Barcelona Part Two

Barcelona Part Two

The Morning After

Peering out from under my niteshades, the light was blinding and the dorm empty. A pressing need for a leak propelled me from the bed. As i scrambled into some light blush-saving garments i tossed over the idea of returning to sleep after finding relief. My head was unexpectedly well after the previous nite's celebrations. Light and floating, somewhat disorientated but not pulsing. On return to the dorm i decided on some pre-emptive paracetamol and another couple of hours Zzzzzs before dinner.

Foraging in my medical kit for the paracetamol i heard the first scream. Loud, piercing, pained. The large window by the end of my bed was wide-open (a six bed-dorm takes a lot of airing to alleviate the potent mix of travellers sock's, boots, overdue laundry and assorted personal odours). Ignoring the noisy intrusion i continued to fumble in my pill bag, dexterity eluding me. Then another sharp series of screams. I loudly cursed whoever was larking around outside and weighed closing the window against the heavy stuffiness in the room. More screaming, tinged this time with desperation. Somebody was crying at the top of the their voice in Spanish No, No, No. A man's voice, surely high-jinx. Soon the screaming elevated into an elongated cry of No, Regardo, No; the pitch climbing higher, controting into something primeval, not expressing words or thoughts but pure emotion - terror, desperation, anguish.

Jumping to the window, I pushed my head against the security bars to try to establish where the screaming was coming from. As i did, it grew ever more panicked and desperate. Over and over the screams pleaded No, begging for somebody or something to stop. And it was coming from one of the upper floors of the hostel building. On realising this i ran downstairs and told the dude on reception that he needed to call the police immediately as it sounded like someone was being tortured somewhere upstairs. The dude flashed a look of mild disbelief and asked me to take him upstairs to check it out. Irked by his response I darted up the steps ahead of him, urgency injected into my steps; a reaction to my own initially lazy response.


Standing by the dorm window there wasn't a sound but for the usual street noises floating on the breeze of a warm afternoon. Then, as the dude seemed on the verge of shrugging his shoulders, there was another twisted screaming spasm of pain, the horribly familiar pleas of No, No, Regardo, No overpowering the honking cars on the streets below. Though inaudible inside the building, the strained voice forced loudly through the open window. With this, the dude jumped into action and sprinted out of my dorm.

Staircase

The dude gone, the screams having once more receded I sat on the bed, not sure what the hell was going on or what to do. Each pause between screams made it seem that the commotion could be over - for good or for bad. I had done what i could, raised the alarm and summoned help. What now? Sit down, get dressed? Go downstairs? Another anguished scream startled me. It was audible suffering and it was impossible to sit there quietly listening to the sound of someone being tortured. I reflexively jumped up from the bed and out of the dorm, heading up the stairs.


Bounding up the first couple of steps i had no idea what i was doing. My only thought was to alarm and distract whatever aggressor i would find up there. My heart racing, a sudden thump landed on the metal staircase high above. My ascent slowed as loud voices shouting in Spanish and the pounding of heavy bodies began rapidly coming down toward me, each pounding footstep feeling like an imminent threat. A girl in pyjama bottoms and a tank top, toothbrush in mouth, came out onto the landing immediately above me. Turning her gaze toward the commotion above her head she dropped the toothbrush and started screaming, running back onto her floor. The shouting and thumping was closing fast, doors were slamming, and i had come to a halt as i quickly measured my options. Should i try to stop one or other of the angry strangers spilling down toward me? The first or the second? Continue up toward them, stand my ground or retreat? It seemed certain from the weight and speed of their steps that i would more likely be bowled over down the steps by their bulk and momentum. The shouted Spanish words added to my confusion and disorientation and as bodies turned the last spiral down to where i stood i reversed course. Discretion became the better part of valour and i bolted back down the stairs without wasting any time to turn my head to see what was behind me. Turning onto my floor i darted to my dorm door to discover that, in my eagerness to get upstairs, i had locked myself out.


Standing in the corridor and locked out of my dorm i was trapped between the approaching and imminent thunder and a series of locked doors. The shouting and pounding closed to the steps just outside my floor and i was bracing for impact when a door opened at the opposite end of the corridor. With much nonchalance and annoyance the sleepy head of a Danish guy poked out to wonder what the commotion was. I sprinted toward him so suddenly that he started and nearly shut the door on me. As i reached his door i turned back to see a large, heavy man half run, half fall into our corridor from the staircase. Partly hunched over and clutching at his chest, the guy's shirt was soaked with dark blood, his jeans and shoes splattered and flecked with red. The guy staggered forward toward us, gurgling a few Spanish words as the shouting reached the corner behind him. With that the Danish guy latched onto my shoulder and pulled me into the dorm, slamming the door shut.


