Spanish reflections

Just some thoughts about Spain--

I'll begin with the country and end with water. I could see very clearly Spain's Catholic history, and its recent fascist past. No one j-walked; we all waited for the light (it drove me crazy, like San Francisco). Hours were strict, and we were received on the minute when we had appointments with city officials and the like. The style of dress is simple, and somewhat modest. The food was so plain; some soups and salads had flavour, and we did have a delicious meal up in the Pyrenees, but one could argue that they are their own nation: so isolated from the lower altitudes. Most of the time, however, one received bread, wine, water, some fried seafood or vegetables, and then a slab of meat with french fries on the side, with little done to either other than the heating preparation. Life seemed simple and planned.

I did enjoy the long, late lunches, however. Spain sits on the ultimate end of the European time zone, so this means that when it's 2300, places as far away as Macedonia are sleeping, it's still light (albeit barely) in Spain at this time of year. This causes an hours shift: lunch is eaten between 1300 and 1500, and dinner isn't until 2100 usually. Spaniards don't sleep in the summer, though, because work starts between 0800 and 1000 still. Because of this, you'd think that night life would be awesome, but the only nights that were worth going out were Saturdays, because everything is quite dead any other night of the week.

Some random differences:

--When written, the number nine has the monkey tail (yes, I invoked that pre-school term), which loops back under the circular part. It looked weird.

--Cars were not nearly as small as I imagined they would be, but they were small. Some, though, seemed just like their American counterparts: some Volkswagens, BWMs, Audis, Mercedes, et cetera.

--Parallel parking was akin to Boston: 'I'll park in this tight space by continuously hitting the two adjacent cars until I fit.'

--Cabs scared me driving, because they drove with some heightened sense of purpose, which was completely unnecessary.

--No one apologises when bumping into someone on the street, nor do they watch when entering onto the sidewalk (from buses, buildings, et cetera) for other pedestrians. Population density--there are lots of people in very little space in Europe?

--Recycling is so easy; the city has great bins everywhere, which people really, actually use. I know that I did. =)

--There are a bunch of ska kids, who are at odds with the skinhead neo-Nazis. I thoroughly enjoyed remembering my childhood whilst sitting with a couple of said punks.

--Mullets: the hairstyle is alive and well in Spain. Apparently, it's some kind of political statement, and on small children, it's a statement from their parents, but I don't believe it. I even saw a species of mullet that was DREADED.

--I saw just about two morbidly obese people; everyone else looked healthy. It's nice being able to walk streets that are full of people who have been taught how to feed themselves.

As for water, I think the fact that water costs as much as, if not more than, wine attests to a lot. Water is scarce in Spain, as well as most of southern Europe, and I could feel it. I grew up in the middle of the woods, surrounded by swampland, drinking water from a well in my front yard. I vaguely remember times when neighbours had to dig deeper wells, or times that I couldn't use as much water, but these were few at most, and, as mentioned, vague, therefore long ago.

I drank the tap water, which didn't taste incredible, but didn't make me sick at all. I drank it, however, in moderation, such that I wasn't peeing every two hours, because there wasn't a bathroom available except at lunch and end of day. Water, though, is apparently more like a drink that people, well, drink, and not like we treat it in the United States. I've never had anything in any of my water bottles save water; I would never walk around nursing apple juice all day (although I don't think that I'd complain). Juice!

There was no juice in Spain.

Okay, so I'm being hyperbolic. There was juice in the grocery stores, but it was water (which I had on me) or tinto de verano at meals, so I ended up drinking a lot of wine. I didn't hate it, because tinto de verano is tinto wine cut with sparkling water something, and it tastes sort of like juice, a bit, maybe... I miss juice, people.

Water in all of its aspects is saved. Shower-heads are not permanently affixed to the wall, and if there isn't a clip provided, then one has to hold the water to wash. Usually, I'd wet up, turn off the water, wash my hair and body, rinse, shut off the water again, condition and what have you, and then have a final rinse. Showers aren't in tubs, either, and they leak all over the floor, nomatter what. I did miss sitting in a warm shower feeling my fingers for once, but I like saving water and being all different cultural.

Ahem: you save more water by not eating one pound of meat than you do by not showering for an entire year.

