Tonight was my first night out in Barcelona. Operating on the general theory that Sunday sucks in Europe, I didn't go out fully loaded for bear, but instead just wanted to get a feel for the city.
Once again, I crashed hard after my flight. I did this in Prague after Paris, too.
I'm down right in Las Ramblas, and issue #1 about Barcelona is obvious. Every third motherfucker near Las Ramblas is propositioning you something. Rolex, weed, cocaine, pussy, man-pussy, cold beer, water (those last two I respect), go this club not that club, etc, etc, etc.
All I can pray is that whatever respiratory illness I contracted in Prague is now seeping into these motherfuckers and ruining their morning as I type.
Seriously, could the cops in Barcelona please arrest just one fucking panhandler? No, they arrest the hookers, who frankly are the least aggressive when you tell them to fuck off.
Grr . . . anyhoo . . . fucking tourist trap fucking Ramblas.
So, after a hike of Paris Death March proportions past the godlessly large marina, I finally made my way to the beach near Barceloneta around 1am.
for the most part, the beach itself was dead. Police were clearing people out while the sand and beer cans got the zamboni treatment.
Walking back, I noticed a lot of open air bars were open for Sunday in Europe. I wasn't feeling game for game, so I didn't go game. Somehow hacking the last couple ounces of phlegm from Prague onto some big brown-eyed Barcelona girl just didn't seem the thing to do.
Instead, I walked up the beach, consumed my first gelatto ever (not sure about sweet ice cream) and kept ongoing. Rescued a poor fat white girl from a rather insistent black Brazilian guy who clearly is a fan of cavemanning. Kinda gamed a couple black girls who were doing the beach hippie thing with some musical friends.
Coming back past the marina I walked past a pair of girls who were sitting on a bench. By this point, like 3:30am, no one is out. Caught my favorite vocab words as I walked past: low whispers of "es guapo". Probably should have followed up, but I was in full sickly death march mode and just wanted to find some hot food and a drink.
Collected my food. Got propositioned by a transvestite hooker. 20 Eur and I could have gotten a blow and touched her dick. Told her what I tell all prostitutes: "What fun is there in paying for it?"
Back to hotel. Eat, business . . . now typing.
Signs are looking hopeful. Please gawd grant me the clarity of lungs to party this town as hard as I did Paris and Prague.
Once again, I crashed hard after my flight. I did this in Prague after Paris, too.
I'm down right in Las Ramblas, and issue #1 about Barcelona is obvious. Every third motherfucker near Las Ramblas is propositioning you something. Rolex, weed, cocaine, pussy, man-pussy, cold beer, water (those last two I respect), go this club not that club, etc, etc, etc.
All I can pray is that whatever respiratory illness I contracted in Prague is now seeping into these motherfuckers and ruining their morning as I type.
Seriously, could the cops in Barcelona please arrest just one fucking panhandler? No, they arrest the hookers, who frankly are the least aggressive when you tell them to fuck off.
Grr . . . anyhoo . . . fucking tourist trap fucking Ramblas.
So, after a hike of Paris Death March proportions past the godlessly large marina, I finally made my way to the beach near Barceloneta around 1am.
for the most part, the beach itself was dead. Police were clearing people out while the sand and beer cans got the zamboni treatment.
Walking back, I noticed a lot of open air bars were open for Sunday in Europe. I wasn't feeling game for game, so I didn't go game. Somehow hacking the last couple ounces of phlegm from Prague onto some big brown-eyed Barcelona girl just didn't seem the thing to do.
Instead, I walked up the beach, consumed my first gelatto ever (not sure about sweet ice cream) and kept ongoing. Rescued a poor fat white girl from a rather insistent black Brazilian guy who clearly is a fan of cavemanning. Kinda gamed a couple black girls who were doing the beach hippie thing with some musical friends.
Coming back past the marina I walked past a pair of girls who were sitting on a bench. By this point, like 3:30am, no one is out. Caught my favorite vocab words as I walked past: low whispers of "es guapo". Probably should have followed up, but I was in full sickly death march mode and just wanted to find some hot food and a drink.
Collected my food. Got propositioned by a transvestite hooker. 20 Eur and I could have gotten a blow and touched her dick. Told her what I tell all prostitutes: "What fun is there in paying for it?"
Back to hotel. Eat, business . . . now typing.
Signs are looking hopeful. Please gawd grant me the clarity of lungs to party this town as hard as I did Paris and Prague.