So we survived Ireland and I’m not entirely sure how. Still, our trip was only halfway done. I give to you…our trip to Spain…
March 18th
Good morning, Mike. This is your 5:45 am wake up call. WHAP!!! The affects of my hangover wake me up before my lovely cell phone alarm does. Today we leave Ireland for Spain. The idea of it being warmer in Spain is still not comforting to the fact that I woke up before the sun in order to get there. Nevertheless, I pack up my stuff and take some last minute pictures of my dad’s place. I’ll never figure out why my mom asks for these pictures, but like a good son I oblige. Sean, now revitalized by the 2 bottles of wine we gave him, pulls up in his van to take us to the train. Bear in mind, children, that revitalized does NOT mean shitfaced in this particular moment. Just because I’m in another country doesn’t make me any less irresponsible (well…at least in the case of 5 am drunken driving). So we barrel into the van like a depressed clown car and head to the train station. We have to catch an early train because in order to get to Spain, we have to travel all day, beginning with an airport that’s 2 hours away. It’s at the train station that Megan and Michelle leave us. They’re on their way to Dublin or something. They’ll miss out. Either way, we board our rinky dink train car, and we soon discover that the train door does not close the entire way. Nick claims that we may actually die. I begin to believe him.
The train ride to Kerry doesn’t get any warmer. The sun begins to rise more and more, but our attitude towards our early departure. We look for the mountains that resemble boobs that Sean had pointed out. We find them. We laugh, probably more than we should (it’s 7 am and I’m hungover, don’t judge me). We arrive in Kerry, and believe it or not…NOTHING’S OPEN!!! You mean no one rises and shines the morning after St. Patrick’s Day? Get the fuck outta here!!! We soon walk around and finally ask for directions to the bus depot (yea I call it a depot. Thanks, Goldeneye). I will say that the Irish are very straightforward with the names of companies. There’s no MTA, Greyhound, Hampton Jitney, or any of that shit. It’s Irish Bus and Irish Rail. Suck a dick, Metropolitan Transit Authority. Or get Irish “railed.” See what I did there? I’m awesome. Anyway, I revel in the fact that I’m able to check my email and Facebook for 5 minutes on a local pay-internet booth. I also determine that the lowly convenient booth worker in the bus depot should provide me with food. She does, and I’m happy. We finally get on the bus. Nick falls asleep, and I cash in on the ability to take pictures of it. Let me explain. Nick has a rather disgusting obsession with taking pictures of me whenever I fall asleep. I mean WHENEVER. Class, long car rides, regular sleep. He loves it. One would say, “So Mike, why would you promote it by doing it yourself?” Well, my intuitive friend, I don’t know. I’m hoping he stops. Maybe I’ll strike him one of these days.
Nevertheless, we arrive at Kerry airport, which is about as big as that guy from Little People, Big World. We get in, and wouldn’t you know, it’s too early to check in! Now you ask, “Mike, why didn’t you take a later train?” Well, aside from straightforward names, Irish Rail loves not having any trains run during the day. So it was either the asscrack of dawn or nighttime. We had a late morning flight. You make the call. So we finally check into our flight. It seems Trevor, being the fucking celebrity that he is, receives Priority Boarding. He claims, “I had no idea. I swear, brah.” However, his subtle smirk gives away his elation. Idea or not, we never let this go. Never. If you don’t know why, you don’t know us at all. We go through security and hang out. Nick comments on my blatant use of swearing in public places. I tell him he’s being fucking ridiculous and not to forget that in Ireland, swear words are perfectly acceptable adjectives (or nouns, or pronouns, etc.). While browsing in the airport shop, I learn that my family motto is “always faithful.” I determine that this, coupled with “honor and valour” (mom’s maiden name motto), is rather ballin’. I rub it in Nick’s face, telling him that his family motto is “pizza” or “spaghetti.” He does not look pleased. Soon enough, Penis McFly (Trevor, for those keeping score at home) boards and saves us seats. We still do not let the preferred boarding thing go.
