"It's like orange water... blech... this was a mistake."

I would describe a summer morning in Barcelona as “soft.” Everything is quiet, few people have awoken after the long nights of partying in the city, the sea breeze tickles the air with a damp coolness, and the sun gives light, breathy kisses to everything it shines upon.  Philip and I walked to Kathleen and Andrew’s hotel so that we could meet the rest of the Spain Gang.  We were running late, a fault that falls completely on my apprehension about waking and showering.  The streets were free from cars and the crosswalks were no different from the sidewalks, no matter the color of the crossing signal. Green meant go. Red meant go. And so we went.

            

Josh was happy that Phil and I were only late because of our own devices and that we hadn’t been abducted or anything. Josh is awesome, but he isn’t Liam Neeson from “Taken” so I don’t think he was excited about the idea of trying to get us back from international kidnappers. Assembled, the Spain Gang headed out to the Barcelona subway system. We rode to the stop just outside the beautiful harbor area of the city. The harbor just outside of the station was large, filled with stunning yachts. Andrew and I marveled at the large ships and continuously pointed out the next biggest boat to each other as we walked along the pier.  Our eventual destination was the large tower on the other side of the harbor. This tower was the beginning of the tram that transported people to the top of the mountain in Barcelona, Mountain Montjuic.  We arrived at the ticket both just in time, though we hadn’t planned on this. We decided to act as if we had planned to be there just at opening time, and with our newfound sense of traveling expertise (fraudulent, but still encouraging) we boarded the elevator to the top of the tower. Once on top, we stared out the windows onto the harbor, impressed with our height by looking at how small the giant yachts now looked. We eventually boarded the tram. 

            

Slowly gliding upon a wire, our tram hung over the Mediterranean and harbor of Barcelona. We could see most of the city, and we chattered about the beautiful views. We met a small family from Philadelphia on our tram. A father, mother, and teenaged daughter all traveling together on vacation, and all of them had that… lovely… Philadelphia attitude. I’m one of those people that puts worth into the differences between southerners, westerners, mid-westerners, and north-easterners. And this family reinforced me in my beliefs. They were friendly enough at first.  But they were so catty and sassy, and not in a playful way. Phil saw a statue in the distance from our tram and said, “I think that’s Columbus on the top of that.” The daughter in the group quickly responded, “That’s not Columbus. Why would that be Columbus?” She used a snotty little tone that made me roll my eyes in a prolonged way like the slow drip of molasses that my sweet south’s accents and attitudes reflect.  The best part about this little encounter was that it was Columbus on top of the statue and the reason it would be Columbus is because the FREAKING SPANISH CROWN FUNDED HIS JOURNEY. I guess they don’t teach history in Philly? Doesn’t make sense since we held the Continental Congress there, for CRYING OUT LOUD. Thank the Lord I’m from Tennessee. I didn’t realize how much I love being southern until I met Philadelphians in Barcelona.

            

The mountain was beautiful in itself. All sorts of trees and gardens covered its surface, and the sweeping views of the city were worth the tram fee. Our group hiked to another tram station, taking its more comfortable cars to the very top of the mountain. There was an old Catalan fort on top, and we circled around the outer walls, posing for a few pictures in front of some cannons and eventually crossing the drawbridge into the fort.  It was old, tan, and sturdy.  We walked around the top of the outer walls, eventually stopping to soak in the stunning views of the entire city and the Mediterranean. I was incredibly moved to again see my precious La Sagrada Familia standing tall amongst the cityscape.  Andrew moved about taking pictures with his high quality camera and photography skills.  I sat on the edge of the wall, staring out at the urban valley, wondering about how humans have managed to be so successful at settling and building.  That view over the entire city seared itself in my mind.

            

The trip back down the mountain was uneventful and simple. Our group happily walked along the beach when we finally got off the final tram.  We dipped our feet in the Mediterranean.  It was cold. Really cold. While I smiled for a picture the sea swelled up behind me and drenched my shorts to my upper thigh.  A random Spanish man in the shortest of shorts took our entire group’s picture, and he clicked the capture button on the camera just in time to avoid getting a topless old woman in our photo. Unfortunately, I turned to look at the sea right as she stood between the Mediterranean and me. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over what I saw. Nightmares.

            

We ventured via subway to the Gothic quarter of town, looking at the old architecture and listening to Spanish guitar players strumming out soft, sexy, and romantic tunes in the old stone streets. With the Iberian music bouncing off the walls of the buildings lining the narrow streets, the old stone statues, and the sound of Spanish and Catalan around me, I felt to truly be in Spain. It was the moment I knew where I really was.

            

Our group ate a late lunch, and after we tiredly and briefly looked at the famous Gaudi apartments, we returned to our hotels. Andrew and Kathleen went and had some fun on the beach for some time, but Phil and I decided we wanted to rest and write at our hotel. We knew that some nightlife would be fun, but neither one of us could really communicate in this city, let alone find our way very well. We opted for the quiet, travel writer’s evening, hammering away at keyboards and trying to paint a picture of this city that everyone could understand and appreciate.

            

Barcelona was a place of so many languages, sights, nationalities, and confusions that I still don’t know how to explain or even categorize it.  It is a party city that still appreciates its deep historical and meaningful cultural context, and that is the only thing I can truly say I know for sure, at least for now.  With that in mind, I went to sleep knowing that the next day I would get to return “home” to Magadalene and all of my friends I missed so much.