I'll cite that if you complain. Veganism came up in a few lectures, but this group isn't necessarily the eco-granola water-saving bunch as much. It makes me wonder what motivated people to study in a water dialogue. Maybe I'm just being egotistical about it all, but water is, at the end of the day, something that interests me very much.

It killed me how pervasive bottled water is, and how people can be so--ignorant?--about it? 'It tastes better.' Well, so does arable land for places of the world who have not even potable water. Waste of resources, end of story.

The Expo itself centred upon water, and I did enjoy a few of the pavilions, and wish that I had paid more attention and seen more. Apparently, Zaragoza chose water as the topic to snub Valencia, which is trying to steal all of poor, rural Aragón's water to build and maintain golf courses and other touristy attractions. As we travelled the land of Aragón, too, I saw awkward irrigation and poor farmers. I saw empty, caved-in earthen shacks in fields overgrown. I began to understand how important the management of the Ebro water basin in this land is.

An interesting contrast occurs when one tries to Google US water basins or the like.

Water is managed differently, too. Basin authorities span regions and even country borders in order to manage the water effectively (although our sources on this were government and city officials, who are obviously somewhat biased, and I do wonder the truth about all that we were told). Something like this, although I'm sure that some are in place, in the US seems less likely to flourish due to different state laws and personal property rights. In a county in which most people's wealth is foolishly concentrated in their house and property, people are not likely to give up any bit of this, lest of all land and anything underneath.

This, though, is a different story for a different time. I will say in closing that Spain did not feel at all like a Mediterranean society, with the exception, maybe, of that in Barcelona. I did not feel connected to this great sea that provides the social and cultural definition for so much of the region.

Turkey is so different, and yet still the same.

HARDCORE 4 LIFE

Time for a hyperactive entry. To-day, we went to a small town to meet the mayor, who is apparently responsible for pulling some strings so that we would have somewhere to stay during Expo time. Most of the girls came in dresses to look nice, and on the bus before we were leaving, we were told that we were also going hiking, to which AJ said something to the effect of, 'That's what you have to expect on this dialogue: dress for meeting a mayor AND hiking.' Indeed. We ran and changed, but I just grabbed a change of clothes, and I ended up using only my shoes, because why not hike in a soy-silk dress?

We bussed to the small town, another of which I don't know the name, los torros something? Ah, Torres de Berrellén. They mayor gave us a lovely little tour. She was a very tactile person, which I love. She thought that I understood much more Spanish than I did (I'm quite good at, if no understanding, knowing when to nod or comment in order to look like I understand...), which was both a compliment and then an awkward conversation.  The town was colourful, and an old male villager kept inviting us around to places as well. I noticed that his frail hands were gnarled as he curled them around each other behind his back. His partially-toothless, almost guileless smile was so sincere as he informed us of a plethora of things that we could never understand, as they were all in Spanish...

We also saw some graffiti. I need to devote a whole post at some point to street and aerosol art.

After a lovely complimentary breakfast of coffee and pastries at a local taberna, we bussed again to Montecayo, which is the largest peak of the Iberian range of mountains. We heard all about the mountain and its history, its flora, and more things in Spanish.

We also saw some goats. Maaa! Maaa! There was a chick fight.

Minimal hiking, some trees and water--it was pretty much just like home, except with less water. There were even ladybugs everywhere, like swarming on the screen door for a month in summer.

We drove a few metres to the monastery. There, we got a terrific tour from a woman who was self-conscious about her English-speaking abilities, but they were top notch. Also, she was adorable, which made any forgotten words totally excusable, with her cute searching in the air for them.

O, silly religious people. Seeing the stones marked with 'A,' 'R,' and a key was interesting. Also, there used to be stairs. 

Other than that, the monastery was a gorgeous, austere place until the monks decided that less austerity was probably not going to be that distracting, and they Baroqued-out.

All in all, I think that the concept, like that of organised religion, is laughable.

I did, however, learn some new things:

--Monks are even more ridiculous than I thought.

--No talking, except for in two separate areas.

--Confessing all your sins means the sins of talking in those areas, eating, and even snoring, which everyone knows are all sins.

--If you have sexual thoughts, then you have to make yourself bleed to forget them.

--Were I a monk, I'd die of blood loss in less than a day.

