A light snow fell upon the city in the early morning light as the Louis Majesty pulled into port at Barcelona on February 14. Watching the snow fall as I sipped my tea in the Royal Observatory, I regretted my decision to leave my knit Uggs at home. Yea, I own Uggs. I live in New England now. I get cold feet. SO JUDGE ME.
But I wasn't worried about the weather. Because I was in SPAIN. To be honest, I was obsessed with Barcelona long before I ever stepped foot in Spain. I studied Spanish for six years and never, ever get to use it. Not that I'm any good at it anymore. I can't remember what pair of underwear I put on this morning (spoiler alert: I'm not wearing any), let alone what I learned while half asleep in a classroom half a dozen years ago. But hot damn I was pumped to order some cervezas EN ESPANOL.
But first, we had some things to see. And in Barcelona, most of the things you see are pre-tay awesome. First there was Park Guell. Designed by crazy Catalan architect Antoni Gaudi in the early 1900s to be a housing community, it was too far ahead of it's time and, as most things ahead of their time, it failed. Kind of like Kitten Mittons.
No one wanted to live in crazy. Little did everyone know how crazy it was all about to get. I would have lived there with you in the madness, Gaudi. Personally, I don't understand who wouldn't want a giant mosaic salamander in their backyard (or a cat with mittens). For serious. I'm a sucker for bright colors. Kind of like a mocking bird, but with a shorter attention span.
Then there was la Sagrada Familia, and when I first stepped foot off that tour bus, this church took my breath away. The enormity was overwhelming. The intricacy was awe-inspiring. Entire Biblical stories unfolded in front of our eyes, and I felt that I could stand beneath those torrents all day and something new would constantly emerge. And yet, amidst all the beauty and art, I couldn't stop thinking about those drippy sandcastles my cousin and I loved to make at the beach.
From there, we scuttled through the historical district and then it was time for cervezas! And in my opinion, there is perhaps no better way to get to know a city than to sit in a crowded, sunny location, order a beer the size of your head, and people watch to your squeaky little heart's content. Which is exactly what we did with a few fellow travelers.
Clearly, with beers like that, it doesn't take long for my people watching to go from 0 to 10 on the subtlety scale, with 0 being a silent observer and 10 being a bit closer to "CHECK OUT THE BAZUNGAS ON THAT LADY. WOO BOY YOU CAN'T GO JOGGING WITH THOSE PUPPIES." And I was dangerously close to boob talking by the time the check came.
We meandered down the bustling city streets and gradually made our way back to the boat, but not before a little haggling on La Rambla. In La Rambla, they'll steal your underwear without ever touching your pants, my beerpanion told me. That? Is one of the greatest phrases I've ever heard. In. My. Life. Mostly because it involves the word "underwear" and UNDERWEAR! HA!
I've tried to use it multiple times since I first heard it, and so far it's just not working. First I was all, "oh, you're going to the grocery store? Watch out, they'll steal your underwear without ever touching your pants." And B's all "nope doesn't work." And then I'm all "oh, you're taking the dog for a walk? Watch out because ... um ... underwear ..." And B's all "just stop."
So instead, I've decided to actually practice removing one's underwear without touching said one's pants. So far the best I've done is perfected the art of giving painfully good wedgies. Turns out, pulling harder and faster isn't the key. But it does add to the element of surprise. STEALING YOUR UNDERWEAR ATTACK! SHAZAM! (That's what she said.)
So yeah, Barcelona was wonderful. And nobody's underwear was stolen. Not off the boat, anyway. HEY-YO FIRST VALENTINE'S DAY AS A MARRIED COUPLE. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. STEALING YOUR UNDERWEAR ATTACK!