Sweating Balls…
from the get go. After the Internet cafe I returned to the station for a little bit before heading back out to get shawarma. Coming down the street I ran in to who else but the Croatians, the ugliest of whom had the nerve to ask me “Are you still upset that no one came home with you last night?” to which I replied with a scowl for lack of a clever comeback. They directed me towards a shawarma restaurant which it took me another five to ten minutes to find. When I finally landed, the damn attendant took fifteen minutes to prepare an order that I didn’t want to stay, when I had asked for it to go. By the time I finished my food and found out the time I had only ten minutes to get back to the train platform before our train left.
So, belly distended with slow-roasted lamb and french fries, I sprinted back to the station in the noon heat. Then, finding a righteously indignant and anxious Ben with his bag on, we sprinted together to the platform. We tried to descend in an elevator to the track, but it was so full that it wouldn’t move with Ben and I in it. Nearby we tried to use stairs but they just took us out of the station, so we sprinted back up the stairs to the elevator and made our train with literally one minute to go.
Needless to say, we were dripping. Red in the face, our hair matted up with sweat, and breathing heavily we found our Danish friends from the train station relaxing comfortably on the train. Another fifteen minutes of passing to and from the front of the train with my bag until I finally settled down with Ben in an empty couchette. Each time I would pass this one man standing in front of the window in the particularly narrow hall of the couchette car in a blue shirt who looked at me with an expression that indicated that it was some great discourtesy to have to move past him on the train, and each time I squeezed past him, first apologetically then eventually indignantly.
Ben and I basked in the glory of the air conditioned and private couchette car for all too short before some Southern-French interlopers crashed our party, pressing in until the car was at full capacity, four young men and two old ladies. They mostly gossiped among themselves while Ben and I silently suffered with our sudokus.
During a forty minute layover we walked with our bags down to the waterfront and had lunch in a little Spanish restaurant. Ben ordered burgers and sausage, changing his mind about the sausage once he finished his burger. A triumph of my Spanish that I was able to get them to take it back at no cost.
Our first train ride was luxurious compared to the local train to Barcelona we transferred on to. This was spent with the Danish girls, sweating unceasingly and collaborating on or competing with one another in sudoku between catnaps. Two and a half hours later we finally arrive in Barcelona, where we find that there’s a 200 person queue to book trains to Malaga and to Paris. F that.
So we split up with the Danes and went to the Internet cafe to locate our hostel and to retrieve the phone number from my email. We were told that if we didn’t call them before showing up, we wouldn’t be able to get in to the apartment, so I was concerned when I was unable to get through to them by phone or email. We decided to risk it and took the metro over to the Ramblas, the thoroughfare of tourism in Barcelona. Our hostel was located a short walk from there.
We were let in by some people living in the same building then were pleased to find that an attendant was in the hostel to check us in. She was a very cool, young venezuelan with exceptional English skills (though she courteously entertained my Spanish just for fun). We sat talking for a while together after she showed us the room, and she suggested that we check out this particular bar called Nevermind, which her friend owns.
We showered up and headed out, shortly afterwards meeting a young deutsche blond named Larissa. She was nice enough, and even took us to a good tapas restaurant for dinner. Just a few bites in to my cheese plate I feel ready to vomit and head downstairs, where I poised myself for action (doubled over the sink). It occurred to me that I was dehydrated, so I went back upstairs and had some water. We left and I bought a large water, but recovery was slow. Since Ben was tired from traveling and I was sick to my stomach and weak, Ben and I headed back in with promise not to abandon Larissa so early the next time we see her.
Our hostel was miserably hot, sleeping in underwear we still broiled through the night. We didn’t yet realize just how hot this city is though
