And back to Barcelona I went...

VOCABULARY LESSON 3: Barcelona

Chupito- A shot

Guiri- Tourist or foreigner. In cities plagued by tourists and foreigners throughout Spain, the word guiri is employed to describe them.

Jarra de sangria- A pitcher of sangria.

Leche de pantera- A milky, alcoholic mystery drink that tastes of cinnamon and goes down like, well, milk!

L’Ovella Negra- My favorite bar in Barcelona when I studied abroad. Nights here were spent ingesting jarras de sangria for hours over a variety of drinking games (makeshift beer pong with glass glasses included). The after party always consisted of a drunken walk to the beach, (even in the middle of winter) which is why I never got to know any other bars or clubs in Barcelona.

“Se sube!"- Literally translated it means, “it rises!” This expression is used when you start to get tipsy, when the alcohol goes to your head really quick.

After leaving my family behind in Madrid, Holly and I headed to Barcelona where I studied abroad almost three years ago. My dear friend Nacho come to pick us up and I immediately felt at home. It was as if I had been there yesterday. We arrived on the afternoon of New Years Eve, just in time for a quick meal and a quick nap before the not-so-quick New Years celebration. The evening started at Nacho’s house with all of his good, life-long friends who I had surprisingly never met before. 

In the United States, we ring in the New Year with a countdown to midnight, celebrated with (more) drinks and that (hopefully) special New Years kiss. In Spain, they do a slightly different countdown. The last twelve seconds of the year are celebrated by eating a grape a second, thought to give good luck for each month in the New Year. Well, a mini giggle fest erupted throughout the table as we shoved pre-peeled, seedless grapes into our mouths, and I only finished nine grapes in twelve seconds. Close enough.

The group on New Years: Jaraba, Nacho, Holly, Urtzi, Javi and me.

After enjoying some appetizers and drinks, we headed to my favorite bar in the city, L’Ovella Negra, a bar which is filled with weekend upon weekend of drunken memories from when I lived in Barcelona. Next we were off to one of Barcelona’s hottest night clubs: RAZZMATAZZ : A three-floored, multi-roomed club filled with hundreds and hundreds of people from all around the world. The promotional posters plastering the walls read “F**CK THE 2009” which made me want to scream “WHY can’t you hire a competent translator (at one of the biggest nightclubs in the city for one of the biggest parties of the year)?!”… “F*CK 2009” is the grammatically correct way of saying goodbye to last year. But, whatever, this will forever be one of my biggest pet peeves about this country.The fiesta continued until the wee hours of New Years day, concluding with a makeshift celebration of the Midwestern New Years at 7am with a very loud, American countdown in Jaraba’s car.

Too early the next day (around 5pm), we headed to Nacho’s aunt's house for New Years day dinner. A large chunk of the night was spent talking about how the world is too small. A girl I went to elementary school with in Minnesota, Kathleen, is the daughter of who used to be Nacho’s aunts neighbor. Kathleen was born and spent the first few years of her life in El Prat de Llobregat (the town where Nacho lives), and I’m sure Nacho and her played together as really small children. The world is small, small, and smaller than small sometimes. 

The following days in Barcelona are a blur… mostly because they were spent sleeping due to night after night of partying. The night that stands out the most was a legendary one. Now, as the joke goes, we spent the night as guiris…

Guiri action #1: Eating at a pseudo Asian food chain restaurant called “Walk to Wok.” We got Nacho to try some really spicy sauces and therefore he make some really funny faces, as the Spanish version of “very spicy” is the equivalent of the American mild.

Guiri action #2: We started drinking early… around 8pm (any good Spaniard doesn’t start until midnight or later).

Guiri action #3: We went to “Bosc de les fades café,” a bar that looks like a fairy forest… A super-tourist trap bar (which I’m sure is mentioned in every Barcelona travel guide book) with overpriced drinks.

Guiri action #4: We gave into drink fliers handed out by barmen… and actually drank at the bars using their flier coupons. Locals don't do this. Ever.

The madness began innocently enough at “Bosc de les fades,” a bar which looks like you are in fairy land. There, we ingested one jarra de sangria to start the night off right. The second bar is famous for its 80 cent glasses of pink champagne that goes straight to the head (se sube, se sube!) and that’s where the guiri action began, as we were officially on our way to drunk town at 10:30pm, something Nacho and Jaraba had probably never accomplished before. Bar three was the leche de pantera bar, where we finished off a few glass bottles of potent, liquored up milk. Our time there ended with the purchase of three roses from one of the typical immigrant guys that walks around Barcelona in an attempt to sell roses to couples out for dinner. Somehow, not one rose made it out of that bar alive. Bar four is when we gave into a bar’s drink coupon and enjoyed a mojito and a chupito for a whopping 3 euro. Bar four was what Nacho and his pals refer to as “Bengali bar” because it is owned by Bengalis! They also have potent mojitos… Our fifth and last stop was to the club Apollo.

