overlooking the city from the west. Monday night, my roommate Joe (who is doing the homestay with me) and I went out looking for dinner. We ended up at this total hole-in-the wall place off of Las Ramblas, where we watched a compulsive gambler plead with a slot machine in the corner and ate rabbit for the first time (pretty tasty).

A word on the city: It's fucking amazing (sorry mom and dad). It seems like there is something new and interesting around every corner. I've set out a few times with the express purpose of getting lost, which has been a pretty good strategy. I walked up and down Las Ramblas, the most famous street in the city. It's definitely touristy to a degree, but it manages to maintain most of the charm that made it distinct in the first place. I've seen the Sagrada Familia (more on that later), and seen the overall influence of Gaudi on this city, as well as the pride that's attached to his name.

The streets defy a strict grid system, which makes them simultaneously confusing and charming. The people have all been very friendly and patient thus far (the man who sold me my prepaid phone yesterday had the patience of a saint as I tried to discuss the finer points of domestic cell phone calls in stuttered Spanish). All directions are given by saying "al mar" (towards the sea) or "a las montanas" (towards the mountains), the two geographic landmarks that sandwich Barcelona between them.

Today Joe and I met our host mother and moved into the apartment we'll share for the next three and a half months. Senora Mariano is a lovely woman. She is very warm and understanding (she has hosted other international students before, but never Americans). I was surprised at how well I could understand her, and how quickly my high school Spanish has started to come back. We managed to maintain a conversation (ish) the whole ride over to her apartment, which I didn't really think I would be able to do. Her apartment is simple and charming, and (despite the fact that I had been warned to expect cramped spaces), my room is actually significantly bigger than the one I had last semester in Pittsburgh. Win.

The kicker: she literally lives a block away from La Sagrada Familia. The spires dominate this neighborhood, and a trip over there this afternoon made me realize how much detail gets lost in the pictures.

I know I'm forgetting things, but errbody is eager for this entry to end (myself included...my fingers hurt), and there will be another update in the near future. Stay fresh, youngbloodz.

P.S. As for the title of this post: I just overheard that goddamn (read: beloved) Ke$ha song on one of the tv channels here. Git it, gurl.

P.P.S. For those Spanish (and Catalonian) sticklers out there, all accent marks, tildes, etc. have been removed because Blogger won't let me use them. Thanks for noticing. Nerds.

(Almost) Up in the Air

Remember the episode of The Simpsons where they go to Flander's beach house, and before they leave, Lisa's packing and asks, "How can I fit my entire life in a suitcase?" And then she just moves one item slightly to the left and says, "There we go."

That's more or less my life right now.

Packing has been surprisingly painless. I set a goal of just taking my massive hiking backpack as a checked bag and a small backpack as a carry-on, and it turns out that it was almost disappointingly easy to do. I only wear three pairs of jeans, and then it was just a matter of selecting which of my disgustingly ironic, wannabe-hipster t-shirts to bring. I keep hearing that everbody dresses a little nicer in Europe, so I packed a collared shirt, too.

Kidding. I swear I actually have a real wardrobe, but it turns out that a three-foot tall, testosterone-affirming internal frame backpack can hold just about everything. It's a good thing I won't look like a tourist.

Oh, wait.

Regardless, tomorrow (today, I guess) will be spent tying up the final loose ends before I leave: I have to record a new voicemail message telling people that I won't be returning their calls for roughly five months, and I have to make copies of my passport, credit card, etc. All of this is of vast personal interest to all of you, I'm sure.

I'm getting a little nervous but mostly just hella excited to get started*. My plane leaves on 9:15 on Saturday morning. I'll arrive at O'Hare, have a moderate layover, and then head to JFK before getting on the plane to Barcelona. I'll be arriving in Barcelona at about 9:00 a.m. local time on Sunday (I believe the time difference is six hours). Then I sit around for a few hours before the API shuttle picks us all up and delivers us to our various orientation activities/homes. I'm doing a homestay: my host mom is apparently a woman in her mid-60s who lives alone and gives massages for a living. Absolutely no innuendos have been made about this fact.

Har har. I'm sure she's totes* lovely, and I'm looking forward to meeting her. I guess my next entry will be coming from the Old Continent (as all the cool kids call it), and will smell 20% more like Paella.

Final note: there are five inches of snow on the ground here in the great Commonwealth of Kentucky. It is roughly 55 degrees in Barcelona. 'nuff said.



*Note: The words "hella" and "totes" will continue to be used completely unironically for the duration of this blog. You've been warned.