Peering out


Breathlessly i explained what i knew to the suddenly wide-awake Dane, my ear all the time pressed to the door but hearing nothing outside. The Dane rather wanted to stay put, but i wanted to know what was going on. After a couple of minutes i eased back the door just a sliver but i could see no one outside. The toilet and shower-room doors that opened off either side of the corridor were closed, the dorm doors all locked. Gingerly and as silently as possible I edged along the corridor toward the staircase door, carefully looking into the bathrooms as i went. Along the corridor there were small drops of blood on the floor. The white staircase was covered in blood; bloody footprints on the floor, wet red hand prints dripping from the white handrails, large splotches of blood on the worn metal steps. But nobody was in sight and there was no more noise.

I returned to the room and reported to the Dane and determined to make my way downstairs to see if the panic was over and what the hell was going on. Moments later i was stunned to find a Filipino cleaning lady on the staircase vigorously scrubbing, a bucket of red-brown dirty water at her feet. This i took to mean the panic was over and i bounced past her down the steps, bemused with the speed of the clean up operation. In the common area, which opened off the bottom of the stairs i met the dude from reception. Over his shoulder i could see through the kitchen door the heavy guy slumped on the floor, his back propped against a cabinet. His shirt was removed, revealing a large chest wound. Dark red blood had pured down onto his stomach, staining his jeans black, forming a pool of dark red liquid on the floor around him. Head bowed, his breathing was slow and heavy. He did not appear to be conscious, his bloodied chest barely rising, his arms lifeless by his side.

The tale

The reception dude explained that having called the police he had sprinted upstairs with a master key and opened the dorm where the noise was coming from. There was an altercation between two South Americans who had checked in a couple of days before. It seemed that the guy slumped on the kitchen floor had repeatedly stabbed the other guy, before being stabbed himself. The other South American was now lying on the floor of the dorm. The dorm room was covered in their blood like a scene from a Reservoir Dogs. The walls were splattered red, so much blood on the windows that the room was darkened of sunlight. Using his finger and thumb he indicated the fraction of an inch of blood that covered the dorm floor. When he had opened the dorm door the heavy dude had burst out past him onto the staircase, seemingly making a break for it. The reception dude pursued him down the stairs before the heavy guy first stalled onto our floor before staggering of his own accord down the stairs into the kitchen. A girl who had been sitting in the common area recalled a bizarre scene. The heavy guy had staggered into the common area clutching his chest and asking for water. As he staggered toward the kitchen a furious looking Filipino cleaning lady followed him, a few steps behind, mopping up the continuing trail of blood.

After some delay the cops arrived in number, followed shortly after by the paramedics. Much time was spent trying to stabilise each of the two South Americans before moving them to the ambulances. One of the staff said the guy upstairs was in such bad state that the paramedics were reluctant to waste blood transfusions on him. By now the press was on to it and a photographer was outside taking photos. Free, salving booze was being handed out from the bar. A suave, shaven-headed detective in blue jeans, white tee-shirt and black leather jacket - every bit the TV cop - questioned me and took a statement, the reception dude acting as translator.

After

As the police and paramedics faded away the cleaning ladies answered the call, turning out in force to mop and scrub away the blood. By evening time people returning tot he hostel knew nothing of the days events, but were mildly disconcerted to find that the kitchen was off limits. The other occupants of the blood-bath dorm room were admitted to retrieve their bags and belongings which were stained and soaked to varying degrees. That evening in the hostel bar a weird atmosphere prevailed. Many of those who had been out during the day partied away knowing nothing of the day's events whilst others, and the staff, shared a brooding uneasiness. I stayed late in the bar with some Scousers lingering from the previous nite.

The next morning was the end of my stay in Barcelona. I had always planned to leave the day after the game, and i was doubly happy to be leaving now. The staff on duty the day before were on duty again in the morning. I thought they might be entitled to a day off but all preferred to work to keep their mind off of things. Each to their own. By now the status of the South Americans had improved. The heavy dude who had passed out in the kitchen was likely to survive, the other guy had almost died on the operating table but was still clinging on. I said goodbye and good luck to the reception dude and trudged off to the train station to catch a train to France, happy that i could and mindful of the staff who stayed behind.

