Sugar, Water, Fire

      Work at a the Yellow Nest was light in the extreme, what proved to be more difficult was handling the social conditions imposed by living in a revolving door of hedonism and world exploration. My boss admitted that rarely could someone work for two months without a problem and people that took on the uncertain situation of exchange employment had a distinctive dull glaze over the motive for their stay. 

The official schedule began at 10am and finished at 2pm, God willing. My task was to removed all the sheets from guests that had checked out and prepare fresh beds in a hostel that could accommodate 90 people. This could take the allotted 4 hours, but more typically I could complete everything by noon or 1pm. My supervisor said that I was abnormally punctual and fast.... luckily he never witnessed my especially aggressive technique of linen changing that undoubtedly shortened the life of the mattresses by 2 years.... but this wasn't my concern.


   The Yellow Nest hostel is situated next to the Mosos HQ on an unexciting block in the far reaches of west Barcelona. To walk from the Nest to the beach takes about 1.5 hours. The ground and first floor were large rooms housing between 6 and 14 people in bunk beds. The roof was well appointed with pool chairs, basketball hoops, and astroturf. The basement housed and excellent kitchen, "cinema," spacious dining room, and a common area complete with foozeball, billards, and the smoking section. The facilities are probably the overall best for the price of any hostel in Barcelona.... which was the hook that lured many travelers to an isolated location devoid of entertainment and decorated with invigorating colors....the perfect breeding ground for malarkey. What people needed was a fellow with a sense of direction, humor, timing, and adventure and I filled that void. 

     The colors of the Nest were electrifying. I was commonly getting to bed at 4am because the intense yellows and wall mounted lights made it impossible to feel sleepy. There were no quiet spaces in the common area and people were always available to talk with. In a months time, I spent a total of 300 euros because people provided me with food and beer even when I refused. 



   It was initially rather difficult to get people interested in following me anywhere, let alone take advice about site seeing or the nightlife. Even more annoying was getting completely ignored by women while some shabby dressing, scruffy bearded, obnoxiously loud Canadian named Strand, lulled gaggles of ladies with the strumming of his guitar and coarse cigarette voice. 


    Seeking refuge from another throaty rendition of Dave Mathews, I closed the doors to the common room and plopped down next some card dealers and a bouncer from Cagouli, Australia. Crys made a definate impression with half shaved head, a neck that cracked like corn nuts, and arms bigger than mine....but she was such a sweetheart. After a bit of squint, eyed grunting and me calling them "lying c*nts", I bought them some beers, they showed me some card tricks, and the next 4 months of my European trip I owe to them. Knowing three simple card tricks truly opened the hearts of so many people that it boggles my mind. One second I'm some sketchy, hostel guy and the next I'm the person you want to hang out with for the rest of the night. Regardless, I met alot of amazing people.  

Sandi and I in front of the Olympic art.

Mike, bartender from Texas traveling alone.

Basque girl that didn't speak English but made me repeatedly instruct the French guys below how to make Kalimotxo

French guys that spoke no Spanish or English. They had been playing a cheap knife all week and I kept asking them to put it away. Later that night they went in to a dance club and pulled the knife out. A Pakistani snatched it away and cut up the guy's arm on the left.

This is the all-star group.

  

With the constant influx of travelers I began to develop a repertoire to accommodate budgets and personalities. A typical night out would usually include several nationalities and some really boring Americans that needed some liberation from the peer pressure of the group/family/friends. The absinthe bar, Bar Marsella, was my go-to for solving these situations when I could convince people that it was on the way to a better bar and it wouldn't make them see green fairies. The Bar Marsella has been in service since 1820 and has seen the likes of Hemingway, Van Gogh, Miro, and blah blah blah... it's owned by a fat, greedy, unfriendly, red nosed Dutchman whose North African employees detest and the place hasn't been dusted or decorated since the 50's. 

    So why would I bring people to this place? Partially it's because I love Hemingway, partially because it's a novelty to walk through a mob of hookers to get there, partially because it's around the corner from the best locals bars, but mostly because a sugar, fire, and absinthe is the best way to spur rebellion, excitement, poor decisions out of the most unexpected individuals.  


