Did we plan for it? We couldn’t. Did we hope? Absolutely. Did our wish that Spain would make it to the quarter finals during our month in Barcelona come true? Si, si, si! They did even better than that, as the team, along with the country, prepares for the final on Sunday. I’m not sure of the exact Spanish translation, but the excitement here in Spain is “Off the hook.”
I sat with my wife and some friends at a tiny Irish pub in Tacoma, WA a week before the World Cup began. With a Guinness in front of me and a giant World Cup schedule behind it, I said, “It would sure be cool if Spain made to the quarter finals because we’ll be there.”
The win last Saturday night sent fireworks into the air and fans into the streets until the sun rose the next day. Sunday’s streets were empty. The city slept happily beneath the comforting blanket of a quarterfinal win.
On July 7th, my wife and I followed locals around downtown Barcelona until they ducked into a local bar to watch the World Cup Semifinal match. We were fan stalkers. If fans weaved, we weaved. If they tried to lose us or caught onto our scheme, we played dumb and feigned interest in a local church’s façade. But when they ducked in to a bar 20 minutes before kick off, we didn’t care if they found us out. We wanted to watch the match with them. We desired to breathe in the air of their fanaticism. It worked. By match’s end, we chanted “Viva Espana! Viva Espana!” When the ball hit the back of the net for Spain, you could feel the win.
The bars emptied into the streets. Fans flowed like water from rivers to a central lake of screams and chants and cheers on the corner of a tiny street just off the historic center of Las Ramblas. For a moment, we felt like Spaniards; we shared their victory. The people of Spain see their chance at World Cup victory, and hopefully, come Sunday, we can share a piece of it with them.
A video of the celebration can be seen at http://goodmenproject.com/2010/07/08/they-know-how-to-party-in-spain/ right below the James Franco interview.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
6 de Julio - Un Dia de Trabajo
Many have asked in the last few months how we are able to take a month out of the year and live in Spain. It’s really quite simple. And it is a two-fold answer.
First, we are savers: We set up Barcelona Approved spending throughout the last six months. For example, if we ate out, it had to be at happy hour prices.
Second, we have to have days like July 6th while we are here. Mary spent eight hours working, and I spent the day doing homework. It’s that simple. We need at least two days a week like this to keep our heads above water.
But we did find time to hit the beach for an hour. Life isn’t too bad.
First, we are savers: We set up Barcelona Approved spending throughout the last six months. For example, if we ate out, it had to be at happy hour prices.
Second, we have to have days like July 6th while we are here. Mary spent eight hours working, and I spent the day doing homework. It’s that simple. We need at least two days a week like this to keep our heads above water.
But we did find time to hit the beach for an hour. Life isn’t too bad.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
5 de Julio - Casa del Ossos
However, in Barcelona, Gaudi’s Casa Battlo can not be skipped. Standing outside and taking pictures won’t cut it either. The entrance fee of 17,80 euros is stiff, but like a stiff drink, it is hard to ingest it at first, but is worth the price. 
Gaudi didn’t just design crazily-artistic and mind-blowing aesthetics, but he ran far ahead of his time as a developer of sustainable architecture. He recycled tiles from other buildings and used archways to save on materials. He was Phoenix-like in his construction, building new from the ashes of the old.
But enough of my writer’s undying need to describe things; only photos can do the trick when discussing one of Barcelona’s must sees.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
4 de Julio - Corriendo Larga, Tapas Fanasticas, y La Playa
To celebrate the 4th of July, I ran nine miles before the heat of the day came. The run took me from Eixample to Barceloneta, and I watched the sun rise over the Mediterranean Sea. I was tired - it was remarkable (Mary ran her scheduled seven - woo hoo!).
Then we hit the beach. Not the best idea for an already dehydrated couple. Sunday beachgoers covered the sands - old men drinking beer and playing cards, children running in and out of the sea, women bathing in the sun, and me, sweating like crazy, my body temperature high from the morning run. We didn’t last too long out there, but what we took in made up for our short venture to the water. In Barcelona, Sunday at the beach seems to be a mainstay, a long-standing tradition amongst families. They arrived three and four generations deep. Great grandmothers sat beneath their shades and their great grand children ran to them buck naked - except for their floaties. Grandfathers held out oranges to their grandchildren and teens plopped down in the sun next to their parents to talk. While the reflection of the sun off the sea enamored my eyes, the vision of tight knit families together on a Sunday afternoon made a deeper impression on my mind.