We take off and soon arrive in Luton Airport, just outside of London. We have a few hours before our flight to Barcelona, so we find a place to do what we would normally do: drink. As I pay for some food, I realize that the change given to me is in Great British Pounds. I completely forgot that England is one of those stupid fucking countries that does not use the Euro. I am not happy with this. As I rant about how ridiculous GBP’s are, Dave quickly tries to diffuse the situation by saying “let’s see if we can check in.” I tell him that I have to buy something so that I don’t have these “stupid fucking pounds” (I say this in a loud enough voice so that some people hear me but not loud enough so that everyone hears me). Apparently, people don’t like that. We check in, and Nick joins the “too cool for school” preferred boarding club. Dave and I, now bonded by our plain white tickets, turn our focus on Nick but still make fun of Trevor. We begin to walk to our gate, and I finally spend my remaining pounds on a sandwich and some chips. Apparently, in order to get to the gate, we have to take the Underground Railroad that the black woman ushered those slaves through. After a 20-minute hike, we arrive at our gate. The Dingus twins get on the ridiculous people line, and Dave and I pass time by making fun of these outlandishly drunk kids behind us. We board the plane, and I miss Air France and its free drinks (not France, just Air France).
We finally arrive at about 10 pm to Girona Airport, which is about an hour north of Barcelona. Trevor goes into bi-lingual mode as we try to catch the next bus to the city. Dave and I determine that it’s fun watching Trevor speak Spanish. I don’t exactly know why. I mean Trevor has the map of Ireland on his Arian face and him speaking high school Spanish with his touristy backpack and wonderous look screams “tool.” Not that I’d do any better though. This kid, who “knew from our accents” asks us if we’re from Long Island and reveals that he is too. We’re all like “sweet! No way! (Leave us the fuck alone!).” We find the bus and head south. Upon arrival, we locate a cab to take us to the hostel. Trevor, not knowing the exact location of it, shows the address to a bunch of cab drivers. The cabbies, in turn, begin playing RPS (Rock-Paper-Scissors for the uncool kids) to determine who will take us there. It is here that I first determine that I may dislike Trevor right now.
Soon, we discover that while the address of the place has the word “Barcelona” in it, it’s still an hour out of the city. Also, it’s gonna cost us at least 60 Euro to get there. My dislike Trevor level rises. Surprisingly, the cabs in Barcelona are all Mercedes’ and shit. Imagine if a NYC cab was a fucking Benz! No Crown Vic’s around here. We begin our excursion to East Bumblefuck where the hostel is located. Trevor tries to have a conversation with the driver in Spanish. I’m no longer amused at Trevor trying to speak Spanish. I am, however, amused when Dave tells the cab driver that Trevor has a boyfriend. I’m further amused when the cab driver not only believes him but does not listen when Trevor tries to disprove the fact. Unfortunately, this happened relatively early in the trip, and the rest of the drive was spent by Nick and I shaking our heads and threatening death. Still, we make it to the place alive. However, the cab driver decides that we now have to pay for his ride back. So instead of this wonderful adventure costing 60 Euro, it’s going to cost 120 Euro. It is at this point that I decide that I am going to make Trevor burn himself with cigarettes. Maybe I’ll waterboard him. Either way, he’s done. Unfortunately, seeing as that the place Trevor rented is in the middle of fucking nowhere, we cannot bargain or run away, so we reluctantly pay.
This lovable hostel turns out to be a campsite. We show up and are brought to the van that’ll take us to our specific campsite. Soon, we find out that by van they meant beat-up bathtub with wheels and a door that doesn’t close. Yes, we’re literally holding on to make sure that we do not fall out of the thing. We come up to a blockade in the road, and the driver gives one of those sighs. As we begin to wonder if we now have to walk 30,000 miles to the campsite, he gets out of the wagon with a shitty motor and effortlessly moves the blockade. Thankfully, the man does not know English, because I mutter rather uncouth things to Dave. Soon, we pull up to the campsite, and discover that by campsite they meant trailer park. I swear, this fucking place’s motto should’ve been “what we mean is…” I was pissed. Trevor booked us in a fucking trailer a full hour outside of the city in the middle of fucking NOWHERE!!!!! Nick’s eyes meet mine, and his reaction is exactly the same as mine. We could’ve turned people to salt with the fire in our eyes.
