15 October 2010

Barcelona, I Beg You for Mercy (where there is none to come)

So there are two really young guys in my dorm room that sleep until 4 or 5 in the afternoon.  I kept thinking, why do they sleep so long?  I discovered exactly why my last week in Barcelona. 
The party starts on the terrace at 6:00 or so, and for some the party started on the beach at 2:00 that afternoon.  Sangria and beers and more sangria and more beers. 
At midnight, the trip to the club begins for a night of dancing.  This is perfectly normal and expected in Barcelona.  Directing a group of 25, more or less inebriated hostelers to the beach is a feat of amazement, nad our "hosts" were remarkable.  I am not sure if it is legal, but people drink on the subways and in public in Spain; it’s a matter of convenience, the idea being that if you are drunk before the club, you spend less at the club in beer tabs, which can be astronomically expensive.  When I arrived in Madrid, I was surprised to see a group of young women openly drinking, and now I am part of the group openly drinking (though in my maternal state I am NOT drinking on the subway and am instead watching out for the others).  I have a feeling of coming full circle in Spain.
The club is pulsing violently with techno music; people are jumping up and down, and every once in a while going down to the beach for 1 euro cervezas (the beers in the club are 8 euros).  I am not a clubber.  I can only dance in a crowd of 23 year olds making out on the floor for about 20 minutes (so that is two songs); I love to dance, but I get bored rather quickly.  Add to that the fact that I am a perspirerer.  So in those ten minutes, giving it my all, I am dripping in my own sweat, and the sweat of those around me.  My hair is wet; my face is flushed.  Fun, but exhausting.
Around 4 in the morning, the beach party begins and several people are in their skivvies in the sea.  People don’t want to go home, but it is also a matter of not being able to go home.  Taxis are expensive and the night bus is difficult to find, so we wait for the metro to open up at 5 to catch a ride back, where more conversations will be had with a few much needed sandwiches. 
It’s a night that teaches me the seedy sides of Barcelona (Christina, you were right on the mark).  Christopher and Jeff both got robbed while they were in the sea and we were all next to their belongings watching them swim.  Thieves here are SOOO subtle and so effective.  Christopher lost his pants and ONE shoe and Jeff had his pockets picked; the pants showed up further down the beach.  Storm had his shoes stolen while he was sitting next to them.  Leeza had her bag stolen.  There is a reason that the law in Barcelona is “You are not naked in public IF you are wearing flip-flops,” and I think this might be it: a lot of people lose their clothes on the beaches of Barcelona.  Christopher was about to walk home in his oxford and speedo when another hosteler offered him her leggings (so he almost looked like he was in a wet-suit).  He found a pair of jeans further up the beach (belonging to someone else who had been robbed) so was spared the humiliation of walking home in women’s stockings.
But I also learned the generostiy of people in Barcelona.  Christopher got a pair of shoes from some "bastard" in the hostel (he would want me to say that, he who several times gave or lent some part of his wardrobe to the unfortunate in need of party wear).  People chipped in where they could, cooked meals where they could, lent items as they could.  Sharing is Caring: Rule Number 3 of the Graffiti Hostel.  And ultimately, no one was hurt, and I am impressed with the attitudes of those robbed.  They were ready to go out the next night, with a bit more safety in mind.  They kept saying, “Well at least I have my pants (even though the pockets were emptied)…at least I have my passport…at least I have my life and I can go out tonight.”  That is partying like a rock star in Barcelona. 
In case you are wondering, my time in Barcelona was not completely bacchanal.  Unless you consider Harry Potter marathons hedonistic (and I might).  This is the aftermath of all those long nights.  Good times.

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