Spain: Welcome to Barcelona!

Landing! I’m here! It’s allllll happening. I take my time getting out of the airport, as it’s 8:30am and I can’t check into my hostel until 2pm. I’m in no rush to do anything, but I’m also not a dawdler. I follow signs to the taxi stand at the airport before I realize it’s entirely unnecessary to waste my money on such a luxury form of transport. I see a sign advertising €29 euros for a trip downtown and immediately try to find my way outta here. There’s only an escalator down to this area, not back up, and while I can see a city bus across the street, I was feeling more up to something like a shuttle. All I have is an address for this hostel, I hadn’t mapped it or anything. I talk myself into allowing myself ONE taxi ride. I’m fresh off the plane, tired, in a new place… I can take one.

I join the queue and get assigned to a driver. He’s super nice at first but calls me guapa about 15 too many times. He gets a little weird, asking me very personal questions that I eventually can’t laugh away and have to start ignoring. He also keeps saying “welcome to Barcelona!”…what a welcome indeed.

Arriving at the hostel is chill. I leave my backpack in a big locker so I now I am free to roam around without all my luggage. The time is 10:15am. Only 3 hours and 45 minutes more before check-in.

I take advantage of the wifi for a bit before deciding to venture out and get myself set up with a phone. One of the first buildings I see as I turn the corner on the street, is an Orange store. Orange is like, Telus, Rogers, etc., for those of you not familiar with Europe.

The shop attendant doesn’t speak any English, but luckily I am just so fluent in Spanish that I muster up a “yo necissito una SIM card” and point to my phone. Boom. SIM card given. She starts trying to explain to me the difference between a 10€month and 20€month option, but the language barrier is real, so I just choose the 20€/month because even that is cheap as hell.

Back at the hostel, I am now able to check in to my room, which is up three flights of stairs from where I’ve left my backpack in a locker. I take a much needed nap before even pretending to go downstairs and collect my luggage. I’m beat. I set an alarm for 2 hours, and 4 hours later I wake up.

After collecting my luggage and taking a shower I feel like a whole new person! I chat with a Kiwi guy in my room who invites me out to dinner with a crew of other people from the hostel. One of the guys is Canadian and from Montreal, and 3 others are from different parts of France, so not only do I practice a bit of Spanish ordering dinner, I also get to practice my French. We dine at a nearby strip of tapas bars with outdoor seating, but everything is so full we end up eating inside. I order something that has pesto and cheese, which turns out to be a sandwich on foaccacia. Not very Spanish, but good regardless. An American girl at our table orders gnocchi and I look at my sandwich with shame.

After dinner we head out to everyone’s favourite shot bar. I take it they’ve been here a lot this past week. The walls are FULL of different drink names and no explanations as to what those drinks are, so we each take turns picking a mystery shot and ordering 9 of them.

They’re not “real” shots obviously. Lots contain juice or weak liqueurs, but I know I am going to be so full of sugar that I will likely die tomorrow.

Take me there!

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