We open our trailer, and the guy inspects it to make sure it’s all set. It’s not. We do not have hot water. It takes 10 minutes for another guy to come down and light the heater with one of those long-neck grill lighters. Meanwhile, the Ken Jennings who drove us here is smoking a cigarette outside, meaning that he could’ve easily done it himself. Maybe he did know English. O well. They leave, and Trevor drops one of those “this sucks” comments which can be easily translated into “please don’t make me sleep outside.” This set-up is straight out of that movie Hostel. Well, at least in the “we’re all gonna die” sense. To make me happier, instead of saying “fire escape,” the windows read “means of escape.” As in if a man is hacking off your legs with a chainsaw, here’s your means of escape. I hate semantics. We agree to not speak of the situation and deal with it in the morning. Still, Trevor and I kick back a few shots of liquor we bought at the airport (those GBP’s got better in my book). We set up random booby traps to wake us up in case someone comes in ready to kill us and go to bed. I share a room with the lovable Spanish tour planner himself. As we drift off asleep, we hear knocking on our trailer. Trevor and I start to freak, but then determine that it’s Nick. So we softly open the door to their room and stand there. Seeing a dark silhouette, Dave and Nick flip. We yell at them for the knocking and we’re now even. As we drift off to sleep, I tell Trevor he sucks.
March 19th
So we wake up with a bunch of questions: Is there any damage? What’s been stolen? Am I dead? Much to our surprise, everything is as we left it last night. Even our bodies. We high five (great success) and get ready to get the fuck out of this place. The shower is as cold as ice (still no heat). O well, at least it’s beautiful outside. We make our way to the check out and find that there’s a bus heading to the train into the city. And the train is free. I’m very excited about this, even though I’m convinced I paid for it some way (i.e. “thanks for letting us take revealing pictures of you while you slept; here’s a free rail pass”)(no pun intended). Still, we take the train and try to plan this whole Barcelona place out. Meanwhile, the view from the train is fuckin ballin’ (beat the waterfall). We traveled along the Mediterranean and it was so sick.
Anyways, we make it into town, and Trevor, walking in that “I’ve got it all figured out” stride, leads us to the new hostel. I hate when he walks like that. Not because it’s dumb, but because he rarely has it “all figured out.” And it usually ends in disaster. Nick and I decide that since the first bus is at 5 A.M. and we’ll be out drinking late anyway, we’ll simply stay out all night until that bus brings us to the airport. Hooray for saving money! Dave and Trevor rent beds in a 14-person room, and we all lock our stuff up in the room. Outside, I remember one thing from the last time I was here in high school: I love this place. I don’t know what it is. Just something about Barcelona makes me smile. And it’s a gorgeous day. This whole positive feeling thing starts to get to me, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. We make our way to Las Ramblas, which is this long road with street vendors along it. I didn’t know there was high demand for turtles and small animals, because they’re being sold everywhere. Unfortunately, there’s no monkeys, so I stop paying attention. Yea, I want a monkey. Don’t judge me. And tell me that wouldn’t be fucking cool. Also, they have people doing these moving statue things. I never understood them. Where’s the benefit? You make children cry, their parents angry because the kids are crying, and creep almost everyone else out. So why would you want to stand along a road all day done up as a silver statue without any positive result? Cocaine’s a hell of a drug, I guess.
We stop off and pick up some food. I’m introduced to Tortilla Español, and I fall in love instantly. It’s like a potato omellette, but not? I dunno. It’s delicious; take my word for it. We head out and meet up with Trevor’s friend, Sophie. While we’re waiting, I notice a group of people selling fake stuff (i.e. Foakley, Pratta, etc.). Nothing new, but they have this system: they hold onto a rope which when pulled brings the corner of their blanket/selling surface together so they can run quickly from the 5-0. Seeing these people react instantly is hysterical. I almost yell “¡policia!” to see what happens, but Trevor stops me. Apparently, the prospect of being trampled by stampeding black men wasn’t appealing to him. We take a long escalator up towards Park Guell, a park that was designed by Antoni Gaudi. However, the escalator breaks. Although it conveniently turns into a staircase, walking up the biggest fucking hill sucks. A lot. Still, we make it to the park and have a view of the whole city. I love this park. This guy carved walkways out of a giant hill and designed houses and such that look like they’re straight out of Candyland. It’s trippy, but pretty fuckin’ cool. After this, we head over to La Segrada Familia. For those who don’t know, it’s a church that has taken over 150 years to build and will still take at least 50 more years. We don’t go inside, but it’s pretty cool to see. It’s getting to be party time soon, so we head back to the hostel to get ready. After