SiC is a bit aggrieved about my last post – he thinks I’m not giving Barcelona its fair dues. Of course, he was a bit more taken with Barcelona than I was. In fact, he loved Barcelona. He wanted to marry Barcelona. Well, too bad, Barcelona! I saw him first!
To be fair, Barcelona is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen, and it’s very young and hip and vibrant. Full props to Barcelona. I just got a bit worn down with minor irritations, which SiC has much more patience for than I do. (Of course, saying that I’m ‘impatient’ is like saying that Stalin was ‘slightly paranoid’.)
Now where was I? Oh yes! Petty bitching. I’ll just carry on with that then.
On New Year’s Eve another erstwhile friend of SiC’s, who happens to be a DJ, got us into a club night for free. Aces. On the way to the club, we were approached by a couple of boisterous young men shouting and carrying on about Barcelona FC. One of them tried to play imaginary football with SiC, kicking him playfully in the shins and cheering the whole time. “Football! Football!” he shouted, clapping SiC on the back.
“What nice young chaps!” I thought as they trotted off.
“He just tried to steal my wallet,” said SiC. Fortunately the little shit had reached into the wrong pocket and found a pouch of tobacco instead.
We mentioned this to SiC’s friend when we got to the club. “Let me guess,” he said. “He tried to distract you by playing football, right? Fucking Moroccans. Don’t ever let a Moroccan get near you.”
The club night was…well, it was free. It seemed to be populated mostly by middle-aged software programmers trying to get nasty on the dance floor, with ‘nasty’ being the very, very operative word. There was a very amusing Italian guy, however, who, in case there was any doubt about his ethnicity, had shown up in Italy’s national costume: greased-back ponytail, gold chain, tight T-shirt, tight jeans and pointy-toed boots. I imagine he has a brother named Luigi who is in the mafia and says “Hey, wassa matta you?” while twirling spaghetti on a fork. Anyway, Mr HELLO I AM ITALIAN AND I AM HERE TO SEX YOU UP got down with his bad self and busted some freaky moves, mostly involving a lot of pointing and pelvic thrusting, and ended up making out in a corner with a stereotypically English bird who I’m sure afterwards squeaked “Yeah, but oh my GOD, he was Italian, innit? Like, so fit, yeah?” to all her mates. Ghastly.
At around 3 in the morning we made our way out of the club and started to head back to the flat. The streets were slick with puke and absolutely thronged with people. Just outside one of the main plazas we were again accosted by a pair of Moroccan football fans. This time, however, we kept our wits about us, or at least were much more belligerent. As soon as the imaginary football started, I screamed “Back off his fucking wallet!” and SiC shoved the guy backwards and tried to take a swing at him. (While this little drama played out, not one of the three hundred people within ten feet of us so much as glanced in our direction.) The would-be pickpockets took to their heels, and we went home, where we continued to get wasted until sunrise and bemoaned the fact that we hadn’t caused them any major injury. New Year’s resolution: hurt more Moroccans!
When we’d recovered from our hangovers (no small feat) we did a lot of sightseeing. Mostly Gaudi. That Gaudi, eh? He sure did make some stuff.
But Gaudi’s got nothing on a Nativity scene in a loaf of bread. It’s a miracle!
We spent most of our time walking, trying to soak in the last sunshine we’d probably see for four months. Having spent a week in France, we had learned to look carefully at the ground in front of us in order to avoid treading in dog shit (lessons learned the hard way by me: 1). This is mostly unnecessary in Barcelona as the streets get hosed down every morning, but it came in well handy when SiC spotted 50 shiny Euros on the pavement! This meant we could eat that day! And lo, we made merry.
The highlight of our last evening was the discussion with SiC’s DJ mate about cussing in Spanish. Compared to other languages, English profanity is painfully banal. There’s none of this boring “Fuck you” nonsense in Spanish. In Spanish if you are angry with someone, you say, “I shit in your hair!” Fuck yeah! And even better…get ready for it…“I hope you get fucked by a fish!”
And that, dear readers, was Barcelona. Take care of yourselves, and don’t get fucked by a fish.