Barcelona may be the friendliest city in the world.
We arrived at the Hostel One Paralelo shortly before 11:00, which means that we had been traveling for eight and a half hours. Our journey from Paris had gone quite smoothly, save for a bit of wandering in confusion upon arrival (and believe me, I know of no greater discomfort than wandering in confusion in a foreign city -at night – where I don’t speak the language.)
We rang the bell and waited for a few moments. The door was opened by a tall man in a green Ramones t-shirt who cried out my name as if we were old friends. They had been expecting us. He asked if we had just arrived in Barcelona, and we replied that we had. He asked if we had eaten dinner yet, and we replied that we had not. He asked if we would like some pasta carbonara, and we replied that we would very much like some.
The next thing I knew, we were ushered into the common room of the Hostel One Paralelo where a lively crowd had gathered. Our green-shirted host, whose name was Angel, urged us to put down our bags and have a seat. Complimentary beers and plates of pasta quickly appeared in front of us. We had not even checked in yet.
A young woman approached us to say hello. We exchanged the usual small talk: our names, where we were from and what we do. Lauren was an American living in Bordeaux as an English teacher. She was delighted to hear that we were music teachers and told us that she had spent one year as a music major at Ithaca College before switching to a major in French.
Because of my involvement in the a cappella community, I happen to know quite a few music majors and recent graduates from Ithaca College. At least four of them are friends of Lauren. It is a very small world, indeed.
After a leisurely dinner and a lengthy session on the complimentary wifi, we finally got around to the check-in process. Angel gave us a tour of the hostel, including the fully stocked kitchen, courtyard, and hot tub. The walls were painted with Picasso and Dali-esque images, and at the reception desk they were playing The Eagles’ “Hell Freezes Over” at full volume. Angel carried our bags upstairs to our well-equipped room and informed us that at 12:30 he would be leading the group to a nearby club for the evening entertainment.
It should be noted that Eileen and I are undoubtedly the oldest guests in this hostel, and clubbing in Barcelona is not really our scene. Nor, I suspected, was it Lauren’s. So the three of us walked together to a nearby restaurant for wine and tapas.
It should also be noted that, even for old ladies like us (and, for that matter, much older ones indeed) going out after midnight is not at all unusual around here. We have not made it to bed before 2 am since our first night in Paris, and we are far from alone.
We enjoyed an unusually heavy and long sleep, wandering downstairs around 11 am to find that breakfast was still in full swing. We had been told that breakfast would cost 2€50, but none of the employees seemed to have the slightest interest in collecting our money.
We ate with Joe, Courtney, and Mike, three American teachers in their late twenties who are six months into a two-year contract at the American school in Kosovo. They are on vacation too this week and have spent it, as they spend most of their weekends and holidays, traveling around the continent. They have visited ten countries in the last six months.
After breakfast we took a leisurely stroll down to the beaches of Barcelona where we watched surfers and Eileen dipped her toes in the Mediterranean. We ate gelato and marveled at the captivating mix of Baroque architecture and modern sculpture and graffiti.
For lunch we went to La Champagneria, which came recommended to us by the overnight receptionist at our hostel. We would not have found it without his instructions. It was located on a small side street near the port. We walked past it at first, for there was no name on the door, and the assortment of pig parts hanging from the ceiling gave the impression that it was a butcher shop.
On second glance we realized that this was the eatery that had been recommended to us. On third glance, we realized that it was absolutely packed.
There are no chairs or tables at La Champagneria; only a long bar at which one can order from an assortment of Spanish hams, cheeses, salt cod, olives, and sardines. They serve three kinds of wine by the bottle. Diners belly up to the bar to place their orders and eat their meals standing wherever they can find a patch of floor in the narrow shop. It was the sort of environment that could easily intimidate a couple of American tourists, but two businessmen gestured for us to stand next to them at the bar and poured us glasses from their bottle of champagne.
We spent a very pleasant hour in the company of our new friends, who worked for a bank and were on their way to assess the value of a boat that was for sale in the port. Their English was only slightly better than our Spanish, but they were more than happy to introduce us to Barcelona’s local delicacies (and more champagne.) They were also more than happy to pay our bill.
For dinner we enjoyed the made-to-order paella at Bosque y Palermo. Upon walking in the door we enjoyed a Cheers-like greeting from a crowd of guests from our hostel, proving once again that it is a small world indeed. The paella came in a cast iron pan, brimming with mussels, clams, squid, prawns, and threads of saffron. at 9€ apiece, it was both a bargain and a tremendously satisfying local dish.
Upon our return to the Hostel One Paralelo, we were greeted by a new evening receptionist, a handsome young Italian man who wondered why we had not joined everyone for the complimentary dinner, which he had cooked. He showed us the recipe for tomorrow’s meal and invited us to help with the cooking.
I can think of far worse ways to spend an evening.