The next day was January 6^th, the day of los Reyes Magos (the three wise men day). The Spanish Christmas celebration is a bit different from ours, as it goes from Nochebuena (Christmas Eve) to Reyes (kings) day. Reyes is the day when gifts are given, as Jesus received gifts from the kings a few days after his birth, not from a fat, white bearded man better known as Santa on his actual birthday. Reyes was spent hung-over at yet another Nacho family gathering celebrated with food, gifts, and roscas. Roscas are the traditional Christmas cake in Spain. Inside each rosca is a small, glass king and a dried bean. Whoever bites down on the king in their piece of rosca has to wear a paper crown that comes along with the cake, and whoever bites of the dried bean has to pay for the rosca. Well, I got the bean!! This got a pretty big laugh from the table but thankfully the rosca had already been paid for by Grandma and Grandpa.

The next day I went to Manresa (a pueblo about an hour outside of Barcelona) to spend some time with the Tomás Sr. and Trini (the family we met up with in Madrid). I spent some time recuperating, retirement style, from a wild week in Barcelona by watching the news all day along with late night movies. But, of course, a Friday night in Spain couldn’t be spent inside, so I went out with some of Tomas Jr.'s friends to the new nightclub in Manresa. Another party ending at 6am made for a rough ride to the airport the following morning... I embarrassingly threw up on the way through some windy mountain roads.

I ended up back in Jaén a little more than exhausted and spent the next week doing nothing besides battling off Polly #2. Who is Polly, you ask? Well, Polly is my mom’s nickname for that awfully painful and swollen bacteria-infected salivary gland I suffered from just a few weeks ago. Polly came back with a vengeance after Barcelona… my doctor says it could be some kind of salivary gland disorder. All I can say is that I’m glad this gland thing popped up in Spain, where I am covered by insurance, and not in Minnesota, where my insurance wouldn’t have covered any of my medical costs… that’s a chat for another day though.

On a lighter note, my life-long friend Greg arrived to Jaén yesterday and will be spending the next three months living here and traveling throughout Europe. Last night his arrival was celebrated with some tapas (of course) and an evening of reminiscing about our times in Minneapolis.

Until next time…

Molly

Continent Hopping

This Christmas break my family made their way to Jaén as a starting point for some annual Yurick travels. The first few days in Jaén were spent with my mom and my brother, as my dad had to come a bit later in the week because of NWA-Delta merger craziness at work. My brother and mom suffered in the 45 degree “cold,” as we do not have central heating, while I remained baffled that they weren’t wearing shorts due to the 70 degree temperature improvement from below freezing Minnesota. Except for one day, it rained non-stop across continents and cities from the time they arrived until the day they left. In Jaén we enjoyed plenty of tapas along with our fair share of cerveza, vino, and caramel vodka. Phil thoroughly enjoyed our nights out to Kharma (Jaén’s disco) as he patiently awaits his approaching 21^st birthday. My dad’s late Wednesday arrival via bus was greeted by a night of bar and tapa hopping. And my mom just loved the caramel vodka.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, we rented a car and made our way south to the shady port town of Algericas with the hope of catching a ferry to Morocco that same night. Upon our arrival to the port town my friend, co-worker and roommate Holly suggested we stay the night on the Spanish side, avoiding arriving in a new and foreign continent in the dark. So, we did, which, looking back, was an extremely wise choice. Our Christmas Eve was spent driving around town attempting to find some kind of restaurant… but when we found that even the McDonalds was closed we headed to the local gas station for baguette bread, cheese, ham, and Pringles. What a great dinner! 

Christmas morning we woke early hoping to hop the first ferry to Morocco… but, alas, shaky waters left many quick, 30 minute running ferries behind, and we were stuck taking a rocky 2.5 hour ferry ride through heavy rains and waves. So, Christmas morning was spent on a nauseating ferry surrounded by dozen and dozens of people puking, some not making it to the bathroom or into the designated paper puke bags on time. We did have the chance to meet some pretty interesting ferry mates, though. Needless to say all five of us arrived to the Moroccan port town of Tangier without puking. A miracle, to say the least.

Our first greeting from the Moroccan people was a load of, well, lies. The first three men we encountered within the first three minutes off the ferry advised us with confidence: “There are no trains.” As one man so graciously put, “There was lots of rain in Morocco, it made the train tracks fall apart and lots of people died.” Having read online that “broken trains and buses” is the way Moroccan men in port towns try to trick you into staying at their hotel (and considering that I live a whopping four hours away from Morocco and would have heard this on the news if it were true, and lying about people dying to make a buck doesn’t entertain me one bit) I rudely called him a liar. Well, he flipped out and stormed off… but shamelessly came back a minute later and put a bet on the table, “You give me 1 euro and I will take you to the train station office and they will tell you it’s broken. If I’m a liar, I’ll give you 100 euro.” This time, we walked away and got in a cab to the train station which (surprise?) was fully functioning amidst the sprinkling rain. This was lesson number one in ignoring pestering Moroccan men trying to get our attention. At the train station we enjoyed our Christmas dinner which consisted of a delicious round of Moroccan gyros. Our six hour train ride to Fes flew by as Holly and I shared a compartment with two French guys and a Moroccan girl, passing the hours trying to learn the pronunciation of numbers and vowels in French. Which is, if I may say myself, impossible.