Barcelona Pt One

Barcelona

Barcelona has a warm ambient energy that dissolves hours and days as sugar plopped into warm tea. This town has the looks to match its vibe and in the evening times it is a hot date. A pleasant place to idle over coffee and a book and to dawdle open mouthed through an architectural wonderland crowned by the naturalistic dreamscape of Gaudi's La Familia Sagrada. A colourful soaring splendour, eclipsing the traditional imposing greyness of clerical architecture, this cathedral has been in the works for 120 years and is unlikely to be finished for another 80. An iconic building apart, Barcelona as the epitome of Catalan independence.

The principal blight of Barcelona, after the backpacker-unfriendly prices, are the tourist hordes. It might be a little rich of me to complain about tourists, but queues on weekday afternoons in February is taking the piss. At times daylight seems to dim as another busload of locusts falls onto a point of interest, zigzagging all the time behind a leader holding up a small flag and speaking into a mic. At each stop the swarm unleashes a blizzard of flashes, words of explanation filters through the disinterested chatter and the swarm lifts off again blindly following their pied piper in a peaked baseball. Barely a hunched moment of quiet contemplation is allowed before the next swarm descends. At lunchtime a carefully chosen, quiet little restaurant is instantly turned into a swarming anthill as the drones file in one after another. Sitting briefly, the insect sound of intense munching fills the room before the drones file out again to fulfillment of their itinerary. Two more museums, a scheduled coffee in a plaza, a shopping centre and half an hour free time before grazing again at dinner time.

Downswing

Unfortunately - as with most of my time in Spain - the weather did not match the mood of the city. In the glum, driving rain recollections of sun blessed days in Torre Vieja and warm afternoons in Morocco were all but washed away. As was my good humour. Trapped in a tapas bar one evening, imprisoned by a biblical rainstorm, i thought i may need need an ark to get back to my hostel. My mood blackened to a depression that jostled the weather for dour supremacy. Thunder and lightening. Cats and dogs.

As the fury splashed down, a flashflood of irritation welled up to meet it in grim contemplation. Though ostensibly i had little to complain about (maybe this was the problem?), in this frame of mind everything darkens and every occurrence and observation becomes a source of irritation. Looking out at the dismal downpour from a barstool with no backsupport, I filled a couple of mildly therapeutic journal pages with my black thoughts, as though naming the guilty irritants would divest me of them. On paper they were all trivial - people on mobile phones, noisy tourist drones, lousy buses, snoring dorm mates, wobbly table legs, broken ATM machines, soaking weather, loose paving stones sploshing water into my boots etc etc. And as i continued my moan my own irritability became an annoyance as i turned on myself. Why am i letting these trivial things get me down? With a perfect spiral of misery feeding on itself, i decided to budget-bust and treat myself to some proper good food and better vino.

After dinner my mood tempered somewhat but continued to simmer at the surface. I took my book and journal to a friendly bar counter for a quiet, conciliatory drink liom fein, and ended up in conversation, having somewhat begrudgingly putting down my book, with an ex pat from Dublin. Soon a whole ruckus of British Royal Navy marines on shore leave spilled into the bar - anchored down en route to Greece - and a carnival atmosphere unfurled. A weird, weird world, I genuinely could not believe the time as we stumbled out the door at 4:30am.

The next day i nursed a murderous hangover and a mood at least as bleak as the previous day but which was principally attributable to the bitter medicine i had indulged rather than any greater or lesser metaphysical concerns. A quiet day was followed by a nite of elusive sleep, owing at least in part to the three - count 'em, three out of four - snorers in the dorm room. Fidgeting in the bed for most of the nite i looked forward to a day of fatigue that was unlikely i figured to produce an upswing.

Footie on the box

One of the principal reasons i stayed for a week in Barcelona was to take in the Liverpool Barce game at the Nou Camp. The weekend before the big match game, Barce played Valencia and i headed out to scout out our opposition on the box. Eschewing the legion Oirish bars i sought out the company of local Barcelona fans. This proved to be more difficult than i could have anticipated.

A city guide book recommended two bars for their authentic footie atmosphere. A long trek through town found each of these closed for Sunday. Typical i thought. As kick off was imminent i ditched authenticity in favour of immediacy and ducked into The London Bar, which against the odds turned out to be a local favourite. A full bar was pensively awaiting the clearing up of a temporary tv malfunction, sitting broodily over full drinks. Ten minutes after kick off time the bar was instantaneously and moodily cleared by the announcement from the barman that the temporary malfunction had become permanent. Full pints deserted on every table. Money in the bar till.

