Barcelona 2. Ziggy 0. (Pt 1)

My first stop on the way to the game (Barcelona vs Cultural Leonesa) is a local tapas bar. I need a shot to warm up.

"Un chupito de vodka por favor".

The old man obliges. When I ask for a lemon wedge, he becomes interested. After handing me a tiny dish w/ one measly slice (I did, after all, ask for "un"), he asks me why.

"Por que no me gusta el alcohol"

"Hay de otras; tequila... gin...", he lists

"Ugh. Even worse", I say in my head. Out loud, I venture in a mix of Spanish & English, "No me gusta el alcohol en general. This way it goes down faster, then its finished"

He smiles. I cant tell what hes thinking. He asks where Im from.

"Nueva York"

He tells me he has a son living in Chicago, that he & his wife (who has materialized behind him) have visited that city as well as Miami, Los Angeles, and The Bahamas (to which I answer "Very nice!"; I am jealous about The Bahamas part) and tells me I speak Spanish well. I am flattered and explain that even tho Ive only taken 1 Spanish course back in my college days, I speak French and I think that helps. I leave with a flyer for their restaurant and and invitation to come back for breakfast and to practice my Spanish with him.

I am making my way to Camp Nou (the largest stadium in Europe) when I realize its 10 minutes to 10. I get a move on; I dont wanna miss any part of this game. Its my first pro football match, not to mention the home team is the favorite of several people I know, so I feel some type of weird connection.

I make it just in time! After some back & forth with an usher who insists I am in the wrong area (Im not) and who sends me to a different block of seats several doors away, only to be sent back to where I originally was, and having him literally roll his eyes at my reappearance, I finally park my behind in my seat. Ive now missed the teams coming out to the field and what I assume is the national anthem. The game gets off to a mediocre start. I look for Messi & Henry and discover the former is sitting a few rows in front of me (I had splurged for asientos excelentes) in the "dugout", and the latter is nowhere to be found.

In front of me and slightly to the right, a blonde lights up. I cant believe it!! This is a frickin' football game, its a big, official stadium -- surely there are rules?? I furtively look for a No Smoking sign and find none, knowing that it would be pointless anyway, since all the others Ive seen in the past few weeks have been ignored by the masses. I consider telling on her, but I know the usher will just laugh me off. I sit back and wonder why the lady next to her isnt bothered by the smoke. 10 minutes later I get my answer when said lady's boyfriend lights up. I wonder (as I do with all smokers) if it bothers her when she kisses him. Pretty soon, in front of me, 5 of the 6 people in the row are smoking. Simultaneously. One of the blondes turns around and I get a good look at her; she is a bratty teen, she has acne and yellow teeth and bad make-up, and she has dark circles under her eyes. I hate her. I silently wish she gets lung cancer from that cigarette she is sucking on and that all this smoking makes her her age horribly. I try different ways of breathing -- more shallow, through my turtleneck. Nothing works. Pretty soon, I smell the cigarettes on my own fingers and I decide to give up. I pop another migraine pill and curse. (Here I have to add that Monet and I have had a horrible time with all the smoking in confined spaces that seems to be the norm in Spain; I have inhaled more fumes through secondhand smoke in 2 weeks in Spain than I did in 4 1/2 years of actual smoking during & post-college).

The first half flies by; so quickly that when the players run off the field, I wonder if this game is divided into quarters. I stay in my seat, take some more pictures, push the urge to go to the bathroom out of my mind. Pretty soon the players are back. The scoreboard still reads 0-0.

A few minutes in, Bojan scores a goal. The crowd (yours truly included) goes wild!! Hes #11, I notice, and follow his # with my eyes. After Bojan's 2nd goal, the coach puts Messi in. I cheer (bc hes my cousin's favorite player and the only team member besides Henry who I know anything about) and snap tons of photos. It feels like no time at all has passed and then -- goal!! Is it Messi?? No, its Pedro, but the game is finally heating up! Within what feels like 10 minutes, theres a goal by Messi and the final goal by Xavi. The 45 minutes of the 2nd half come to an end w/ zero goals by the other team. The Cultural Leonesa coach has been very animated throughout the game and Im sure he is livid...

