A holiday, a weekend, and a forced day of PTO equal a lot of freedom. My kind of math says not a math guy. The original plan was to take the train around Sicily and see other towns. I wasn’t feeling sold with this plan. On Wednesday a few messages are exchanged with one Conor Wolfin. “Actually I am still in Spain. I ended up volunteering at a hostel for a month and a half in Barcelona.” Sold. On Thursday I booked a flight, and Friday evening I was eating dinner in Spain. Ahh, like visiting a different state, the ease of traveling within Europe.
It’s been incredibly difficult to hold all the languages in my head thus far. I had just normalized speaking Italian as my default after slipping Spanish (they are similar). Then, I land in Barcelona where I’m spoken to first in English. Naturally, I responded in Italian. And now I’m back in Italy having adjusted to Spanish. Im going back to pointing and looking confused. Anyways… I navigated the train system and checked into my hostel. I was greeted by drinking games and loud music at 10pm-my typical bedtime. Oh boy. An experience is what we are after, and this would certainly be one. I grabbed dinner alone- a double smash cheeseburger with fries on the block. My first not Italian meal in 12 days, and damn…it was fantastic. I crawled into my tube bed (charmingly cozy) and fell asleep.
Waking up in a tube bed was significantly more startling than to fall asleep in one. I was out the door quickly as the only one stirring at 7:30am. Eager for my first glimpse of the city, I opted for the hour stroll to La Sagrada Famila- Gaudi’s famous church. I stopped for two pastries- simultaneously spilling powdered sugar all over my all black outfit while gazing upwards at the church’s numerous towers and cranes reaching for the heavens. (Still working out how to avoid that efficiently). I had read the rising sun sheds colored light all over the inside via the stained glass walls, so I planned accordingly. I spent an hour watching the light cast colors onto the neutral colored building’s interior walls and its anything-but neutral pillars, in awe. This was art, not architecture.
My first contemplation of the trip- to partake in the Hostel’s daily afternoon activity and socialize for the first time in ten days, or knock off more of my marked activities. I chose the later, and arrived at El Mercat Del Enchants. This is one of the more prolific Barcelona flea markets- with a beautiful mirrored golden roof to boot. Entering, my mouth dropped (a reoccurring theme). This is exactly what I wanted- a sea of people and stalls. To my right were tables piled high with vintage leather and fur jackets. Clothes flying, multiple languages and none of them English filled my ears. I found myself grinning wide between them. Pleased with my choice of activity, I made my way through, witnessing everything from film cameras, underwear, leather jackets, early age pistols, blenders, and knockoffs to name a few of many. Tucked in the back corner of the first level, I found another jacket vendor worth investigating further. He had tables like everyone else, and a rack of jackets tucked in the back. Curious to the curated selection, I opted out of the tables and crowd, thumbing through the hangers. Actual Motorcycle jackets…warm. Moto jackets? Warmer. Stop.
It’s the exact style of moto jacket I’ve been eying for ~1.5 years. I’d never heard of this brand “Pull & Bear”, but then again, I’d never heard of any brand on this trip. I’m far outside my market knowledge. No way this fits, everything I’ve pulled thus far has draped my Italian diet-slimmed frame. The right arm goes in…ooh this has a chance. I pull it to my shoulder, oh? I slip my left arm in…this can’t be, this feels good. I swing my arms and bring it squarely across my shoulders and it settled. “Fuck” I muttered. It fits. “Cuantos?” I ask, equally surprised and proud how natural that arrived at my lips. I don’t remember what he said, but I didn’t recognize the number, so I assumed higher than I wanted. I placed it back on the rack…but tucked in the back. I have no cash, and it’s too early. Whatever I purchased would have to be worn on my return flight. I had only brought an under-seat bag for the weekend. At the end of my perusing I returned to try it on once more. The vendor took note. I ask him again how much. “Viente”. Viente! “Banko automatico?” He reached for the card reader, and I reached for the second, lighter, moto jacket I had tried on, aware I couldn’t keep both past Monday. I swung my green grocery bag filled with my Barcelona flea dream leather jackets as I walked like a kid finishing Halloween. I think I skipped the entire 45 minute walk back to the hostel in joy.
When I returned, someone else was in the room, enter Sayan. He’s leaving for the daily activity I was going to skip, and with no convincing, we set off to catch up to the group. It so happened that the first person I met in Barcelona…lives in Cap Hill. We took a train, then a bus, then a walk. Along this walk I’d also meet Hunter from Saudi Arabia, a civil engineer with a passion for public transportation. United with the rest of the party now, we appeared at the top of “The Bunkers”, where the entire Barcelona sprawl surrounded us in 360 degrees. Many people had hopped the lackluster excuse for a fence to dangle their legs over an infinity pool style ledge. We took turns snapping pictures for one another, until I was embraced from behind. Conor! We hadn’t seen each other in what we estimated to be nearly a year. There was lot to catch up on.
