The Gallivanting Grasshopper: So Seduced -- Barcelona, Spain

I'm starting this post from the corner cushioned bench of Alsur Cafe in the city center of Barcelona. The walls are brick, the ceiling is reflective metal of some manner or other, the lamps are covered in cloth and add a gentle, romantic ambiance.

The waiter called me a "pretty lady" when he delivered my cocoa dusted cappuccino and whispered, "I hope you like it," in his smooth Spanish accent.

I am so seduced. Not by my waiter (although he is unreasonably charming), but by the city itself.

Why have I never been to Barcelona before? It's the third most visited city in all of Europe (after London and Paris) and it's taken me almost two and a half years of traipsing around the world to pop up here.

My German wings landed in this new Spanish love of mine at 00:30 yesterday morning. The black belt dutifully belched out Ellie at 13:00. I boarded the bus for the city center at 13:20.

It was so easy-peasy I almost didn't trust it.

This is SO the opposite of Paris. When I landed in Charles de Gaulle at midnight in 2012, the gate was locked, passport control was, well, missing, my bag was delayed by an hour and there were no night buses into the city center.

Also, Barcelona airport has free wifi for fifteen minutes. I used this to contact Paolo and didn't even have to awkwardly ask to borrow a phone.

Paolo met me at the last stop at 02:20.

It warmed my heart to realize that a friend for a couple of days three years ago is just as capable of being a friend today for twelve. And perhaps next year for a month. And the year after for --

Saying goodbye doesn't mean the relationship is finished. Saying goodbye just means that this chapter has concluded. Perhaps the next part of the story will take place in Mexico. Or Argentina. Or Nepal, for all I know.

This Barcelona chapter is off to a wonderful start.

Barcelona... you're quieter than I remember Madrid being. But perhaps that's just because Madrid was my first city in a Mediterranean country and it seemed unnaturally chaotic. But now I'm used to children running around at midnight and noise, noise, noise until at least three o'clock in the morning. So this... I looked around at the mostly abandoned city. This isn't quite what I expected.

The streets were clean. Young people stood drinking and smoking (Paolo says that Barcelona is another Amsterdam. So many kinds of smoking) in the doorways of several bars and cafes.

It's darker than Madrid. I remember walking down Grand Via and passing through Plaza Mayor and being rendered deaf by street performers and entranced by city lights.

I wonder what you'll look like in the morning.

Paolo led me up not too many flights of stairs (thank god. Ellie + stairs + Aimee at the wee hours of the morning = broken vagabond at the bottom of said stairs) and welcomed me into his spacious, empty apartment.

"I'm moving out on the 16th, so I only have the furniture that is absolutely necessary. Like your backpack."

"Like my backpack. This is great. Wonderful. So much space for yoga," I surveyed the ample kitchen floor with approval.

Now I just need to work up the motivation. And hope that my back will stop hurting so that I can make my arms and core strong enough for acro yoga this October and November. Damn. That's so close... I think I'm running out of time.

Paolo fed me an early in the morning peach with a welcoming, "In Spain, they say, "Mi casa est tu casa," and then I collapsed into bed, completely knackered from two hours of buses, three hours of airports and two hours of flying.

The next morning dawned noisy, cloudy and humid. I could hear children stampeding above me, construction in the building across the narrow street, and tourists/locals chatting as they walked below, ordering their morning sweets from the ground floor bakery.

I did not remain in bed all that long. Barcelona was calling.

And when Barcelona calls, you do not stay in bed. You jump to your feet, tie on your sarong and put your digital camera in your day bag. You eat a speedy breakfast of fruit and coffee and scamper down the stairs to explore the calling capital city of Catalonia.

Barcelona.

A seaside city of five million people that boasts many of my favorite things (and some random things I'm including 'cos they're interesting):

68 parks (perfect for picnics/napping)
legal gay marriage (Win!)
loads of live music (and picnics + hip hop music on a hill every Sunday)
phenomenal architecture (ahem... Gaudi)
museums, museums, museums (and most shops are so quirky that they look like mini museums)
the largest Jewish community in Spain (even with all that nasty Inquisition business)
a higher GDP per capita than the European average (which is one reason Spain would rather not let Catalonia be independent)
very efficient, affordable public transportation (the one hour bus ride from the airport to the city center cost two euros)
excellent walking streets and beautiful courtyards with relatively inexpensive cafes (my cappuccino was divine and it cost just a little over two euros)
renowned for its prosciutto, seafood and sangria. Yes please. (the prosciutto is not as inexpensive as my cappuccino...)
Crema Catalana, anyone?
founded either by Hercules or Hamilcar Barca (I'm voting for Hercules)
Saint George's Day (that guy got around. He must have slayed a whole herd of dragons) has been transformed into Barcelona's version of Valentine's day. All the women get roses and the men get books (which is just a wee bit sexist).
None of the beaches are real. Well... I suppose they're not fake. Like, you can actually put towels on them and turn yourself into a lobster/bronze Italian. But all the sand was imported for the Olympic games in 1992. And the palm trees were stolen from Hawaii (but some of them were returned)

I spent the day with Paolo not taking pictures. I spent the day with Paolo not looking at sites and thinking about how I would write about them on my blog.

I spent my day with Paolo being seduced by the city.

The markets.

The walking streets.

The architecture that looks like it's from some other planet (a planet far more whimsical than this one).

The parks.

The galleries.

The cheese...

....

.......

....

We just went on the most disappointing Sandeman Tour in my experience of Sandeman tours. Neither of us could understand half of what the guide was saying, so I used to the time to ignore the other half and just take pictures.

"You're a much better guide," I told Paolo as we walked back from the abysmal three hour tour.