a warm shower and getting ready, I look hot. Dave tells me that he’d have sex with me, thus confirming my thought. We head to the “social room” to drink. This girl joins us as we polish off the booze we bought in London. I don’t know who she is and therefore have no problem making fun of her for absolutely anything (no such thing as a free lunch sweetie). This marks the easiest part of the night. From here, we head to get a fancy final dinner, consisting of tapas and more Tortilla Español. And booze. Lots of booze. We meet back up with Sophie and get this party started. We go to this place, Pippermint, which features huge beers. You can get a 13 liter beer if it gets you off. We stick to some 2 liter beers and ESB them till they’re doneskis. Needless to say, we’re rather inebriated. We’re done with this place, and I offer the idea of Dow Jones. It’s like the stock market but with alcohol. So if no buys Miller Lite, for example, the price goes down. We have the address, so I wanna find a map. So maybe that’s not the easiest thing to accomplish, but Trevor decides he has a better idea: he asks the bouncer. Why would an American, speaking drunken terrible Spanish, ask the bouncer of the place he’s leaving for directions to another bar? Because Trevor is an idiot. So he walks up, practically with “fuck with me” tattooed to his head, and goes for it. You’re hoping the bouncer helps out. So did I. But what do you expect? It’s too easy. So we start walking (as directed) in the opposite direction. Sophie and her boyfriend are hitting up this other club, so they leave. God forbid we go there. After a while, we find ourselves in a more deserted part of the city. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m not up for dying.
Dave, Nick, or Mike: Dude, let’s just try to get a cab.
Trevor: Nah man. We’re probably almost there.
Dave, Nick, or Mike: Trev, there’s nothing around here!!!
Trevor: Tell ya what, we’ll ask somebody.
(Note: I don’t remember who said these things to Trev, but I remember 1 of us who was trying to be the voice of reason).
In a deserted area of the city, it’s not always the best idea to ask anyone for directions. It’s like asking for directions in the South Bronx. And you’re drunk. And you’re white. Trevor spots 2 girls and gives me a “see! They’ll know” kind of look. Trevor apparently doesn’t see what Dave, Nick, and I see: those girls are about 16 years old and look anxious to fuck with us. Trevor talks to them (insert shitty Spanish) and they allegedly agree to walk us to Dow Jones. They also offer us some of their “wine,” which is currently residing in a bleach container. Trevor thinks we’ve hit the jackpot. I almost hit Trevor. So we walk with Kathy & Katie Jailbait for a little bit further into Nowhereville. Once they offer the idea of “following them to a cooler club,” I’m done. No good could possibly come from it. Trev’s not so convinced:
Trev: C’mon man. Let’s give it a chance.
Mike: I’m getting in a cab and leaving.
Trev: Why? We’re right here.
Mike: I don’t give a fuck. Call me crazy, but I’d like to be in a lighted area. I’m
not following these two girls anymore
I tell ya. He’s the dumbest smart kid I know. Dave, Nick, and I move towards a cab and Trevor finally joins us. We head to the place Sophie suggested. It’s called Otto Zutz, and it seems rather harmless. I immediately get a beer. To my surprise, it costs 5 Euro. That’s 8 dollars for a fucking Bud Light! I’m very upset by this. Good thing I’m still somewhat drunk. Still, whenever I’m “very upset by this,” something bad usually happens. I order 2 beers, and the bartender walks away. So I decide to be slick and try to steal my drinks. I casually try to walk across the dance floor. And by casually walk I mean dance like an idiot. That is until I feel the bartender grip my arm. She motions for me to give her money. I’m caught, but does that stop me? Nope. I yell anything I can think of in Spanish, which doesn’t help my case, mainly because it doesn’t make sense. If you’re wondering how I thought saying “No I’m fine. It’s over there,” would get me out of paying for drinks, I have no idea. But it made sense at the time. She points and pushes me towards the door. As I’m being thrown out of the bar, I decide to stop being difficult. I yell “aquí” (“here”) and give her money. She tells me “no más,” as in I can’t have any more alcohol. You, bartender, are sorely mistaken. For there is another bar on the other side of the room! Not that she’d actually give a shit, but I make my way across the sausage filled dance floor, anxious to prove her wrong. As I walk, I see this girl dressed ridiculously with a huge afro motion for me to dance with her. I almost vomit directly on her but instead, like a gentleman, yell “fuck no” and walk faster. Seriously, she looked like Will Ferrell in “Semi Pro.” And as it turns out, I discover that she’s a little more than a girl. I vomit a little in my mouth. This place sucks, and that just sent me running. We finish our beers and head the fuck out of there. I try starting one of the Vespas parked along the road, not taking into account the giant chain wrapped around the tire. We walk back towards the hostel. We’re also very drunk, very loud, and very obnoxious. Nick and I try to chase a garbage truck. I begin to wonder what percentage of my life “seemed like a good idea at the time.”