--Just like Santa Claus, god and big brother are watching you all the time.

Thank you, worthwhile individuals.

O, lovely. To-day is going to have a non-existent night time, as I've gone to bed far past 0200 these past few nights, and awoken for around 0800 each, which is not wearing well with me. Usually, I've been able to work it in order that I get around four to four-and-a-half hours of sleep, because I feel better rested there than with six. Either way, I need some more sleep.

These nights, however, have been fantastic.

I'll start with a quick post about the other night. This was Monday night, the night after the vineyard, town, and desert day. Thos of you who know me know that I'm not so crazy abut going out and partying, as I tend to end up thinking that most of the people by whom I am surrounded are wasting their consumeristic lives in a cesspool of ignorant, xenophobic capitalism and will never be able to contribute anything worthwhile to the world. I'm also right about this, so it gets a little cynical after a while. This is why I gravitate towards people like my friends that I still have from high school and those good ones made in college with whom I can bear to spend an even.

Surprisingly (or not so surprisingly, for they are travelling through Spain and Turkey, of all places), the people on this trip really don't suck. It's something of a surprise, and some people do have their moments, but the vast majority of the time I'm quite content with anyone in the group. Barcelona is a great example, but everything is, pretty much.

So Monday night, I'm pretty tired after a long day. I can't remember what I did in the evening--I think that we got back at 1900. There was talk of meeting at 2100, but after getting all perfectly ready and then calling down, Kristina and I discovered that people would be later. We were to meet at Sol y Luna (that favourite local dive of ours) at 2200 and then move onto some house party of a local whom AJ and Madison (methinks) had randomly met on the street the other night.

I'm not so excited.

We waited for Alejandro, Cristina, and Madison to return from their run, but Alejandro returned saying that the girls had lost him. Kristina, Jessica, and I played some rummy waiting for Alejandro, but then all four of us determined that we three girls would go meet up with everyone at Sol y Luna (it was now around 2245, and almost dark) and Alejandro would wait for Cristina and Madison. We three left.

We arrived at Sol y Luna convinced that we had just missed the group. Four tables and their corresponding chairs were being stacked, and inside, many plates and four pitchers of sangria were sitting dirty on the counter. We ordered a sandwich and sat outside to eat it, trying to determine if we wanted to wander around and find the apartment.

I, for one, did not.

After finishing eating, I said that I would head back and go sleep. I didn't really want to wander around for nothing. We cleared our table and started to get up, when the whole group randomly appears from around the corner and I am swept up into a wave of people. Not wanting to fight the current, I meet the three local boys and we head up the hill.

The evening was fantastic.

We sat around in a somewhat quiet circle (Nacho (Ignacio) and Ezequiel, two brothers, had just moved in a week prior, and we had to be quiet) of a couch, some dining chairs, and some lawn chairs, and just talked. We got back around 0200, I think, but it had been a lovely time. Unfortunately for me, I don't like sugary alcohol (at all at all at all pretty much ever) and rum was the only option, but did you know that the Spanish word for 'rum' is 'ron'? Isn't that ridiculous? Why are they different!?

Some things that were interesting to learn:

--Luis, the third boy, is a friend of the two brothers. He's Brazilian, but he learned English in Australia, so his English is utterly awesome. He says things like 'bloody' and whatnot, and you can't even imagine the incredible ludicrousness of hearing Australian English with a Brazilian accent.

--The boys were all certain that all parties in America and American partying life in general were just like the American Pie movies. O, media.

--The boys also thought that if you go out in America wanting to take a girl home, then you end up taking a girl home. I explained that this was not true at all, but foreign boys had a better chance, and I elaborated this explanation with an airy impression of a vapid American girl fawning over foreign accents.

--American girls are apparently easy, but not as easy as northern European girls. Spanish girls will only kiss, if that, on the first date.

--A 'club' in Spanish is a brothel. You go out to a pub, a bar, or a disco bar. We Americans took great note of this, because our lingo could have ended in a very bad situation.

--Taking Latin for those four years was totally a great decision on my part.

--Never have I ever been to Canada.

