So, I got back from Europe, uhm, a very long time ago. I’d told myself that I would record every moment in excruciating detail so as to remember it forever and that I wouldn’t post anything else in my lj until I did. That ended in not posting in lj. I have now finally sorted and uploaded photos to picasa, though. If you want a link to the album and have not gotten it, let me know. If I’ve ever told you Don’s real first name, or you’ve met him then I’ll give you the link. (Don’s face appears with real name attached to it, thus that particular selection criteria). That said, here are the major highlights of events for use in remembering the anecdotes I will be telling endlessly for years to come. Questions about particular incidents will be answered with the story in the comments.
– Customs
– Tram fail
– Amsterdam canal tour
– Windmill brewery
– Redlight district, things the Dutch find surprising about Americans
– British tourists
– Free hotels at airports and conflicted feelings thereon
– Street performers in Barcelona
– The cathedral that stalks
– The Erotica museum
– Tapas fail. Tapas win.
– David, the Mexican grad student. Aka Anaea gets hit in the head by a drumstick.
– Getting home on the night bus, aka Donde esta el calle once de Septiembre?
– Chiputo de seco
– Glowy helicopter thingies
– Gaudi. Zomg, Gaudi.
– The good art museum
– The contemporary art museum
– The chocolate museum
– Barcelona card? What Barcelona card?
– The beach. The Mediterranean. The waterspout.
– The weather.
– IMAX 3D en espanol
– The chocolate museum
– The castle
– Dutch bikes
– Why I would be totally okay with living in Barcelona
– Why I wouldn’t be as okay with living in Amsterdam
– Food
I reserve the right to add to that list when I remember something huge.
Also, winning quote from the trip:
“We heard that if we go to Las Ramblas we will be robbed and almost fucked.”
Anaea Lay 
And almost fucked?
And here is the whole story.
Don and I are wandering around a neighborhood northeastish of Las Ramblas. It’s approaching midnight on Sunday night, so the natives are mostly in while the tourists are still in full “Barcelona parties all night” mode. We’re mostly killing time until this even advertised in English in large pink posters is supposed to start, and since we haven’t wandered through that neighborhood yet it’s a good thing to do. This is the night we accidentally run into the filming of a car commercial.
It is also the night we meet the funniest German* tourists ever. They’re hanging out in front of a bar, clearly very drunk, and doing the rowdy tourist thing. One of them, a short guy with nice straight blond hair and a tall glass of beer stops us. In his most dignified voice he asks, “Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where there are any clubs or discos around here?”
“No,” says I. “We’re just wandering around. But if you take this street straight across Las Ramblas, there are some nightclubs that’ll be opening soon on the other side.”
“We can’t go to Las Ramblas, I heard that’s where the hookers and thieves like to hang out.”
And the drug dealers, but really, they’re in the minority. “I think if you’re just walking across you’ll be safe. And like I said, there are some good clubs there.”
“We can’t do that,” says dignified drunk man. “We’ll be robbed and almost fucked.”
“Oh, well, good luck then,” says I. I do not tell him that if he’s carrying enough cash they’ll go ahead and finish the fuck.
Don and I are still laughing about it when a group of girls, likely American, passes us going the other way. “If she does it again I’m going to punch her ovaries.”
That night was made of win for quotes.
Ah. That “punch her ovaries” quote was definitely made of win.
Of course, the Spanish are a matter-of-fact people and might indeed finish the fuck if he were carrying enough cash.
It was January 2001, I was being driven in the pre-dawn dark to Lavacolla airport in A Coruña to catch a flight to Madrid in order to get back to Atlanta. As we passed one house, my uncle said “ese es un prostíbulo.” Bear in mind, my aunt was in the car. Neither of these were young people, and both had grown up under Franco. Yet here they were pointing out the local whorehouse to their nephew as they drove him back to the airport.