I now hurriedly returned toward the hostel to a neighbourhood bar i had spotted the previous evening. It was stuffed with grumpy old men, grumpier dogs, grandchildren and assorted nuts sheltering from the rain. I wedged myself into a semi-empty seat and leaned around a corner to catch a view of the small screen. One old-timer down the back was setting out his stall as an Espanyol fan and took to baiting the Barce fans. Even my limited knowledge of Spanish determined that he was cheering for Valencia just to wind everyone else up. And he was succeeding with some aplomb. At one stage he jeered Barce's Italian full back, Zambrotta, as a "dirty Sicilian Mafiosi". Next he was shouting in the face of loud reposts that Barce only win because the refs are crooked. As the patience of his neighbours freyed he turned his attention to cajoling one patron´s bulldog to attack another's fluffy little Schnauzer. Massive uproar ensued from those fixed to the game when the loudly snarling, ill-tempered bulldog knocked over glasses and chairs in devouring the tiny German mutt.

Despite the surfeit of entertainment i decided to leave the circus to retire to a reliable Oirish bar at half time. Finding a heaving, sweaty Paddy joint i sucked in my stomach, removed my shoulder bag and dived in. At the counter i received one untypically Spanish, and very typically Oirish, messy, overflowing pint of lager. With my eyes on the prize of a sliver of standing room I wiggled through the crowd, manoeuvring bag, coat and pint around various corporeal obstacles. Forcing gently between two large bodes i squeezed through to the other side and as i did so the messy, wet, slippy pint slipped. With tremendous dexterity, bag and coat falling from my shoulder, i slung forward and just managed with my finger to catch the pint glass in mid air ... and turn it upside down into my coat, bag and crotch. A loud cheer from the bar folk, a scowl on my face, all I needed to round off the experience was an aged Espanyol fan to set a bull dog on me. On the plus side a fluffy little Barcelona team were devoured by a tough Valencia bulldog.

Queuing for tickets

The Liverpool match was a sell out, with the final couple of hundred tickets going on sale at the stadium the day before the game. The ticket booths opened at 10:00am. With grim determination i hauled ass out of bed at 4:45am. An Irish shower and cursory toothbrush later i joined two scousers in the lobby and we caught the first metro to the Nou Camp, arriving into the cool air and fading darkness of early morning. A queue of fifty odd people had already formed and taxis were landing every few minutes disgorging early birds and late nite revellers into the queue.

The line up was headed by about twenty-odd grizzled Spanish touts, a few of whom had tried to sell me tickets outside the stadium the previous day. A rumour swirled through the crowd during the morning that passport ID would be required to obtain a ticket and when the gates opened at 9:00am pandemonium was unleashed. As the gates opened the line tightened, tired bodies began to compact and a commotion was rising near the front. Inside the wire the touts walked smilingly toward the ticket booths. Outside, and in front of me, the queue was going nowhere.

After agitated discussion i pushed ahead and discovered that UK passport holders were being refused tickets, as the seats were all in the Barce end. This development caused dismay - to put it mildly - amongst those who had queued since early morn. Nonetheless the armed security guards were not in an "I feel your pain" sort of mood, more of an "I'll inflict your pain" stance. Through this growing ruckus i forced my way, Irish passport held head high and skipped into the queue for the ticket desk. While we awaited the opening of the ticket booths the frustrated scousers who had been denied entry broke into a brief chorus of Liverpool chants and awaited with vaseline for the touts to emerge. One unsavoury tout walked from the ticket booth by the Liverpool fans, waiving his tickets in front of them, laughing as he slipped out a side exit and down an alleyway. Immediately he was followed by four burly scousers, who no doubt wished to discuss politely with him affairs of state or some other such delicacies, and who returned ten minutes later with two tickets and red knuckles.

The game

The couple of thousand scousers in Barcelona generated a party atmosphere ahead of the game, far outsinging their numbers. Gathered in the centre of town near Las Ramblas they hung their banners and flags from balconies, street lights and bar windows. Peaceful and in good spirits they drank lake sized quantities of lager and sang to Ronaldinho that Cilla Black wants her teeth back. Heading to the stadium i brought my reassuringly green passport and decided against anything that would mark me as a Liverpool fan - for fear of not being left into the Barce end, and for fear of what the Barce end might have to say about it. However both fears proved groundless. The Barce fans were generous and courteous and Liverpool stormed the fortress. An amazing 2-1 victory in the lions den set us dreaming once more. And afterward a very, very late nite ensued.