As the sun started to turn golden in its descent, a few of us split off- headed towards the Gaudi houses. On the way down we encountered a phenomenal view of the city with a soccer field and basketball court just below us. Kade(from Seattle, used to live in Spain, owner of Ori Magazine) responded to my Instagram story with “I used to ball out on those courts!” More smiles, how cool to connect with a friend here, and another back home, simultaneously. Several Gaudi houses later, Conor and I split off for two rounds of tapas stops capped with Mcfurry’s and a hilarious interaction with a 7:30pm blacked out ‘Brit who could not comprehend how to order or wait for his food in the worst way. “I have crawled into my tube for the night, filled with tapas and McFlurry, as one could only hope!” I texted.
Sunday arrived quickly. Out the door early once more en route for the Picasso Museum. I’m rocking the splurge leather jacket I bought to convince myself I need to retain it. I pass the second flea market earmarked to visit with Conor later. Maybe just a quick peek while they’re still setting up. I’m in trouble. This selection is all clothes, and good ones. I’d picked out three more jackets and a sweater far too quickly. Cash only? Ok, I’ll return. Phew. Onward to Picasso.
The collection was Picasso + John Miro, the latter whose work I found surprised me. The 1.5 hours left me with two close-to-home conclusions. 1) Picasso has range. Not “range” like people often post on IG today. Range. Across multiple mediums and eras and styles of painting. The man said fuck it, and learned ceramics for five years. Range in a way that is so admirable for the creative courage and prolific visual eye it takes to achieve. It resonated. Everyone wants to niche down and specialize, and I get it. However, I also find it silly. It’s why I’ve been a creative, and am an art director. It’s why I have a job and a business. It’s why I’m a photographer and designer. Why I enjoy painting, fashion and furniture. Why I do commercial photo, studio, journalistic, street and sports. This lead me to realization numero dos. 2) Picasso just created. All the time. Just did it. Expressed. Tried. Freed himself from the bounds of being an expert, of perfection, of it needing to be work. What did he see? Literally and in his mind. What did he feel? Got that out. All of it. He took a year and painted the pigeons on his windowsill. He studied another painter for three years, re-recreating his paintings to examine someone he respected. He sketched, wrote poetry, and even a play. He surrounded himself with other creatives, bouncing around inspirational cities. I found the black and white photos documenting his life and work in studio the best part honestly. Exiting the gallery, tucked beneath the stairs was a large scale print of the most profound portrait of Picasso. It stunned me. To quote Stepbrothers- “it’s evocative”. The most moved I felt in the gallery.
I took the same route back towards the flea market and hostel, except the route was no longer a route. It was a clogged artery on the way to the heart, or in this case the square. I squeezed my way forward and arrived at the square sans thirty minutes. A protest. The chants were loud, and constant, echoing off the tight alleys. I took in the scene briefly before navigating a new route home. Said detour took me near a man with whom I did not interact with, but left a notable impression. I saw him, stopped walking, and watched. He didn’t stop at first, but once he noticed me, he kept glancing back at me, watching me, watching him. It felt like I was viewing a version of me. The one who’d lived in Spain the last 15 years, hair a touch of grey, loafers worn by cobbled streets. He put on his helmet, turned the key to his moped, sped past me down the alley, and disappeared.
I returned to the market to be sure I hadn’t dreamt it. No, still filled with stylish motherfuckers and beautiful clothes. A quick jacket swap to my prized find to see how it wore, and breakfast with Conor. We’d split a slice of the cheesecake we were eyeing. Barcelona breakfast, or normal time for lunch I’d come to understand by the end of this weekend. Back to the market for a third lap with Conor. In his marquee silly-ness, he chatted up a vendor who adorned him with large metal necklaces. We’d try on every pair of knock off sunglasses in search of two pairs for the 2€ Conor had on him. Naturally, the one time you’re actually looking, you can’t find what you need. Not because two stolen/found sunglasses for 2€ was the issue, but half these glasses were prescription or for someone’s face half the width of ours. I hope those people had backup glasses, cause goodness those were some strong prescriptions. Unsuccessful. Nap and dinner follow.
