RTW Honeymoon #7: Tapas, Protests and the end of the World (cup) as we know it - Spain

Spanish heat creeps up on you. In Barcelona the ocean may whisper its presence in a small breeze as you stroll down Las Ramblas past manic street performers doing everything from flamenco dancing to hanging from trees in gorilla costume, but ultimately such relief dies away almost as soon as it began, the merciless summer sun resumes its attempts to push the colors from clothing, turn each fallen leaf underfoot into a browned crackling wafer, to attack the stones themselves, slowly bleaching them, beating them into a hardened monochrome along the boulevard.

Under such duress, the people of Spain have retreated from the afternoon almost entirely, seeking shelter in the cool morning hours and the long stretch of evening after the sun has exhausted itself. You want that lemon slurpee at one in the afternoon when you just can't stand the heat another second? Sorry, Charlie. There is almost nothing open between noon and 6pm in most Spanish cities. Peter, an expatriot former professor of literature from Oxford University in England and 20-year Barcelonan resident, explained to us over cold glasses of sangria one evening that the Spanish habit of "siesta" is dying a slow death as Spaniards spend less of their working hours under the blazing sun in the fields and more time at a desk in a central-air-conditioned building. Nevertheless, we found ourselves adapting to the Spanish hours as our time here went on. We would get up in the morning to find a local bakery for fresh bread, see some sights and then retire to our room for the afternoon before emerging in the evening to surf from tapas bar to tapas bar, munching the tiny portions of food served with your drinks at these stand-up restaurants that dominate the culinary scene out here.

Our first stop was Barcelona, we arrived late at night and wandered the confusing network of alleyways in the Gothic quarter with our framepacks, searching for our elusive hostel. We found it, all six glorious flights of stairs up, we found it. Over the next few days the city quickly captured our hearts with its unbelievable art and music scene, the whirl of locals, expatriots and tourists in the streets and the mysterious Gothic Quarter. A short description of the Gothic quarter: tall, dark buildings with small iron balconies lean in close above you, clotheslines set against the strip of blue sky high above, twists and turns that hide tiny little restaurants and shops many tourists never cross the threshold of, museums, cathedrals and squares magically appearing from nowhere just when you thought you were hopelessly lost in the tangle of streets. Great gothic gargoyles, Batman, it was glorious!

We made reservations to return to our cherished Barcelona for the celebration marking el dia de San Juan next week and departed for the coast where our friend Tracey was waiting for us with her lively wit and laid-back, make-yourself-at-home hospitality. Three WONDERFUL days in her little town of Benicassim lounging on the postcard-perfect Mediterranean beach, dancing the night away with her fascinating fellow PhD of Peace and Conflict Studies candidates, having huge pancake breakfasts at 4 in the afternoon and, sadly, witnessing the Irish team's loss to Spain in the quarter finals (barely! barely!! Did we mention the overtime, the sudden-death, edge-of-your-seat ending, the bar full of Spanish patrons laughing and taunting us when we failed to score and our singing loudly over their weighty silence when we did?? Well...maybe in another email).

We reluctantly left our wonderful Tracey in Benicassim for Madrid where we consumed more tapas (peel-and-eat shrimp, grated tomato on sliced bread with olive oil and basil, snails, squid, clams, cured ham, too many kinds of cheese to count...we could go on but we'd be really, really fat), rode the metro around and laughed with our hostal owner as we attempted to bridge the language gap with Sean's Mexican-kitchen-staff Spanish vocabulary.

In two days we'd had enough and fled to Seville just in time to see the HUGE general strike. Thousands of people filled the streets with flags, drums and megaphones, chanting about a fair minimum wage and anti-racist slogans. It was like Berkeley on crack, in Spanish. Seville itself, the home of bullfighting and the barber that everyone sings about, was terrific. Hot, but lots of fun. Here we saw beautiful architecture, the third largest cathedral in the world (complete with a huge altar of solid gold and the displayed body parts of deceased saints), ate lots more tapas and, with the U.S.A.'s soccer defeat by Germany, alas, saw the end of our world cup fun (ever got to chant "U - S - A!! U - S - A!! in a crowded bar? Try it some day, it's a good time). Kim has decided she is never going to watch a game with fans from the other team in the same room because their cheering makes her sad. I am going to go find those nasty, yelling fans and beat them all soundly...just as soon as I get that Charles Atlas kit.

From Seville we caught a long train back to Barcelona for el dia de San Juan when the whole town explodes with fireworks and bonfires. Our friend Tracey and a small company of her fellow students met us and proceeded to give us the "muy authentico" Barecelonian experience. Walking home this morning at 6 a.m. from the discotheques along the beach, dog-tired but still humming from the night's festivities, we reflected that Barcelona is a good time. A very, very good time. Definitely ranks up there as one of our favorite cities so far.