The Troubling Tagalong

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The Troubling Tagalong

Barcelona, Spain


We're far from the eight dwarfing towers of the Sagrada Familia and the lamp-lit stretch of La Rambla lies behind our tired shuffle. We're headed sluggishly toward the welcoming sand of the Barcelona beach, stopping periodically to people-watch. The discotecas are closing and crowds of young Spaniards spill across the port bridge, channeling into lines at the waffle and crepe stands. We're in no particular hurry. We are seven 20-somethings looking for anything but trouble, yet somehow it seems to discover us.

Just a few hours earlier we arrived in Barcelona on one of the evening's last trains. The trip to the city of Gaudí was completely spontaneous. By spontaneous I mean that our supply of euros was running dangerously low. There's the source of adventure. (Right here I think I'm supposed to say that the lack of money didn't stop us from having a blast. It didn't, but I couldn't help but wonder that if I'd had a few more euros on our first night I would have been sleeping soundly in a hostel rather than searching for a dry spot in the sand to lay my head.)

This wasn't our plan. But then again, when does anything ever go according to plan? We thought we'd have just enough time to catch the last bus to El Toro Bravo, a campground we'd spotted in our Rough Guide, but the train arrived late and taxis were asking 20 euros for the ride. We are only briefly discouraged until we start throwing out ideas about drinking coffee, staying up all night and crashing on the beach. We convince ourselves of our ability to party hardy and take advantage of our young blood. So we throw our cumbersome backpacks into the station's lockers and march off freshly into the Barcelona streets.

The freshness fades even after our first cups of café con leche. As we begin to wander again in search of a bar or any open establishment, I wonder if our penny-pinching idea was so bright after all. There's almost no one walking along La Rambla, Barcelona's main drag. The only people we see are either curiously staggering or eyeing us suspiciously as we stroll sleepily past them. Hunched figures shuffle by mumbling, and it suddenly becomes clear to me that big cities are scary at night even when you're surrounded by six of your friends.

It's still dark when we get to the beach and discover that the sand is cold and wet. Still, sleeping bag caterpillars pepper the beach. Then it starts to sprinkle. The ocean breeze picks up. We climb on top of some stacked beach chairs, cover ourselves with newspaper, and try to sleep away the cold.

The sunrise the next morning is the kind you wish you could wake up to everyday, bright oranges and pinks settling over a rolling, silvery tide. But everyone is still too sleepy to enjoy it. The only things on our brain are coffee and food.

We can't even keep ourselves awake at the only place we find open to fuel up. My head is bobbing, eyes are drooping and right when my head gets ready to rest comfortably on my folded arms I hear a hiss.

"Tchsssss!" The waitress spits, leaning over me and telling us that we can't stay there if we're going to sleep. Some of us still have not finished our coffee, so we sit for a few minutes wondering where to go from here. All of our heads are swaying with exhaustion and I see one across from me go down. It's quickly followed by another on my right. At this point we're far past dozing; sleep has lost its patience and has started to club us over the head. Suddenly, a quick hand rushes from behind me and slams down on the table next to the sleeping victims.

"¡Buenas días!" It's the same waitress. Her shrill voice makes our heads pop up just as fast as they had gone down. This time her face is pursed into s stern scowl and we have no option but to pick up and leave.

The only thing we can physically do now is sleep more, so we head back to the beach where the sun has now warmed the soft sand.

I wake up to a blazing sun and a full functioning playa. Kids are building sandcastles, women are slathering themselves with lotion, and I'm clothed in unnecessary layers with sand in every imaginable crevice. If I had a swimsuit, this place would be the perfect place to spend the day, but grandmas are glancing disapprovingly in our direction so we decide to move on. So far I can tell we haven't made a fantastic impression on the Spaniards of Barcelona.

Back in the city center, the hustle and bustle contrasts the cold, tired calm I feel inside of me. Street performers are lined up on La Rambla pretending to be statues, trying to sell dancing Simpson paper dolls and bringing the Beatles back to life in puppet form.

We spend the afternoon relaxing in Gaudí's Parc Guell. It's a repeat visit for me, but it's one I don't mind making. It's one of the most unique places I've ever seen. Walking through the park is like discovering an enchanted fantasy land where stone pillars resemble twisted trees and nothing is quite what it seems. It's home to one of the longest park benches in the world, from which you can view Barcelona all the way out to the sea. The day moves slowly and is just the mellow adventure we've been looking for.

But before we know it, trouble has found us again.

On the metro, after gathering our belongings from our train station locker, a group of people stand unnecessarily close to us on an empty car. I'm backed against the subway's door and a woman stands so close to me I can smell the stale cigarettes on her breath. Just as soon as they jump on the train, they're leaping off at the next stop.

"What the hell just happened there?" I ask my friends who stand all around me with the same blank, confused stare. The girl to my left pulls her hand out of her purse, her wallet clenched tightly in her palm. She had felt a hand slip into her purse and tug at the wallet just a few seconds before. We all do a quick, paranoid pocket check and luckily nothing is missing. Barcelona's metro is notorious for pickpockets who target mostly tourists. With all of our bags piled around us we weren't exactly traveling incognito.

With the pickpockets still on our minds we rush off the subway and scramble to catch the bus to El Toro Bravo. We're loaded with backpacks but still sprint when we see the bus pull up to the curb, determined not to miss it and face another sleepless night in the sand.

We all breathe a sigh of relief once we're on the bus. It's crowded as people pile in stop after stop. Most of the passengers are young and foreign. It's peak tourist time, and Barcelona gets hit up more than many Spanish cities.

At one stop a group of British youngsters pile in, giggly and rosy-cheeked from spending the night out in birthday celebration. One of the girls, her hair pulled tight in a ponytail, suddenly begins to sing and even takes song requests. Before the end of the ride, my friends have pulled out among them a harmonica, a hand drum and a digital camera. We've converted the Barcelona city bus into a regular rock tour bus.

Getting off the bus is like parting from long-lost relatives. All of the sudden we're on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere. Some Italians show us the way to the campsite, which is hidden about a mile and a half away from the highway. The road is long and deserted, but the campground is full of life. The place is complete with cabins, a bumping discoteca, a bar, ping-pong tables, a pool, and, best of all, hot showers. It's like a mini-resort.

I spend at least a half an hour showering. The water is salty but refreshing. Even the drinking water is salty, although not quite as refreshing. The hot showers are the perfect precursor to a good night's sleep, finally. The stars are out and we sleep without the rain fly so we can see the bright stars against the shadowy sky.

We all wake up to a torrential storm of lightening and thunder. The rain is coming down in sheets and the thunder is crashing and booming. Our tent is flooding and it's time to get out and dig. Somehow trouble has found us again and this time not even nature will give us a break.

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