'in the Kingdom of Spain, there are such colours'

Yesterday, we went on a bit of an adventure to the desert, which was not at all a desert this year for having had so much rain. Los Monegros, usually all yellow and brown, was relatively green and full of shrubs ('A shrubbery!') and all manner of arid little plants. First, we stopped at a winery.

Now, I love wine and all, especially organically-grown Spanish wine that I can purchase on the vicinities after tasting, but I don't love changing environments... Mica made a point in discussion to-day about how beautiful the vineyards looked, and we saw only some,

but that the natural landscape that had existed beforehand must have been much more beautiful. One neat thing, though, are the rosebushes.

Those are there to tell early signs of disease and allow for about two weeks of preparation before the disease would hit the vines. Interesting as though that was, unfortunately these vineyards use a tonne of irrigation, which makes me much my mouth to the side in that undecided, disapproving way that I have.

The facilities themselves were beautiful--only eight years old--and the woman who was our guide was enthusiastic and charismatic. All in all, this place had their marketing down pat, and I was reminded, Mommy, of MFA. From the video on their wine production (quite industrialised, and not at all, it seemed, connected with love for the vines) that we watched to the explanation of this and that in the new facilities that they built only 8 years ago, everything did seem a bit staged and planned. The first barrels were on display

(using oak doesn't really make any difference, and has no place in tradition wine making, but apparently some snobby wine critic has made everyone think them necessary) and we could look into the cellars and private little crypts/tombs/I think that she was just making a point with this name.

Quotes were placed on the brick walls, representative art of the nine levels of wine (from bottom to top: roots, soil, vine/grapes, labour, barrel, time, bottle, glass, people), but everything looked almost too perfect.

All of the labels on the bottles were painted by local artists especially for the occasion, and there is a gallery of all the originals. There is even a room with little plastic cylinders and a circle within them that you twist to smell a note of the wine next to it.

I liked the outdoors, better, though.

I would have much preferred a hectare of vineyard in an individual's backyard, with dark, old facilities and a smiling, toothless wine master. The wine was terrific, and we tasted one of the wines that won some award for being among the best ten in the world at some (probably pretentious) French festival.

We then drove to a small town to see its cathedral. I wish that I could remember an of these names... I enjoyed the little guided tour from the old father that we received. He spoke some English, but said that his Spanish was (obviously) better. What with the fact that I'm quite intelligent and was raised Irish Catholic (and thus aspired to commit to memory so many random facts of the religion) and my Spanish capabilities--which are quite good as far as reading and listening comprehension are concerned, but not with speaking--I was able to understand about eighty per cent of what he said. I liked the palm tree pillars with their roses at the junctions. I felt like I was in a jungle of a church.

We then walked around the town

before a fantastic lunch at a small hotel. I had vichyssoise (quadruple portion! I couldn't finish it, though it tasted like clam chowder and was so delicious) and arroz a la cubana, which came with tomato sauce and a fried egg, which I cut up and mixed all in. Unfortunately, the local wine was not good. It lacked the balance of acidity that inhibits the intense alcohol first note, and I thought that it was far too acrid. I finished my small glass after making quite impolite faces with each sip.

Driving around the desert, then, on a sleepy siesta, we saw some of the landscape. Nana, you would have been just ecstatic over the bridges. Little villages appeared out of nowhere. I even saw a lake, which seemed odd for a second, and then I realised that I haven't seen any at all here. This, actually, is more likely a reservoir. We passed irrigated fields (note the sprinklers in some of the pictures) of corn that made my stomach turn. First, corn does not belong in such quantities in Spain. Second, all of this corn you see is for starving people. I mean that not in the sense that it is to be used to feed these starving people, but in the sense that its purpose is to starve people. It's animal feed, and I nearly blanched thinking about how many people could live off the amount of grain that even one cow eats in a day. So wasteful, so depressing.

Say it with me: BAR-THAY-LOW-NUH*

*Please ensure that the first syllable*** is inhibited by neither a non-rhotic accent nor the inability to produce a alveolar tap**.
**This is a great first step to understanding how to roll an 'r'. A 'tap' is sort of half a rolled 'r', and you can already make this sound. Say 'better.' The tap (also called 'flap') is what happens when you pronounce the 'tt'--your tongue taps that area on the roof of your mouth right behind your teeth.
***You can also roll the 'r,' but in the middle of words, especially considering this instance and the next sound, it's easier to tap.

