The brother of the Deputy was passing through Barcelona, so the I put on my uniform and badge and headed out for a less than 24 hour journey. It was a Saturday-Sunday trip, just enough to breathe in the sinful air of Las Ramblas, maybe put my toes in the sand, and head back to rest up for another work week. My train left offensively early on Saturday morning (11:30) and so a disoriented deputy commandeered two large train seats to support my disastrous demeanor. And I wrote. I prefer to write stream of consciousness for I find it to be more therapeutic but also more cathartic in that my ever-analytical brain is able to think linearly, from the sould out through the right arm, into my plume, down the ballpoint and onto the page, where it stays there for an indeterminate amount of time. I wrote and wrote, about six pages of thoughts. There was no form, no pattern, no requisites, no expectations. It may have said nothing, but I knew where it came from. Monet said that we must abandon form in order to acheive something great, for working within form leaves little room for innovation and creativity. So what did I acheive on those six pages? Piece of mind? An occupation of a couple of minutes? Some perspective? I am not entirely sure.
So I arrive in Barcelona, Cruel Intentioned my brother at the top of the escalator out of the metro stop. We headed back to the hotel to regroup and then to Port Olimpic for a late lunch. We had some paella and sangria, both phenomonal and then I met his traveling bunch. A solid crew but their actions later on in this story will speak louder than...well I'll just go down the line. One girl who was the nuturing, gender-role-aware type, always getting a "water for the group" and never short on smiles. One guy from New Jersey who later on that day commented, "my guns got some sun, right?". The final muskateer said he had a productive morning before leaving for Europe by finishing an assignment, picking up his drycleaning and breaking up with his live-in girlfriend. We had a couple drinks and watched the Argentina massacre and headed home for a quick siesta. When in Rome, right?
That night we headed out to a late dinner before out night out at a beach front club, called Opium. I guess I was not sure the crew I was rolling with but we "needed" a table. Since I was the Spanish speaker of the group, I was put in charge of organizing the table. Problem is, I am soooo not a table person. I hate having manifestations of my ego displayed as bait to normal party goers, it seems unnatural. So I gave it a half-effort only to find that this spot was the Black Eyed Peas concert official after-party and so the price was a little outrageous. We headed inside to "row with the 0ther slaves" and it was a nightmare to get a drink. The place was filling up fast and apl.de.ap was about to come on, so we gave the table another try. At a 500 EUR discount, we found ourselves hopping the velvet rope and taking a load off. It was a great night and I ended up seriously befriending the hostess and table bartender. I invited them to Madrid and all of those regretful signs of kindness we tend to express after the appropriate hour that a human should still be awake.
The Deputy and his brother hopped into a cab to which I yelled, "I want your best chocolate and churros!" We get dropped off at an unknown location, to a medium-sized stand. We walk up to the front and are mounted by the odor of fresh dough. It oozed out of a french-fry-potato-peeler type of contraption and into a wok of hot oil. The sound of the sizzle was an alarm clock to my tastebuds, "Wake up my young friends, for tonight we dine in heaven". An order of chocolate and churros and french fries with a myster sauce later, we were ready to head home and escape the peaking yawn of the morning sun. That is when I knew that I indeed liked Barcelona.
The next day was a lazy Sunday, with an amazing breakfast and some good shopping. We hit the beach for a little while and headed home so I could get my life together and catch the train. My train left Reckless Abandon at 8pm and I arrived at Routine Island at 11:30. Manny held on to my keys and let me in upon my arrival.