Day one in Fes started with a coffee in a corner café. As I foolishly pulled out a map to try and figure out how to walk to the Medina, the old city, we were approached by our first “guide” (someone attempting to direct us around town in exchange for money). Well, this was the first of numerous men that followed us during the day. We spent the first hour and a half of our walk shooing away “guides.” In response I was called “difficult” and “racist.” Now, now, if I were racist I wouldn’t go to Morocco… As a group we slowly improved on shutting off our ears and not even glancing at people calling our attention, which made it easier to enjoy our walking experience in Medina. The Medina is an old, giant, elaborate city built of stone. The tiny backstreets wind around to markets, homes, and small shops. At some point during the afternoon we ended up at a tannery, an outdoor workplace and co-op where animal skins and hides are de-furred and tanned by a number of Moroccan families. The sight was fascinating but the smell torturous. Why? When the skin is still covered with fur, they soak it in a liquid mixture of lime and pigeon poop so that the fur can be removed with ease. After spending our tourist-time taking photos and hearing stories from one of the workers in the store below, we started to do some pretend shopping. We spent a good while checking out a variety of leather goods, from bags to purses, shoes to jackets. They wouldn’t tell us the price of any item until the end… trying to get us to fall in love with something before hearing how ridiculously over-priced it is. They priced my beloved bag at $250 and my dad’s jacket at $450. As we politely declined and were making our way out, the manager hassled my dad, asking him, “What’s your problem?! You give us bad luck…” (Well, the next day I got a similar bag for $40 and my dad a similar jacket for $90.) We concluded our day in the Medina with typical Moroccan food, vegetable tajin, cous cous, and pastel. Absolutely delicious and the employees at the place were pester-free, making it the first 100% enjoyable event of the trip. That evening we decided to try out some bars near our hotel (which was far from tourist-central). At the first place we enjoyed tasty hookah and Moroccan beer. We had a great time listening to the music, watching people dance, and meeting friendly people seated near us. Never mind that Holly and I were two of six women in the whole bar… with my dad’s company we were fine. Later that evening we ventured back to the same bar. This time we were greeted quite differently, I’m assuming because we were without the presence of an older man. Young men stared, made comments, and would approach us to kiss our hands. Even less women were there than before, so we left even before ordering any drinks. Phil was determined to keep going and so we wandered to a place called “Night Club,” which was connected to our hotel. Down a dark, glitter adorned staircase into a basement club, we decided to stay because there were actually women there. After round one of beers, we realized all the women were alone. Like, they went alone. They made rounds at the tables, dancing, touching, and entertaining the sleazy groups of drunken men. Our conclusion? They were either paid dancers, employees of the bar, or were paid for other favors (we’re not quite sure). You could say that being a normal woman there was extremely uncomfortable, so the night of bar exploring ended there. It was a, to say the least, slightly terrifying experience. On top of it all, they charged us $15 a beer. By the end of the day you could say we were exhausted from arguing and escaping from annoying hustlers all day. And to be honest, we were a bit disgusted. 

Our second and last day in Fes was spent shopping, shopping, shopping. To conclude our last day we went for Moroccan tea and hookah in a café off the main strip in modern Fes. The man who seated us took us past the front patio, through the main floor, up a flight of stairs, and into a small, un-ventilated room behind the bathrooms… where all the other women were seated. My dad then commented that he had read online that women aren’t allowed in cafes in Morocco. Then we realized why we were put upstairs where no one else could see us… 

We made the decision to leave the country as soon as we could the next day. Of course, our early morning taxi driver insisted on driving us in circles for 20 minutes instead of taking us the direct, 5 minute route to the train station in an attempt to rip us off…. a great and final impression of the Moroccan people. After a train, a ferry and a little road trip we were back in Jaén. I think it’s fair to say that Morocco was not our favorite travel destination… We simply had no luck on this trip. I do have to say, on my family's behalf, that we are a group of good travelers. Together, the four of us have been all over the world.  This is the only country we've visited where we entered and immediately wanted to leave. We were so uncomfortable, so afraid, and so disgusted by the treatment of women and of foreigners, that we have all promised we'll never, ever go back. Congrats, Morocco. You've lost some good travelers... *I have to comment that I’m sure most Moroccans are good, kind people. Unfortunately, as tourists, we encountered some not-so-nice people in some not-so-comfortable situations. 

After our trip to hell and back, we spent one day in Jaén to rest up. Early the following day we headed to Madrid to visit with Tomás and his family. Tomás was a Spanish teaching assistant at my elementary school when I was a kid. While he was living in Minnesota he had a couple of host families as well as “Aunt and Uncle” families, like an extra support system in addition to the host family. Well, we were Tomás’s “Aunt and Uncle” family, and have kept in touch with him since he left Minnesota many years ago. While in Madrid we visited the major tourist sites, ate dinner, and had a great time playing catch-up. The trip flew by, and before I knew it I was saying goodbye to my family, tearing up like a little girl while Tomás made fun of me (typical). All in all, it was great to see my family and to have us all together for Christmas, even if our Christmas meal was spent in a train station in Morocco.

A late Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all!!

Molly