Barthelona.... that's how they say it

I’ve been in Barcelona for a week and three days now or something like that. I could write mucho about it. I’ll put the most important stuff at the beginning, and we’ll see how it goes.

Food. My senora just made some salmon. Holy smokes it was good. She doesn’t mess around in the kitchen. She makes brekkers and supper for me every day. Breakfast is not hearty here, but I’ll roll with it. I usually eat little muffins and fruit. We get down at supper time, however. It’s usually soup or salad, followed by a main course like a Spanish tortilla or something magical like that, then fruit, then some dulces if we feel like it. She made me a chocolate cake for my birthday. Oh yes.

AND I ate tapas on my birthday. (When you eat tapas you buy a bunch of small dishes that are inexpensive and share it with the table. And you drink wine, discuss futbol, and talk shit about Franco.) Me gusta. We had calamari and shrimp with eyes on them and octopus and patatas bravas and other things that picky eaters would not enjoy, 12 dishes total. There were some picky eaters with me, so I cleaned house. The tapas bar was classy. Marc said famous people eat there, and Marc knows his business.

Ah, my senora, Magda Font. She’s the lady of the house at my homestay. It’s only me and her. Her daughter, Eva, and daughter’s boy, Roc, come over for every meal. Sometimes they sleep here, too. I’m confused by why sometimes they sleep here and sometimes they don’t. I’ll keep you updated on my findings. Magda is super nice. She’s going to make me sack lunches starting tomorrow. She’s also a night owl. I came back at four in the morning on my birthday and she was sitting on the couch playing a Nintendo DS. She said she couldn’t sleep –probably because she couldn’t stop thinking about the Legend of Zelda.

We live in a poor neighborhood. Magda was complaining the other day about how nasty the neighborhood has gotten compared to when her parents lived here. I think that Magda is not poor.

My Spanish family does not speak English. We get by with hand gestures, facial expressions, and sound effects. Right now she’s pacing back and forth in the living room talking to someone on the phone in Catalan. Catalan is a language that mostly only people from Barcelona know. Everything is in Catalan: road signs, restaurant names, advertisements. It’s something.

Ah, Marc. There’s 150 Americans in this study abroad program. The company divided the student body into groups of seven and matched each group with a Spanish student of our own age. Marc is our Spanish student. His job is to answer questions and show us the city a little. He’s dope, and my group is the best group that one could have. Coincidentally, three of us had birthdays this week – Friday, Saturday, Sunday. That’s nuts, eh?

From the beginning of the trip: First, it was widely believed before I left on my New Year’s flight that it would be a huge fiesta in the sky. That was not the case. At midnight eastern time, I looked around the plane. Nothing happened. No one else was looking. So I wished the Egyptian lady next to me, “Happy New Years,” and took a snooze.

After arriving in Barcelona, I took a bus to the center of the city. I exited the bus and forgot my jacket. So within an hour of arriving in Europe I learned a valuable lesson: Barcelona is colder when you don’t have a coat.

It took me a good three hours and much direction asking to find my hostel. No problemo. I was in a room with six beds, but I was the only one sleeping in it… the bed and the room. So I had that going for me. Hostels are nice dude. I wasn’t worried about my well being except for when I took my shower without flippyfloppys.

I explored a little. Two days later, I went to the hotel for orientation. I felt like a freshman again. We did icebreakers and whatnot. The best part of orientation was the breakfast buffet. Also, I met a kid who goes to a fancypants university on the east coast. He told me that he’s visited three Spanish speaking countries: Spain, Costa Rica, and Puerto Rico.

During orientation, I somehow tested into the advanced Spanish class. Ridiculoco. I didn’t understand one of the words in an essay question, so I wrote about how I like apples.

Magda picked me up from the hotel. I chilled with her and nine-year-old Roc the next day. Now, I know Sponge Bob is not entertaining in both English and Spanish.

The next day was Dia de Tres Reyes eve. (Day of the Three Kings (like “we three kinds from orient are...)) There was a parade. I took pictures. Dia de Tres Reyes is very similar to Christmas. There’s three kings—a white one, a black one, and a ginger one— instead of Santa. At night, the kids put out cookies for the kings and water for the camels. Then, the following morning they open presents. Magda got me a key chain. I dig.

Classes have started. We learn things. It’s nice.

Ah, my birthday. We went to eat tapas, and then we went to a bar called Chupitos (shots). We had shots that they lit on fire and such. That was something. The bar was small and completely packed with people. I believe everyone in the bar were smoking except for the nine people I was with. Just as the nine of us were about to develop emphysema, we went to a club. I proceeded to dance my shit off.