Barcelona—Arrival

Travel tale warning:  This story is about four smallish-town, American females traveling to a foreign country alone, during Carnival week.  They are staying in a 4th-floor studio apartment overlooking Las Ramblas, the beating heart of Barcelona, the wide streets where everyone will come to join the literal “street party” that is going one.  Everyone is invited, and they do come and party—very loudly and exuberantly, until about 5 in the morning, all three mornings we are there!  Sounds like a recipe for disaster, I know, and totally inconsistent with the fact that our group consists of a devoted wife and mother, a future missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a little girl who still loves to dress up and play pretend with her little sister, and one who can’t even crawl yet!  We are a pretty harmless crew who play it pretty safe.  And just for the record, I would have NEVER ventured on this little escapade, let alone stay where we stayed if I had known what was happening the first weekend of March in Barcelona.  I’m not a big risk taker when it comes to the safety of my kids.  But if there’s one thing that I have learned since coming to Europe, that is to just let go and roll with it!  I have so little control of the world around me!  I study and plan and work all I can trying to navigate my way here, and I’m still surprised in the end—always, without fail, every time.  But in this case, we get lucky.  The surprises end up being ok, even magical, one of those rare cases when ignorance really is bliss, and not just plain ole painful ignorance.  Crazy?  Maybe.  But worth it?  Every second. 

 

The Travelers!

On Friday, March 4 we depart from the Prague Airport and are to arrive in Barcelona sometime around 4 o’clock.  It’s a 2 hour 20 minute flight that is uneventful and ideal, really.  We meet a really cool Californian lady in the boarding line and her baby, Clara, who is about Wynnie’s age.  Evie says they’ll be BFF’s.  Clara and her mom are going home to Clara’s 2 brothers and dad who works for a cycling team in Spain.  Both Clara and Wynne fall asleep and fly great.  I lay Wynne’s head on my lap, and her feet on Liz’s.  She sprawls and stays asleep the whole time!  Awesome. 

Waiting at the Gate

We arrive and it is game time!  We have to find an ATM, pick up the Euros that I need to pay our contact for the apartment, find a Tourist Information desk to get a map of the city, find the train station, purchase our T10 passes (ten rides on public transport), call our “Friendly Rentals” contact, Billie, and then embark on the 40-minute ride we would have to the Plaza de Catalunya.  Well, between not knowing where our stroller will come out (gate check doesn’t mean that the stroller actually comes out at the gate with our airline, apparently), feeding the baby, taking the shuttle to the other terminal 5 km away, finding the train station, and taking our potty stops, it takes us at least 40 minutes to even get to the point of calling “Billie.”  (Liz, “Billie doesn’t really sound like a Spanish name, does it?”  Me, “No, maybe if he were Enrique.” “Or Jose.” “Or Jorje.” We both laugh. Me again, “but Billie. . . “  We grow silent, and then wonder.) 
I’m feeling good, ready to go, and then pick up my phone to give Billie a call—no service, emergency calls only!  Liz, “I think my phone might work.”  Me, “No, I don’t want to use your minutes.  Here’s a payphone right here.”  The payphone works fine, and I make contact with “Billie.”  “How are you getting here?”  he asks in a thick Spanish accent.  “The metro.”  “There’s a train station that goes out to the airport?”   “Yes, it’s just right here.”  “Don’t come by train.”  “Why?”  “It’s horrible.”  Then the phone dies.
I scramble trying to feed more coins in the slots while Liz pulls out her phone and tells me she has service.  The guy in line behind me looks impatient.  I take Liz’s phone, hang up the payphone and dial Billie again.  “Why is the train horrible?” I ask.  “You will get pick-pocketed.  Come by bus.  Call me when you get to the square”  “OK.”  It all sounds mysterious to me, and I’m already skeptical about Billie, but decide to spend the extra money and go with the guy who lives here.  After all, it is in his best interest that we don’t lose our money, right?  (Me to Liz, “He’s definitely Spanish.”)   We walk away from the train that very normal-looking people are boarding, leave the station, go back to the terminal, ask directions in broken Spanish, and finally find the shuttle that takes us to the square.