I should really consider taking at least one linguistics course. Heather?

It's a little sad when I digress before I've even begun.

Yesterday, six of us peaced to Barthay (enter typing what I'm thinking) Barcelona. I don't know the best way to go about this post, considering I took around 200 pictures, of which only the ones that I need specifically will be uploaded to a picture roll, I think to conserve space (conserving space may not be necessary, and if it is, then I'll go with the 'I'm too lazy to upload and caption each picture' reason). I made the decision to go I think only one day before--maybe two--but it's tremendously difficult to remember what happened on which day, and I am forever grateful for both this blog and my organised-by-date pictures to help me remember. Did I mention the potabilizadon? I'll combine that with Tuesday or Wednesday's entry on that other place.

Since I took so many pictures, most of which are of really random things that looked impressive (and thus I am not able to identify them in the scholarly way that I prefer), I think that I will leave most of them up to the slideshow and give you a Meaghanesque glimpse of how we survived yesterday.

We rose at 0430 (this is Sunday) and I called everyone (Bri, Michelle, Kim, Lauren, Alejandro--I hope that I'm spelling these correctly) in order to make sure that we were all awake. We met at 0515 and took two cabs to the bus station, where we had our tickets printed and hopped on the bus. Then we slept. We awoke in an itsy-bitsy bus station outside the Sants Estació and took two cabs into the city. Alejandro, our token male, had been to the city five years ago, and another time shortly before that, and he enjoyed it so much that we was able to remember many parts of it. All in all, from making sure that we were all all right and generally protecting us to his knowledge of where we were and where we were going, not to mention his (and Michelle's) Spanish (albeit not Català) fluency, he proved an invaluable resource for which we were all quite grateful, except for that one part at the end of the night.

We walked down la Rambla and had a marvellously delicious breakfast. I had a fried egg and got oil all over my dress, which was only made worse by my efforts to clean it up. I blame the fact that I haven't eaten eggs in years. We continued walking down la Rambla, ducking into small side streets and squares along the way,

until we reached the port. Technically, now I have seen the Mediterranean--the middle of the earth--although I have not seen it in all its expansive beauty.

We crossed la rambla del mar there, and I knew, Nana, that were you here, I would most definitely have to run right out over the railing on the side and walk right along the drop to the bay, driving you mad with worry like all of those times at the Boardwalk as children. You would not have liked walking on that footbridge, la rambla del mar, as it swayed with traffick.

From there, we walked down another main drag and ducked into more of those side streets, where cathedrals appear out of nowhere.

We came to a square covered in pigeons and ducked as they started and flew overhead. I took some pictures in marvel at the awesome zoom capabilities of my camera.

We walked, and upon seeing some of his work, I think that Gaudí was inspired by what I conceive of how gnomes, elves, faeries, and other forest creatures live within trees and nature.

We continued walking to the fútbol stadium (but not inside--it is closed to the public, methinks), where I was unimpressed and took no pictures.

Commence our three-hour wanderings, first trying to get to the right bus (my super-clear picture of the map of the bus routes was much appreciated in later wanderings), and then trying to find our way to el poble espanyol. We had some help from locals along the way--one of whom actually joined us and led us for a while-and eventually we got there, but I really enjoyed the wandering. I know that people were tired and hungry, but I am always willing to walk to nowhere, taking in my surroundings as I go. I think Nature fills me up more than others, who need more food and rest. I am just too amazed by beauty sometimes, and I forget that it can't sustain others as it does me.

I give you Barcelona.

We reached el poble espanyol and, after paying the entrance fee, plopped down at the first restaurant that looked appetising. Here in Spain, most restaurants will have un menú del día, from which you can choose a first course, a second course, and desert--bread, water, and wine are usually included--for somewhere between 10 and 15€. Here, I had a caesar salad and a tortilla, with some kind of crème brûlée for dessert. We left the fútbol place around 1315 and when we sat down to eat, it was easily 1645. We hadn't eaten since 1115, and although we've somewhat used to eating much later in the afternoon by now, it was still too much after all the walking/wandering. Luckily, Spanish culture isn't about turning over tables as fast as possible and eating food that's entirely disconnected from its source and thus both unhealthy and unappetising (to those of us who appreciate food), so by the time we finished dinner, it was around 1830. Yay, food!