Since we haven’t quite figured out a good sleeping schedule, our day began at about 5 am and basically ended around 4 pm, after a lunch of tapas and wine at Tantarantana, a great little tapas bar in the center of the Borne district (http://www.tantarantana.es/). Seasoned vegetables, baked and marinated chicken wings, the staple bread with tomato, and Patatas Bravas.
Video of the Born district.
I can’t believe we’ve only been here four days.
Since we haven’t quite figured out a good sleeping schedule, our day began at about 5 am and basically ended around 4 pm, after a lunch of tapas and wine at Tantarantana, a great little tapas bar in the center of the Borne district (http://www.tantarantana.es/). Seasoned vegetables, baked and marinated chicken wings, the staple bread with tomato, and Patatas Bravas.
Video of the Born district.
I can’t believe we’ve only been here four days.
3 de Julio
3 de Julio - Una Busqueda y Las Ramblas
A lady flashed me today, or was it yesterday - I always wanted to start a post that resembled Camus’ start to The Stranger. Las Ramblas really is a tourist trap, and she was a prostitute, as mentioned in yesterday’s blog post.
After our siesta, we headed out to find the World Cup match between Spain and Paraguay. We searched and we searched. We walked through our barri, and then to the next. We jumped on the metro and headed to BCN Sports Bar in Las Ramblas to find they were charging 10 Euros just to enter (about 15 U.S.). I knew there had to be a place to watch it for free. We found an Irish pub farther down La Rambla. We made our way in and watched the screens from the outer edge of the smoky pub. At half, when people headed out for a quick breather, we wormed our way to back of the pub. We didn’t hear one Spanish speaker in the entire crowd, so we bailed and watched the second half at home. Yes, we bailed. But what we got at home was much cooler than what we could have witnessed in a touristy bar.
(We are already making preparations to find a genuine Spanish bar to watch the match on July 7th. We will not be put down. For those who are following my training - we hit the streets for three miles today.)
A lady flashed me today, or was it yesterday - I always wanted to start a post that resembled Camus’ start to The Stranger. Las Ramblas really is a tourist trap, and she was a prostitute, as mentioned in yesterday’s blog post.
After our siesta, we headed out to find the World Cup match between Spain and Paraguay. We searched and we searched. We walked through our barri, and then to the next. We jumped on the metro and headed to BCN Sports Bar in Las Ramblas to find they were charging 10 Euros just to enter (about 15 U.S.). I knew there had to be a place to watch it for free. We found an Irish pub farther down La Rambla. We made our way in and watched the screens from the outer edge of the smoky pub. At half, when people headed out for a quick breather, we wormed our way to back of the pub. We didn’t hear one Spanish speaker in the entire crowd, so we bailed and watched the second half at home. Yes, we bailed. But what we got at home was much cooler than what we could have witnessed in a touristy bar.
GOOOOOAAAAALLLLLLL! Fireworks! Screams from all the balconies in the courtyard. Yells from the street below us. When Spain scored, the city erupted. We watched the flickering lights of televisions from our balcony and the silhouettes of raised hands and kisses and hugs. When the game ended, we could hear the city open up. Doors flung open. The streets became avenues for celebration. When I woke up at 4:00 in the morning the next day, Spaniards were barely making it home, still waving the flag in the streets, and cheering for a goal that happened half a day before.
(We are already making preparations to find a genuine Spanish bar to watch the match on July 7th. We will not be put down. For those who are following my training - we hit the streets for three miles today.)Views from the run.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
El Segundo De Julio
July 2nd was really just an extension of July 1st, due to the fact we hadn't slept in more than 24 hours. But we felt good.
After checking into our apartment, we went out for wine, which ended up being beer because of the midday Barcelona sun and the sweat that dripped from neck to heel. The local brew, Estrella, fue perfecto en el sol. So we had two before heading back to the flat for a siesta. When I unfolded my body on the bed, I guessed I would be up in a couple hours to mosey around, drink some coffee, and stare out the window into the gigantic courtyard outside our living-room window, full of balconies and drying clothes that hang from wires outside windows, but when my eyelids finally broke free of the crust in the corners, my wristwatch read 9:30. We slept for seven hours and woke up hungry.
