Day 53 (Barcelona)

May I introduce you to a few friends of mine?

You’ve seen the bush man? He’s famous, look him up if you don’t know what I’m talking about. Well, I found bush lady. I’m sorry she’s not naked, but she is super creepy. I actually was jolted a couple times passing her, thinking at first she was a street artist. It’s not. It’s actually in front of an awesome jewelry/art gallery/store. Old Victorian portraits of people with animal heads. It’s totally my kind of thing. One day I will go around buying art that I like. For now, I enjoy it in stores with creepy leaf ladies scaring me out front.

Meet Taller Hamster Loco. Not to be confused with Shorter Hanster Loco. 

And… you know, I have nothing clever to say. I just wanted to show you some cool arts. So ENJOY IT. I don’t have to constantly entertain you. Sheesh.

Today I mostly wandered about, seeing the sights, the beautiful Spanish architecture, and old crumbly buildings.

  

And then I came across this:

Which I could only deduce to be a ritual sacrifice of this child to the pigeons, with the townspeople around to watch. And his little sister, there for moral support and to mourn. It was either that, or he was performing surgery on one of the birds, but although he has small hands, I doubt his veterinary microsurgical ability. Let’s be realistic here. He just can’t have that level of knowledge at his age.

And then it was time. I made my way to the airport, dreading the ridiculous regulations of budget airlines. This beefy horse (who I took to be the guardian deity of Barcelona) wished me good luck

 And it must have worked because I totally got all my stuff on the plane without having to pay their silly fees for checking bags. Somehow I fit everything including my 7 new pairs of shoes into my backpack… I also may or may not have put on ALL of my clothes… and wrapped my towel around my waist under my clothes… Yeah I looked like 20 pounds bigger, but it was so worth it. Don’t judge me. I’m not paying 40 euros to check a bag. That’s food moneys.

This is why I hate flying more than even 20 hour, expensive train rides, that I would have probably just taken had I not cared so much about my food moneys. My flight was 2 hours late. This sucked. But on top of that, they told everyone it was only an hour late, and we would actually be boarding 15 minutes before the departure. Instead, they had us all waiting in line for another hour, walking up and down inspecting all our baggage, making sure we were following their stupid strict regulations. Then, it seemed the lady taking the tickets just wanted to get everyone through so she could go harass someone else, or do her hair, or something, so she started taking tickets and sending people into the little passageway, before the passengers from the previous flight had exited. It was pandemonium. She then started having everyone form just a different line after she took their tickets. Then, finally as we were able to boarding the plane, she started cramming people into the wider part of the passageway into a mass of more lines that of course people were using to cut around everyone else, starting fights, you know.

Needless to say, I was so happy to step out of the airport and breathe some sweet Portuguese air. But then I realized it was after 11, and the regular buses stop running then, and I had no idea where the night time buses were, and I couldn’t find them. So I stood at a stop where some other people were for the bus that supposedly has stopped running, and then I realize that Portugal is like the only country still attached to Europe that is in a different time zone (the other countries are like England and crap). Thank. Goodness. So I bused it to the main station, where I had to grab a tram over to the part of town where my hostel was. This tram turned out to be one of Portugal’s beloved historical trams. Let me tell you something. They are awe3some. To look at. Riding them is like being on one of those 25 cent rides for kids in front of the grocery store, only a touch more violent. You know, for adults. Also, Portugal’s tram system, although it runs convenient places, is not very clear on where exactly you are going. There are different stops on different maps, and they don’t always stop at all of them, so no luck counting the number of stops. There are no maps on the train. There are only teeny little signs at the stops themselves. Also, as far as I could tell, I couldn’t buy a ticket on the old tram. So I stood in the back exit area, hoping no one would check if I had a ticket (because I did not), being stared at by the nighttime creepers of Portugal’s public transit. What’s more, is we rode through  what seemed to be the Portuguese ghetto. ALSO, nobody speaks English. So I just stood there terrified, tryin to decide whether to just get off at a random stop to check the “stops” and catch another, or to just keep going. Luckily, I was able to spout out like 2 Portuguese words, and find out that the stop right before mine was the next stop. Now, had I known that my stop had an enormous building right at it, I would have been fine, but I didn’t. But I finally got there. And then didn’t know quite where to go. I walked up the street I knew to be mine, looking for the address, checking buildings that looked like hostels. Finally, I found number 16, after 14, 14a, 14c, 14e, etc, wondering if the whole street was just 14. I actually passed 16 at first, as the sign for the hostel was about half a piece of regular paper taped onto the door. But I got inside, and settled into my temporary little home. Ahhh.