Claire's Travel Blog - Part 2

June 1st/2nd

We are in Barcelona and so far I have met three Margaret Thatchers, the slightly more rotund older brother of Charles Bronson and approximately 6,462 Cristiano Ronaldos. It appears the boy is quite popular out here, which seems given that he's Portuguese, until I remember England's sudden adoption of Andy Murray as “Britain's best tennis player” once it became obvious Tim Henman was never going to deliver the goods at Wimbledon (circa 1990, when Murray was possibly, in fact, still a foetus – but a foetus still more likely to win Wimbledon than a full-grown Tim Henman, bless his cottons).

We arrived in Barcelona late and promptly got lost – a good omen, I assured myself, a bit like when everything goes wrong at the wedding rehersal. Except it later transpires that if the getting lost/wedding metaphor were to be followed through to its natural conclusion, the bride would be running out the door and be half way to Madagascar before realising she may not be headed in the correct direction. But more of that later.

After several hours (or possibly about one hour) we find our way up ninety (or possibly ten) flights of stairs to the door of Master Bronson (or possibly Xavier, who is in no way related to Mr Bronson in either blood or temperament. He's just bald with a beard.). Upon saying Hola, we uttered a humble phrase that by now we have repeated often and refined with just the right level of shamed head hanging and rueful tonage: Do you speak English. Xavier does not, but between us, courtesy of some elaborate hand gestures and a fair exchange of cash we establish that we are indeed staying in his home for the duration of our stay in Barcelona. As are a pair of Swiss lesbians. Or I think that's what he said.

Our room is great, although I should point out that it's great by my hotel-hating standards, which means I have no problem with lilac walls complemented by a traditional tiled mosaic floor and IKEA furniture. It adds character. We also have the skinniest balcony in the world which seems to balance at a rather precarious angle of the side of the building over a very noisey road. Awesome.

Xavier leaves us to it, and after arguing for several minutes over whether to go seek out some dinner at this late hour, try to see the Sagrada Familia all lit up at night (even though we have no idea where it is, or if it is indeed lit up at night), or head for Las Ramblas and a late-night drink in the Gothic Quarter, we proceed to dispense with all our options in favour of falling asleep. As any good tourist wouldn't.

The next day dawns bright and early and so does Al, although I wish the same could be said for me. And so does he. We make like all foreigners and head for las Ramblas, although neither of us is quite sure why and I'm not sure anyone else is any more enlightened than us on the matter – it just seems to be what tourists do here. The lyric “I've walked Las Ramblas but not with real intent” (Manic Street Preachers/If you tolerate this...) comes to mind. The street is like a tourist funnel, which we all obligingly go down in order for people to try and sell us an array of jewellery, pretty dresses and overpriced Sangria. I would happily oblige were my shoulders not still bearing the scars of my backpack already. The street itself is very beautiful, however – it reminds me rather of London, lots of incredible architecture, with modern shop and restaurant franchises stuffed into their lower arches. But – we are tourists and we do want Sangria, so we quickly devise a cunning plot – to get off the main street under the pretence of being very cultured and going to the Mueseum of Contemporary Art, and head for the first place that sells a) tapas or b) paella at a price we can afford. It works like a dream and within the hour we have a big plate of paella and a large jug of Sangria in front of us. We are both sated and content.

Bellys full we head to the museum, or rather, to a weird looking sub-section that has the very attractive price of free. Inside is a darkened church, lit only by projections of artistic-looking things (pebbles, trees, donkeys etc), and an array of mirrors. Al promptly falls asleep and I get scowled at for giggling and taking to many pictures. We decide we are neither deep enough or sober enough to continue in our endeavour and scuttle out, suitably ashamed and rather light-headed into the sunlight.

We trapse obligingly through the side streets of Las Ramblas, and here it gets really impressive – so impressive that we may in fact be in the Gothic Quarter (gargoyles, arches), but we're not quite sure. Suddenly we find ourselves at the foot of a familiar man and realise we have reached the bottom of Las Ramblñas and the statue of Christopher Columbus, who is apparently pointing the wrong way towards the New World, according to Al, but we got lost on the way from the train station to our apartment, so who are we to judge?

 

We have a coffee at a cafe off the bottom of Las Ramblas and the waiter is very unhappy we don't want more Sangria. We watch some street acts - including a magnificently funny clown - then realise we haven´t got the money to watch any mkore street acts and pay for our coffee as they all come round with hats afterwards and we're too nice to say no. After making a not-so-hasty exit, because despite being annoyed that we aren't spending more money the waiter seems to want to detain us as long as possible by taking half an hour to get the bill, we stand under old Christopher's column and wonder what to do next. He is pointing towards a very large hill, so it seems rude not to give it a go - we are on holuiday after all - and it is here we meet Maggie in triplicate - but more of that next time!