     

       Later that evening we returned to the hostel and R and I begin a long conversation about how Converse shoe are, despite their European popularity, expensive and the worst shoe for walking in Spain. We sign each others shoes in the lobby of the hostel and then R's friend, A, begins talking about the discomfort of her traveling clothes and wanting to be free. The night desk clerk informs her that Barcelona is the only national capital in the world with legalized nudity. This seems perfectly reasonable, so R and I strip and walk out the door, chaperoned by A. After going about a block without arousing any attention we duck into an apartment entrance-way to redress ourselves. A has stepped away to let us access the awkwardness of this situation. As we struggle to regain modesty, the cool 3 am breeze has brought with it a modicum of sobriety that is finding us with unexpected discomfort with having bared all only to feel rather unaroused.  We are both topless and quietly working pants over shoes when an old man with keys and cane in hand turns the corner. He looks at us both and slowly turns around saying, Don't worry, take your time. Blushed we finish and begin apologizing in three languages. He smiles and reassures us that it was no problem, then he invites us in for coffee. We respectfully decline.   


       I have to admit that much of my time in Barcelona revolved solely around developing a black lung in any number of drinking establishments. While I take no pride in boozing, it's a large part of the culture and tourism caters to the vulnerability, confusion, and thirst of the traveling masses. Most of these night are a blur of faces, misunderstandings, and laughter, lots of laughter. It would be nice to be allowed to subtract libations from the carnage so memories would retain the clarity of the-morning-after. I met so many people and recall so few names.... but that's what happens when your living the life of squirrelly, dirtbag traveler. 



    I remember the first time I met Julian .....and the last time. I was determined to send him off with a broken nose for all the aggressive, loud chauvinism, belligerent gestures, arrogance, and generally stinking up of air. He interrupted a good flirt to make his own play. When she shut him down, he turned into a 9 year old dropping the c-bomb as he swaggered. "Why do you do this everytime you asshole? Why do you have to fuck up everything, are you blind?" But I couldn't bring myself to smash that self-assured smile that everyone hated. With in him I saw myself; manipulating, petty, immature, lonely and using every bit of intellect, language, and charm to patch the ever festering wound of having no people or anchor to call home. It was those perpetual nights of slurred reality, regrettable decisions, and total unaccountability that was slowly turning us into monsters. 

      The best nights were those when I could guide a small group to  the better hid bars to be surrounded by Spanish and enjoy some relaxed drinks. My favorite bars were located in the Gothic district that foiled many a tourist for the lack of street signs and lighting creating a ambiance of an impending mugging in a cobblestone labyrinth. Sugar was deadly close to the famous Place Real, but this small bar was generally packed with locals. The bartenders talked as much as they served and 4 euro cocktail was mostly hard spirits. 

I remember very little about these grade school teachers from Scotland, besids the redhead fancied me to the point of buying drinks until I had to excuse myself to a good nights rest. Being too saucy to set up my bed for the night, I slept directly on the mattress and caught a bad case of pink eye. 

   After getting properly Sugared, it would be dutiful to transfer to a more relaxed venue for some proper banter and a bit of mead. The bar is owned by Manu Chao and does such a good job at remaining a hidden, local spot that the following are the only pictures I could find on the internet. It's a great place though, take my word. 

The Spanish are not known for good beer, but Estrella is an exception.

Bottles of mead are visible in the background.

   But the bars close eventually and we are ejected into the night energized, boozed, and in search of more stimuli. So then, just stroll up the block to Placa "Trippy,"  buy cold ones from the circulating Pakis that hide them in trash cans, and let the good times roll. 

  After two months at the Yellow Nest I was elevated from the burden of trying to balance my social life with work. It ended up being a sobering lesson that landed me in better locations. I took up residence at the Gothic Point hostel located in the....Gothic district. At the end of the first week my coworkers invited me out for lunch. I was able to maintain for about 45 minutes and then my brain simply shut off. My head swam, limbs were numb, I put money on the table for an untouched meal and bee-lined it back to the hostel where I slept for the next 36 hours. Apparently there was a two month sleep deficit that required immediate correction. 

Overall, Gothic Point had poorer facilities, better decoration, and very supportive group of traveling workers that took a bit of burden from my shoulders. The three weeks I spent there were a glorious time filled with many good people and days at the beach. I love Barcelona. 

The roof of Gothic Point is a good place to jam.

Alexandro from Argentina had been doing work exchange for 4 months. He was the glue. 

Who are these people?

Chad.... looked and acted like he had just walked off Muscle Beach in Venice where he trained action sport athletes. There was something outrageously entertaining about someone carting a backpack full of specialized sports gear around the world for promotion.

You might remember this monument from the Barcelona Olympics.... now it's good place to buy drugs. Such is Barcelona.

 






If you want any advice on good bars in Barcelona check out this blog  http://www.oh-holidays.com/travel-blog/tag/bars-in-barcelona