We found ourselves a nice restaurant for paella and sangria. A wonderful combination. Espresso Martini’s become our next target. We were greeted by two heavily tattooed men who block our path and don’t say a word. After a few seconds, they laugh and welcome us into Stranger Cocktail bar as the bartenders. We were served very strong, (alcoholic and caffeinated) martinis, and then I see they have pisco. Conor hasn’t had it before. My turn to show him something new. Our bartender recommends pisco and Coke, so Conor and I do our best Miguel and Julio from “The Road to El Dorado” Both? Both, impression. After little deliberation- save the Coke for rum. Next stop: the club. We join Conor’s friends/co-workers, as well as Cap Hill’s finest, Sayan. From 12-4am *we dance*. It was quite an experience as a non-drinker, partier, dancer, first-time clubber, stranger to all but 1 person, English speaking participant. I noted at the start of this weekend it was the last thing I wanted to do, but this is a huge part of Barcelona. This trip is all about being uncomfortable, and seeing how others live. So it was something to do, once. I’m getting more comfortable with dancing, a lifelong weakness. We danced in a giant circle, taking turns going into the middle with actualized wholesome high school dance vibes. I took enough videos as proof I actually danced at a club in Barcelona. Conor and I climbed on the stage with the dj and bongos players after seeing a Mariners jersey. I reused the same dance moves(if you want to call them that?) over and over and over. 4:30am. My ears bleeding, my feet hurting, my hips malfunctioning, I entered the hostel to my friend Hunter. I sat down and chatted(yelled and was repeatedly sushed) with him. I video called Nick Hall, who was eating an ice cream cone in the bathtub. Nick, I don’t think I can love you more, but damn that really makes me try to love you even more. Thank you for picking up.
My final day greeted me much later than the first two. Or earlier if you count the 4.5 hours I’d already experienced of Monday. I went to the Cathedral of Barcelona, “The World Begins with every Kiss” mosaic mural, Avda. del Portal de l'Àngel Retail Street, Mahalo Vintage, and Plaça de Catalunya. If ever find yourself in Barcelona, Mahalo vintage is a must-go. I came away with a sun-faded yellow bandana as my souvenir. Under-seat bag friendly, and special. Adam and I were at a vintage pop up in Ballard when he bought a beautiful yellow bandana which he took on his recent Norwegian backpacking trip. Can’t wait to show you bud!
I met up with Conor and two of his friends at the Plaça for lunch. I would like to note that these two friends asked who the Italian guy was, and it’s not the first time this trip I’ve been identified as Italian. I’m not upset about it. Sometimes I’m concerned the giant eagle tattoo might scream American. As if my “English?” doesn’t. Conor picked a killer spot- Mirinda Tapas Bar. Next to Gatos Tapas Bar and Banquet Restaurant. More on those later. We sat outside. The light is perfect. A couple in the corner had it shining just so on them. They were both dressed with such flair, a Leica camera stacked on top of a pack of cigarettes. Tattoos. Laughing, kissing. Sipping their drinks. Just *chefs kiss* moment. Another Barcelona 2:00pm “breakfast” consisting of a chocolate banana milkshake with espresso + a tuna avocado sandwich. A man played “Desposito” for the square. The chef from Banquet frequently came to the wood door frame. A bald, tan, man with patchwork tattoos, a white shirt, canvas apron, and jeans. It was a photo waiting to happen. While I didn’t snap the photo, I did chat with him, comparing tattoos. He had a tiger on his forearm like my eagle. Noted to come back and eat at his restaurant. We split from our Lithuanian counterparts, and went to the Mercado de La Boqueria. Most notably I asked “is that…coral?” No, cow intestine. The literal whole cow. Skulls, tongues, hearts, intestines, for sale. A whole pig leg, cooked, for sale. It even had a nice felt bag. Hoof and all. The vibrant colors of all the juices. Everything is just whole, and colorful, and lacking rounded edges in Europe. More on that another time.
The last thing I needed to accomplish was hitting la playa. The sun had just begun to set as we entered the marina. Over the hour we walked along the water, the sun lit the entire sky on fire, in what was a top-three, if not the single most iconic sunset I have encountered. We took photos with armless statues, had a piggy back ride, eyed the moored yachts, witnessed a pickup soccer goal on the beach, busted out some muscle ups at the beach gym, talked life, saw yet another version of me having lived here for 30 years(less mutually profound, but with visual proof), and rode the bus back to his hostel. I noted to Conor the sunset felt like a thumbs up. As if the universe were telling me, yes, this is exactly what you were supposed to be doing this weekend. More in that another time as well.
Conor provided an MTV crib style tour of where he’d been residing for a month and a half. I’ll save the details for a variety of reasons, but wow that’s a story to tell the rest of your life. Talk about an experience. One final dinner, bookending the trip with a double cheeseburger, swapping America, Argentina, and Lithuanian dishes/language, a big hug, and a lonely train ride.
I’m sitting on my plane as it’s descending into Catania for my second helping of a Sicilian month. It took the train ride to the airport and flight to reflect and write this. I’ve gotten emotional several times this weekend, and will try to refrain again now. Just paused to go to the bathroom before we land- never been peeing while the plane banked hard, what a sensation. Anyways- it felt important to write such a detailed account of this weekend specifically. Reason unknown. In contrast to my first 12 days in Italy where I’ve written, but more at a birds-eye view. Perhaps later it’ll become clear. Regardless, I hope you’ve enjoyed going to Barcelona with me for a long weekend. I am thinking of so many of you, and I miss you. More to come.
Gracias por llevar mi amigo. Chow. *I wrote this line from my dusty memory, so if it doesn’t mean what I think, than take it as what it says. Whatever that is.
