I woke up far too early this morning to the sound of chairs being hurled furiously at a man-shaped target one after the other after the other to a bellowed and echoey cussing chorus… although since I don’t understand any Spanish, it might have been tables he was throwing.
Either way, I was shaking in my metaphorical (I don’t sleep in them) boots while dead-of-night, witching hour thoughts whooshed through my insensible brain. Once I got a grip on what was happening, I cowered behind what seemed like the thickest barrier and researched Spanish gun laws, reassured to remember that most other countries are portrayed in world news as thinking Trump is just a joke we’re playing on ourselves. Perhaps they also take a more measured approach to semi-automatic accessories.
The crashing and howling intensified.
I pulled up the wifi. My last google search was something along the lines of “eat someplace close but not gross,” which un-reassured me because I remembered that I was, in fact, mostly wrong about this not being a red-light district. My first clue should have been at check-in, when she sympathetically told me to “stay to this side at night”, but my second clue should have been the coupon for a massage, and my third clue should have been the erotic museum. I need things clearly spelled out for me, however, so I obliviously explored the territory in leggings and short dresses (marriage proposal: check. man stopping me in the street to show me a bloody and disfigured picture of his ear: check) until I read this:
The Liceu is directly across the street from my room. It’s really pretty, by the way.
Aside: the architecture in this town is just silly by how glorious and awe-inspiring it is. I meant to go castle hunting yesterday (which is why I was wearing the dress- it was a gorgeous day and you never know when Game of Thrones casting directors will be out scouting locations and looking for extras to eventually die bloody and incestuous screen deaths with their legs hanging out of a dragon’s mouth) but got distracted (lost, to be honest) by how much people are capable of creating. Barcelona people in particular, at least in the field of building stuff. In fact, since 1848 the Royal Gold Medal has been given to a person who has contributed significantly to the field of international architecture every single year but one. That one? They just decided to award it to this entire city. My pictures don’t do it justice, but it is very, very clear why:
Anyway, it’s finally 11 a.m. and I think I’ve given the local police (I assume) sufficient time to clear the bodies (I assume) so I’m going to venture out and hit Dennis’s recommendation once again.
It’s time to fill my stomach with something more substantial than butterflies.
*** I feel like I should note that I don’t actually feel unsafe here at all- I mean, aside from the fight, which I’d like to chalk up to the passionate Mediterranean temperament. There is no actual evidence of bodies and nobody needs to call any embassies or even hesitate to stay here. It’s just, you know… the dead of night is called that for a reason. And yes, that was scary, but not half as scary as some of the things we quietly let happen every day. So. End addendum. I really am hungry…