Feeling the pain

Returning to the hostel in the early morning of the next day, more Liverpool fans were spilling in and we emptied the beer dispenser in the lobby before heading to bed as other people began to leave to catch flights. Another titanic hangover seemed inevitable and i wobbled to my dorm, joy unconfined overwhelming any portents of the pain that would surely attend my next awakening. Nite shades installed, ears plugged and water by the bed i slumped into a deep sleep to awake late in the afternoon. And it was here that Pt Two of my Barcelona experience began.

Europe: Redux II

Europe: Redux II

Ferried back to Spain i landed in Tarifa in the dark and boringly familiar rain of early evening. After checking into a hostel I headed to a nearby bar, with book in hand, to quietly mark my return to the sodden land of alcohol. Somewhat unfortunately, somewhat fortuitously, i didn't make it through the first drink or chapter before falling into conversation with a group of young British ex-pats - one of whom bore the obvious benefits of a West Cork schooling. A drink turned into a couple into a few into a club into a party back at their place into Christ is that the time i'd better get back. Darkening the hostel reception at 9:30 am, check out time impending at 10:00am, i checked in for an extra nite, being in no state to board a bus. And so i slept for a day, headed for another quiet pint and a read and finally caught the bus to Seville.

Seville

A relatively quiet and pleasant week was passed in Seville. Much time spent strolling the streets and occupying the cafes. A trip to the bullfighting ring and museum, and a read of Death in the Afternoon, somewhat illuminated a gorey sport. Though still i find it difficult not to let my sympathies and support charge to the bull rather than the matador and his assorted cohorts.

An excellent hostel organised nitely activities and i submitted to the obligatory flamenco show. A large crowd of tourists, and some locals, sat before a small stage set in a large venue at the side of a popular local bar. The star of the show was tall and ample of girth, having distinctive tourist-appeasing dark Roma hair and stern complexion. To accomplished music and enthusiastic clapping she pouted and stamped and swaggered up a storm. With reluctance she occasionally stood aside for the musician's solos. At the end of each tune she led the applause and fixed the audience with a threatening stare that intoned 'Clap, or I keeeel you'. Before once more stomping into a fury of dance that reinforced the latent threat.

Another evening outing involved a pub crawl ending in a club. Emerging into a convivial morning at 5:30am there was a queue outside waiting to get in. The Spanish like to do it late! And they are also fond of haırcuts and fashions that elsewhere have people reaching for the hotline to the lunatic asylum. Current hairstyle king is the 'Fernando Torres' as eponymously sported by the Spanish international at the world cup. For those unfamiliar with the Torres, an approximation may be had by growiıng a mullet, then arming a blind drunk with an electric sheep shears and requesting a short back and sides, all the time standing barefoot on hot coals.

Torre Vieja and Valencia

Heading up the East coast I accepted the extremely generous offer to stay at my cousins' place in Torre Vieja, a small town South of Alicante. The weather was excellent - and unfairly raised expectations of what was to come through the rest of Europe - and the beach was close. An ideal couple of days became a couple of weeks as my lazy sunkissed arse initially refused all efforts to move it further North. Why and how did our paleolithic ancestors bother stumbling North of the Med?? So i lingered and read, and lay in the sun, and walked the coast and watched the Irish tv beamed in directly by satellite.

In the evenings I availed of the supermarket and the novelty of my own kitchen and watched the football matches in the numerous ex-pat pubs. Costa ex-pat is a part of Spain where Spanish is not required. I had a haircut and discussed football in the 'British Barber Shop'. Fish and chips of the highest order was found next door to the pubs. And the pubs of course were all Paddy bars - The Old Bog Road, The Temple Bar, An Shibin. In fact i may have scandalised my kind cousins and endangered their standing in the local community by visiting The Judges Chambers, reportedly owned by none other than Mrs. John Gilligan.

When finally the body was persuaded to move - by the fear that my forebearing cousins may consider consulting Spanish lawyers about an eviction order - it grudgingly went the short distance to Valencia and lingered for a couple of days. The outstanding feature of town being the modern architecture of the new planetarium and science centres. The enormous multi-storied planetarium is a highlight, having the distinct look of a giant stormtrooper helmet from a Star Wars movie. After this it was on to Barcelona and Liverpool's date with detiny in the Nou Camp.