Our first chocolate croissants (full of chocolate pudding.  We thought we were in heaven, until. . . . )

I’m surprised by the palms, the architecture, the feel of the place, by the familiarity.  It feels a little like Mexico!  I’m in Europe—Spain, but I feel like I could be in Mexico.  It must be like England is to the US.  Europe is the mother, and the Americas are her rebellious children inheriting many of her characteristics, but stubbornly molding their own identities.  It’s fascinating.


On the Shuttle, Leaving the Airport, notice that the sun is low in the sky—this is important.

We arrive at the square and I call Billie.  “OK, just walk down Las Ramblas, and I will meet you by the …. and the McDonalds.”  Between the bustle of the square and his accent, I don’t quite catch it all.  But how hard can it be?  I can spot a McDonalds a mile away.  So, we walk.  And we walk.  Billie had made it sound like it was pretty close, but this isn’t close.  I hate to call him again, but maybe I should.  I do, and he tells me to just keep walking.  So we do.  (Liz, “What do you think he looks like?”  Me, “I don’t know, late thirties, maybe early forties, short, and professional.”) 
By this time.  We are getting hungry; Wynnie is tired.  It’s nearly 8 o’clock, and Evie’s starting to complain.  Ah, the McDonalds.  We walk under the eaves where there is heat, and we call.  Billie says, “I’ll be there in 2 minutes.”  We wait, and wait, and 10 minutes later, I reluctantly call him again.  “Are we in the wrong place?” I sheepishly ask.  He answers, “I told you that the road is between the KFC and the McDonalds.”  Me, “Ohhh, the KFC. (that’s what he was saying) OK. Well, there is no KFC.”  Billie, “You are still probably by the square; keep walking.”   “How long of a walk is it?”  Billie, “I don’t know how you walk.  Maybe 10 minutes?”  “OK, see you then.”
So we start walking again, quickly.  We go another 10 minutes at a pretty good clip, trying to to run people over with the stroller.  Still no sign of a McDonalds and we are struggling to see street signs in the dark. .  I notice the road is climbing in elevation.  On the map I checked before we left, the apt is between the square and the sea. I may not be a rocket scientist but I know water doesn’t flow up hill.  “Hey, we’re going the wrong way.”  Liz, “Do we call Billie?”  “No, I can’t bear to do it.”  A few minutes later I’m on the phone with Billie.  “Hey, we’re going to be a while.  We walked the wrong way.”  He seems a little frustrated, but patient.  We buy a good map along the way—the TI map is garbage.
Sooo, apparently there are 2 roads on Las Ramblas, and we take the wrong one when we were finally heading in the right direction, but with the aid of a good map and several more minutes walking, we find our way, the McDonalds, and even the KFC.  We stop.  I look around.  I only see a woman and a big, 6 foot 3 inch, young guy with low-rider pants, canvas tennis shoes, a studded black belt, T-shirt, leather jacket, and an earing in his upper ear.  No way.  I don’t even give him a second glance.  He comes toward me.  I stop and say, “Are you Billie?”  He says “Yes.”  “I’m Heather.”  We shake my hand, and he heads across the street.  We follow him through the door in the side of the building, and we file in.  I will admit being nervous at this point.  I go up the lift with Wynne in the stroller while everyone else takes the stairs.  I’m trying not to let my imagination run away with me at this point.  I think back.  I have checked out Friendly Rentals on the web, looked them up on Trip Adviser, and have only read good reviews.  I have talked with their customer service on the phone, and they have been fantastic.  True, I have never booked a vacation apartment rental, but I like the price, the benefit of being able to come and go as we please, the use of a full kitchen, laundry, baby crib, and being in a good location.  I have also been told on a couple of different occasions that apts. are the way to go in Europe with families.  I decide to trust my initial gut instinct.  
He shows us the apartment, and everything looks fine. 

 
View from our Room

After Billie shows me everything, I give him the cash agreed upon on the internet.  He leaves; we lock up, and we get everyone settled in.  We connect to the computer, let Spence know we’re ok and put Wynne to bed.  We are STARVING.  McDonalds is hopping with cute families and people in costumes. Family dinner hour seems to have just started.  At 10:30, I get back “home” with Big Macs, McFlurries, and French fries.  Dinner is served.  We’ll need it, because tomorrow is a big day.