Even as I sat snugly in an aisle seat on the plane. Electronic translator at the ready in my hand. It still hadn't hit me.
Still couldn't let myself believe that I was going.
10 hours, two shitty meals, and two barely bearable movies later... I somehow arrived at Amsterdam airport.
Peculiar sensation as I recall walking these same hallways. I had stopped here 12 years earlier on a month-long trip to Sweden with my grand mama.
But then, I had no idea what kind of legal treasures lie outside those foreign-dusted walls.
Now knowledgeable but forced to delay my gratification for a Spanish destination, my eyes suddenly became perplexed by the delicate rain that slowly floated from the sky.
Could it be? Was it really?
Yes! It was snow!
Momentarily charming me with the belief that I could be on a magical journey.
When I arrived in Barcelona my only concerns were finding my luggage (which had been lost twice before) and finding my new French roommate, Lucie (who I feared spoke just as little English as I did French).
Lucky for me, we found each other with only a quick lapse of fear.
Unlucky for Lucie, I had bags that were heavier than Kirstie Alley without a diet. Not to mention, we had an hour of travel before we were to make it the final resting place.
Right about the time that my arm was about snap in half, a thickly accented voice behind me says,
"Where you goeen? We're ear."
In slow motion, I stare up at an intimidating door that looks like it came from a medieval dungeon. I was instantly overwhelmed with giddy excitement.
After painfully laughing my luggage up steep and narrow stairs, I let out a sound of exhaustion/amazement as I finally realized that these gothic-like quarters were going to be called "home".
The creepy-cozy two bedroom apartment sits on the second floor of a 100 year-old building. The interior features aging beams overhead that perfectly compliment Moroccan artifacts and incredibly comfy brown leather furniture, which seems like it came from a traveled great grandfather. Very lived in...my fave.
The long windows in the living room let in the warm street light as well as frame our own private show of the activities that play out down below.
At around 2am, I can start to hear all the young Spaniards trekking it down our humble, cobble street to the open doorways alive with spicy music in the rooms beneath us.
So strange that night life in Spain begins at the hour when ours (Cali) must screech to an end.
I'm just grateful that I have yet to understand Catalan (the native language), or else it would be jarring rather then comforting to try and sleep through the late night/early morning jokes and energetic laughter outside.
And still, its been unusually quiet in the city the last few days since I've arrived. The Easter holiday is like a long weekend of rest and relaxation for the inhabitants.
There are no stores open, and many restaurants are closed.
As I pass people by, I try to look into their eyes to get a sense of the energy that exists here. And funny enough, it reminds me of my Spanish grandparents...distant, and cold. Especially to unfamiliar faces.
But to be fair, I have yet to properly meet a local, so I may be jumping the gun a little (pow pow!)
With Barcelona under a "Sleeping Beauty" spell, the last two days my roomie and I have been holding up in the apartment, smoking bong loads between the never-ending cycle of tobacco-laced j's and discussing everything from reggae music to genocide to UFC fights to animal sex to traumatic experiences with family to reincarnation to racism to the homosexual acts of ancient civilizations to rolling methods to... you get the picture ;P
In other words, language has not been a barrier and we have yet to be lost in translation.
Tomorrow is a new day. And there is an entire cultural metropolis I haven't explored.
I know its Easter and I'm supposed to give a damn.
But fuck Mr. Bunny...
I can hardly wait to see this city alive!