O, Spanish tortillas, how would I survive without you? Your diced or sliced potatoes rested in egg like quiche are not only appetising and filling, but at some times a saviour when I'm nervous at a tapas full of fish (although sometimes you have ham, and I cannot bear to see you in such a state, so I abstain). Once I wedge my fork into a corner of your yellow slice, I know that I'm about to eat something warm that will actually fill me up, and not leave me wishing for Turkey and food options. Sometimes, you are paired with peppers or onions, and I wish that I could order a whole tortilla and finish it in one sitting--taking my time to enjoy you, of course. I know you so well by now that I don't have to say even, 'lo siento, yo soy una vegetariana. ¿Qué está aquí sin los pescados o la carne?' in broken Spanish, but only to point to you and say, 'eso, por favor. Sí, uno. ¡Gracias!' before I am well on my way to maintaining my weight instead of losing some. I like that I do not have the option to smother you in ketchup, because you are something of a foreign cuisine, especially to my vegan palate, and I am able to enjoy you all the more without that ubiquitous temptation. I know that our time together will be short, tortillas, but you must know, before I go, that you have changed my experience here in Spain forever, and I will never forget you. I am eternally grateful, tortillas.

In el poble espanyol is created pavillions or parts of the small town representative of the different regions of Spain, and we spent some tie here looking around. I was particularly happy to agree, 'כן, זות יפה מאד' about some antique jewellery in one shoppe. I'm relatively certain that that was my one and only Hebrew-speaking opportunity on this trip, seeing as it is in Spain and Turkey, after all.

We had an issue waiting for the bus going down the hill, as we were not sure exactly where was down, and the maps and instructions were quite convoluted. We reached some square, and four walked back to la rambla del mar whilst Michelle and I took the subway,

because now I have taken the subway in Barcelona! We met the others with no problem, and I found a bathroom (you try to figure it out)

before wandering a bit.

There were local artists peddling their wares, and I was so in love with the colours and textures of this one set that I spent some time and language skills looking around. After determining that I would greatly regret missing the opportunity and that I'm all about local art, I invested in a beautiful little piece that can live in my new bedroom with its rich, warm colours. You'll have to see it in person for me to explain it to you.

After it, it was around 2115, and, as our bus was at 2215, we headed for cabs.

WARNING: DO NOT READ THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH IF YOU ARE INCLINED TO WORRY ABOUT ME, INTERNATIONAL TRAVEL, OR EXTREMELY CONVOLUTED DESCRIPTIONS OF MEAGHAN ORIGIN. IF YOU ARE EITHER MY MOTHER OR GRANDMOTHER, THEN YOU PROBABLY SHOULDN'T READ THIS AT ALL. Daddy, considering the fact that I didn't exhibit any of our shared stubborn traits that then put me in danger, you're probably fine.