Barcelonites eat dinner around 10:00 pm, so we showered and headed to the metro (fantastic, beautiful, wonderful metro system that is sooo easy to use and right outside our door). We headed to the Borne district, a district known for great food and locals. We avoided, and will continue to avoid Las Ramblas - its high prices, prostis, and kitschy shops with shirts that read "My sister went to Barcelona and all she got was this lousy shirt."
We stepped out into the Born District from the Metro. Packed. Full of locals. Full of street side bars and restaurants. Full of life at 11:30 at night. We wandered. We gawked. We searched for food. And we found it - un botella de vino, seared squid, fried fish, and chorizo.
They kicked us out around 12:30 - full and happy.
After checking into our apartment, we went out for wine, which ended up being beer because of the midday Barcelona sun and the sweat that dripped from neck to heel. The local brew, Estrella, fue perfecto en el sol. So we had two before heading back to the flat for a siesta. When I unfolded my body on the bed, I guessed I would be up in a couple hours to mosey around, drink some coffee, and stare out the window into the gigantic courtyard outside our living-room window, full of balconies and drying clothes that hang from wires outside windows, but when my eyelids finally broke free of the crust in the corners, my wristwatch read 9:30. We slept for seven hours and woke up hungry.
Barcelonites eat dinner around 10:00 pm, so we showered and headed to the metro (fantastic, beautiful, wonderful metro system that is sooo easy to use and right outside our door). We headed to the Borne district, a district known for great food and locals. We avoided, and will continue to avoid Las Ramblas - its high prices, prostis, and kitschy shops with shirts that read "My sister went to Barcelona and all she got was this lousy shirt."
We stepped out into the Born District from the Metro. Packed. Full of locals. Full of street side bars and restaurants. Full of life at 11:30 at night. We wandered. We gawked. We searched for food. And we found it - un botella de vino, seared squid, fried fish, and chorizo.
They kicked us out around 12:30 - full and happy.
Friday, July 2, 2010
El Primero Del Julio
July 1st we travelled. The early rise came so soon. I tried to sleep until 4:30, but the thought of the travel day pushed open my lids and kept them open. It was a day filled with planes, trains, and automobiles. Although I wanted to, I never got to say "You're messing with the wrong guy" or "You're f***d." We slung (hoisted slowly) our 45 pound backpacks over our shoulders, dropped them into the trunk of a taxi, moved them to the seat of an express bus from Tacoma to Sea-Tac airport, checked them in, slung (even more slowly hoisted) them over our shoulders at baggage claim in Barcelona, dropped them down in front of us on the train to Passeig De Gracia, threw (achily carried) them for seven long blocks to our new apartment, and finally set them down. It was a long travel day for our packs, but they did just fine.
The most notable part of the catalyst to our trip had to be the disconnect. By disconnect, I specifically mean the shutting down of the Blackberries for a month. The moment we shut them down in Toronto was the last moment they would be used for 30 days. This may not seem so interesting to some, but to Mary and I, it was unbelievably freeing. No texts. No emails, Facebook updates, or Twitter feeds sent immediately to our phones. No telemarketing phone calls. A disconnect. It felt good. It feels good. My pockets are lighter and I'm not checking the damned thing every minute. It took years for me to really use cell phones and texting, but, oh yes, I got sucked into the vortex of constant connectivity. Not now. Gone. Phew.
At one point on the train ride into town, I thought I felt my pocket vibrate. I instantly dropped my hand down to check a text. But it was just a jolt of the fast train that rumbled down the Spanish rail line.
The most notable part of the catalyst to our trip had to be the disconnect. By disconnect, I specifically mean the shutting down of the Blackberries for a month. The moment we shut them down in Toronto was the last moment they would be used for 30 days. This may not seem so interesting to some, but to Mary and I, it was unbelievably freeing. No texts. No emails, Facebook updates, or Twitter feeds sent immediately to our phones. No telemarketing phone calls. A disconnect. It felt good. It feels good. My pockets are lighter and I'm not checking the damned thing every minute. It took years for me to really use cell phones and texting, but, oh yes, I got sucked into the vortex of constant connectivity. Not now. Gone. Phew.
At one point on the train ride into town, I thought I felt my pocket vibrate. I instantly dropped my hand down to check a text. But it was just a jolt of the fast train that rumbled down the Spanish rail line.
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