Before we go into Spain, we have to get there. And getting there, by train, from Budapest, is a 3 day marathon. But before that, a small cap on Belgrade. Erin, an Aussie from Melbourne who I had been traveling with through the Balkans, was turning 23 the last night we were in Belgrade. Coincidently, it was the last night that a barge (that had been converted into a night club) was featuring a local legend of a DJ for the year.
Of all places that I thought I would be partying into the wee hours of the morning, Serbia was probably the last on my list. Just a few weeks ago, I would have thought I would be locking myself in my hostel as the sun set (If I were ever to even visit Serbia.) Things have changed 
We made our way to the barge with two Portuguese guys and a Brazilian. The barge was probably the top 3 coolest places I have ever partied. It was literally a cargo ship that had been converted into a sunken stage, open air, party boat. While there, we met several nice Serbian kids and they were all friendly except for one girl. She asked me where I was from and I said “California!” And she replied with “I don’t like America.” So I replied with “But I’m not from American, I am from California.” (which usually works in throwing people off the scent. People then think of sunny beaches and their favorite movies. California brings happy thoughts to people, Even if they don’t like America.) She replied with “It’s the same thing.” and walked away. As she pivoted he stance to walk back onto the dance floor, her posture revealed a large scar on the left side of her face from above here eye brow to blow her cheek. I did the math and realized that it was likely the scar was from shrapnel during NATO’s bombing campaign. She must have been only 6 at the time.
With good reason, she maintains her grudge against America. Only in Serbia could you meet people who have lived through a war and still have it in the front of their brains, yet be safe to walk home alone at 3 am from a barge party. Well almost safe. On the way to the barge, one the the Portuguese guys was drunk and started making fun of Serbs. “They smell like oranges…. what? They can’t understand me, they are Serbs…… they don’t understand English.” he said as he threw his arm around my shoulder. I threw his arm off of me as a local looked back at him with disdain. I am reminded of the recent local news of a few cases were a foreigner tourist was being disrespectful in a bar and ended up beaten to death in the streets. The Serbs are really cool people, but I think the LAST you would want to fuck with in the whole of Europe. I walked faster with Erin to gain a much needed distance from our rowdy co-travelers. As I was on the dance floor, the thought of being beaten to death in the streets was in the front of my mind. I wanted for nothing less than to bump the wrong person on the dance floor. But everyone in the crowd was really relaxed. It seemed like the type of place that I would frequent at home. Dare I say the Serbian version of San Diego’s legendary “Sand Bar?”
After just 1.5 hours of sleep, we were off to Budapest to go to the baths for some much needed revitalisation. After a few days at the baths, I split ways to head over to Barcelona. It only took me three days strait of train rides to make it here. Making overnight pit stops in Munich and Lyon, I was able to see quick peeks of each city. The most remarkable part I remember of all of my train travels was how utterly incompetent the French were when it came to the actual train travel. The trains were just run really unprofessionally. The term 35 hour work week kept ringing in my mind, but the people who booked the tickets were helpful. It was a flip from Italy, where the people who operated the actual trains seemed to have it together, but those who sold the tickets were living with their heads securely up their asses.
From Lyon to Barcelona, the views of the Mediterranean were stunning. I actually saw a small strip of beach that had waves and I was instantly reminded of that little nagging love who I had been neglecting since I had left. My love of waves has been quietly suppressed like a secret first born son for longer than I would like to admit. In that moment, I wanted to pull the emergency break on the train and just run to water, but this lust was going to have to wait for another time.
Arriving in Spain, I was excited to use my limited knowledge of the local language. I was happy to finally know virtually 1000 times more of the local language than any other non English speaking country I had been to. I thought of how much I could say and understand in Spanish and realized that I was a whole lot better off than I ever thought I was in the language.
It was a good thing to be able to speak Spanish, because even the ticket sales agent didn’t speak a word of English. I was shocked. It was like I was in China. But at least in China, there was always a ticket agent who spoke English. So I popped into my rusty Spanish and was able to get the mandatory reservations for my onward journey. “How accomplished?” I though as I walked away victorious.
As I got to my room I met a guy from Delaware who now lives in Monetary. At the age of 28 Sean was a wine consultant and a foodie. This was a perfect city to join forces with a guy who is really excited about food. In addition, since he was a little older, he had a bit of money to spend on fine foods. Since I had not treated myself in longer than I could remember, I decided to go big (because I was certainly not going home any time soon.)
He had already scouted out 3 of the most famous tapas bars in the city as found in the New York Times. But first we stoped in a random tapas bar the night before. Please excuse me for my ignorance, but I thought tapas was going to be like a tortilla covered in beans and cheese. For some reason, I didn’t realize Barcelona was going to be such a Sea Food Capital. I always hear the boy cry wolf about the seafood of a certain city, but the city rarely delivers unless you are willing to make it a black tie event.
But Barcelona is different. Here the common man can get their hands on good seafood for decent prices. We were eating cuddle fish tapas for $2 each. It was so surprising how fine the creations were. But this was only the start. The next day we had set out to fine the top three places in town. The first place was on its 4th generation of family ownership and had been around since 1914. It was a small and unassuming hole in the wall. The walls were covered in fine wines, bourbons, and canned sea food. I know what you are thinking, canned sea food? Is that safe? Not only is it safe, it was some of the best seafood I have ever had. “Wait, so you are telling me that we are going to pay you to open a can and scoop some of that onto a plate? How is this a restaurant? How have you been around since 1914? And why is that can of sea food over there priced at 90 euros?”
This was the type of place that you just say “Can I have a plate of the shell fish?” and they take care of the rest (constructing a creation that you will never forget of over 10 different items, all doused in expensive vinegar.) There were no menus, no price tags. If you had to ask, you probably shouldn’t have been there in the first place. It was heaven on earth, from a can…… weird “Do you want a cheese plate now?” “Sure, why not.”
The the woman bought over a plate of 8 fine cheeses, some rare jam, and even a Champaign gelatine. Strange as it was, the only part that I didn’t enjoy was the gelatine (though I am assuming that all drinkers would have loved it.) We asked for the check and ended up $20 each for the experience. Well worth it, but rather daunting, considering that my room for the night was only $15 and I still had 2 more tapas bars to visit that day. The next place we went was right off of Los Rombles (the main drag). It was a bustling restaurant that looked like it was going to be a huge dent in the wallet. We ordered everything from baby octopus, to fua gua (duck liver patty). We veal sirloin and anchovies in white vinegar. Calamari and cuddle fish. Nothing was spared. Our bill, $20 bucks a piece. Not bad considering the high profile location of the place. But we still had one more place to go that night.
The last bar we missed by only a few minutes of closing. We ended up going to a dinner down the street and having Garbanzo bean soup, Pallella, Flan, and a small plate of leg of ham. Each was the best I had ever had. This meal ran us a cool $30 per person. Not bad for a Dinner. I wasn’t going to try the leg of ham for fear of the price, but my eating partner insisted. I finally realized what all the fuss was about. A good leg of ham is right up there with a fine wine, or a rare wheel of cheese. You can taste the price.
That was a $70 meal day (what I spend in a week in many countries.)