Cross-cultural street party, astonishingly bad airport security and outsider empathy can be dangerous. (Barcelona)

Who would have thought that San Sebastián would turn out to be such a blast!  When I returned to the hotel (having arranged to meet Lambert later that evening) I was greeted by Mikel who offered his mom’s homemade traditional Basque rabbit stew (which tasted like frogs legs). He had invited his friend Chema (the nickname for those named José Maria), so that night it was me and the boys.  And what a group it was: me speaking Espanglish, Lambert earnestly struggling in Espanglish, Chema practicing German, and Mikel amused by it all. We went to an English/German pub (of course) where I eavesdropped on two Americans deeply engaged in conversation. I think one of the elements contributing to the Stupid American Tourist stereotype is the way Americans frequently sound like infomercials on self improvement. “I was getting drunk all the time and just felt like hell, so I gave up alcohol and relationships, and it was like, man, so much better….” They speak with such authority on the most trivial of subjects.

We found ourselves on a street filled with tons of Australians and Americans (and two Basques, one German and one Canadian).  While we pushed into one bar I met a cute Argentine from Rosario, but upon my return from my “drip dry” bathroom trip he had gone.  We navigated the throngs, popping inside, outside, all the while Lambert and Mikel teasing me about being checked out by guys. By 2:30 am there was a definite Birmingham-like male-to-female ratio in my favour and with much better looking guys.  Yum, I like Basque tapas. We crawled in as dawn was breaking. I completely slept through my alarm and rushed madly to the airport.

I allowed myself the liberty of looking closely again at the ETA fugitives. The one who so fascinates me was born July 27, 1970 and is named Ainhoa.  She actually looks a lot like my cousin Janis.

I sure hope no one has brought a bomb on this flight because passing through security was a complete circus.  The woman right behind me buzzed as she went through and when the guard asked to examine her she just flashed her bracelets and made poo-poo noises in French which he sheepishly accepted. Say what you will about the English, their security is thorough.

* * *

Back in Barcelona, I bypassed the 600 peseta sandwiches on the Ramblas, heading straight for the Mercado, picking up ample provisions for less than a pound. I loved hearing the delicate “click” my cherry pits made as they hit the pavement. Near the Fundació Antoní Tapies I could see part of the back of Casa Batlló, the Gaudí apartment building with balconies shaped as masks.  Even better, I could see that the shopping centre behind it had a great view.  The fourth floor had a back patio to which I would have normally been refused entry, but because there was a guy working outside the salesperson allowed me to go.  This vantage point, rarely seen by tourists, took my breath away with its mosaic roof, wrought ironwork, blue tiled walls and beige tiled floors.

Tried my luck for the second time at Montjuïc where I took in the expansive view of the city; had it been super clear I might have seen Mallorca. This time the Joan Miró Foundation was open and surprisingly difficult to navigate. Without my guidebook I surely would have missed the civil war lithographs and the donations by his wife. A piece he painted just for her he had named “Morning Star.”  Could that be more romantic?  Why are so few men artists?

As dusk approached I surveyed my options for returning to town. Walking was ruled out because the mountain was now almost abandoned and my route would have been through a tunnel of graffiti. An older gentleman with an extravagant vein cascading down his nose recommended the bus, but when he abruptly commenced a passionate and irate tirade about the failure of North American tourists to heed his advice, I rapidly made my way to the simple, quiet funicular.

Back to the hotel I walked through Plaça de Catalunya and joined a large crowd watching an Ecuadorian band perform.  As I stood there, anticipating the next song, I sensed someone looking at me.  I casually glanced behind me to see a very dark-skinned man. I began thinking about how difficult it must be for someone in Spain to be such an obvious outsider, especially in such an historically intolerant culture, when suddenly he was next to me whispering “hello”. My peaceful Andean reverie was shattered as he invaded my personal space.  Notwithstanding my sympathies as one outsider to another, I realized my vulnerability and, unwilling to discover his motivations, got the heck out of there.