O, Barcelona, how you almost completely ruined our day. When we arrived in Barcelona, as mentioned, we came to a small bus station outside a train station. We took note of our surroundings in order to return to this place on our tickets. Splitting up is scary anyways, as there always exists that uncertainty, but it is necessary at times in order to be efficient. From the cabs, Alejandro, Kim, and Lauren left first for the bus station, whilst Michelle, Bri, and I hailed another in a few minutes (rush hour is, apparently, around 2115 here in Spain). We three arrived at the bus station with the other nowhere in sight. Michelle and I read our tickets and went to platform 1 for the bus, but Bri hadn't gotten her return ticket that morning, so, after deciding to go inside instead of wait (it was now 2200, so only 15 minutes remained) we tried to get her ticket. Not knowing the proper broken Spanish, we waited for Michelle to get out of the bathroom before attempting this. As they were talking, I, worried, ran outside one more time to look for the other three, and was so focused on finding them that I didn't even notice when they walked right by me, but they saw me. Relieved, we ran inside the station to get their three tickets. We found that, for some unknown reason, the bus had dropped us of at this wrong station this morning, and the station that we needed was a 10 minute cab ride from where we were. We printed our tickets and got them changed to a 2230 bus, when Alejandro sent Lauren and Kim to hail cabs. A few minutes later, we realised that we had no idea where Lauren and Kim were. Michelle waited with a cabby whilst Alejandro ran to find Lauren and Kim. (Now, the bus station is pretty much the size of half of one platform at Norstation, with bus spaces coming off either side, the small ticket office and a bathroom at one end, and only a railing between the platform and a major thoroughfare on one side. Alejandro was running down the length.) Bri and I ran after him to tell him to wait, because more splitting up is not what we needed. All of a sudden, Lauren calls us from the back of a cab and the cab pulls to the side of the street. Alejandro puts Bri and I into it and tells us to go, and as he runs off I scream to him where, and he screams back. Sitting in this cab, I know the most Spanish, and that is not good. I tell the cabby (in Castilian Spanish) our destination, and luckily, he, Catalan, understands and starts driving. Soon, he asks me a question, but I have no idea what he is saying. Lauren and Bri think that he is asking where, or saying something about the destination, but I know that he is not. I just repeat 'Estacion de autobuses Barcelona Nord' and he repeats his question. I say, 'Lo siento, yo no tiendo. Barcelona Nord?' nd he, saying nothing drives. I ask him in a few minutes, 'Barcelona Nord, sí?' and he still does not reply. This, clearly, indicates that he is going to drive all around the city, kidnap us, and then do horrible things before our mangled bodies appear all over the news in the US. Also, last we knew, Kim was in a cab somewhere without either Spanish or Català fluency, and Alejandro was back to wherever Michelle was now with that other cab. I'm pretty sure not that I'm gong to throw up out of worry, but that everything from my oesophagus to my large intestine is going to spontaneously jump out my throat all over the place. Lauren and Bri stating the obvious that splitting up was the worst idea and that we have no clue where the other three are was not helping, and I pleaded with them not to worry about these things until we were certain that there was cause (to no avail). After more random side streets than I care to remember, we appeared to have arrived at Barcelona Nord.  We deduce a platform and waited in worry, looking for the others. We decide that, obviously, we're not going anywhere without all six of us, missed bus or not. Tickets can change, and we'll buy new ones if we have to. Miraculously, the other three appear all together with only minutes to spare as most of the passengers on the bus have boarded. We breathe. The bus driver rips Bri's ticket as she steps onto the bus, but none other os us are allowed to board, as apparently we have the wrong bus. Michelle and Alejandro are almost screaming in Spanish, trying to convey our situation to the driver, who has no pity. We have to argue for Bri's ticket stub back as she climbs off the bus and we run through the station to find a ticket counter. I happen to notice on the big board that there is another 2230 bus to Zaragoza, and I yell to the others this fact. We run out a door and down the platforms, finding the bus and quickly asking the driver for permission to board. He scans our tickets, with the pen cross-outs and stamps from the ticket change at the first bus station, and agrees to let us on the bus. Sitting in the back of this nearly-empty bus and breathing, we still haven't confirmed that Zaragoza is the first stop, or, if like what we think is happening on the other bus, Madrid is illogically the first stop before Zaragoza. I stay up reading our textbook because I have too much adrenaline to sleep, and I watch the road signs in the dark to make sure that we're on our way. Buses have to stop every two hours in Spain to rest, so I waited up to make sure that poor Lauren and Alejandro could get off to go the bathroom when we did stop. By 0130, with only 100 kilometres left in the ride, I deduce that we're probably not stopping, and need to rest. We get to Zaragoza unscathed and drowsily take cabs back to our residences to sleep the five hours that we have left before leaving on our Monday trip.

All in all, the day was wonderful, although I would have liked to spend some time on the beach and on a gondola ride. The terrifying end to our trip worked out just fine, as I had an inclination that it would, and our bus got us back about 10 minutes earlier than the time on our tickets for our actual bus, which was great considering the fact that we pretty much politely hitch-hiked on the bus from Barcelona. I would like to go back next weekend, although I'm not sure if my budget would like me to, although that isn't really an issue. We'll see.

I must say that it made me a little sad for a moment upon arriving to Barcelona, as Julian had expressed interest in visiting, and I had every intention to orchestrate some elaborate scheme to get him time off from worked with bags packed and passport in hand to surprise him with a trip to Barcelona for a week or something. Money should be no object where living life is concerned.

Life goes on.