J.J. Jenkins
jjjenkins.md@gmail.com
J.J. Jenkins is a business administration junior and Mustang Daily study abroad columnist.
Lionel Messi headed home a brilliant cross in one swift flick. The bar exploded.
I jumped out of my seat with the rest of the previously antsy FC Barcelona fans and high-fived my friend as the celebration continued. Messi had just completed a comeback that saw Barcelona down 2-1 with less than 20 minutes remaining by connecting on two attempts as time wound down.
Through the glass window behind me, where more fans gathered to watch the first round of the UEFA Champions League, a group of middle-aged men pointed at my friend and me, huge grins splitting their faces.
While many other supporters were wearing jerseys, we were the only ones with the Messi name on our backs. The Americans brought the luck, our newfound friends said, and we celebrated accordingly.
I finally felt like a part of this metropolis.
Studying abroad in Catalonia (if I called it Spain, this independently minded city might disown me), has been the perfect way to mark the midway point of my college experience. As much as I love San Luis Obispo, studying abroad offered a chance for new adventures half a world away.
The beginning of my relationship with this city by the sea had its share of adversity. Barcelona, a city of more than 4 million people, appears to the foreigner like a well-organized maze.
I knew the streets held a certain pattern, it was just a matter of where the checkerboard of pavement would lead.
Fortunately, running around the city during my morning workout allowed me to mentally map and visually locate key spots around town. If you ever want a quick tour of a city, and/or want to impress your fellow travelers with a keen sense of direction a few days into a trip, the solution is going for a run.
The only downside is when you get stuck with a map and blank stares when your group inevitably gets lost … which is never all that bad, especially in a place like Barcelona.
Lost adventures in Barcelona usually lead you to the beach. Maybe it’s the gentle slope of the city or something else entirely, but whether it’s 2 a.m. or 2 p.m., the sandy shores always seem like a good idea.
In this relationship, Barcelona likes to get naked in the afternoon. Let’s just put it this way — I had never been to Europe before and I certainly did not expect the continent to greet me with nude beaches. Like it or not, the fare of Spain was on full display as I lounged on my newly acquired FC Barcelona beach towel, waved off vendors selling five euro massages and jammed to some tunes.
When the night comes and the clubs — built directly next to the ocean — kick into full swing, the beach becomes a free-for-all. Tell me you’ve stood in the sand for five minutes without being offered cocaine, hashish or marijuana and I’ll call you a liar. The city is no Amsterdam, but the lack of a credible police force and an influx of big-spending foreigners make it a Mecca for illegal substances.
Although, I’d say the most rewarding purchase that can be made outside of the clubs at night are the bocadillos. For the uninitiated, a bocadillo is essentially a watered down sandwich, but what it lacks in meat and toppings, it makes up for in the most delicious bread that has ever touched my lips.
Plus, bargaining with vendors is half the fun. The free market on the beach at night is rightfully hilarious. With no less than 50 beer salesmen, who keep their brew in sketchy plastic bags (but hey, it’s cold), and about the same number of sandwich vendors, competition is at a premium.
Each one will be sure to tell you their bocadillos have a special sauce and that the other dude’s are stale and old in an attempt to get you to pay an extra euro. Last weekend a friend and I were trying to get two bocadillos, but unfortunately the night hadn’t kicked into full gear and there was only one vendor selling.
He was stuck firmly at three euros for two sandwiches while we were at two for two, and my friend walked away insisting that he could get a better deal. We walked up and down the boardwalk for 15 minutes to no avail, we were forced to, hat in hand, return to the same guy.
And he held a grudge, making us cough up an extra euro for walking away the first time. Laissez-faire at its best.
The experts say culture shock begins to hit home after a few weeks in a new culture, but, for now, I’m just pleased to have her in my sights.