Fox en France Ep.9: Bah, BAR, Black Sheep

Monday 25^th – Thursday 27^th Oct

Still not sure what it is or how we found it

This week began with a four hour coach to Barcelona, sweeping us out of one old Spanish city and into another – except this city had the fun, additional layer of Catalan. My bare-minimum Spanish suddenly seemed like native fluency in comparison to my comprehension of Catalan and as we’d left the actual Spanish speakers of our group behind in Valencia, I was withered down to a state of mild hysteria and shouting “¿Qué?” at anyone who approached me. I’d love to say I get by with a little help from my friends; in fact I get by ordering cafe con leche at every single place we stop because it’s the only thing I can say and my friends like to watch me suffer. And that’s not even Catalan.

Our hostel was great, and soon we had a recovered, fresh need for Spanish nightlife (that Enrique-and-reggaeton quota is never quite full. Once you've experienced it you need it like a drug). We were soon taken in like the weak tourists we are by a man in a pink shirt on La Rambla, with alluring promises of the magical “s” word (sangria, obviously). However, before I knew it, I was given a tequila shot, a wristband and was being herded like a small, confused sheep into a tavern (one ironically named The Black Sheep). Not long after, I found myself in a drinking game with a girl from LA and her hostel, we were led to a club like more livestock, Europop and reggaeton ensued, and I watched Matt dance to Tina Turner. Quite the evening.

this big Gaudi thing

The next day brought a stroll (crawl. We were crawling) to the Sagrada Familia, and then the market on La Rambla. Both impressive. Both, you know, kind of big. One full of cured meat and coconuts. One… Not. Thanks to a stunning recommendation from a friend, we found a backstreet tapas place for one euro per tapas that evening – but not before I had managed to get everyone lost and took the group on a slightly unnerving tour of the shifty neighbourhoods of Barca. I could pretend it was a purposeful and insightful anti-tourist exploration but my nervous laughter each time we hit yet another dimly lit street gave me away. Eventually we found the tapas restaurant and nothing mattered anymore. Tapas were worth it.

I managed to lead us astray yet again on Wednesday as we headed to El Raval – the “edgy” quarter (my words, not theirs). By (my) mistake we first walked through Chinatown instead and then accidentally skirted round the edge of the place I had meant to find instead of going through it, before finally stumbling across a record store, so I knew we’d hit the #edgy goal (you can take the students out of Leeds, but…). Then someone sold me a peanut butter doughnut and nothing mattered anymore. Doughnut was worth it (no theme here).

finally understood some Spanish :)

The last evening meant a trip to the Manchester Bar (travelling with Northerners, wasn’t I) and a relatively early night which still felt too late when I had to wake up at 9:00am for my flight home. I managed, somehow, and waved goodbye to the warm air, and the nachos, the tapas and Gaudi and jugs of sangria, the churros and high-rise buildings and city fumes and palm trees, understanding just one word in an entire sentence, hostels and tourists and pickpockets, ice creams and paella and my pals. ¡¡¡Hasta luega!!! (that could literally mean anything, I’m just guessing).

The strangest thing that really hit me, though, was when I stepped off the plane in Rennes. I smelled a bakery and saw a sign for galettes and other French words everywhere, and the cold but green, green landscapes and orange-red autumn trees. And I actually almost felt like being back in Brittany was home. How’s that for a revelation?

SO:

Clouds: I had to leave Espagna; cry with me. I speak even less Catalan than I do Spanish. And the bus I needed home from the airport doesn’t run in October (fun surprise after my flight landed). 

Silver linings: I didn’t get pickpocketed, I googled the term for Spanish speakers and it’s “hispanophone”, and I have laughed an almost unbearable amount in the past week. Thank you to the girls in Valencia for showing us round, and to Matt Stew James Josh and Johnnie in various combinations for being a reliably great-but-infuriating bunch to travel with (but call me Bindi again and it’s all over).