We get back, and the guard wants no part of us. I’m not entirely sure how we got in, but we did (remember, Nick and I aren’t staying the night and thus do not have passes). We get to the room to get our bags. We have to remember that it’s about 5 A.M. at this point, and most of the people in the 14-person room are sleeping. So we have to whisper. So we whisper…very loudly. And there’s no way we stay quiet while getting our bags. We are successful in waking up every single person in the room. So we run the fuck out of there. As we leave, Trevor informs us that the bus stop is down the road. Nick points out the bus stop across the street. Trevor does not like this defiance, so we argue. The guard doesn’t like this, so we begin fighting with him. We’re speaking English and he’s speaking Spanish. Fighting with drunk kids usually gets you no where if you’re speaking the same language let alone two different languages. Clearly there was no hope for us. Suddenly, Nick finally remembers the only two words he can at this point, “el autobus el aeropuerto.” We’re not even trying to get full sentences right now. The bus the airport. Fucking genius. The guard points to the bus stop across the street, and I raise my fists in victory. Trevor’s not happy. We’ve given him an overwhelming amount of shit this entire trip. Could we have been nicer? Yes. But he asked for it. Let’s recap how Trevor dropped the ball:
- Booked a hostel 60 miles out of the city, costing us 120 Euro in travel
- The hostel being a trailer in the middle of nowhere (not directly his fault, but I count it)
- Getting us lost after Pippermint
- Us following around 2 girls whose primary channel is still Disney
(If there’s any more confusion, please refer to the chart)
It’s either ridiculous or impressive, depending on how much credit you decide to give him. Still, he barely says goodbye as we board the bus. Dave, on the other hand, gives a glorious hug. So now Nick and I are on the bus, which is surprisingly full considering it’s 5:30 A.M. Yea we missed the first one. Don’t judge us. Nick and I are still drunk, so our speech is still raised a few decibels. This does not make our fellow passengers happy. Looking back, I’m fully confident that we would’ve been physically thrown off the bus if we hadn’t boarded at the last stop. Still, we arrive at the airport unscathed. Unfortunately, our flight doesn’t board for another 3 ½ hours, and we can’t check in for another 2 hours. So I suggest sleeping. After all, we’ve been up all night drinking and I’m fucking exhausted. I applaud my ability to make sense at this point. We find a harmless corner and pass out. About an hour later, I feel someone kicking me. I start to get mad at Nick, but upon opening my eyes, I realize that it’s not Nick. It’s an airport security guard. He’s talking to me, but I feel like Ron Burgundy here (“You know I don’t speak Spanish. I can’t understand you!”). Either way, he motions for us to get up. We try to check in, but that’s still over an hour away. Whatever, the guy left, so I’m going back to sleep. That lasts for about 5 minutes before the guard looks so pumped that he gets to pretend to be a cop right now. You can tell that he was the only one of his buddies to fail the police academy test. He’s yelling “¡policia!” and dragging us to the police area. The thought of being arrested sobers me up pretty damn quickly and I pull out my itinerary and show it to him. Yes, power tripping security guard, there is a reason 2 American kids are at the airport with bags. The guard looks at me with a look that says “dammit” and points to 2 chairs. We chill out until check in and eventually board. On the ride home, I think about the trip. In 7 days, I’ve:
- Publically dressed like a woman
- Hung out and drank with one of my best friends for the first time in 2 ½ years
- Learned about ESB, silent DJ’s, and gougons
- Brought power hour to Limerick
- Taken a bath with 3 other boys
- Stayed in a trailer park in the middle of nowhere
- Walked around the unlit streets of Barcelona
- Drank a 2 liter glass of beer
- Almost got kicked out of a club
- Almost been arrested
- Celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland
- Developed a shitty accent
- Traveled 10,080 miles
- Drank an inordinate amount of alcohol
- Showed general disconcern for my body
- Saw some amazing sites
- Tore up Europe with the 3 greatest friends on God’s good Earth
Effin A, Cotton. Effin A.