I make my way outside w/ the masses and head for the Metro. I have 1 hr to figure out what Im doing - either meeting up with someone Monet & I had met the night before, meeting up with Mo, or getting my ass to the hostel before the trains stop running at 1am. I call Jaime twice, but no answer. There's no Internet cafe in sight, so no chance of getting in touch with Monet. So I figure Ill go to the hostel and start blogging. At the Metro station, I stop for snacks since we've run out of groceries, and I know there isnt enough time to stop for real food . I chat with the Desi vendor about the upcoming games aginst Inter & Real Madrid, and I spend a whopping 8.60 euros on chips, coke & candy. At a train station. God, I need to stop eating this crap, I admonish myself in my head.

While waiting for the train, I take off 3 of the 6 layers I wore above the waist to the match. I get on the train with other Barca fans. At Catalunya, I get off to transfer to the Ferrocarrils train that will take me home (I liken this roughly to taking the LIRR 20 or so minutes outside of the City). I notice the time-- 00:57 --and start to run. Ill be damned if I miss the last train. I follow the signs and get to the correct entrance, and I stop in my tracks. The gate is closed. Cerrado. No frickin' way. I ask the emplyees milling about, and its true. Apparently the Ferrocarrils closes at midnight. "Fuck Fuck Fuck!!" I have no qualms about swearing in front of these people, fairly loudly at that. I specifically asked before the match if the train that gets me home also ran until 1am and was told w/ no hesitation "Si". Damn this hostel for being so out of the way! Damn these damn trains for closing early! Damn Barcelona!

I dejectedly walk out of the station and make my way down Las Ramblas. I have no recourse but to find a bar or cafe and sit there for 4 hours and read my book, until the Metro opens at 5. Monet and I had been stranded last night, and had already discovered that taking alternate transportation home was a dummy mission of the most ridiculous kind, which only landed us in extremely desolate neighborhoods and lost in cabs at 3 in the morning (more on that in another post) so I knew better than to attempt that again.* I walk around looking first for an Internet cafe to email Mo, but of course they are all closed. Next thing I know its 1:30 and most of the tapas bars are closed, too. (This begs the question "If everything closes early, why are the trains closed? And if the trains are closed, why arent there more places open?"). I walk to the Hard Rock Cafe, one of the very few places thats not closed, just certain in my head that they will be open until 5. Wrong again. They close in 30 minutes. Dammit. I go to the bar for a drink anyway, since I feel hopeless at this point.

"Can I order food?" The bartender looks at his watch for a good 30 seconds and makes some weird noises. Finally he says, "You have about 2 minutes".

Thatll work. "Can I see a menu please?". He stands there expectantly while I peruse it. These prices are preposterous! I dont even eat at HRC in America! But I need comfort food right now, and if I dont get it, Im gonna be super pissy. I settle on the cheapest cheeseburger I can find and am surprised it comes with fries. I feel like I need some alcohol, too, plus hes looking at me like he expects me to order some. I get something raspberry-flavored and slushy. I taste it when it arrives and am thankful that its good. My overpriced burger arrives w/ the wrong cheese, but I shut up and eat. They were nice enough to feed me so Im really not gonna complain. I ask for a glass of water and he looks at me.

"I cant give you a glass, I can only give you a bottle"

Of course you cant, you corporate-America advantage-taking asshole (I really am cussing the establishment and the concept here, not the poor bartender). I nod OK at his offer and when a pretty glass bottle arrives (not a cheapy plastic one) I wonder how much I am paying for this fancy water. Just to put this into perspective, you should know that last night, I paid 2.80 euros for some water at Burger King. So I was preparing myself.

Before I know it, its 2am and I have to leave. I settle my bill (24 euros/$36) and explain my predicament to the bartender. He suggests a 24-hour diner several blocks away called H3. I listen intently to the directions, repeat them back to him, and set out, wondering if I will be able to find this place, and wanting nothing more out of life than to find this 24-hour haven...

*Last night's dummy mission along with tonight's is why this post is titled "Barcelona 2. Ziggy 0"